Here, There, Everywhere

  Before handing it to me, she said, “I want you to know how much I appreciate you loaning me this. It’s been a lifesaver. Thank you.”

  Part of me wanted to say, “What choice did I have?” The other part knew better.

  “No problem,” I said. Truthfully, it had been liberating to be phoneless. After the post-phonum depression and phantom-limb feeling went away, it hadn’t been a big deal at all.

  I returned to the booth and scrolled through my contact list until I came to Rose Santos. I stared at the number with trepidation before opening a text message. The cursor blinked back at me, daring me to type. I began a message, then deleted it. Another, deleted it. A third, deleted it.

  Stop it, I told myself. Just keep it simple.

  I typed a message, shut my eyes, and hit send. I hovered over the phone for several minutes in anticipation, praying for a response. I’d typed: So sorry about the other day. Need to see you.

  A minute passed by.

  Another.

  When the phone finally dinged I nearly fell out of the booth.

  Need to see you too. :)

  I breathed a sigh of relief. She needed to see me too, and had even added a smiley. Best. Smiley. Ever. I replied and told her to sit tight because I’d be there in twenty minutes.

  I gave the phone back to Mom and asked her if I could have two triple chocolate brownies and two coffees to go. She smiled and said, “I see I’ve taught you well.” I bagged everything up, promised I’d be back for Grub soon, and headed out.

  Before crossing the bridge, I stopped at home to grab one more last-minute item.

  Nineteen minutes later, I stood in front of Rose’s door catching my breath. It felt like weeks had passed since we’d seen each other, even though it had only been two days. My heart pounded in my chest as if trying to escape. I breathed deeply to compose myself. I knocked. A moment later the door opened and Rose stood before me.

  I launched into an incoherent monologue like a pull-string doll with a faulty speech setting. While I’m pretty sure I blacked out for most of it, I think it went something like:

  “Rose I’m so sorry about the other day I was a total jerk I can’t believe I said those things to you I should have been more understanding of your situation I’m sorry you didn’t get into the school and I’m sorry I didn’t pay attention to you at the Open Mic I just had to make new friends because I thought you’d be leaving at the end of the summer and I need to have some friends after you’re gone I’m so sorry I’m a jerk I understand if you never want to see me again but I just had to apologize I brought you a present.”

  I held out the box containing the two brownies and the tray with the coffees. “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  Rose took the peace offering. “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly.

  “You are? Thanks.” I wondered if thanking her for a mutual apology was weird.

  We stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment.

  “What is it?” she asked, peeking inside the box.

  “It’s a brownie,” I said, experiencing intense déjà vu.

  Rose’s mouth hinted at a smile. “Turn That Frownie Upside Brownie?”

  “That’s the one,” I replied. “And cold coffee. Sorry it’s only half-full, the rest of it is on the sidewalk between here and downtown.”

  “It’s okay, I’ll go lick it up later.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Don’t be, the dirt adds flavor and texture.”

  I grinned, then shoved my hands in my pockets. “About the other day, I mean. I can’t believe I said those things to you, Rose. I was totally inconsiderate. Can you forgive me?”

  “It’s okay, I was really emotional. I shouldn’t have told you to leave.”

  We stood in the doorway. My eyes darted around, trying to find anything to settle on. I don’t think either of us had prepared for what to say next. Rose finally broke the silence. “Come on in.”

  Relief—decidedly the best of all feelings—flowed through my veins. I could breathe again; think again.

  Inside, Rose sat on a couch and I on a wooden chair.

  I noticed a stack of library books on the coffee table between us. I read the titles: Museums of New York City; So Now You Live in NYC, What Next?; From Cave Paintings to Modernism: Art History; The Impressionists; and on top, Sacré Bleu: A Comedy d’Art.

  “Have you read all of those?” I asked, pointing to the stack.

  Rose looked at the books the way one might consider a pair of dirty underwear. “Not yet,” she said. “I started to, you know, before I found out . . .”

  . . . that you’re not going to New York City, my brain finished her sentence.

  “You were really looking forward to going, weren’t you?” I said.

