What More Could You Wish For

by Samantha Hoffman

  I laughed, happily chomping.

  “So how is it some woman hasn’t snatched you up?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Amazing, isn’t it? I’m such a catch.”

  “You look good on paper, but you never know, do you? Do you snore?”

  “Probably, but it doesn’t keep me awake,” he said. “Actually, I lived with someone for about five years but ultimately it didn’t work out.”

  “When was that?”

  “A couple years ago.”

  “What happened?”

  Patrick laughed. “Don’t be shy, Libby. Just get right to the point here.”

  “Sorry,” I said, feeling chastened. “You don’t have to answer. I’m just curious. Just tell me to shut up.”

  “I’m kidding,” he said, and his grin loosened my shoulders. “I don’t mind. My life’s an open book.”

  “Okay, so why didn’t it work?”

  He laughed again. “We just had different interests. At first it didn’t seem to matter but after a while it got to be a problem. She was ambitious, a corporate hotshot. I don’t think I was the right image for her. Not that she ever said that,” he said. “She was really sweet but our relationship just sort of fizzled out.”

  “Do you date much?”

  “Haven’t recently,” he said. I smiled inside.

  When the hostess came by to tell us our table was ready, Patrick said, “Saved by the bell,” and put his hand gently on my back as we followed her to our table. She smiled prettily at him as she handed him a menu. Her shiny blond hair hung in a satiny spill to her waist and she wore a cropped top and tight black hip-hugger bell-bottoms.

  “Didn’t you used to have an outfit like that?” Patrick asked.

  As we shared a piece of turtle cheesecake for dessert I thought how easy it was to be with him. It didn’t feel awkward; there were no uncomfortable silences. It was almost as if no time had passed at all.

  “I always thought you were pretty, Libby, but you’re even prettier now. Your face has more character.”

  “‘Character’ is just a euphemism for ‘wrinkles,’” I said.

  “Wrinkles mean life. They tell a story. I think faces are so much more interesting when we get older.”

  “I think faces are so much older when we get older.”

  His face and arms were browned from the sun. He had a familiar small chip in his right front tooth that was so endearing. I wasn’t sure if he was really handsome or if I was simply reacting to our history, but I liked looking at him.

  He leaned forward and took my hand. “I’m really glad you e-mailed me,” he said.

  “Me too,” I said. “I was so happy you remembered me.”

  “Oh Libby, how could I not remember you? Unless I’d been in a coma. I have to say, it’s great seeing you after all these years.” He picked up his glass. “To reunions,” he said, and we sipped our drinks. The whole thing seemed like a dream.

  Then Patrick asked, “How are things with Michael?” The question crashed like a steamroller through the fog of my trance.

  “Ooh, a dose of reality,” I said. I took a tiny bite of cheesecake. “Frankly, I feel a little guilty being here with you. That’s how things are with Michael.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Not sorry because you’re here with me, sorry you’re feeling guilty. I want you to enjoy this reunion.”

  “I am. Very much. That’s why I’m feeling guilty, I guess.”

  “I suppose that’s a good sign, then. For me, anyway.” He grinned, that sweet recognizable grin. I was glad he didn’t ask any more about Michael. I didn’t really want to think about him right now.

  After lunch we walked down Michigan Avenue and looked in the store windows. Patrick pointed out things he thought I’d look good in, and mostly they were things I’d pick out for myself. Except for the slinky, low-cut black sequined dress with spaghetti straps and a thigh-revealing slit.

  “Thirty years ago, maybe,” I said. “Not today.”

  “You could pull it off,” he said. I couldn’t. But I loved that he thought I could.

  We bought caramel corn at Garrett’s and munched on it as we made our way down to the Chicago River and on over to State Street. We went into Macy’s and Patrick lamented the fact that it was no longer Marshall Field’s. “My mom used to bring all us kids down here when we were little to see the Christmas windows and eat in the Walnut Room.”

  “They still do the windows.”

  “Not the same,” he said and I agreed.

