by Mae Wood
“And…”
“You got something else to add to my list?”
“Yeah, Ben Copley.”
“We’ve been emailing,” I said with a sheepish smile on my lips.
“Like about your ancestors?”
“And about his dog and my job hunt and—”
“You have a crush on him. For real you do. I was teasing you before, but you really do have a crush on him.”
I wasn’t ready to admit my crush to anyone, but I couldn’t keep the smile off my face at the thought of Ben. “I’m not talking to the Seattle hospital because of him. I was talking to Seattle before I knew he was there.”
Caroline balled up a napkin and tossed it at my face. “You silly goose. You’ve been emailing with him all this time?”
“Yeah,” I said, my smile now proud. “I have.”
Twenty-five
Ali
January
I usually sat on the sofa while she dozed in her recliner. She didn’t sleep in a bed anymore. She hardly moved. But the cough. The achingly persistent cough that left her wheezing for air, the cough that sounded painful because her whole body was sore and tired and filling with fluid. And I knew it would be soon. We all did. My sister Jess flew in for a long weekend and sat with her. My mother was at the assisted-living place all the time. My father and brother and sister-in-law too. We all were there, taking shifts. To be with her. To monitor the nurses that we’d hired to care for her. The room service that I’d mocked, it became our lifeline.
We were in the waiting game. She could linger like this or her heart could tumble into a-fib, but the when was much more important than the how. Too many doctors in the family for us not to all know the progression. But none of us talked about it. So we talked in circles or we didn’t talk at all.
Patrick and I had a hushed conversation in the hallway when I came to relieve him this evening. He’d joined Grammie for dinner and told me that she’d enjoyed the strawberry yogurt.
“You want to have dinner with me and the kids on Saturday?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said with a shrug. I didn’t have much else to do, and I liked my family, but it wasn’t exactly a hot date.
“Grace will be in Chicago on a girls’ trip…”
“And you need help with Becca and Charlie?”
“Would be nice, but if you’ve got plans, it’s no big deal. We’ll watch Scooby Doo and eat pizza in the den and play preschooler Lord of the Flies.”
“I’ll pass on the Lord of the Flies, but the rest sounds great.”
“You good, Ali?”
“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to be babied by the forty-year-old man in front of me. He’d always been my protector, always been Jess’s protector. And while I’d leaned on him plenty—teaching me how to climb down a tree as well as up one, picking me up from a high school Christmas party and not telling our parents when I’d puked cheap vodka on the floorboard of his car, and helping me move out of the apartment after my college boyfriend and I broke up—I was determined that I didn’t need him in that way anymore. That I wasn’t his baby sister anymore. That I was a grown-up. “I’m good. See you Saturday.”
I slipped into Grammie’s apartment, fixed a Scotch and soda from the bar cart, and tiptoed to the sofa where I’d hang out until I was tired and then drive home to crash out in my own bed. This was Patrick’s and my new Tuesday and Thursday night routine, tagging off in a relay race that was going to end sooner than anyone would like.
While Grammie slept in her recliner, I tried to read, but I was antsy. I couldn’t settle down from my long day at work and the decisions that lie ahead. I took out my laptop and checked the news, watched a replay of a late night comedy show from the day before, and cruised websites about Seattle neighborhoods and things to do. I wanted Seattle to make me an offer. I could see myself there, both at the hospital and in an actual life outside it. I checked my email again, but there wasn’t any news from the recruiter, so I decided to write Ben.
<
Hey. I know I just wrote you yesterday. And I know we usually do this ping-pong thing where we volley emails back and forth. But I’m sitting with my grandma and she’s asleep, and well, I’d rather not talk about that.
Let’s talk about anything else.
I’m still waiting to hear about Thompson’s special friend the poodle. If all goes well, I’ll need a rec for a doggy daycare in Seattle soon. And as much as I’d like a big dog, like a golden or a lab, I’m not sure how that works in a city.
I’ve been to Seattle off and on, growing up. And a few times as an adult for conferences and things. But I don’t know the city, so it seems a little scary. I remind myself that I’ve moved before, that I’ve made life-shaping decisions before. That I can do this. But I think I’ve kinda forgotten because it’s unlike before, when the path was clear—the best college I could get into, the best medical school that would take me, and the absolutely best fellowship program. Where are the U.S. News & World Report’s rankings for how to make grown-up decisions?
I kid, but in truth, I’m gun-shy. That’s the bottom line. I was up for this dream job last year. And I don’t know exactly what happened, but I didn’t get the offer. They went with another candidate and I spent the next few months being angry and feeling sorry for myself, but I needed a job and got the temporary position that I have now. I’m a grown-up and a surgeon and on paper I have this great life yet I feel like I’m at loose ends. And I know that I have to create this life for myself that’s in reality only slightly different than the one I thought I’d have, and some days I don’t know how I’ll do that. Or if I can do it.
