Now I'll Tell You Everything (Alice)

by Naylor, Phyllis Reynolds

  “Oh, sweetheart.” She reached across the table and put her hand over mine. “Have you told Dave how you feel?”

  “No! He’d hate me! He’s a perfectly nice guy, but I just . . .” I looked at Sylvia imploringly. “Were you ever around someone who made you feel lonely? Not all the time. But . . . a lot of the time?”

  “I think I know what you mean. Yes, I felt that sometimes with some of the men I dated.”

  “It’s like . . . like he’s not really a part of my life. Or maybe I’m not really a part of his. I try, I really do try, but . . . How can you break up with someone just because you don’t like the same things? He’s a such a decent guy, Sylvia, but . . . I don’t feel like I can honestly be myself with him.”

  Sylvia looked at me earnestly. “Then don’t do this. Don’t marry him.”

  “But . . . but . . . the ring! We’re engaged!”

  “Give it back.”

  “We’ve already looked at apartments! We’ve already made some plans.”

  “Plans can be changed.”

  “It’s so unfair to him, Sylvia! Where does it say that a husband has to be interested in the same things his wife is? He’ll be so hurt!” I wept.

  “It’s nothing compared to the way he’d feel if he found out he’d married a woman who wished she hadn’t. Give the ring back and tell him you want more time to think about it, if you need to.”

  “He’ll hate me,” I said again. “And I really do think I love him.”

  “Then you’ll care enough for his feelings not to marry him till you’re sure.”

  “But how will I ever know?” I sobbed. My face felt hot and swollen. “I don’t think I’ll ever know. What if I’m looking for the perfect man, and he doesn’t exist?”

  Sylvia got up and came around the table, and I buried my head against her stomach. I remembered how Sylvia herself had gone to England for a year because she couldn’t make up her mind whether to marry Dad or Jim Sorringer. Maybe I’d have to go to Australia. The Barrier Islands! Somewhere far away where no one could reach me. Maybe I should be psychoanalyzed or hypnotized to see how I really felt.

  “When you find the right man,” Sylvia said, combing her hands through my hair, “he won’t be perfect. But you’ll know. You’ll just know. Maybe not right away, but in time.”

  I’d stopped crying by then, and she gently pulled away as my breathing slowed. Then she sat down in the chair next to me, one arm resting on the table, and just listened.

  “I certainly admire Dave,” I told her. “He’s going to make a good actuary. He’ll make a good husband . . . for someone. But sometimes I just feel like we’re . . . we’re magnets of the wrong polarity. Instead of sticking together, we sort of . . . repel. No, not exactly. Not all the time.” Oh, God, I thought, she used to be my English teacher. What kind of a simile was that?

  “If Dave’s the right one, you can’t imagine not spending the rest of your life together,” Sylvia said finally. “When you’ve found the right one—when you see him, when you’re with him—you’ll feel like you’re coming home.”

  * * *

  Stacy came down in her robe, a towel around her wet hair, just as Dad and Les walked in. I didn’t even let them take the new computer out of the box, because I knew that once they started setting it up, they probably wouldn’t even hear me. Dad sat down slowly on a chair in the living room when I told him about my decision.

  “Al, are you sure about this now? Not just the usual pre-wedding jitters?” he asked.

  “No, but it feels more right to break the engagement than it does to go ahead with it,” I said, my nose still clogged. My voice was weak, like all my strength had gone out of me and it took all I had just to make this confession.

  “Then you’ve got to call Dave and tell him, and the sooner the better.”

  My eyes teared up again. “But . . . we’ve reserved the church, Dad! You’ve put a deposit on the hotel and the caterers! How can I—?”

  “How can you go through with something you’re already feeling might be a mistake? That’s the real question,” said Dad. “I don’t care if we’d already ordered the food and the invitations. I don’t care if you got all the way down to the altar, honey, and then changed your mind. It’s your future we’re talking about here, and if you’re not sure, then now’s the time to say so.”

