All We Have Is Now

by Lisa Schroeder

  “And I guess you can’t help the way you don’t feel,” he says softly.

  “Vince—”

  Before she can finish, a woman, decked out in running gear, approaches. She looks a little out of sorts.

  “Hey,” Vince says to her. “Everything okay?”

  The woman scoffs. “Are you really asking me that right now?”

  “Sorry,” Vince says, like he really means it. “Stupid question. What I meant was, are you okay?”

  “No. Not really. I came down here to go for a run at twilight. It’s my favorite time of day to run. But when I went back to where I parked my car, it was gone. Someone stole it, I guess? I don’t know. I’m not sure what to do. I found a bar that was open and sat there for a few hours, until things started getting weird. Now I’m trying to figure out what to do next.”

  It sort of surprises Emerson, how much this stranger shares with them. Hayden was the same way. Must have something to do with the fact that they are all in this weird waiting-for-the-sky-to-fall crisis together.

  “Do you have family you can call?” Emerson asks as she stands.

  “No. They’re all on the East Coast. They wanted me to come back there, but, God, at the time, it seemed so extreme. I kept thinking something would happen. Someone would find a way to fix it. My life is here. It sounds so ridiculous now, but I had work to do. A shitload of work.”

  Now Vince stands. “So, you’re not married?”

  “It’s such a cliché, but only to my career,” she replies matter-of-factly. She crosses her arms and turns so she’s looking out at the water. “Isn’t it funny? The things we realize as the time gets shorter and shorter?”

  “Yeah,” Vince says. “That’s for sure.”

  “I’m sorry,” the woman says. “I should go. You two probably want to be alone.”

  “No,” Vince says. “Actually, we’d like to try and help you. That’s how we’ve decided to spend our last day. What’s your name?”

  She holds her hand out, like she’s done this a million times. “I’m Jackie.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Vince says, shaking her hand. “I’m Vince and this is Emerson.”

  Jackie reaches over and shakes Emerson’s hand. “Can you tell us if there’s anything you’ve been wishing for lately?” Emerson asks.

  “Besides your car,” Vince says. “If it’s been stolen, I’m not sure we can help you with that.”

  “You’ll think it’s strange,” Jackie says.

  Emerson remembers how Hayden said almost the exact same thing. “Nah,” Vince says. “We won’t.”

  “I was supposed to go to Paris in October,” she says. “And it’s all I can think about. I’ve wanted to go there since I was a little girl, and just when I finally get the chance, it’s snatched away from me.” She shakes her head. Stares at the ground. “God, I sound like a bratty five-year-old, don’t I?”

  “Not at all. I get it. Come on,” Vince says, turning back toward the city. “I know just the place to take you.”

  Emerson grabs his arm and he spins around. “Vince. You heard what she said, right? Paris. As in, France.”

  He smiles so big, his dimples show. “Yeah, I know. Let’s go.”

  “OH MY God,” Jackie says, pointing to a car on the street. “That’s it. My car.” She spins around, taking in their location a few blocks up from the waterfront. “I can’t believe I did that. I thought I parked on Stark Street, but it’s actually Oak Street. I wasn’t paying much attention, I guess.” She turns and looks at Emerson and Vince. “You two must think I’m a complete idiot.”

  “No, we don’t,” Vince says. “You got confused. It happens. The important thing is you found it. And now, if it’s all right with you, we can drive and get there a hell of a lot faster.”

  “Where?” Jackie asks. “Where are we going, exactly?”

  “You have to trust me, okay?” Vince says. He holds his hand out. “Can I have the keys? I’d like to drive. It’ll be more of a surprise that way.”

  Emerson starts to protest. Because he doesn’t even have a driver’s license. In fact, she’s not even sure he knows how to drive. But she doesn’t say anything. Maybe right now, given the circumstances, it’s not a big deal. If Vince wants to drive, if he’s confident he can get them where they need to go, then she should trust him.

  Jackie pulls the keys out of a pocket in her running pants and hands them to Vince as they walk across the street. When they get closer, Emerson can see it’s a nice car. Like, a really nice car.