  We wandered through the men’s department, where Patrick picked up a package of jockey shorts and some socks.

  “What, they don’t have underwear in Florida?”

  He smiled. “Let’s go find me another turtleneck,” he said.

  I stopped. “Patrick. What are you doing?”

  He faced me with a mischievous smile and a twinkle in his eye. “I was thinking I’d stay the night just on the off-chance I could see you again tomorrow.”

  My heart thumped against my rib cage. My mouth went dry. I was thrilled. And panicked. “You said lunch. You said we’d have lunch and then you’d leave. You promised.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m scaring you, aren’t I?” I nodded. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to cause trouble. Look, I’ll put these back.” He turned around and put the black socks on a rack of white ones. I resisted the urge to put them in the right place. “If you want me to go, I’ll go. I promised and I meant it. I will. But I don’t want to. I don’t want to leave you yet.”

  “It’s not that I want you to go,” I said. “It’s just that…”

  “Look, I’ll stay one night. I don’t have to get back for anything, so it’s no big deal for me. So I’ll just stay. We’ll talk tomorrow. And then if you want me to go home, I’ll go. I promise.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” I said.

  He smiled. “Yeah, I know. Another promise. But I mean it. No pressure. I swear, if you don’t want to see me tomorrow, I’ll go home. You don’t even have to call me. If I don’t hear from you by noon, I’ll leave. And no hurt feelings.” He put his hand on my shoulder again. “What do you say? It’s your call.”

  Why not? All I had to do was not call him tomorrow and he’d be gone. I had the whole rest of the evening and all night to think about it. Not that there was much doubt in my mind.

  I picked up the package of socks and handed it to him. “Let’s go find you a turtleneck,” I said, and he broke into a heartbreakingly adorable, chip-toothed grin.

  It was fun walking through the store together, holding hands, looking for all the world as if we were a couple. I was aware of people looking at us and imagined their envy. They were thinking we looked good together. They were thinking how nice it was that we were still in love after all these years now that our children were grown and gone. They were thinking, Look at these old people holding hands. Isn’t that sweet?

  Patrick put his arm around me as we walked away from the register, and the sales girl smiled at us.

  “Have a nice evening,” she said brightly as if she knew something.

  * * *

  I pulled up in front of the Palmer House hotel and a doorman hurried over to Patrick’s door. Patrick put up one finger and turned back to me. “Well, girl,” he said, “this has been one ass-kickin’ kind of day.”

  I laughed. “That’s not exactly how I would have described it, but it has definitely been some kind of day.”

  “Some kind of good?”

  “Some kind of good.”

  He took my hand in his and kissed it. Kissed it.

  “Libby,” he began, but then he stopped and shook his head. “Libby, Libby, Libby.” He leaned over and kissed my mouth. I remembered those lips. His kiss was like a familiar song, and as it played my brain was flooded with memories. A song, that’s what his kiss was like.

  He pulled back and looked at me, and a smile lit up his eyes and infused his whole face. “This is wild,” he said. “It
’s my fantasy.”

  His fantasy. I almost giggled, like a nervous teenager.

  He swept his hand across my cheek, and then kissed me again, more insistently now, with mouth open, moist and cushiony. And I kissed him back, and put my hand on his cashmered chest.

  And the doorman stood there waiting to open the door.

  I remembered this about Patrick: he was a great kisser.

  “I’m just not ready to let you go,” he said. I wasn’t ready either. It was the last thing I wanted to do. “Why don’t you let the valet take your car and come have a drink with me?”

  I put that car right in park. “Lead the way,” I said.

  As Patrick checked in at reception, I told him I’d wait in the bar while he put his things in the room. “Chicken,” he said as I turned and walked away.

  He was right. I was chicken. But there was no way I was going to be alone in a room with just him and me and a bed.

  Fifteen

  “Come here often?” Patrick said, startling me as I sat at the bar sipping a glass of wine. The room was dimly lit and if you didn’t know it was four in the afternoon you’d think it was midnight. There were only two other people at the bar, and one person sat at a table talking on a cell phone and taking notes.