And I think that’s what I’ve really loved most about finding Elliott’s letters. He and Alice both went on big adventures. He went to the other side of the world and she went across the country. And it wasn’t like their futures were guaranteed. The world was at war. Ships sank and trains derailed and bad stuff happened.
And bad stuff still happens.
And I guess I don’t need to be so scared of bad stuff happening or the stuff that I want not happening that I don’t enjoy the good stuff that will happen, that can happen even if bad stuff happens.
But I guess it’ll be a leap of faith, right? Like when you made your move from Arizona? You just have to jump and see if it works. And if it doesn’t work, then you jump again.
I mean, Alice is the perfect example. She fell in love with a stranger on a train and spent the next three years swapping letters with him, hoping he’d come home. But she didn’t shut herself up in a cave. She didn’t hide. She ended up meeting and marrying my great-grandfather and having a very happy life, from what I can tell. But she kept those letters. She didn’t forget Elliott. She didn’t throw out his letters or her memories of him. I don’t think she ever dreamed that she’d fall madly in love with a stranger on a train. Or, after she met Elliott, that she dreamed she’d end up with someone else.
You’ll figure out from this nonsensical ramble, the reason that I was a computer science major and not an English major. Feel free to laugh with me. I trust you well enough to think that you’re not going to laugh at me. But you laughing with me? I’d like that.
And now that I’m at the end of this email, which took a weird turn and became my diary. I have to keep reminding myself that I don’t really know you, because I feel like I do. I hope we get to meet in person sometime. I hope you have a lifetime of happiness. And, I hope—
“What are you doing, sweet pea?”
“Hey, you’re awake,” I said, my attention fully on my grandmother as I put my computer down on the coffee table and closed the lid.
“Still exhausted,” she said shifting in her chair.
I walked over to her and dropped a kiss on her forehead. “Love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Can I get you anything?”
“Some lip balm.”
I gently dabbed some balm on her lips. “Anything else?”
“I
love you and you’re going to do amazing things.”
I laughed and sat on the small wooden chair next to her recliner. “I love you too.”
“Talk to me. About anything,” she said, her eyes closing.
“I’ve been emailing with Ben,” I confessed in a whoosh, not sure what she’d think about it or if she’d even realize the implications of what I was saying. “He’s the great-grandson of the man who wrote Alice all of those love letters. We’ve been emailing for months now.”
“Is he nice?”
“I think so. And he’s funny. He makes me laugh.”
“Is he coming to visit?”
“No,” I said, giving her hand a squeeze. “I don’t really know him. If I get the job in Seattle or if I go back for another interview, I think we’re going to try to meet up for coffee.”
“Always pick the man who can make you laugh. That’s what my mother told me. And I told your mom and I’m telling you. Money, a handsome face—those things can be lost. It sounds silly only because you hear it so much, but it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” A deep cough racked her frail body.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said with another squeeze on her hand, the skin paper-thin and cool. “But I’m hoping to have coffee with him before we plan a wedding,” I teased, wanting to lighten the mood, wanting to fight back against the deep sadness that was creeping up on me.
“Tell me a story.”
I smiled. The woman who had told me stories was asking me for one.
“Okay, let’s see what I’ve got.” I pulled up the book app on my phone and read out the options. “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe. The Story of Ferdinand.”
“What are you doing with children’s books on your phone?” she said in surprise and I didn’t answer because I knew I’d shatter into a million tiny pieces if I told her why.
I cleared my throat and continued. “Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories. The Velveteen Rabbit.”
“That one,” she said. “It was one of my favorites as a little girl. Both my parents read it to me often.”
And so I sat, on a small wooden chair, holding my grandmother’s hand and reading her a story about a rabbit that was loved so much that it became real.
Twenty-six
Alice
March 1916
“I don’t understand,” she tells Frankie as she buttons the new boots. She’s always had laces before, so she struggles a bit to fasten her boots with the hook. Fred and the cobbler had made it look so easy with doing up the buttons. She looks at the buttonhook in frustration, wondering if it somehow works differently than other buttonhooks because she simply cannot fasten the buttons, regardless of how soft the white kidskin is. The slim metal hook is embossed with Wertheimer Shoe Company, Seattle, Wash., and she already knows she’ll keep it no matter how this evening with Fred turns out. “I don’t understand why he gave me those shoes,” Alice says, gesturing toward Frankie with the hook.
“Well, I wouldn’t complain ever,” says Frankie, walking around their small apartment in the adored satin pumps that haven’t yet met a sidewalk.
“You realize you’ll give yourself a permanent limp if you don’t stop.”
“They’re beautiful and they are worth it,” says Frankie, stumbling a bit.
“Trust me. They are not worth it.”
“I think they are, and anyway, he gave you shoes because he owns a shoe company.”
Alice looks to the ceiling in exasperation before resuming her fight with her new boots. “That bit I understand. I don’t understand why me.”
“Why not you?”
Alice pauses her work and ticks off the reasons on her fingers. “One,” she says, holding up her index finger, “I’m twenty-eight. Two”—middle finger—“I’m bland.”
