Saving Alice

by David Lewis

  I flipped through them, reading the dates, then recognized the one from college. I opened that one first, flipped through it, and felt a flicker of guilt for invading her privacy.

  Sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, I opened to the earliest diary—the pre-Alice record—and began reading from a past that had occurred long before I’d lost—or saved—Alice. Since it wasn’t relevant, I nearly set it aside and went to the next diary, but a single line grabbed me. Dear Diary, I’ve fallen in love with Stephen Whitaker.

  It took me an hour to read the rest of it, and in spite of everything that had happened, in spite of saving Alice in a dream, and somehow waking up and finding myself in a strange future—where my daughter was alive and Donna and I were still married—I was transfixed with Donna’s narrative of the past. No wonder Alice had been so upset.

  When I was finished, I leaned against the wall and tried to digest what I’d just learned.

  Six months before Alice transferred to our college, I first saw Donna in Lit class. As an accounting major, I hid in the far back, the farthest row to the left. Donna sat three rows over, six chairs up. She liked to wear jean skirts and yellow or blue blouses, and I remember thinking she had nice legs. She also had an untouchable demeanor: Keep your distance!

  Along with this, she never spoke in class unless called upon, and she never raised her hand. Even so, Professor Smith deferred his probing questions to her. After the entire class would weigh in, he’d often ask her, “And what do you say about this, Donna?”

  You could sense the class crouching closer: The Queen of Lit was about to hold forth. After her reply, the prof would invariably say, “Exactly what I was looking for.”

  Despite the praise, Donna loathed the attention, and she especially did not relish being the teacher’s pet. One day, she walked into class early, offered her hand to me, and said, “Hi, I’m Donna. Can we trade chairs?”

  While our seats weren’t assigned, our usual spots had become established through routine. Knowing full well why she wanted my seat and feeling feisty, I smiled. “What’s it worth to you?”

  “I’ll buy you lunch,” she surprised me by saying.

  “Lunch?” I asked. “That’s it?”

  “And dessert. That’s the deal.”

  Humored by her silly desperation, I replied, “I was thinking something more like help on the essays.”

  Her face fell. “I won’t help you cheat, if that’s what you want.”

  I opened my mouth to correct her impression, but she was already walking away. She got situated in her vulnerable seat, opened her book, and waited for class to begin.

  Afterward, I approached her in the hall. “Is the offer for lunch still good?”

  She frowned. “You didn’t keep your part of the deal.”

  “There are three months left.”

  Reluctantly, she agreed, and as we walked across campus, I attempted casual conversation.

  “What’s your favorite classic?” I asked her.

  She answered rather grudgingly, as if telling me would make it less significant. “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  “Why?”

  “If you have to ask, you haven’t read it.”

  “Touché,” I admitted.

  Our short walk was such a disaster that by the time we reached the lunchroom, I expressed polite reservation. “I was just kidding. You can have my seat. We don’t have to go through with lunch, and I certainly would never ask you to cheat for me.”

  “So why did you say it?”

  “Because ‘help’ means ‘help,’ ” I said with exasperation. “And because I don’t read much.”

  Wrong answer, her expression said.

  “I mean … not fiction.”

  “So what do you read?” she asked with little enthusiasm. We were standing just outside the door, both of us obviously looking for the appropriate parting words. While she was annoyed with my literary ignorance, I was annoyed with her elitist attitude, and I said what I hoped would offend her the most: “I read Christian books.”

  My answer had the opposite effect. Her mouth dropped open. “What kind of Christian books?”

  I named some titles and her expression melted. “Wow, and I thought you were a jerk.”

  “Well, you’re still a literary snob,” I shot back.

  She bit her lip and swallowed. I said good-bye and made to leave with a semblance of dignity when she grabbed my arm. “Stephen, may I buy you lunch to apologize?”

