All I Ever Wanted

Mark didn’t break up with Julie. Didn’t hold up a boom box under my window and play Peter Gabriel songs. Didn’t swing outside my window to get a glimpse of me.

But he did say hi, and when you’re a freshman and a high school junior says hi, that’s pretty huge. The next year, he went off to college—and I didn’t date anyone until he did … I was so hoping he’d notice me and wanted to be free just in case. But he didn’t; he left for the University of Chicago after high school. I dated a nice boy or two. Went to college myself. Had a relationship. Even fancied myself in love, sort of, though the feeling lacked that capital L feeling.

After college, I lived in Boston for a few fun and impoverished years, but in the end, it wasn’t for me. My job at a large PR firm was pleasant enough, though the pay was mediocre at best. I had some great friends, we had fun, I dated a bit, but I missed Vermont. Missed my family, especially Bronte and baby Josephine. It was time to go home. Settle down. Find some guy and get married. Find Love with a capital L.

Back to the clean air and rushing rivers of Georgebury I went, back to the funeral home, back to the sweet light of a Vermont summer. Mom and Dad both seemed pleased that I was home. Freddie, whose IQ was in the genius range, was often bored in school and welcomed the chance to torture me. I babysat for my nieces, hung out with Annie and Jack, got a job covering town meetings for the little local paper and waited tables at night, figuring some job opportunity would present itself.

It did. Mark returned from Chicago, where he’d been working, and opened up Green Mountain Media.

It seemed like it was meant to be, didn’t it? I mean, come on! Of course I applied. So did three hundred other people. Jobs like that were rare in our corner of the state, and it was big news in Georgebury. I wore my favorite skirt and sweater ensemble, bought on Beacon Street in Beantown, trying to look creative and funky and professional. Spent even longer on my hair that day, practiced my answers in the mirror.

When I walked into Mark’s office, the old attraction came crashing back. He was better-looking than ever, more manly, broader in the shoulders, and he was as nice as could be. Asked me about college and my job in Boston … most of my work there had been trying to make “oily discharge” sound less horrific on drug warning labels, something I acknowledged honestly, getting a good laugh from Mark. He told me he loved the Back Bay and tried to make at least one Sox game a year, chatted about us both moving back to Georgebury. I, in turn, made sure to ask questions about his company, talked about my creativity and excellent work ethic, and agreed that the Sox were looking great.

“I have to tell you, Callie,” he said, glancing again at my résumé, “you’re one of the most qualified people I’ve had in here. This looks really good.”

“Thanks,” I beamed, my toes curling in my new shoes.

“I can’t say for sure, since I have a few more people to interview, but … well, I think you’ll be hearing from me. By Friday at the latest.”

“Excellent,” I said. “But take your time. It’s an important decision. You want to make sure you have the right mix of people.”

He nodded, pleased. “True enough. Thanks for coming in.”

“My pleasure,” I said.

I made it to the door, quite thrilled with the interview, not to mention the stir Mark’s physical presence still caused, when he spoke again.

“Callie?”

I turned. “Yes?”

“Didn’t we make out in a closet once?”

Bam! My face ignited. “Um … you know, I … don’t …”

He raised an eyebrow and grinned, slowly. “Callie, Callie. You haven’t forgotten your first kiss, have you?”

I gave a mock grimace. “Okay, you caught me. Yes, we kissed in a closet. I wasn’t sure I should bring it up in a job interview.”

He laughed. “I can’t see how it would hurt.” And then he smiled at me, a smile that went straight to my groin, and I held on to the door frame and hoped I didn’t look quite as ruttish as I was suddenly feeling.

“I seem to remember it was quite … nice,” he added.

“I seem to remember that, too,” I said, and my heart knocked around in my chest. “Well. Great seeing you again, Mark.”

“I’ll call you soon.”