  I could almost feel the relief washing over me. “Dave’s coming to see me tomorrow,” I said. “I want to tell him in person. I owe him that much.”

  Dad nodded. “Yes.”

  “You and Dave have your whole lives ahead of you,” said Stacy. “Six months from now, you could both be involved with other people. Really.”

  But it was Lester I wanted to hear from. So far he hadn’t said anything, just looked thoughtful. After he and Dad had set up the computer in Dad’s office, they discovered they needed another connector cord, and Les offered to drive to RadioShack to get one, so I rode along.

  He reached over and put one hand on my knee, giving it a quick squeeze. “It’s tough, isn’t it?” he said.

  My chin wobbled a little. “It’s . . . it’s awful, Les! Dave’s driving down from Cumberland—he spent Thanksgiving with his folks—and he’s going to be so sad!”

  “You don’t think he might have guessed? It might not be as big a surprise as you imagine.”

  I glanced over at him. “Why would he guess?”

  Les shrugged. “I don’t know. Some guys are more perceptive than others. It just seems . . . well, to me, anyway, and what do I know? . . . that something’s missing between you two—on your part, anyway.”

  “That’s exactly how I’ve felt too, but what is it? Dave’s kind, he’s attractive to me . . .”

  “Joy,” said Lester.

  “What?”

  “Do you remember Dad and Sylvia’s wedding ceremony? I do—something the minister said, about the three components of love: passion, tenderness, and joy. I’ve never forgotten.”

  I remembered it now and thought about Dave.

  “I do feel passion for him,” I said. “When we’re—”

  “Never mind! You don’t have to spell it out.”

  “And I certainly feel tender toward him a lot of the time. . . .” I hesitated. “That’s why I feel so awful now.”

  “And joy?” Les prompted.

  I thought about it. Could I really say I was joyful? Did I greet Dave with joy? I was always happy to see him. But when I thought of our future together, tried to picture my role in his life . . .

  “No,” I said at last. “That’s what’s missing. Joy and anticipation. The feeling that this is the right man for me, that I just can’t wait to be his wife and experience all that’s coming next.”

  “Then there you have it,” said Les.

  * * *

  I don’t know how long I stayed in the shower that evening, my refuge from worry and indecision. I stood with my back to the spray, arms hanging motionless at my sides, as I watched the water run down my arms, my hands, and finally, in a thin stream, off the ends of each finger, like claws. As though I were about to inflict pain, was capable of causing injury.

  I was back at my dorm room Saturday when Dave drove up. I went right out and got in his car before he could come inside.

  “Well, what’s this?” he said, as though I had a surprise for him, and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek.

  “I just want to go for a drive—I need to talk,” I said.

  He looked over at me uncertainly. “All right,” he said. We drove down into Sligo Creek Park, and he stopped the car along the water. “What’s up?”

  I wanted to get out and walk, but he didn’t. He was beginning to look uneasy and said he’d rather stay in the car. I’ll admit it wasn’t exactly walking weather. It was drizzling and the sky was as gray as I felt inside.

  I sat hugging my elbows in my bulky green sweater. “This is so hard for me,” I told him, “and it’s going to be even harder for you. I’m just so sorry, Dave, but I have to give your
ring back.”

  His eyes had a look of disbelief. “Alice!”

  “I’ve thought and thought about this, and I do love you, but—”

  “Alice, how can you love me and do something like this? What’s the matter?”

  I’d been afraid he might gather me in his arms and tell me that he wanted my happiness most of all, and if I wasn’t sure . . . the way I’d imagined my dad behaving when Sylvia first told him she needed time to decide between him and Jim Sorringer. Then I might have waffled, might have ended up keeping his ring after all. But Dave didn’t do that. He just sat there, turned toward me, staring.

  “Dave, I just don’t feel we share enough.”

  “Come on! We have a good time when we’re together, don’t we? Is this about that play you wanted to see and I didn’t?”

  “You have every right not to like the things I do.”

  “Then . . . ? I’ll go! I’ll go! Anything to make you happy.”