  Lunch lasted three full hours. Once we got to talking, we couldn’t stop. She barely made it to her three o’clock Advanced Comp class, and I didn’t tell her until much later that I’d skipped my two o’clock General Science.

  We had everything in common. Both of us were born and raised in small Midwestern towns, both to poorer families, and both of us made it to college by the skin of our teeth.

  I told her about my rabbit-field prayers, how the sense of God’s closeness was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and she seemed awestruck. “I’ve sometimes struggled to believe God would answer my prayers,” she admitted sheepishly.

  I nodded. “But sometimes … God gives a sign.”

  She was surprised. “He does? How?”

  That was difficult to say, other than it came with a sense of peace and confidence—a clicking into place.

  In spite of our inauspicious introductions, we became instant best friends, which was all I had remembered about those days until I read her diary.

  “My favorite picture isn’t up here anymore,” she’d said on the day she packed up and left me, and I now remembered what she meant. Two nights before Alice’s celebrated recital, I took Donna to a French restaurant. Donna wore the only nice dress she owned at the time, the powder blue gown, and I wore the only suit in my closet.

  Only faintly do I recall the meal, but I do remember the waitress. She was surly and abrupt, and despite the dominant theme of our discussion—Christian love—Donna became increasingly annoyed with the level of service. When we politely asked the waitress to snap our picture, she grudgingly agreed. Finally Donna could take it no longer. “Let’s just go, Stephen. We can talk back at the dorm.”

  I remember smiling and saying, “Let’s do something radical first.”

  She frowned.

  “ ‘Bless those who curse you,’ ” I said cryptically.

  “You’re kidding.” She sat back in her seat and looked at me.

  “Okay,” she replied. “Let’s tell her we forgive her for being such a lousy waitress.”

  She watched as I removed a twenty-dollar bill. Her eyes widened. “What’s that?”

  “Our tip.”

  She looked incredulous.

  “Maybe she’s had a bad day,” I said. “Regardless, all waitresses work for tips, and, besides, we can leave a little note.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like … we’re praying for you, or … we could write a Scripture verse or something.”

  Her expression soured. “If we really want to do the right thing, we’d tell the manager and he’d fire her and save future customers.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose that’s justice.”

  “You bet it is.” She let out a breath. “Fine, Stephen. Do what you want. But I still think you’re being naïve. God doesn’t expect us to be stupid.”

  “Call it an experiment, then,” I said, inserting the twenty beneath the water glass along with a scribbled note, hoping the next day would be better and we’d be praying for her.

  Donna’s diary explained what happened next:

  Stephen and I were just leaving the restaurant and I felt terribly frustrated. I was also frustrated with myself because I couldn’t feel anything but anger with this woman for ruining a perfectly good date, but mainly I was disturbed with Stephen because he was acting self-righteous (although I know he didn’t mean to). We were interrupted by the sound of a woman’s voice calling to us from behind us, and we turned to see our waitress standing by the door, huggi
ng herself in the cold. Despite the dim light, we could see she’d been crying. We approached her, and she could barely talk. She mentioned the note and the prayer, and gasped out an apology for her behavior. She told us that her family was falling apart, that her father had left her mother.

  I wanted to crawl under the cement sidewalk, but Stephen reached for her hand. And then he prayed out loud and afterward said something like: “There’s always hope. Don’t give up believing God is on your side.” The waitress nodded. “Meeting you two has been a gift from God … to me.”

  As Stephen walked me back to my dorm, neither of us spoke. When we reached the glass door, I turned to apologize, but he placed his finger against my lips. He told me he’d been just as shocked as I was at the waitress’s response.

  We talked until three in the morning. When we parted, Stephen kissed me on the cheek. He told me he couldn’t believe time had gone so quickly.

  And then I said something wrong. “Meeting you has been like coming home.” His expression dimmed slightly, and I could have kicked myself. I’d forgotten that home wasn’t all that happy a place for him.