And he did call. I got the job, and though I reminded myself that I was no longer fourteen, that I didn’t want to screw up a really great career opportunity and that romance had no place in a new company, I fell right back in love. He was a great boss—energetic, hardworking, appreciative of the efforts of his small staff. I loved the work … because we were so small, I worked on every project at first, and Mark quickly realized he’d hired the right person, something he often said out loud. He flirted occasionally, told me often that I looked pretty, something he also said to Karen and Leila and, later, Fleur. But he never crossed the line, no matter how hard I psychically ordered him to.

Until last year, when we were nominated for a Clio.

We’d landed a job for a children’s hospital, a coup for us, since we were just a few years old, and we wanted to hit a home run. For two days, Mark and I sat in the conference room from morning until well past dinnertime, working through lunches, guzzling coffee, wadding up pieces of paper, talking ourselves blue in the face. What were the advantages of this particular hospital? How we could show people they didn’t have to fly down to Boston to get top-rate care? What did a parent really want in a hospital? Why would they pick this one?

And then, somewhere in the afternoon of the second day, I got it. Mark was blathering about hospital statistics or something, and I held up my hand to silence him. Then I said the line aloud, very slowly. Did a rough sketch on my notepad and looked into Mark’s dark eyes. His mouth fell open and he just stared at me. “That’s it,” he said in a near whisper.

A week later, we did the shoot. I chose the kid, who was an actual patient, and the doctor, scouted out the room where I wanted the picture taken and talked to Jens, the photographer, about what I had in mind, the lighting, the focal point.

The final poster was a close-up of a three-year-old boy in the arms of a doctor. The boy’s head rested on the woman’s shoulder, and he looked straight into the camera. The doctor’s face was turned away, so all you could see was her gray hair and the stethoscope draped around her neck. The boy’s shirt was white with thin red stripes, the doctor wore a white lab coat, and the wall behind them was also white. The focal point of the shot was the boy’s face … his huge, trusting, remarkable green eyes looking straight at the camera, a slight smile curling his lips. The tagline had been simple: … as if he were our own. Beneath that, Northeast Children’s Hospital. And that was it. The chairman of the hospital board got tears in his eyes when he saw it.

When the Clio committee called, we were ecstatic. Of course we’d both be going to the ceremony. It was huge! A three-day festival with the best advertising agencies in the world, and we were one of them. Holy guacamole!

An hour or two into our flight, Mark dozed off. A permeating fog of lust enveloped me, and tenderness, too. What could be more wonderful than watching over the man you love as he catches up on much-needed sleep? Sigh! For once I didn’t mind the fact that the airlines jammed passengers in like packaged herring. For once, I could study him without fear of discovery. His dark hair curled at the neck, his lashes were sooty and long. Even the way his chest rose and fell under his pale blue oxford was a turn-on.

And then, somewhere over the Midwest, the captain’s amiable, Texas-twanged voice came over the PA. “Folks, we’re gonna run into a few bumps here. Please stay in your seats and buckle up tight. Trays up, too. It’s gonna be pretty rough. Flight attendants, take a seat.”

I obeyed, making sure Mark was buckled, putting my laptop back in its case. And then, I was being shaken like a rag doll. The plane lurched and shuddered. People screamed as one, myself included. My seat belt cut into my stomach, my hair whooshed up. It was like being bucked off a horse, rough and unpredictable, and a horrible whine pierced the air. The oxygen masks tumbled out, and it was so loud! Mark, abruptly awake, threw his arm out across me, automatically trying to shield me from harm. “What the fuck?” he yelled over the noise.

The plane shuddered again and rolled to the left. I clutched Mark’s arm as we tilted, feeling my laptop slide past my feet. My mind went white with terror. The plane wobbled unevenly, people were screaming and praying, the engines roared and shrieked. Mark’s eyes met mine. Then the plane seemed to drop, cups and trash and purses flew up and hit the ceiling. More screams. I couldn’t seem to speak—I gripped the headrest in front of me with one hand, and with the other, I held Mark’s. The plane shuddered again.

