Bringing Me Back to You

If you could spend time with anyone ... anyone at all ...

THREE-QUARTERS OF THE WAY through the evening, one of the party guests —someone Lars didn't recognize — tossed out a parlor game for the group to gnaw on. If you could spend a day with anyone, living or dead, famous or otherwise, who would it be?

Approving noises burbled like champagne.
Yolanda fairly squealed. Ooh, great question!
Erwin Bell: Huh. I've never thought of that!
The Mellen twins, talking simultaneously and finishing each other's sentences: Must we pick just one? Could we have a whole dinner party?

Then a brief silence took hold as the guests considered their answers. Lars took one look at Sam Green and felt sure he was planning to say Sigmund Freud. Someone always picked Freud in conversations like these, and Lars wondered whether they had a burning interest in psychology or just wanted to bore the good doctor with their dreams.

After Freud, someone typically followed with Abraham Lincoln before someone else cracked a joke and started refilling drinks. If any original answers were waiting to be voiced, the opportunity inevitably got lost in a cloud of wisecracks and cross talk, which is to say that Sam had never personally been pressed for an answer.

Although he well knew the person he wished to spend a day with — or a lifetime, whichever was longer.  

OH, FOR ANOTHER DAY.

For the simple conversation in the cafe with that old white ghost of a cat, where they brewed coffee so strong you could smell it on your own skin long after you'd left.

How he'd missed trading family stories with his person, and their never-ending debates about whether profanity signaled intellectual laziness. What he would give to ask all the questions he'd forgotten to ask when he'd had the chance.

What's the best dream you ever had?

and

What's your earliest memory?

and

If you were going to disappear forever, where oh where would you go?

If he had had a whole day to spend with her again, they would ride bicycles on the beach and shop for something expensive they did not need. They would tell their old stories. He would pull out his tiny ringed notebook full of terrible puns and she would declare that none were funny, then end up laughing until she gasped for breath. They would stop in the restaurant of a fancy hotel and order tiramisu. They would try on hats and make up accents to go with them.

Often, Lars regretted the in-between times — the unremarkable hours when they had been lost in paying bills or had returned home from work too tired to remember to pay attention. Lars thought they had lived too many of those days, wasted not because they were ordinary but because he'd failed to commit to memory how she looked and moved and sounded.

He'd just gone on living like she was water, forever near and always on tap.

So yes, Lars knew that if he were sprinkled with pixie dust and found himself suddenly in good company, suddenly in bliss, he would be with her.

He would make eggs for their breakfast and play the what's-your-favorite-book-jacket game at the library. They would bring sandwiches to the park. And while they walked, he would think of how, to this day, he had been keeping her shoes in his closet because the leather was imprinted with the shape of her feet — proof that she had existed.

As he remembered this, he would muster the courage to ask her the question he asked himself silently every day.  I've missed you so, he'd say. Please tell me, where have you been?

And this time, he would have his answer. She would describe a place beyond his imagination, and he would remember to listen to every syllable and to watch her caramel eyes glisten. He would thank the gods who brought her close to him once more, so close that he inhaled her exhale.

When she was done describing her whereabouts, he would look at her deeply and thank her for explaining. It would all make sense now, and the agony of her evaporation from his life would itself evaporate.

After a brief pause, he would make a pun, and she would take his hand in hers and pat it and remind him, "You've never been funny."

Then she would burst out laughing.

In the evening, after the dishes, they'd huddle together on the couch for hours and listen to records until she dozed off in his arms. But he would stay awake, because if the pixie dust wore off and she started to disappear again, he was going to do his best to go with her this time.

THE PARTY CHATTER CONTINUED.

Lars lifted his glass to his lips. Erwin Bell was weighing his answer as if it was of great consequence. He couldn't decide between Lincoln and Washington, so he finally threw up his hands and declared that if he only had a day, then he might as well go with Gina Lollobrigida. The group erupted with cackles.

 Then Yolanda turned. What about you, Lars? Who would you choose?

Lars scratched his chin and raised an eyebrow, as if considering the question for the first time. He swallowed another mouthful of wine.

I think, he said, it would have to be Sigmund Freud.

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About the Art

This painting was made for this story and goes by the same title, “Bringing Me Back to You.” It was done in gouache, watercolor and Prismacolor on hot-press watercolor paper. The original can be found in my Etsy shop.

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