by N. K. Smith
The first page starts at the beginning of my parents’ relationship. It’s like she met him and decided right then and there she needed to record it. I met a cute guy today. He was playing hacky sack with a couple other guys, and the sack went a bit higher in the air than it was supposed to. He started racing backward and tripped over my feet. The sack landed on my shoulder. When I tried to give it back to him and see if he was okay—he was flat out on his back with his legs over mine—he gave me the best smile I’ve ever seen. He said, “I’ve known all my life that I’d fall hard for a beautiful girl, I just didn’t know it’d be quite so literal or so hard.”
Finally, after reading about the ups and downs of opening herself up to another human being, about my mother’s nervousness when thinking of the future, about the romantic things my father did for her, I read about her journey to Italy. And here I am on the beach surrounded by pale sand and the bluest water I’ve ever seen, and all I can think about is him, how badly I want to be with him, how painful it is when he’s not around, how he makes me a better person, how I make him a better person. Surrounded by all this beauty—such a beautiful new experience—all I can think about is the beautiful thing I have back home. Or had. Had is probably more appropriate since we’re not together anymore.
The next entry is dated the next month. I’m getting married! Right when I was sitting on that beach, thinking of him, wanting him, regretting my decision, I looked around and there he was! I had no idea how he found me halfway around the world and in the middle of a country neither of us knew, but he did it.
He broke all of his rules and found me.
For a moment, I can’t breathe as I imagine my father’s hard investigative work. He had to find out where in Italy she went, figure out where she was staying, and then figure out she was on the beach that day. I wish he’d written his side down, but I’m so grateful for my mother’s journal.
I clutch it to me, and as if by osmosis, I experience a surge of courage and clarity of mind. Fox would go across the world to find me. That means something. That’s the love my father had for my mother. That’s the love that gave them so much happiness. Even if their end was tragic, their beginning and middle had to be worth it. It had to be.
When I can move, I open my laptop up and grab my phone. It goes straight to voicemail and my stomach flips as I glance at the clock. Fox is probably on the flight already. He’s probably speeding away from me right now, but just because he’s dangerously out of reach, doesn’t mean I can’t fight to make it right. The infusion of courage doesn’t dissipate no matter how much my insides tighten.
As soon as I hear the beep, I speak. “It’s me. I’m stupid and wrong, and I’m sorry. I wrote something. It’s called ‘The Gift.’ I wrote it for you.
Continue to walk beside me
and provide me
with this gift
you bring.
You are the
song I sing;
the melody
that plays
and forever
stays on
my mind.
In you I
find reasons
in the seasons
of my life
to live and give
to others
what you've
freely and graciously
given to me.
A chance to see
something so rare
like a sunrise
nothing can compare
to what I have in you.
Continue to walk
beside me
feeling this heart
beat inside of me
hand in hand
as you do...
“Fox, I’m sorry. I’m an idiot. I do love you.”
As I disconnect the call, I think about all the events that could happen to prevent him from receiving the message. Any number of things could get in the way, and now that I’ve found my voice, I can’t allow that to happen.
Within a half hour, I’m packed.
Within forty-five minutes, I have reservations on a flight that leaves at noon. Thank God Gramma made me get that passport a couple years back. I don’t know exactly where Fox is staying, but I know he’ll be at Liverpool Football Club’s Anfield, which narrows the work I’ll have to do considerably. I try calling Fox’s father, but there’s no answer.
I’ll just have to do it on my own.
As I walk out my door, I see a medium-sized canvas tilted against the wall and the door frame. It’s facing away, but there’s only one person I know who would leave a painting for me. I don’t know what it’s like to swoon, but I think I’m close to doing it. My knees feel rubbery as I bend down to pick it up; my heart races, resulting in a thump-thump-whoosh sound that blocks everything else out; and my breath comes in short bursts.
Once the canvas is in my hands, I lean against the doorjamb and flip the painting over. The colors are so bold, yet there’s a softness within the lines which speak to the care and love the painter put into it. Fox has so much talent and passion. It is impossible not to notice when looking at his work. This particular painting is familiar to me. This is a final version of the sketch he made so long ago. The one he used to help me ask the question I almost couldn’t express.
In it, we’re sitting in a park, looking at each other. I don’t know how he does it, but in those anime versions of us, there is love in our eyes. He’s handing me a red, heart-shaped box. Above our heads are small gray text boxes. Not dialogue bubbles, exactly, more like a soft blend of thought and voice.
The box closest to the drawing of me reads, Are you mine?
His box says, Yes. The word is underlined three times and nearly guts me.
The picture is no longer a quick black and gray sketch with eraser marks and smudged thumbprints. This is a finished work of art. Beautiful lines, amazing color, and clearly a polished version of our relationship.
Fox had to have put this here this morning or possibly late last night. This is his version of my poem. A declaration. I take a quick picture of it with my phone, place it on the foyer table, then head back out into the hallway, and lock my door.
I have a plane to catch. I’ll use the photo of his painting to keep my courage and resolve high.