“Folks, Captain Hewitt again. We’re having a little bit o’ difficulty,” the captain called out, sounding as calm as if he were watching corn grow. “Hang on tight.” As he spoke, the plane fell a few more … feet? Yards? God, we were trapped in a hunk of metal and falling from the sky! My mouth opened but no sound came out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Mark muttered.

“Oh God, oh God help us, please Lord Jesus, save us!” the woman in front of me wailed. The plane bucked again, there was another mass scream. We’re going to die, came the small, quiet thought in the part of my brain that wasn’t roaring in panic. Behind me, someone vomited and my own stomach lurched. We’re crashing, oh, God, this is it. Fear electrified my legs, and my eyes, stretched too wide, saw everything … the man across the aisle hunched over, his hands over the back of his head. “Hail Mary, full of grace …” Trash was everywhere. Who knew there was so much trash? There was a little girl two rows ahead on my right sobbing, “Mommy, make it stop, Mommy!”

Someone else threw up, people were sobbing into their cell phones—”Baby, it’s bad, I love you, I love you so much”—but Mark and I just held on to each other as the plane dipped and shivered. Mark pushed my head down—crash position, Jesus God, I was in crash position, who survived a plane crash? I shook violently, my face was wet with tears … Josephine, Bronte, Hester, Freddie, my parents. Who’d take care of Noah? What about Bowie? Would my sweet dog somehow know that I was gone?

The plane bucked again, tilted, righted. And then, amid the chaos and terror, I saw lights down on land. We were getting lower, descending, even as the plane still shuddered. The wings wobbled, then straightened, the sound of the landing gear locking in place was the most reassuring and beautiful sound that had ever reached my ears.

“We’re gonna make it,” Mark said, his voice strained. My hand, clenched in his, had gone numb. “We’re gonna make it. We’re gonna make it.”

When the screech of rubber against tarmac sounded, the plane burst into cheers and sobbing. “Welcome to New Mexico,” came the captain’s voice, shaking now that we were safe. “Sorry for the rough ride.” The white-faced attendants stood, and people flung off their seat belts despite the rules of waiting, desperate to be off the plane, many still crying, still swearing, and all of us miraculously alive.

I turned to Mark, and we looked at each other. Then he kissed me, his hands cupping my tear-streaked face. He was drenched in sweat. “We’re fine,” he said hoarsely. I nodded, my throat still too clamped from terror to allow a word to escape. I’d almost died, but I hadn’t. I was alive. It was so strange. We were falling from the sky, and somehow we made it.

Standing in the aisle, waiting to get out, shaking like a junkie in heroin withdrawal, I found it so bizarre to do those mundane tasks like find my purse and laptop, straighten my shirt. People were already talking on their cell phones, assuring loved ones of their safety, opening the overhead compartments and retrieving their carry-on luggage. I didn’t speak. “Callie, you okay?” Mark asked.

I nodded. Realized I was crying. When we filed past the captain and crew, I hugged each of them, my God, I loved them so much. When I came to the captain, it was clear he was God’s right hand, not some middle-aged blond man with a mustache. “Thank you. Thank you so much,” I wept.

“Well, now, we all made it down safe and sound, no matter what it felt like, right?” He patted my shoulder. “Thanks for flying with us, little lady.”

So, okay, you don’t almost die in a plane crash every day, do you? It’s life-affirming to walk off a plane that had been shuddering and dropping through the sky, to breathe fresh air and feel the ground under your feet again. And you know what else is life-affirming?

Sex.

Mark took my hand once we were off the airplane, and he didn’t let go of it. We didn’t speak, just got into a cab. Held hands. Got to the hotel. Held hands in the lobby as we checked in. Held hands in the elevator. Our rooms were on different floors, but he only pushed nine, which was where his room was. Led me out of the elevator, down the hall, the two of us bumping as we towed our suitcases, our hands still linked. Went right into that generically pleasing, wonderfully safe room, and the second the door closed, Mark pulled me against him and kissed the stuffing out of me, and let me tell you, we put that king-size bed to good use.