“Who says you’re bland?” Frankie interrupts her. “No one who knows you.”
Alice shakes her head in disagreement. “To other girls maybe I’m not, but men have never found me interesting. And now I’m to believe that at my age, I’ve caught the eye of not one, but two men?”
“You are certifiable sometimes. You know that, right?” says Frankie, gently taking off the satin pumps and nestling them among the tissue in their box. “What about that medical student who we met on the lake two summers ago?”
“The Canadian man?”
“Yes, the Canadian man. P-something.”
“Peirce.”
“You honestly don’t think that if he hadn’t been about to be sent off to war, he wasn’t going to pursue you?”
“You think he was? Truly?”
“He asked about visiting your family, Alice. He asked about train tables,” Frankie all but screams. “And then last year, there was the fellow with the logging company who took you to dinner. Several times, if I recall correctly, and sat next to you at Easter service.”
“Stephen Farber?”
“That’s the one.”
“He married Meredith,” Alice objects.
“After you introduced him to Meredith based upon their mutual love of baseball. Truly, they should name their first daughter Alice.”
Finished with her boots, Alice stands and checks her gait. She’s had the new boots for a few days, but they are still not entirely familiar.
“It’s not you,” Frankie softly continues. “I know you think it’s you or your leg, but it’s not you. It’s them. It’s men from home. They worry too much. City men, businessmen, don’t care about your limp.”
Alice lets the words roll around in her brain. Is that true? Is that the difference? All of her life she’s known that she’ll always be a burden to another and that she’ll have to fend for herself, create a life for herself because she’s never had faith that she’ll be able to build a life with anyone. Men have options and likely won’t take her on, no matter how charming or pretty she can be. And as much as the idea of building a life with Elliott seems like something she could do, something she could make real, it is still a fantasy. She is in Seattle, what feels like the edge of the world already, and isn’t sure she’ll ever be brave enough to press farther across the horizon.
“Truly, truly. Fred has asked you to dinner for only one reason. He wants to spend time with you.”
“But Elliott—” Alice protests again, something vicious beginning to eat away at her stomach as she realizes her betrayal of Elliott.
“It’s dinner, Alice,” Frankie answers. “He’s invited you to dinner. And I hate to think it and I won’t say it, but you never know. You simply never know. What if we enter the war, what if there’s an accident, what if a million things happen? A bird in hand, and all. Go.”
Alice waits in the sitting room, too nervous to sit, so she paces.
“Alice.” Fred greets her with a smile.
“Hello,” she says with a shy wave.
“Ready for dinner?”
“Absolutely.” She takes her coat from a nearby chair and as she begins to slip into it, she finds Fred’s hands helping. “Thank you.”
“You look lovely, Alice.”
“Thank you.”
“Up for a bit of an adventure?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Have you been over to Chinatown?”
“I went last year with some of the girls. We walked around a bit during the day.”
“Well then, let’s go exploring.”
Outside the building, Fred opens the passenger door to his car and Alice settles into the tufted leather seat. She isn’t sure what to do. She’s only been in a car a handful of times and never one built for two people.
“It’s not raining, so do you mind keeping the top off?”
“It’s nice,” she agrees and he passes her a lap blanket before cranking the engine.
“Electric starter,” he says with pride. “No hand crank.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says, admiring the shiny green paint and rich leather.
“It’s a Chevrolet roadster. I bought it in Chicago and had it sh
ipped here. First one in the city. And probably the fastest car in the state, too.”
Alice’s frame stiffens. Who is she out with? A man with a fast and fancy car? A man who owns a store?
“Ah, but don’t worry, sweet Alice, you’re safe with me.”
They wind through the city streets and reach Chinatown, passing under tall, glass-globed street lights and into a new world. Birds are on display in windows. Some alive in cages, others smoked and hanging by twine wrapped around their legs. Busy stands fill the sidewalk, overflowing with produce. In the daytime, when she’d visited last year, there were some other women like her, but now she stands out.
Fred slows the car to a crawl and looks at her, assessing her mettle. “A night market. Are you up for it?”
“Without a doubt,” Alice answers, eager to explore with him.
Fred finds a nearby garage for the car and they wander through the bustling streets.
“This way,” he says, taking her hand in his, and, as he pulls them toward an alley, she worries for a second, her stride faltering a half step. Fred stops and turns toward her. “It’s a noodle restaurant,” he explains. “A very good one, just there,” he points to a door. “Have you had Italian pasta?”
She nods in response. “I know what noodles are,” she says. “I know how to make spätzle.”
“Yes, it’s like that, but entirely different. And if you don’t like it, I promise you a big steak and potatoes and a slice of chocolate cake.”
She follows him again, more confident, and when they emerge from the restaurant, she is bubbling, eager to learn more about this corner of the city. “What else can we try? What’s that?” She points to a street vendor who pulls a cage of fried golden balls from a large vat.
“Rice balls, I think,” he says. “Would you like to try one?”