  She nodded.

  “There’s always college, right?”

  She nodded again, then looked up at me. “I shouldn’t have said that I’ll be stuck in this town. At least I’ll have you here.”

  I began to speak, but my voice caught in my throat. My mom’s words came thundering back to haunt me: It could mean changing the menu. It could mean shutting down and finding a new job here. Or it could mean moving back to Chicago and taking my old job back.

  “What’s wrong?” Rose asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied.

  She raised an eyebrow and smirked at me. “Do we want to play that game again?”

  She was right. “Well, it might be nothing, it might not. Too soon to tell. I guess the café is struggling a bit. My mom mentioned . . . It’s possible we may have to move back to Chicago.” I’d been looking at the floor while speaking but glanced up to see Rose’s reaction. She was looking at the floor as well, nodding her head. Then she snorted and laughed.

  “What?” I said.

  Rose laughed harder. “It’s kind of funny when you think about it.”

  “It is?”

  “I find out I’m staying here, and now you may be the one leaving. It’s probably your spiritual blockage messing everything up.”

  I laughed too. “Yeah, I still need to work on that.”

  “So what do we do?” she asked.

  I thought for a moment. “Well, maybe it’s like Letty says: ‘Enjoy today, you might be dead tomorrow.’”

  “She might be onto something,” Rose said, “though it’s a tad morbid.”

  “Maybe we could just leave it at ‘enjoy today.’”

  “Deal.”

  “Shake on it?”

  We shook hands, and then Rose pulled out a brownie and offered the other one to me. She took a bite, and her eyes rolled back in her head, like a shark gorging on a hapless surfer. “I’m telling you,” she said as specks of brownie went flying, “this is the best item on the menu, hands down.”

  “I think you’re right.”

  “If your mom opened a bakery, I’d be there every day.” Rose finished the brownie and chased it down with a swig of cold coffee. “Zeus, I should have let you know what I was thinking at that Open Mic thing. It was just . . . I felt so uncomfortable and didn’t want to be there. I thought our Sundays were supposed to be about you and me, and I felt like you were ignoring me for your friends . . . like it wasn’t about us anymore, it was about you and them. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have left.”

  I shook my head at the irony, at myself for not seeing it before now. “The thing is, Rose, the Open Mic was all about us.”

  Rose looked confused. “Really? How?”

  “I was going to play you a song. But all I could think about was how nervous I felt. I should have realized how uncomfortable it would be for you. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

  Rose’s eyes flew open. “You were going to play me a song?”

  “Yeah,” I said softly.

  “Zeus, I feel horrible now!”

  “Don’t,” I said. “I should have planned it better. It was my fault. I never should have done it there, in front of everyone. The song was meant to be for you, anyway, not a bunch of Be
auty Saloon regulars.”

  “What song were you going to play?”

  “Do you still want to hear it?”

  “Of course I do!”

  I smiled mysteriously. “Want to hear it right now?”

  “Well, yeah! But you didn’t bring your guitar,” said Rose.

  “One minute.” I walked outside and grabbed my guitar, which rested right where I’d left it: ten feet away, below the window. Strands of twine still hung from it, which I’d used to strap it to my back for the ride across town. I’d hidden it behind the bushes, just in case my apology backfired, or I chickened out, which both seemed likely scenarios.

  I walked inside. “How’d this get here?” I asked, looking as if it had fallen out of the sky.

  Rose grinned from ear to ear.

  “Let’s see,” I strummed a chord to make sure it was in tune. It wasn’t. It didn’t matter. I began to play. And then, because it was just her—just us—I decided to sing, too.

  “To lead a better life . . . I need my love to be here.”

  Rose covered a smile with both hands.

  As I sang, I could tell my face had flushed red, but I didn’t care. A quick glance at Rose was all it took to keep me going. I had almost made it through the entire song. It certainly wasn’t great, but I was giving it my best effort.

  “I will be there and everywhere . . . here, there, and everywhere.” I strummed the last chord and made a ta-da motion with my picking hand.

  Rose jumped off the couch, threw her arms around me, and kissed me on the cheek, sandwiching the guitar between us. “I knew you’d figure it out!”