And it was wonderful. I’d never been in love—not like this. The shaking of Mark’s hands as he unbuttoned my shirt, his weight on top of me, his mouth on mine, that crooked smile … this was Love. The kind of Love I always knew I’d find, and it was just breathtaking.

The next morning, Mark suggested we blow off the conference, as we only needed to show up for the ceremony, and now that we’d nearly died, we realized how silly all this really was. We strolled through beautiful Santa Fe, admiring the little bungalows adorned with chili pepper wreaths, bought Native American souvenirs for Josephine and Bronte. When the heat got to us, we ducked into a movie theater and made out like teenagers. Had dinner at a tiny restaurant, discovered that green chili sauce was in fact nectar of the gods and wondered how we’d lived without it for so long.

On Thursday night, our poster won the bronze. Not bad, but it seemed so petty in light of everything else. We had each other. We knew what really mattered. That’s what I thought, anyway.

Clearly, this was the beginning of a very meaningful, heading-for-marriage-and-they-lived-happily-ever-after relationship. After all, I had known Mark most of my life. I worked with Mark … I worked for Mark. He wouldn’t sleep with me if it wasn’t serious. And the whole near-death experience … it had made him (finally) aware of me in a life-altering way. Faced with the vision of our deaths, he realized that I was, as the saying goes, The One. Priorities were made clear. Right?

Well … no. Actually, no.

At the end of the conference, Mark told me he’d meet me in the lobby. So I went back to my own room … that was one sign I’d ignored … though I’d slept in his room, I hadn’t been invited to actually share it, so all my showering and getting ready and stuff was done in my own space. Which made sense, of course, since we’d already paid for two rooms. Packing up my stuff, I hummed away. Josephine would make the cutest flower girl ever. Bronte could be a junior bridesmaid. I’d have to ask both parents to give me away to avoid any show of favoritism. Winter wedding with a Christmas theme, or the more traditional June? Mark and Callie. Callie and Mark. Sounded great together, didn’t it? I sure thought so.

When I met him in the lobby, he was engrossed in his iPhone, barely looking up as I approached. I forgave him. In the cab ride to the airport, he called a client. No problem. As I expressed my nervousness at flying again, he said (just a tad impatiently), “Callie, the odds of us experiencing something like that again are minuscule. Don’t be silly.” I smiled gamely, agreed that he was right, told myself not to be such a Betty Boop. On the flight back, he worked on his laptop. That was okay. We were busy. I pretended to work, too, even though I kept listening for engine failure. I tried to embrace Michelle Obama, the practical and intelligent side of myself. Tried to ignore my clattering heart.

For the next five weeks, I tried to feel happy. I had Mark … sort of. He loved me … or so I thought. For five weeks, I ignored the signs. Pretended that the increasing distance between us didn’t exist, tried harder than ever to be perfect, adorable, fun. Forgave him his ever-shorter answers. Until night #38 of our relationship, when he invited me over.

When I first walked in from the cold autumn air, I was pleasantly surprised. The table was set, he’d cooked dinner, there were candles. A fire snapped and hissed in the fireplace. Huh, I thought. I guess he just needed to adjust to things. Clearly, he wants to be with me, or else why would he go to all this fuss? Maybe he’s got something special planned! Like an engagement ring! For the first time since Santa Fe, I relaxed. Of course Mark loved me. Of course he did.

Mark poured some wine, offered Brie and crackers and then broke up with me.

It was the timing, see. Things were really crackling at the company, and a serious relationship … not the right time. He was sure I understood and indeed, felt the same way.

“Oh,” I said faintly. “Right.” I paused. “So … I guess we should take things slow, huh?”