***
On my way to the airport, I drive under bridges. They seem to be a timeline of foxes. The first is a single fox, drawn by a happy graffiti artist. The next one is the same, but the third graffiti fox has a green leaf behind it. My throat feels like it’s swelling up and my heart starts thumping as I go beneath it. Finally, as I get closer to the city, a crying fox greets me, and the knot in my stomach grows larger.
I have so much time to spare once I get to the airport. They always scare you with how long the security lines are going to be, but rarely do they live up to the threat. So I drink coffee as I research England, Liverpool, and Anfield on my cell. As ridiculous as it sounds, researching is a little too inactive right now, even for me. It might keep my mind busy, but I have way too much nervous energy to sit for long.
I get up and roam around, peek into gift shop windows. I’m not looking for anything in particular beyond snacks for the plane and maybe a good writing magazine, but I find something I didn’t know I needed. It’s sitting up on one of the highest glass shelves. I can see the sticker on the bottom through the glass, but the cost is inconsequential.
Without hesitation, I buy it and a small pack of stationery notes. Back at the terminal, I copy down my poem in my smallest script, then curse myself for being so stupid. Fox doesn’t like to read, and he won’t appreciate tiny little letters that make him squint as well as the hurdles he has to jump to make sense of the letters.
I fold that piece of paper in half, stick it in my back pocket, and stare at the picture of Fox’s painting on my phone. I can’t think of anything else until the airline clerks call for pre-boarding of my plane. Then, all of the sudden, it floats into my mind where it nestles down deep into the core of my functioning.
The same thrill I experienced when I realized I didn’t want to just sit back and let Fox go blankets my body. I can barely write on the paper because I’m so jittery, but it is perfect.
Just as they call for my group to board the plane, I tuck the little note inside the gift and smile to myself. This is an adventure fit to write in a journal. That is what I’m going to do with the remainder of the stationary notes. I can tape them into a notebook later.
If my parents could see me now, I think they’d be proud.
The flight goes by remarkably fast. I didn’t bring my laptop, which was probably stupid of me, so along with my thoughts, I scribble notes on the little notepad. Apparently being adventurous is good for the creative mind. In the time I’m in the airplane, I come up with seven poems. I write them without having to stop for any barriers. In addition to the poems, I sketch out a short story about how a people can find themselves through other people. It’s not going to be a silly book about how the love of a good guy teaches the main character to open up and strive for something. It’s going to be a book about how simple connections with the right people can help give others strength. The heroine meets a boy, yes, but it’s not instant love, and it’s not that the girl changes for the boy. She changes because of the boy. She can see how opening to the world can lead to a happiness she would never have if she kept hidden away. The past doesn’t have to define her; if she just opens her mind and her heart, she can see the world, the past and present, with new eyes, and actively work to make the future be whatever she wants it to be.
Once in London, I have to figure out what the hell to do. The first Liverpool match isn’t for two days, and I have to find my way to the city by the coast. I decide to spend the night at a hotel and do more research. I guess Liverpool is in a county called Merseyside, and it’s a little bit of a trek from London. I should’ve paid more attention in geography class.
My internet search yields that it will take over three hours to drive there or a little over two by train. It seems like it should be a no-brainer, but I debate for a good hour which option to take. On one hand, driving in another country is way more adventurous than sitting on a train; on the other hand, driving on the other side of the road scares the piss out of me. I’m pretty sure I could do it, but does adventure outweigh personal and public safety? I’m sure everyone in England will appreciate not having a reckless American behind the wheel, but will a train ride be worthy of a journal entry?
In the end, safety wins out, and I’m on the train to Liverpool by eleven the next morning. As it turns out, the train ride is worthy of many entries. Just watching the countryside go by is so inspiring. I think of another two book ideas as I ride, both set in England. I would have to stay here for a while to do research, but I think it would be worth it and fun. Especially if Fox stayed with me.
“’Ello.”
With some surprise, I turn to find the lady across the aisle smiling at me. Normally I wouldn’t talk to random strangers on a train, but this lady looks like a nice grandmother with fly-away gray hair and puffy cheeks. Plus, this is England and not New York City where striking up a conversation on the subway is considered bad social form, so I say, “Hello.”
“Not from here, I reckon?” The woman holds her hand out across the divide and opens it up, palm up with a piece of plastic covered candy. The package is white and black, and I’ve never seen this kind of candy before. Despite not wanting it, I take it and give her a smile. If I want to change, I have to, well, change. This whole trip is about pushing myself to be a better version of me, so I unwrap the candy and say, “Thank you.”
But there is only one word I can use to describe it when I pop it in my mouth: nasty, but this nice old lady is looking at me, so I give her an exaggerated smile. “Mmm. What kind of candy is this?”
“Black Jack chew.”
I chew it and try not to die from the way it makes my mouth water like crazy. Once I work through it and swallow what I can, I say, “It’s like black licorice.” Never been a favorite of mine. In fact, of all candies, I dislike black licorice the most. I take a drink of water from the bottle, swish it around, then turn back to the lady as I nod toward the front of the train. “Are you from Liverpool?”