  “Wow,” Vince says, unlocking the doors, “I’ve never ridden in a BMW before.”

  “This was my gift to myself after I got promoted to vice president,” she explains. “A new pair of shoes just wasn’t going to cut it.”

  Jackie starts to step around to the passenger side, and then stops. She stares at Vince and Emerson, as they stand there with their hands on the door handles. Emerson can almost see the wheels turning in Jackie’s brain.

  “Maybe this isn’t such a good idea,” Jackie says. “I mean, I don’t even know you. What if you’re serial killers, out for a final thrill?”

  Vince laughs his sweet, boyish laugh. Emerson points to his Charlie Brown shirt. “Do we honestly look like serial killers?”

  Jackie considers this for a second as she runs her hand through her short dark hair. “You’re right. You don’t look like serial killers. So, what are you doing, exactly?”

  “We’re just trying to help people,” Vince says. “That’s all. Someone helped us earlier and told us to pay it forward. So, we are.”

  Jackie doesn’t say anything more. She opens the door and gets into the passenger seat while Emerson gets in the back. Vince adjusts his seat, then puts the keys in the ignition and starts the car. Classical music blares out of the speakers. Jackie reaches for the stereo and turns it down.

  “Sorry,” she says. “I usually listen to alternative rock, but I thought maybe classical would be nice about now. Soothe my frazzled nerves or something like that.”

  “It’s nice,” Vince says as he puts the car into drive. “I like it.”

  “Lights would be good,” Jackie says, reaching over and turning them on.

  While Vince drives, Emerson thinks about this special talent Vince seems to have in coming up with ways to help these people make their wishes come true. When Jackie said, “Paris,” Emerson couldn’t think of a single thing they might be able to do for her. But Vince thought of something right away.

  He’s definitely one of the most empathetic people, if not the most empathetic person, she’s ever known. She might not know much about his past, but she knows he’s grown up with more than his fair share of pain and heartbreak. How does someone like that become the kind of person so few people are able to be?

  Last Christmas, an old lady walked up to Emerson and Vince while they were panhandling, and handed each of them a baggie with a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and a ten-dollar bill stuffed inside.

  “Merry Christmas,” she said. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  “Thank you,” Vince and Emerson told her.

  Emerson slapped Vince on the shoulder once the lady was gone. “Dude, can you believe it? We’re rich! What are you gonna get? I think I might buy myself some new underwear. And if there’s money left over, a chicken sandwich from Mickey D’s.”

  Vince fished the ten-dollar bill out of the baggie. “I’m gonna give it to Buzz. He can buy some cough medicine. Maybe a hot meal, too.”

  Buzz was an old guy they knew who’d been sick for weeks. Everyone kept telling him to go to the hospital, but he wouldn’t do it. Emerson would never forget the look on Buzz’s face when Vince handed him the money. Tears welled up in the old man’s eyes and he said, “You sure you want to waste it on some good-for-nothing guy like me?”

  Vince just smiled and said, “I’m sure. But you have to use it to help with that cough of yours.”

  “I will,” Buzz said. “If I can just get some sleep, that’ll help.
”

  After they bought him some medicine, Vince went a step further and ran around the city, looking for a shelter that would take Buzz for a night or two. Once Vince found a place, he helped get Buzz there. A couple of weeks later, Buzz was as good as new.

  It’s like Vince was born to help people.

  They head away from downtown and back toward northwest Portland, where they were earlier with Hayden. They could have walked if they’d had to, but Emerson is thankful for the ride. Her legs are tired. Actually, her whole body is tired. She doesn’t want to give in to the fatigue, but as her eyelids grow heavy, she realizes resistance may be futile.

  They have the streets to themselves, it seems. It’s like a dream, driving through the night in a fancy car that smells like leather seats and floral perfume. A nice dream. Emerson sinks back and closes her eyes.

  “We’re here.”

  Vince’s voice startles her, making her jump out of her seat.