Mark looked at me with those liquid, dark eyes of his, a searching, soulful look. “Callie, you’re so … um, amazing. But I’m not really at a point in my life where I can invest what you deserve. And you deserve it all. It’s not that the feelings aren’t there … of course you’re special to me. You know that, right?”

“Sure,” I whispered, my eyes stinging. “So … we’ll just play it by ear and reevaluate in, what … six months?”

The fire popped. Mark looked down at his plate and began breaking a cracker into pieces. “To be honest, I can’t even look that far ahead. I really wish I could, but … well, I can’t ask you to wait around until I can make a commitment.”

“No, no! I don’t mind waiting!” Oh, the humanity! Mrs. Obama said. “I mean … Mark, this whole time in Santa Fe, it was …” My voice broke a little. “It was so … special.”

“It really was,” he acknowledged, then added in a terrible Bogart impression, “We’ll always have Santa Fe.”

Oh, God. That sounded horribly final! Desperate, I stammered and blathered, hoping to change his mind. “I—I just feel like we have … something … we have this incredible bond, and I …”

All of a sudden, I understood the phrase hopelessly in love. Michelle’s voice was kind in my head. You’re not supposed to have to convince him, hon. I ignored her. “I just don’t think we should … I don’t think we should throw away what we feel for each other, Mark.”

How I hated saying those words … and yet, I had to. I had to beg, even as I detested myself for being so … weak. So helpless. So willing to throw out dignity, so ready to trade that for whatever scraps Mark could give me. But dignity was thrown out just the same. “Please, Mark.”

“Uh … well,” Mark said slowly, crushing his cracker fragments into crumbs. “Callie, you’re just fantastic, and I really wish I was in a different place in my life right now. But I’m not.” He gave me a James Dean sort of look, lowered head and sheepish grin. “We’ll be okay, right? We’re friends still, I hope. I mean, I hope you’ll stay for dinner. I cooked for you.”

Don’t stay. Have some self-respect and walk out of here.

I swallowed. “No, of course we’re still friends, Mark,” I said. “Of course!”

“Great,” Mark said, setting aside his plate of crackers and cheese. “I knew you’d understand, Callie. Thank God you’re not one of those hysterical women who can’t handle being alone, right?” He grinned. “I’m starving. Wanna eat?”

“You bet,” I said. I found myself standing and following him to the dining room table. For the next hour, Mark chatted about his parents and their cruise to Norway, a couple of clients, the unfairness of the Yankees winning yet another World Series. The entire time, I murmured and nodded and even ate my damn dinner as my mind whirled. How the hell … Did I just … agree? Somehow, I’d just signed on the dotted line to accept this situation … this un-situation, more like it. Mark had cleverly orchestrated this so there was no scene, no real breakup, no crying … nope, we just sat down and ate, back to colleagues and coworkers. He handled it well, I had to admit.

By the time I got home that night, I’d convinced myself that Mark had been sincere. Timing … a perfectly acceptable answer! Everything he said … true! Mark was right! I did deserve it all! For the next little while, Betty Boop and I held out hope. Tried to be perky and waited for Mark to notice me again and be ready and in a place in his life where he could give me what I deserved. But the days slid past, and my lifelong optimism eroded bit by bit, until even I couldn’t deny the truth. He didn’t want me.

I should’ve hated him, but that was impossible. First of all, I loved him (the devil’s in the details, right?). He was funny and talented and a great boss, loved his work and valued his employees. He’d send me goofy e-mails or links to odd news stories, sometimes texted me during a meeting with a comment about a client, called me at home if something occurred to him. When he complimented me on my work, I’d feel such a rush of pride and joy … joy that faded to a chalky residue moments after he left.

Those three days in Santa Fe had been so perfect that I just couldn’t get past them. I should’ve called Annie, gotten drunk on chocolate liqueur candies, made lists of why I hated Mark. But I didn’t. I was my father’s girl, and if I could’ve gone back in time, I would’ve endured that flight all over again, just to have those happiest moments back again, when I’d had all I ever wanted.

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