“Lived there all my life until my Charles died last spring. I’ve just got back from holiday in London with me son. He lives in one of those posh flats in Chelsea.” The woman pauses, looks me up and down and says, “You’re a Yank.”
“I’m from New Jersey.” I’ve never been one to overshare, but I’ve got no one else to talk to, and somehow it seems like the more people who know how I feel about Fox, the more likely it is that he’ll forgive my stupidity. “I’m going to Liverpool because my boyfriend likes the soccer team there.”
“The what?”
“The soccer team. You know, the guys dressed in red kicking the ball into goals.”
“You mean football, dear. The Liverpool Football Club.”
“Yes, exactly. So he’s going to be at the stadium, and I want to surprise him. We didn’t part on the best of terms. Actually, I sort of broke it off with him.”
“That’s very brave of you to travel abroad on your own. Do you have tickets then?”
“Tickets?”
“Yes, to the match?”
I remember Fox telling me that match means the soccer game, so I shake my head.
“Oh, my dear,” she says with a sorrowful voice, “those tickets are probably sold out. You have to purchase early and even then, they’re expensive.”
“Money doesn’t matter. So there’s no way to buy a ticket?”
“I would say not, but perhaps you could solicit the supporters. It’s doubtful, but perhaps there are a few romantics among them who might sell you their seat.”
I give a heavy sigh. “Thanks for the information,” I say as I turn forward again. This isn’t great news. I’m not sure what I thought or why it seemed like such an easy thing to do, but I feel a little deflated.
But maybe this is just a test of how hard I’ll work to achieve something I really want. Finding Fox will be an accomplishment I can be proud of. Something I can write down for future generations to read and remember my triumph. By the end of the train ride, I’ve convinced myself once again that Fox and his love are worthy of hard work and uncomfortable effort.
The thought of seeing Fox, of seeing the expression on his face when he sees me, carries me through until game day. Maybe I can find him in the crowd before the match, but when I see the sea of Liverpool fans flooding in the gates, it seems hopeless. Instead, I try to find someone who looks like they’re attending the match on their own.
One guy smiles and give me a laugh when I ask if he wants to sell his ticket. “You’re mad! This is the first match of the season.”
Another guy considers it until a friend of his slaps him on the back and asks him to share a pint before the match. “Sorry, luv. Wish I could help.”
Finally a man wearing a jersey of the opposing team sells me his ticket for probably five times what he paid for it. “Fucking Liverpool supporters!” he says with a laugh as he walks away.
With ticket in hand, I go in and can’t help but be little awed of the size of the stadium and the number of people all coming together to watch one soccer game. Then, of course, comes the feeling of insignificance and hopelessness. I am but one person in this mass of humanity. Fox is but a speck within the constellations of faces in the stands. And they’re all wearing red.
How will I ever find him?
It doesn’t get any easier once the game starts. People are singing and cheering and singing again. They are out of their seats, clapping, sitting down and throwing their hands up, milling around with beers, shouting at the players on the field, and singing some more.
I don’t even care where my seat is; I just want to find Fox. As I walk up and down the stairs in every area I can get to, the music that has fueled our relationship is on a nonstop loop in my head. Song after song plays within my mind, most d
ominant of course, are The Avett Brothers.
I look up at the rows and rows of seats. How will I search all these faces? How will I find his face in this crowd? I realize now that while I was with Fox, I could only ever see myself, never him. I could only think about how everything affected me; and about how even while things were good, I always suspected them of turning sour because I was just pretending to be as in love as Fox was.
Now I can see that I wasn’t pretending at all. While Fox will always be a lighter, brighter person than I am, it doesn’t mean my heart doesn’t feel the same things his does. It just means sometimes I take more convincing. He is worth finding, and I’m worthy of finding him.
Something happens on the field that makes the crowd go crazy again. I look up at the clock and it says the game is in its sixty-fifth minute. Liverpool is ahead by a point, but then the score flips and they’re ahead by two.
I look down as I step up onto the landing right before going back inside the enclosed portion of the stadium. All of the sudden I’m knocked backward. I wave my arms to try to keep myself upright. My body is unbalanced and headed for a horrible fall down those stupid steps. Something tightens around my upper arms, and I’m pulled away from the edge of the stairs and onto the flat concrete.
I look up and forget everything beyond his face. “Fox,” I say in a disbelieving tone.
Slowly, he lets his hands relax and smooth down the length of my arms. For just a second, he uses his fingers to tickle the palms of my hands, but then his touch is gone. “Saige?”
I don’t know what to do, and I feel a bit stupid for having traveled all this way without rehearsing at least something to say to him if I did manage to find him. The silence grows so long and awkward Fox opens his mouth to break it, but I hurry to beat him to it. “I tried calling you.”
He looks at his feet, then back up. “Yeah. Apparently they have a different electrical system over here, and I didn’t budget for buying a new charger, so my cell is dead. Did you leave a voicemail?”