  It was the Beatles song Rose had played the first time I’d seen her at Hilltop. The melody had haunted me ever since that afternoon, the wordless soundtrack to my summer with Rose. “Sorry it took me so long.”

  “Worth the wait,” she said. “Thank you. That was perfect.”

  It had been far from perfect.

  But mission accomplished.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  THOUGH I HADN’T REALIZED IT AT THE TIME, A SEED HAD BEEN PLANTED in my head while at Rose’s house. Over the next few weeks, it germinated, took root, and grew into a fully formed idea—possibly my best Sunday surprise yet. Meanwhile, I had a few other Sundays to fill.

  The week after the Open Mic, I took Rose to the local farmers’ market. I’d learned from Mom that it was a weekly occurrence held on a side street near the park downtown. I’d joked to Rose that it would probably be a handful of locals selling corn and beans out of their pickup trucks, but it was nothing of the sort. Well, there were people selling fresh-picked fruits and vegetables from their flatbeds, but there was so much more.

  One family sold handmade soaps and candles. A husband-and-wife team displayed glazed pottery and blown-glass art. At another tent, a man offered venison, duck, geese, and free-range chicken from an assortment of large coolers. Other vendors touted organic cheeses, wild mushrooms, flowers, and coffee beans. After spending nearly an hour there, Rose walked away with a shiny jeweled bracelet made from guitar strings, and I picked up fresh-baked bread, homemade peanut butter, and rhubarb strawberry jam, which made for some killer sandwiches afterward.

  The next week Dylan helped by lending me an old canoe his parents had in the garage. It looked ridiculous strapped to the top of the Lego as we drove to the park. Then again, it didn’t look a whole lot better in the water, like a piece of driftwood in need of a paint job. But Rose was a good sport, as usual, and we did our best not to capsize our borrowed vessel in the Stone River. We only tipped once, which we considered a grand success.

  Finally, the big day came. My biggest surprise yet.

  Hilltop Nursing Home’s annual field trip fell on the third Sunday of July. The destination: Wrigley Field, home of the Chicago Cubs. After getting the green light from Candy, Mom, and Mary, I’d asked Rose to go, and she’d agreed. Neither of us were huge baseball fans, but that didn’t matter. If all went according to plan, we’d never step foot inside Wrigley Field.

  Outside of Hilltop, the bus awaited us. It sat twenty people legally and fifteen comfortably. Final count: thirteen residents, four volunteers, three personal nurses, two turtledoves, and a partridge in a pear tree.

  Mary and Blackjack had stayed behind—he’d had a bad couple of weeks, unable to leave his room. Grub roamed the hallways by himself on whatever “top-secret mission” Blackjack had tasked him with. My little brother had become a fixture by then at Hilltop, much as he was in our old Chicago neighborhood. The residents and staff doted on him, plying him with treats and allowing him free rein throughout the nursing home. Grub still steered clear of Missy Stouffer, though, as we all did.

  Fortunately, she’d decided to skip the baseball game, too.

  Once some of the less physically able residents had been seated, Rose and I climbed aboard. The bus did not have typical rows like a school bus, but cushioned bench seating around the perimeter, facing inward. Rose and I sat next to each other in the middle across from Letty and the Bettys. Next to us, Lucille and George Larsen loudly discussed her missing wedding ring.

  “It was on the nightstand,” said Lucille.

  George craned his ear toward her. “You had a one-night stand?”

  “Night. Stand.”

  “Stan? Who’s Stan?”

  Lucille held up her hand for her beloved to see.

  “Where’s your wedding ring?”

  Candy’s bubbly voice came through an intercom system overhead. “Welcome aboard, ladies and gentleman. Our estimated departure time is T minus thirty seconds. It is currently a sunny, eighty-degree day in Chicago. Our cruising speed will be roughly seventy miles per hour, which should have us arriving at our destination at approximately twelve thirty, Central Standard Time. Please fasten your seat belts, and enjoy the ride.”