  “How’s your room?” I asked after Patrick ordered a beer.

  “Nice,” he said. “Want to see?”

  Yes. “No way.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said. “I’ll stop.” But I didn’t really want him to; I liked the sexual banter. It made me feel sexy and desirable. It made me feel like a teenager.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” I told him. “I have dinner plans tonight, so I have to be out of here no later than six.” I didn’t have dinner plans. I had no plans at all. But it seemed like a good idea for him to think so. It felt like I could get into trouble so easily. Here I was fifty years old and I was making up a story because I didn’t trust myself to be alone with him.

  “Great,” he said. “We’ve got almost two hours.”

  We sipped our drinks and reminisced about high school. We talked about Sophie and Pete and how great it was that they were still together.

  “Remember senior prom? The four of us going to North Avenue Beach at four in the morning? I still remember the dress you wore.”

  “You do not,” I said.

  “It was blue and long and had rhinestone straps. And your shoes matched perfectly. I think they even had something rhinestone on them, didn’t they?”

  I narrowed my eyes at him. “Are you gay?”

  He laughed. “Just a good memory.”

  “You’re amazing. My mom had those shoes dyed to match. And she put rhinestone clip-on earrings on them. I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “I remember everything. I remember how we used to meet at the parking lot before school.”

  “Me too. I was grounded after New Year’s, so you couldn’t pick me up. Do you remember?” He nodded. “So I’d take the bus and meet you in the parking lot.”

  “Where we’d make out like mad until the bell rang and then we’d run like hell to make it to homeroom.”

  “My parents never did get to know you.”

  “They hated my long hair and black leather.”

  “I wonder what they’d think today.”

  “They’d probably think my hair was still too long. And that I needed a real job.”

  As Patrick ordered us another drink I watched him in the mirror over the bar, chatting with the bartender, finding out his name, asking him to recommend a seasonal beer. He had a friendly, relaxed manner about him.

  I was feeling heady from the wine, but mostly just drunk with the whole idea of Patrick Harrison here, now, and I giggled.

  “What?” he said, taking my hand.

  “This is just so strange.”

  “I know,” he said and kissed me, once, and then again. “Like a couple of kids.”

  “We used to make out in the parking lot at school and here we are, fifty years old, making out at a bar in downtown Chicago,” I said.

  “We’re not exactly making out,” he said. “But I’d be happy to oblige.” He said this with an exaggerated leer. I felt happy inside, like someone who’d just won a blue ribbon.

  “People are looking at us,” I said.

  “Do you care?”

  “Not really,” I said. And I didn’t. Unless someone who knew Michael was here.

  For a while we sat silently, sipping our drinks. Patrick seemed easy and comfortable. I wished I could jump into his brain and find out what he was thinking. He ran his pinky along the back of my hand. We looked at each other in the mirror over the bar.

  “Why’d we break up?” Patrick asked.

  “I don’t think we did. At least I don’t remember any big scene. Do you? You’re the one who remembers everything.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I went away to college. I think that’s what happened. We called each other for a while but it was tough being so far away.”

  “We were stupid. We shouldn’t have let it go.”

  In my head I said, “So, wanna go up to your room?” and off we’d go to ravage each other like sex-crazed maniacs and profess our undying love.

  Instead I looked at my watch. “Oh shit. It’s six-thirty,” I said.

  “How’d that happen?”

  I put on my coat and kissed him. “I’ve got to go.” I was virtuous with my resolve, all the while imagining us doing wicked things to each other.

  He put his arm around me and walked me to the door while I inwardly argued with myself about leaving. What would happen if I stayed? Would that be so terrible? What was so great about being virtuous anyway?

  “So, I’m not going to call you, remember?” he said. “If you want to see me, call me in the morning. Otherwise I’ll just head home.”

  “I remember,” I said.

  He kissed the top of my head. “So do you think you’ll do that?”