  I feel like we’re beginning to fall in love, but I have the impression Stephen is fighting it. Either that, or I’ve been wrong all along.

  So, Dear Diary, here I am. In spite of my lifelong determination to stay single, I’m crazy about the only person who’s ever given me any sense that God could love me. I like who I am when we’re together, and if I can’t have someone like Stephen, I don’t want anyone. At the same time, I’m angry with myself for caring this much for him.

  In her diary, Donna wrote this months later: Unbelievable. I’ve just lost Stephen to Alice, and I never even had him. Then again, should I be so surprised? Why would someone like Stephen even want me? I must have proven to him that I’m not worthy of his love. Even his faith is beyond me.

  The remaining diary entries—one every two weeks or so, were filled with continuing details about classes, Alice, school, prayers to God, and occasionally … her unrequited love for me. While she’d gotten over the initial frustration, the sadness seemed to linger.

  Two weeks before I proposed to Alice, Donna wrote: I know that Stephen and I are supposed to be together, Lord, so why did you take him from me? I know Stephen loves me. Do something, Lord!

  That was her last college diary entry.

  I placed the diary on the desk and leaned against the wall, closing my eyes.

  “It seems you’ve forgotten everything,” Donna had once told me.

  I finally reached for the next diary. Two hours later, I was still alone. I’d read nearly five diaries and perused seven photograph albums. I’d received all the answers I needed. I now knew what had happened after I’d saved Alice, and if I hadn’t read it for myself, I wouldn’t have believed it.

  Two weeks after that close call at the Soda Straw, Alice and I had taken a long walk around the campus. According to what I’d told Donna later, I had come to grips with my true feelings. I’ve fallen in love with Donna, I told Alice, and unbelievably, Alice hadn’t protested.

  “I always suspected that you two belonged together,” she told me. And then she said something shocking. Her association with Donna had reconfirmed her faith in Christ. In fact, several nights earlier, Alice had knelt before God.

  “I’ll find a church in Manhattan,” she told me, laughing. “I’ll be the only Christian on Broadway.”

  At the end of the walk, I kissed her on the cheek.

  “We’ll always be the Three Musketeers, right?” she asked me, her eyes glistening in the dim light by the girls’ dorm.

  I hugged her quickly.

  “Maybe I can be Donna’s maid of honor someday?”

  “Of course. And I’ll always care for you, Alice,” I said.

  Knowing what I meant, she smiled at my choice of words. “Ditto.”

  I married Donna two months later. And in March of the following year, our dear Alycia was born.

  Surprisingly, in this life, I had never lost faith in God. I turned down the Wall Street job—Larry had already called me with his business idea—and we’d moved to Aberdeen. Together, as a family, we attended church, and my habit of daily prayer continued. Every night, I committed my ways to God and asked for divine direction as a husband and a father.

  On the other hand, Alice went on to New York City. She became a leading star in various musicals, and Donna’s albums were filled with photos of the reunited Musketeers. But Alice made a few poor choices. She began taking uppers to stay on top of things, and then consumed downers to fall asleep. Her career faltered. So had her faith. She became bitter and disillusioned. She even spoke openly of her scorn for religion.

  Physically, she fell apart too. In her thirties, she had gained a hundred pounds over five years. Her personality changed with her growing addictions to a multitude of prescription drugs.

  She divorced four times and married five—each husband a product of an affair, resulting in another broken family.

  And then … one night after learning of her latest husband’s plans to leave her, she slipped into the bathroom and OD’d on a prescription drug. She died the next day.

  I closed the diary, my heart pounding.

  What have I done?

  I wandered out to the balcony of our summer home in Connecticut and stared at the ocean as the sun slowly set. The horizon mixed a brilliant display of oranges and purples, but to the west, gray clouds threatened. The weather report had called for severe thunderstorms by evening.

