“Yeah.” If she’s shocked by my question, it doesn’t show.
Which encourages me to continue, “I thought Taber was a bartender? How does he do that job if he’s a recovering alcoholic?”
“‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,’ that’s what he always says. I think he’s trying to prove to himself that he’s strong, mind over matter and all that.”
“Do you worry about him? That he’ll start drinking again?”
“Not at all.” Faith is kind of refreshing when it’s as sincere as hers is. “He made some mistakes when he was younger and he paid the price. When people learn from their mistakes it matures them; when they don’t, they stagnate. Taber’s probably the most mature twenty-two-year-old on the planet.”
What kind of mistakes?I wonder, but I don’t ask because it would be rude and I’ve already asked my fair share of private questions.
When we finally arrive at the Natural History Museum, I guide her in through the planetarium entrance. The lobby is packed and there’s already a line forming to get in to the two o’clock showing. “Wait here, I’m going to grab our tickets,” I tell her. I don’t want her to come with me and hear me or it will ruin the surprise.
She smiles widely. “A movie, huh?”
I gasp, feigning offense. “Give me some credit, Alice. I’m not that cliché.”
She laughs at my teasing as I walk away.
I purchase two tickets, and when I return to her, we get in line with the masses. I’m worried the entire time the flow weaves back and forth, as we’re corralled between velvet ropes on either side, that she’ll overhear someone around us talking and guess why we’re here. And then I start worrying that maybe this was a horrible idea and she won’t enjoy it. I’ve never been to one myself, but I’ve heard kids at school talk about it and hope I’m not overestimating the potential of the entire sensory experience for her.
The planetarium is dimly lit inside, and as we settle into our semi-reclined seats, the announcements begin, “Welcome to Laserium at Gates Planetarium.”
Alice interrupts with a whisper, “I’ve never been to a planetarium, Toby.”
She sounds excited and it’s then that I remember how much she said she used to love looking at the stars. The thought makes me both happy and sad. If we were here to stargaze at constellations, she wouldn’t be able to see them.
The announcer continues with warnings about light, sound, and motion sickness, and finishes up with, “If you need to exit during the show, readmission is prohibited. Now sit back and enjoyThe Led Zeppelin Experience.”
I wish I could see Alice’s face, but the room is pitch black.
Until the synchronization of primary colored lights flashing across the ceiling and the first notes of “Whole Lotta Love” assault me. The combination is visceral. As laser lights dance above us, I pry my eyes away to look at Alice and I’m instantly in awe.
Her lips are parted. No hint of a smile, just the arch of an upper lip and the rounded out bow of a bottom lip forming the guileless, unmistakable expression of someone who has been thoroughly stunned. Eyes open and unblinking, she sits statue still. The room momentarily goes dark for a pause in light and sound and I lose her. But when the choreographed swirl of color and thump of bass simultaneously burst back to life, she gasps and reaches over the armrest searching for my hand, fingers curling between mine, securing us.
Song after song the lights flash above me and the music reverberates through me, but I can’t take my eyes off of Alice. The shock receded and conceded to a smudge of a smile indicative of someone truly in the throes of wonder. And for the second time since I’ve known her, I’m struck breathless by her—her openness, her honesty, her beauty, and most of all, her unabashed willingness to feel intensely and not care if anyone’s watching.
When the room falls quiet and the house lights illuminate and cast the room in a lusterless, almost foggy glow, Alice turns in my direction and for the first time I notice tears streaking her cheeks. “There was light, Toby.” The wonder has slipped from her eyes into her voice.
“What could you see?” I ask hopefully.
She pauses like there’s so much she wants to say and doesn’t have the words. “There were faint flickers of light…” She pauses again and her eyes drift up like talking about the memory will recall it visually to life. “And they…they…” An errant tear escapes the corner of her eye and trails over her cheekbone to her earlobe where it pools before her chin drops and she finishes her thought. “They pulsed in time with the music. I felt like I was inside of the rib cage of the song, watching its heartbeat. It was—”
Her joy is interrupted by a timid employee adorned in all black, including the yeti-like bushy hair covering his face and scalp. “Hey, dude, sorry to interrupt, but I’m going to have to ask you guys to please—”
I side-eye him without moving my head and glare; it’s an effective deterrent. He walks away and stands near the door like he’s cowering. Gaze back on Alice, I prompt her to continue, “It was…”
“Incredible. I’ll never forget this.” She sighs and it’s pure contentment. “Thank you.” After a short pause, because she knows I won’t acknowledge the thank you, she says, “Let’s go back to my apartment, I’ll make you dinner.”
After the longwalk back to the Victorian on Clarkson, I’m starving. I haven’t eaten all day. I was too nervous earlier. The apartment is empty and the solitude feels recklessly magnetic, like if I sit down and hand myself over to it, I won’t want to leave. Solitude and Alice are a dangerous combination; they lull me into serenity and make me believe things might be possible that aren’t.
Like happiness.
And girlfriends.
“Do you like turkey or ham?” Alice inquires as she opens the refrigerator door.
My mouth waters and I want to say,Both, but I go with, “Whatever you have the most of is fine,” because when it comes to food, I’ve never been picky. I guess that’s what happens growing up with a mom who forgot to buy food half the time because she was either drunk or gone.