  The diesel engine rumbled, and everyone cheered as the brass intro to Dean Martin’s “Ain’t That a Kick in the Head?” came through the speakers. Letty threw her arms in the air and danced in her seat. She wore a red-and-blue Cubs wind suit and all-white sneakers, and topped the ensemble with matching Cubs earrings and blackout sunglasses fit for viewing an atomic blast.

  As we merged onto the interstate, I put my arm around Rose and she leaned into me. We could have been driving to Canada for all I cared. Lucille and George had already fallen asleep next to us, but Letty, the Bettys, and the rest of the Hilltoppers sang and swayed to the music. I rested my head on Rose’s and watched the cornfields fly by. Rose pushed open my free hand and began tracing the lines on my palm.

  “That line there,” she said. “I think that means today will be a good day.”

  “I think you’re psychic,” I replied.

  I shut my eyes and listened to Dean Martin and the steady hum of the engine.

  I must have drifted off to sleep, for when I opened my eyes, the Chicago skyline projected from the horizon in the distance. Rose’s head lay under my arm, on my chest. Our hands had become sweaty from holding them together so long.

  “Rose,” I whispered. “You asleep?”

  “Nope,” she replied, muffled by my shirt. “You were though. I was trapped under your arm. Also, you snore.”

  “I do?”

  “Like a buzz saw.”

  I yawned and stretched my neck. “Sorry about that.” I felt slightly embarrassed, but at the same time I didn’t mind. I didn’t care what she knew about me.

  “It’s okay. I like the way you snore,” Rose said, smiling up at me. “You make cute choking sounds.” I tried to give her shoulder a squeeze, but my arm had gone to pins and needles, so I just groped her arm with a lifeless hand. The music was off now and many others had fallen asleep as well.

  Across from us, Letty held a Cubs pennant flag in one hand, looking perplexed. “What the hell happened? I’m ready to party,” she said.

  Rose and I laughed.

  “You know what this bus needs?” I asked Letty.

  She cocked her head to the side and raised a
n eyebrow.

  “Tom Jones,” I said.

  Letty’s eyes lit up. “If I wasn’t strapped to this seat, I’d come over there and kiss you.” Then, to Candy, who sat behind the bus driver, “You hear that, Candy Apple? My personal volunteer would like some Tom Jones!”

  Candy shook her head with a grin, then scrolled through her phone’s playlist. A minute later, “Help Yourself” roared through the speakers, and one by one, the bus revived as Mr. Jones invited us to help ourselves to his heart, arms, lips, and love.

  The skyline grew larger on the horizon. Rose had told me she’d only been to Chicago a couple times, and it had been years since her last visit. I was excited to show her the city, but more excited for the other surprise that lay in store for her.

  We passed an exit near Midway Airport, and I pointed. “That’s the exit we’d take to get to my old house,” I said.

  Rose craned her neck to see out the window. “It must have been so different growing up here compared to Buffalo Falls.”

  You can say that again, I thought. Something felt odd though. I figured driving into Chicago would feel like a homecoming of sorts—I hadn’t been back since we’d moved. But it felt different. I felt different. I’d grown used to Buffalo Falls. The sound of insects at night had become a comfort rather than an annoyance, and the slower pace felt more familiar now than this four-lane expressway. As for my old friends, I still texted them now and then, but it wasn’t the same. We’d all moved on, I guess. I’d moved on.

  An unsettling feeling came over me as I remembered the possibility of moving back. But then I remembered our new motto: Enjoy today.

  The expressway became Lake Shore Drive. Lake Michigan appeared before us, looking as blue and expansive as any ocean. Sailboats cut white wakes through the water beyond a harbor full of yachts, their white hulls shining in the sun. Overhead, a plane flew by with a message trailing behind it too small to read. Turning north, we drove by McCormick Place, then Soldier Field, home of the Chicago Bears. Passing Millennium Park, I told Rose about how Mom used to take me and Grub there for picnics and free music on the weekends.

  Farther north, the buildings became smaller and less cramped together. We turned off the Addison exit toward Wrigley Field, and my heart sped up with excitement. As the stadium came into view, Letty led the bus through “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”