  I watched the slow-building storm and realized that I’d been in love with Donna from the beginning. I pondered the diaries I’d read, and remembered Donna’s poignant statements to me on the day of our divorce. She knew the truth. She knew I’d been allured by Alice’s exotic lifestyle and wealthy family, and then, after her fatal accident, I’d been blinded by the past. My persistent lack of faith had thrown me into a tailspin and interrupted the true course of my life.

  Standing on the balcony, I felt a wave of loneliness. Donna and Alycia were still away, and I hoped they would return before the storm. I couldn’t wait to see them again.

  I had what I wanted, didn’t I? Alycia was alive! Donna, the true love of my life, was my wife. I was wealthier than I would have imagined! I was standing at the edge of the beautiful ocean. Everything was perfect now.

  And … who was I kidding?

  The more I’d read of Donna’s diary, the deeper the truth sank in. I was an imposter. A fake. On top of that, Alycia hadn’t remembered any of our shared events. The ones that seemed so important to me had never happened to this Alycia. My wife and daughter didn’t truly know me, and I didn’t know them. This was not my world.

  Sure … I could exist here, living with the kind of affluence I’d always craved, but I’d be living a lie till the day I died. I could never tell them who I really was, and, through no fault of their own, they would always be partial strangers to me. Worse, saving Alice had ruined her soul.

  I stared into the water for a while longer. Later, I went downstairs and retrieved a cell phone I’d seen earlier. I navigated through the old phone numbers, found Donna’s, and called her.

  She answered cheerfully. “Hi, Stephen, feeling better? Looks like a storm coming in. We’ll be home soon.”

  “I miss you,” I said.

  “I miss you,” she replied.

  “Please come home,” I whispered.

  “I’ll see you soon,” she said, hanging up.

  I went upstairs again and stared at the ominous storm. The rain came so suddenly the beachcombers had to run for cover. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, feeling the rain spatter against my cheek, and the wind rushing in my ears. God, no matter what, I’ll serve you for the rest of my life. Please forgive me for a lifetime of foolishness.

  Slipping back in, I closed the sliding glass door and paused at the window, waiting for the downstairs door to open. Instead, the phone rang. It was Donna. “Stephen, we got caught in the rainstor
m. We’re now sheltered beneath a bank drive-through.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you,” I replied.

  “I can’t wait to get back, to be with you,” she said, her voice low, as if she didn’t want Alycia to hear. “You made my birthday so special!”

  After hanging up, I sank to the floor, as the reality of it fully sunk in. They were strangers to me. And I was a stranger to them. My Donna and my Alycia were gone … forever.

  An hour passed as the storm buffeted our house. I waited for my new family, and despite the raging storm, my eyes closed, and I dozed off….

  CHAPTER THIRTY - SEVEN

  I awakened in a dark room, to the scent of musty walls and the sound of a distant car muffler. When I could put it off no longer, I opened my eyes and glimpsed the clock first. 7:41.

  There was a thin line of daylight piercing the boundaries of high curtains. I sat up and recognized the feel of the familiar cushions beneath me.

  I looked around and took in my surroundings. I was downstairs in my office, sitting on the couch my daughter had sagged by virtue of her youthful energy. I was home in my office on Northview Lane. Above me, the floor boards squeaked. Someone was here. I got up and noticed my clothes. I was fully dressed. Had I slept in my clothes?

  Confused, I tried to sort through the strange dream I’d just had. Images of a rushing ocean came to me. A brewing storm had developed on the horizon. Where? Connecticut? Alycia and Donna had been there, and I remembered something about a birthday surprise. More fragments danced through my foggy mind, an entire litany of disjointed memories, as if months had passed, not mere minutes.

  The more I struggled to make sense of it, the more images broke through. Donna had divorced me. My father had died and I’d lost everything. Larry had skipped town. Worst of all … my daughter had killed herself. But just before the ocean fragments, I’d had that dream again, like a dream in a dream, the one where I rush across the room, only this time … I’d actually saved Alice.