All We Know of Love (18 page)

I
can’t believe there’s a snowstorm up here. A nor’easter. A blizzard. I can see on the television monitors in the county airport that the news stations have already given it a name. They are already calling this one the Millennium Snowstorm.

But words are important.

I watch the snow build up on the guard railings and parked cars and even the windowpanes. There’s a guy out there in one of those riding snowblowers, but it looks useless.

We are lucky our plane landed at all. We circled around up there for a while. I think there was talk of flying back down south a little, landing somewhere else. At least I am here. I am close enough to home. My feet are on the ground.

My dad calls my cell. He can’t get through, he tells me. The highway is closed. I can barely hear him. It was a bad connection.

“Don’t worry, Dad.” I am shouting into my tiny cell phone, as if he can hear me more clearly that way. “I’m here. I’m safe. It’s kind of nice here. It can’t snow forever.”

But I can’t hear what he answers.

It is nice here, actually. Compared to all the bus terminals I’ve seen, this is a four-star hotel. It’s small and clean. There’s a maintenance guy over there scrubbing the tiniest stains out of the carpet. There is a deli and a huge well-lit bathroom, which also happens to be very clean.

I settle in.

I can put my feet up on the rows of seats beside me, since the airport is fairly empty. I have this book of poems by Emily Dickinson that my mother gave me. She told me to read “This is my letter to the World,” on page 211.

I’m sure it’s going to be depressing.

And I have my cell phone fully charged.

The snow is falling in black silence, but the bright lights on the building illuminate it in midair. There are already several inches on the ground, gathering higher in corners and curbs, white and gentle. They are predicting two feet by morning.

Airplanes won’t be able to land, and cars will be stranded all over the city, power lines will invariably go down, but as the snow falls, it is only serenity that I feel.

I am clutching my phone in my hand, and I think I know a little of what it feels to be a recovering alcoholic or drug addict. Trying not to do something that you know will feel good, so good. Real good, but will ultimately be very bad for you.

I don’t want to call Adam, but I am thinking of him constantly, like a really uncomfortable pair of pants that make you look terrible, that you wish you could get home to change out of.

But you can’t, so you do the best you can.

I flip open my phone and stare at the unnatural glow of light.

I don’t want to call Adam, but I can feel the warmth rise inside my body when I think that it will be his voice to answer and it will be his attention focused on me. Even if it’s only for a moment, or an hour. Or another day or two.
Or until I really need something from him.

I stare at the number keys. I will get a certain high just from pressing the buttons of his number.
I can always hang up if I want to. Just to see if he’s home. I can block my number.

Star-six-seven. The numbers sing a song when I press them.

“Hey, you stuck here, too?”

I look up to see who is talking to me, and at the exact same time I realize I’ve seen this boy before. But I don’t know from where. I flip my phone shut.

“Yeah,” I answer. “Are you?”

He is standing, not too close. He doesn’t move to take a seat next to me, and I am grateful. I know that wherever I’ve seen him, it was quick, so what stays with me more isn’t his face but a feeling.

A gentleness, and a hope; that’s the only way I can describe it.

“Yeah, I got here to pick up my dad, but his plane was delayed in Chicago. I think they’ll probably cancel it, but I can’t drive anywhere now anyway.”

We both turn to look out the window. The snow is coming down at a tremendous rate, it seems a never-ending supply. Not a single car drives past.

“I kind of like it,” he says, not really to me. He is looking out the window as if out past the road and the parking garage and the airport itself.

“Wanna sit down?” I say. I move my feet and straighten out my shirt all at the same time. I didn’t give it much thought when I left Florida this morning. I am wearing an old worn T-shirt, jeans, and the purple flip-flops my mom bought me.

They look better on you, she told me.

“Thanks.” He sits. “What are you reading?” He points to the ridiculously thick book of poems. I must look like a nerd.

“Oh, I’m not. Someone gave it to me.”

“She’s depressing,” he tells me, and for a second I think he is talking about my mother.

“Who?”

He laughs. “Emily Dickinson.”

“Oh.” I laugh, too, and nod.

“Are you meeting someone?” he asks me.

“Yeah, my dad. My dad is supposed to pick me up. But he can’t get here in the snow.” This boy’s face is so familiar. When he talks, when I hear his voice, I think I almost remember. Then a rush of thoughts and feelings flood my mind. There have been so many faces in these few days, all garbled, and so many stories and connections.

About love?

What about it?

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the boy asks me.

“Oh.” I am beginning to remember. When he laughs, his eyes narrow into smiling half moons.

“You came to the newsstand where I work. You were there to catch a bus, remember now?”

He is wearing a rope necklace, with a single white shell that sits directly in that spot, settling against the skin of his neck. And it all comes back to me.

“So how was North Dakota?” he asks me.

“I’m Natalie,” I say, and I break into a wide smile, as the world outside sits under a heavy blanket. Unable to move, it waits.

“I’m Ethan. You were going to, but you never did buy anything that day,” he says.

“What do you mean?”

“To eat. At the newsstand in Stamford. About four days ago, right? You must be hungry.”

“Oh, yeah, very funny. Right, I remember. I’m sorry. Ethan? Wow, this is really wild, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Your being here. Tonight. In this airport. Now, of all nights. And me being here.”

“Maybe not,” he says.

For some reason, I think I know exactly what he means by that, but I don’t say anything. There is no need to hurry.

One man has decided to take a nap on the luggage conveyor belt. A couple crouched in the corner are resting their heads on each other and using their suitcases as stools. The television set is still broadcasting the local weather report, as if it is world news.

“So seriously, can I get you something to eat? Or drink?”

“Sure,” I say. “But I think I have to tell you something first.”

“Shoot.”

“I didn’t go North Dakota,” I begin. “I never was.”

“I knew that,” he says.

“You did?”

He nods, still smiling. “You were just messing with me. It’s cool.”

“Wanna know where I really went?” I say. “It’s a crazy story.”

I used to think that a person would not know who I was, not really know me, until they heard about my mother. Until they knew that I was a girl whose mother had chosen to leave her, had not wanted her. Whose mother walked out the door one night and never came back.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl . . .

“Will this story take a long time?” Ethan asks me.

“I think it might.”

“Then, definitely. Yes, tell me,” he says. “I think we have plenty of time. You hungry or something? Do you want a soda, or Snapple?”

“Yeah, I kinda am,” I say.

We both get up and start walking together, until we are standing in front of the tall display of cold drinks. And he is reaching for his wallet.

We have plenty of time.
I wonder if he is only referring to the snowstorm, like in one of those movies where mountain travelers are trapped in a cabin with lots of time to talk. Or something else.

Ethan lets his hand drop to his side, next to mine. But he doesn’t touch me. He isn’t like that. He would be slower than that. He is the kind of guy who would ask first. I can tell. We buy two bottles of water and decide to share some cookies.

“So will it be a true story this time?” He turns and looks right at me.

“Definitely,” I answer.