  “Were you sleeping, Em?” he asks after he opens her door.

  “Uh, no. Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, let’s go. I can’t wait to see where you’re taking us.”

  Vince leads Jackie and Emerson to the front door of a café. “Don’t say anything yet. It may not look like much, but it’s gonna be good. You’ll see.”

  He tries the door, but it’s locked. After a couple of knocks, Emerson turns around, thinking they can try the back door, when Vince says, “Wait. Someone’s coming.”

  A moment later, a light comes on and a good-looking twentysomething guy with a scruffy face opens the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Hey there. I was hoping we could maybe, uh, come in? Get something to eat?” Vince says. “I know it probably seems odd, but we have a good reason for coming here.”

  The guy yawns. Scratches his head. “Sure. Why not?” He steps aside and holds the door open for them.

  The place is nice, with big glass cases that run practically wall to wall, and lots of quaint little tables and chairs.

  “I haven’t made anything new for a couple of days,” the guy explains. “But you’re welcome to have whatever’s left.”

  Vince walks along the glass case until he seems to find what he was looking for. He turns and smiles. “Here we go. This is what I wanted. The macarons.”

  “Ah,” the guy says. “Of course. There must be a fan of Paris among you.”

  Jackie sheepishly raises her hand. “That’d be me. I was supposed to go in October. I’m sort of heartbroken about it.”

  The guy genuinely looks sad for her. “I’m sorry. That’s really terrible. That you won’t get to go, I mean.”

  “Yeah, so, we thought we’d try and bring a little bit of Paris to her,” Vince says.

  “Are you sure it’s okay?” Emerson asks. “I mean, we’re not, like, interrupting anything, are we?”

  The guy shakes his head. “Nah. I’m just hanging out here, since there’s nowhere else I’d rather be. My friends all left. My family’s back East, and I didn’t go when I should have. I’m kind of embarrassed to say it, but I was a complete skeptic about the whole thing.”

  Emerson looks at Jackie, since this story sounds very familiar. Jackie doesn’t take her eyes off him as she says, “Hey. Me too. Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  He sighs. “Yeah.” Scratches his head again. “I’m Phillipe, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Phillipe,” Jackie says, stepping forward. Phillipe takes her outstretched hand and shakes it. It seems to Emerson that it lasts maybe a second longer than a handshake normally does.

  “The name Phillipe sounds French,” Emerson says. “Is it? I mean, do you happen to be French?”

  “Part, yes.” Then, in a charming French accent, he says, “But tonight, I shall be one hundred percent French, oui?” He moves toward a table. “Madame, would you like to take a seat?”

  “Mademoiselle,” Emerson corrects. “She’s not married.”

  Phillipe smiles. “Ah. Very well.” He pulls a chair out. “Please, sit. And I shall do my best to make this a night in Paris you shall never forget.”

  THE THREE take a seat

  and the lights are dimmed.

  From behind the counter,

  music plays.

  Sultry sax, soft drums,

  and the sweet sound of a piano.

  And then, a woman sings.

  It’s a familiar song, even in French,

  one of romance, of love,

  and of all things that are good.

  Like magic, they are there,

  in the City of Light

  with the Eiffel Tower

  looming large as people

  walk cobblestone streets,

  eating bread and kissing cheeks.

  Tables and chairs are pushed aside,

  leaving plenty of space.

  Phillipe smiles and

  holds out his hand.

  Jackie stands and steps

  into his welcoming arms.

  They glide across the café floor,

  starry-eyed, and the mood is contagious.

  Vince takes Emerson’s hand

  and leads her to a corner.

  He whispers in her ear as

  he takes her in his arms.

  “Welcome to Paris,

  ma chérie.”

  CARL DREAMS of their wedding day.

  It was a small affair, with their closest friends and family members. They’d found a little country church on the top of a hill in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields of green.

  “It’s perfect,” Trinity had said when they’d driven up to it. “I don’t even have to look inside. This is it.”

  And so it was.