  I shook my head. “That would get old after a while, and it wouldn’t be fair to you. We both know that. Neither of us should have to do so many things we don’t really enjoy. We’d start out okay, but then we’d resent it.”

  “What’s happened? You meet another guy?”

  “No. This is about us, Dave. I love you, but it doesn’t seem enough. I guess I thought that with time, everything would come together—but it just hasn’t happened. What I’m missing is joy.”

  “You expect the moon, that’s what,” he said, his back against the door, arms folded across his chest. “You’ve got some preordained notion of how you’re supposed to feel. You’re in love with an ideal.”

  “It’s not just idealistic, but you’re right. I do have an idea of how I should feel, and I don’t feel that way. Not enough of the time, anyway. I . . . I just want to postpone the wedding and think some more about it.” My heart began to pound. I was waffling already. I took the ring off my finger and handed it to him.

  “Alice,” he said, taking it reluctantly, and his eyes were pleading. “Don’t do this.”

  My eyes filled with tears. “It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life, Dave. Please let me think about it.”

  Now he shook his head, staring out the window a brief moment, holding his breath. Then he looked at me again. “No, it just prolongs the sadness. I guess maybe . . .” He looked away. “Maybe I’ve suspected, I don’t know. I’ve seen how you come alive sometimes with other guys when the gang’s all together. . . .”

  I started to protest, but he said, “I don’t mean you’re hitting on them, but you enjoy all the talk, all that discussion, all the stuff you think of to do. I can see that . . . in some ways . . . we’re going in different directions. But if you didn’t love me enough when I proposed to you, you shouldn’t have accepted.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “I just didn’t know.”

  He closed his eyes. “I really thought we were meant for each other.” Opened them again. “That we got along so well.”

  “So did I, for a while. And we had some wonderful times together. Really. You’ll find a girl who’s absolutely right for you. But I have to go into marriage with my whole heart, Dave, and I’ve just got too many reservations. Try to forgive me.”

  “I’ll try,” he said.

  He squared himself behind the wheel and turned the key in the ignition. We rode silently back to campus.

  When he stopped the car, he said, “I really did love you, Alice,” and I was almost glad it was past tense.

  “I know,” I said. “I loved you too.”

  And then, knowing he would not call or write me again—and knowing with certainty now that I did not want him to—I said, “Good-bye, Dave.”

  He leaned forward and kissed me lightly on the forehead. “Good-bye,” he said.

  Once I had got out and shut the door, he drove away and didn’t look back. I stood on the sidewalk watching him leave and knew I had made one of the best, and the most difficult, decisions of my life. I was alone again, but I wasn’t lonely.

  * * *

  There were serious things to think about now. I was determined to repay Dad the deposits he had made for my wedding. With Dave out of the picture, I had more time to concentrate on my studies, but it was going to be a very different Christmas from what we’d thought. We had planned to get together with Dave’s folks—his and mine—and of course that wasn’t happening. And to top it all off, Elizabeth called with the news that she and Moe were engaged.

  “Oh, Elizabeth!” I said. “I’m so happy for you!”

  “And he’ll be taking his bar exam soon.”

  “That is so great!” I told her. “We all love Moe!”

  “We haven’t set a date yet. I want to get you through your wedding first before I start planning mine.”

  “No,” I said, and didn’t want her to feel sorry for me. “It’s over with Dave. I broke our engagement.”

  “What?”

  “It just seemed right. I wasn’t sure. But you know, I feel so much better. . . .”

  “Oh, Alice!”

  “Really, I’m okay,” I said, and meant it.

  13

  UNBELIEVABLE

  The next month was one of the worst and best I could remember. Sometimes I thought I might be schizophrenic, because one day I felt free and ready to explore the world, and the next I wanted to cuddle up in my decrepit beanbag chair, far too small for me, sure that I had given up the most loyal man who would ever love me. The only man, perhaps, I thought when I was most despondent.

  I wished Dave had been mad at me. Railed at me. Driven off at ninety miles an hour, and I could have thought, Good riddance. Instead, he’d kissed me on the forehead. Maybe I should call him. Text him. Say I was a fool and wanted him back. Maybe joy would come, if I gave it time.