  Of course.

  “You’ll just have to wait and see.”

  Sixteen

  There are few things as jarring as a phone ringing in the middle of the night. Who would call me at 3:51 A.M.? I jolted awake, my heart racing. But then I smiled, sure it was Patrick. Of course it was Patrick.

  “Couldn’t sleep for thinking about me?” I asked.

  “Libby,” my mom said. “Can you come over?”

  I sat up, my chest thumping. “What is it? Are you okay?” I was already out of bed, stripping off my pajamas, pulling on underwear.

  “It’s Daddy. Something’s wrong.” Her voice was filled with confusion, anguish.

  My head pounded. I dug my knuckle into my temple. “Did you call 911?” I asked as I pulled on jeans, zipping them, looking around for my shoes.

  “I didn’t know what to do.”

  Oh god. “I’ll call them, Mom. Hang up, okay? I’ll call them and then I’ll be right there.” A small sound escaped her throat. I made my voice calm to hide my fear. “He’ll be okay, Mom,” I said, but I didn’t feel that optimism in my bones. I walked back and forth in front of the dresser, pounding my thigh with my fist. “Hang up, now. I’ll be right there.”

  My hand shook as I punched in 911 and choked out the address. I knew I had to keep it together for my mother, but as I tied my shoes a wail gathered in my throat. Please, no. Not yet. Let him be all right.

  I wasn’t ready. I still needed my father. It didn’t matter that I was fifty years old. At that moment I felt ten. Six. Five years old.

  Daddy.

  * * *

  Lights from the ambulance strobed the neighborhood as I drove up. Two men were lifting a stretcher down the porch steps. My mother held my father’s hand, running alongside in quick little steps as they moved toward the waiting vehicle. He looked fine when I got to him, just sleeping. I touched his cheek. “I love you, Daddy,” I whispered, wishing for a finger twitch or the tremble of an eyelid. If he were dead they’d be carrying him out completely covered by the
sheet, I thought, and took solace in that.

  “I’ll be right behind you,” I told my mother as the EMT helped her into the ambulance. “I’ll get you some clothes.” She was oblivious that she was in her blue chenille bathrobe—she probably wouldn’t care even if she did realize it—but it was something useful I could do.

  At the hospital, little clusters of people stood and sat in the waiting room: a woman with wiry gray hair and three children wearing Chicago Cubs caps; a young couple with black hair, black lipstick, black nail polish and silver posts through their noses. And my mother, sitting alone, looking very small, turned in on herself, hands folded in her lap, head down. I stood in the doorway afraid to talk, afraid to move. I had a bad feeling. How could I comfort her? Who was going to comfort me?

  She looked up then, her whole being overflowing with sadness. I sat beside her, hugged her, patted her hair down, put my hand on hers.

  “I called Jill,” I said. “She and Mark are on the way.”

  She nodded.

  “I brought you some clothes.” I pointed to the paper bag on the floor but I could see it wasn’t registering. “Doesn’t matter,” I said and we sat in silence, Mother’s foot tapping softly in her slipper.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  She slumped forward and put her face in her hands. I rubbed her bony back. “I don’t know. He moaned in his sleep. I thought he was dreaming and I went back to sleep.” Her voice cracked.

  “Shhhh,” I said. “You couldn’t know, Mom.” She sat back and I put my arm around her. She was trembling.

  “But then something woke me. He was so still.” Tears fell down her cheeks. “I should have done something earlier. If he doesn’t make it it’s my fault.”

  “No, Mom. It’ll be all right. He’ll pull through.” What else could I say? I rubbed her shoulder, wishing someone were there to rub mine.

  And then, thankfully, Jill and Mark rushed in looking like they’d just gotten out of bed, which, of course, they had. I almost cried with relief at seeing them. And right behind them was Michael. The sight of his face took my breath away. I was surprised by his presence but glad Jill had called him. He scooped me up in a big, protective hug and I melted into his chest. He smelled like Michael, a clean, sleepy smell.