  They wed on a sunny July day, with blue skies outside and pink zinnias inside. When she walked down the aisle, Carl was certain he’d never seen anyone more beautiful. It wasn’t her wedding dress, necessarily. After all, she’d gone with a very basic design. It was simply seeing her there, coming toward him with that lovely smile of hers, ready to commit to being his partner for life.

  After they said their vows, exchanged rings, and kissed, they turned and made their way outside while the small organ played.

  The reception was held at a nearby winery, where they ate and drank and danced until the clock struck ten. And then, it was time to go. They had a plane to catch to Maui.

  “That was so much fun,” she said once they were in the backseat of the hired town car and on their way. “Thank you.”

  She kissed him.

  “We’re going to be happy,” he told her. “I promise.”

  She smiled. She tried to hide it. But a tear slipped out.

  There was nothing for him to say except, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “I know,” is all she said.

  She leaned into him and he wrapped his arms around her. And they never discussed it again.

  Her parents hadn’t approved of their marriage. He wasn’t what they’d wanted for their daughter. He didn’t come from a family of wealth or importance. After all, his father owned a landscaping business.

  They’d met in college, where Carl had been accepted into the Master Gardener program, so he could help his father with the family business. Trinity was there to study fashion design. Her parents would have chosen someplace better for their daughter. But she insisted on going to Oregon State University. Corvallis, Oregon, was very different from Santa Monica, where she’d grown up, and she desperately wanted something different.

  But, for the wedding, there was no denying it. She’d wanted them there. And they hadn’t come.

  For years after that, she only spoke to her parents on holidays and birthdays. They never came to visit. Once every few years, she would make the trip to see them. Alone.

  And so it was, when the horrible news hit.

  “I should go to them,” she said. “I’m their only child.”

  Carl had wanted to say, “And I’m your only husband.” But he didn’t. Instead, he said, “I understand. Do what you h
ave to do.”

  They said their good-byes as if she wouldn’t be coming back.

  Now Carl sits up straight, pulled from his dreams and back to the reality that confronts him.

  She came back. And now he has to get home.

  THEY EAT pink, yellow, and purple French macarons—the sweet, nutty cookies that are crunchy on the outside and creamy on the inside. So divinely delicious, Emerson can’t imagine how she’s lived her whole life and never eaten one.

  As they drink tea out of old-fashioned teacups with dainty flowers painted on them, they talk and laugh like old friends. Here, in the cozy café with tea and cookies and sweet, adoring music, there is no sadness. No regret. No worries.

  Only joy.

  It’s strange how quickly it happens, and yet, at the same time, slowly, too. Emerson can’t help but notice the glances. The tenderness in their eyes. And the longing.

  Phillipe and Jackie take another twirl around the café-turned-dance-floor and Emerson leans in and whispers to Vince, “I’m thinking we should go.”

  “How come?”

  “Look at them. They haven’t been able to take their eyes off each other.”

  They both watch for a moment and then Vince turns to Emerson and says, “Okay. But one more dance first.” She eyes him curiously. “Please?” he begs.

  So, she stands up and he does the same. He holds his hands out and she puts one hand on his shoulder and the other one in his hand. There is space between them for a moment, but he pulls her closer, until her head is practically resting on his chest.

  “You’re so tall,” she says, looking up at him.

  “No, you’re just short.”

  The soft, jazzy music plays and they move ever-so-slowly.

  “Where’d you learn to dance anyway?” Emerson teases. “A cute girl teach you?”

  His eyes turn cold and he stares straight ahead. “No. Nothing like that. If you have to know, it was my mom.”

  Emerson reaches up and touches his nose playfully. “Hey, don’t get mad. I didn’t know.”

  He talks as they sway back and forth, his features softening as he does. “I can still picture it. Our little kitchen that smelled like everything good in this world. The sink where she washed the dishes. The window that looked out at the backyard. The old white refrigerator where she hung my artwork from school. She always cooked with the radio blaring. And every once in a while, she’d grab me and make me dance with her.” He shakes his head. “Man, I thought she was ridiculous at the time. But now …”