  Then, one day in class—a class titled Old Philosophers, New Age—we were discussing Emerson’s essay “Self-Reliance,” and this line from it seemed to be written especially for me: Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.

  Yes! Except that some days the iron string felt weak and wobbly and I could scarcely hear it at all. Other times it was loud—loud enough to propel me out of bed some mornings as if to say, Get up and go be the person you want to be!

  Still, I dreaded Christmas. The fact that the rest of the world seemed happy and filled with the holiday spirit made my sadness worse. I dreaded seeing my friends and hearing their happy news, having to explain, over and over again, what happened between Dave and me. I knew they’d only want to comfort me, not judge, but somehow I felt that nothing they could say or do would make me feel better. It had to come from inside, and sometimes it was there, sometimes not.

  I’ve heard that the best thing to do when you’re feeling low is to concentrate on someone else’s unhappiness, work to make someone else feel better, and when Sylvia told me that Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt were virtual shut-ins, due to Milt’s failing health, I decided to spend a few days after Christmas with them.

  “They’d be delighted, Alice. A wonderful thing for you to do,” Dad said.

  Valerie had applied for a job as curator of a small new museum that was being built in Oklahoma City, and she’d been more or less accepted for the job if she wanted it. She was going down after Christmas to look the place over, talk with the foundation that was building the museum, and see how she felt about living there after she graduated.

  Oklahoma? I thought. Was she serious?

  “Come with me,” she had offered. “Maybe you’ll like it so much, you’ll want to move there after you get your master’s.”

  I doubted that, but because it would be new territory for me, a new experience, I told her I’d join her for a few days after I visited Aunt Sally in Chicago.

  My next bank statement, though, confirmed what I’d already suspected—that I had about reached the bottom of my savings. All these years, through high school and college, I had faithfully put money aside from everything I earned, knowing that while Da
d would pay for my tuition and books all through college and grad school, everything else had to come out of my own savings. That trip to California had almost wiped me out. I would have to live a Spartan life till I graduated, and I still owed Dad for the wedding-that-never-was. Okay—Oklahoma was my last hurrah. Was that depressing or what?

  I’ve been lonely before and it didn’t kill me, I told myself on Christmas morning when I sat down with Dad and Sylvia to open presents. Les and Stacy were with her parents this time. Dad did his best to keep things cheerful. He played only light music on CDs, gave me funny presents in my stocking. He and Sylvia kept me busy in the kitchen, and neighbors came by later to share the holiday spirit. But there’s a certain loneliness that comes from having no one special in your life, and I was feeling that acutely.

  * * *

  This was a mistake, I thought, when I got off the plane in Chicago. I wondered if I would ever be able to go there again—pass through it, even—without feeling depressed. Two relationships hadn’t worked out now, and being reminded of the first made it all the more painful.

  But I found I liked being with Aunt Sally and Uncle Milt, because no one tried to make me feel jolly, so I didn’t disappoint. I brought them a framed photo of them with their daughter, Carol, that they probably never realized Dad had taken at Lester’s wedding, a large magnifying glass with a light, and DVDs from Les and Stacy. Aunt Sally had perfected the art of seeming delighted no matter what you gave her, but I didn’t even have to pretend: When I opened their gift for me and found a used copy of the book The Prophet, with Mom’s name on the inside cover, I was really delighted.

  “It was all the rage back in the seventies,” Aunt Sally explained, “and Marie loaned it to me when she’d finished, but I never got around to reading it all. Then I was cleaning out our bookshelves a few months ago and found it. I thought you might like to have it, since your mother was so fond of it.”

  “What a perfect gift!” I said, gently turning the pages. “Anything of Mom’s is a real treasure to me.”

  Uncle Milt didn’t beat around the bush. “Your dad tells us your engagement’s off, sweetheart. You just take your time. Our little Alice deserves the best, and if a fella doesn’t measure up, you forget him.”