The Life List (13 page)

“No,” I whisper. “My mother is right.”

“Jesus.”

Tears spill over my lids and I brush them away. “I’ll make plans to move out this week.”

I start to rise, but he grabs my arm.

“You’re telling me this is the only way you can get your inheritance? There’s no other option?”

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

“How much are we talking about? Five, six mil?”

Is he talking about my inheritance? At first I’m taken aback, but I’m asking him to be my partner in this endeavor. Doesn’t he have a right to know? “Yeah, something like that. I won’t know for sure until I get my envelope.” For some reason, I don’t tell him about the exorbitant trusts my brothers received.

He exhales loudly, making his nostrils flare. “This sucks, you know that?”

I nod and swipe my nose with the back of my hand.

“Fuck!” he says. Finally he looks at me. “All right, damn it, if that’s what it takes to keep you, I guess we’ll have to do it.”

He wants to keep me? Does he understand the stakes? I stare at him, my mouth agape. “You—you’ll help me reach my goals, all of them?”

He shrugs. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

It strikes me as an odd response, since he’s the only character
in this play who actually
does
have a choice. But the bottom line is, he’s willing to help me accomplish my goals! We’re going to have a family! For the first time, Andrew is putting my needs ahead of his own. Or is he? An uneasy feeling comes over me, but I tamp it down, hoping against hope that my instincts are wrong. What right do I have to second-guess his motive?

W
ith a blessed sense of relief, I’m alone in the loft Sunday afternoon. Since our decision Friday night, Andrew’s been colder than the gales of Lake Michigan. So today, when he grumbled about having to go into the office, I tossed him his coat and shooed him out the door before he had time to change his mind. But I can’t blame him for being upset. He was blindsided by this crazy life list, just as I was. And just like me, it’ll take time for him to get used to the idea of a different lifestyle.

I take my laptop to the dining room table and log on to Facebook. One message. A reply from Carrie Newsome.

Hooray! I can’t wait to see you on the 14th! Thanks for suggesting the hotel for dinner. It’ll be easier than trying to schlep across town. Six o’clock is perfect. I hadn’t realized how much I’ve missed you, Bretel.

Not one mention of my disloyalty. Who could be that forgiving?

The last time I saw Carrie I was a sophomore at Loyola Academy. She’d been in Madison for a year, and for her birthday her parents bought her a bus ticket to come see me. She seemed surprised when she saw me, so much had happened in those twelve months. I’d made the cheerleading squad that year and was immediately catapulted to the cool crowd. I’d gotten my braces off and wore makeup. My hair was cut in the new Rachel style,
which I painstakingly straightened each morning. But Carrie was exactly the same—plain, stocky, and unadorned.

We sat on my bedroom floor, listening to a Boyz II Men CD and thumbing through my yearbook. When I saw Joni Nicol’s picture, I pointed to it. “Remember Joni’s brother, Nick? I’ve got a humongous crush on him. Are there lots of cute guys in Madison?”

She looked at me as if she was surprised by the question.

“I don’t know. I haven’t paid much attention.”

My heart broke. Carrie had never had a boyfriend. I kept my eyes on the yearbook, embarrassed for her. “Someday you’ll meet someone great, Care Bear.”

“I’m a lesbian, Bretel.” She said it without shame or regret, as if she were telling me her height or her blood type.

I stared at her, praying she’d bust out laughing. “You’re joking.”

“Nope. I told my parents a few months back. I’ve known pretty much all my life.”

My head spun. “So, all those times we were together, those times you spent the night …”

She laughed. “What? You think I was hitting on you? Don’t worry, Bretel, it’s not like that!” I must have looked upset, because she stopped laughing then, and reached out a hand to touch my sleeve. “Hey, I didn’t mean to spook you. It’s still me—Carrie. You get that, right?”

“Yeah,” I mumbled. But my narrow, fifteen-year-old mind didn’t get it. My best friend wasn’t normal. I studied her short hair and clipped nails, her barren face and baggy sweater. She looked foreign to me all of a sudden, masculine and odd.

I didn’t take her to Erin Brown’s party that night, like we’d planned. I was afraid my new friends would discover the truth. And if they did, they might think I was gay, too. Instead I feigned a headache and we stayed home and watched videos. But rather
than sitting side by side sharing Doritos and a blanket, like we usually did, I sat in my dad’s old recliner. Later, when my mom came in and saw Carrie asleep on the sofa, I put my finger to my lips. “Don’t wake her. She’s comfortable.” My mother laid a blanket over Carrie and quietly left the room. I tiptoed to my bedroom, and lay awake the rest of the night.

The next morning while I was showering, Carrie called the bus station. She left at noon, a day ahead of schedule. I’m ashamed to admit the relief that swept over me when that Greyhound bus rounded the corner of the station and headed north.

The following week a letter arrived from Carrie, apologizing for springing her “freaky nature” on me without warning. She hoped our friendship would never change. She ended the letter with, “Please write back soon, Bretel! I need to know what you’re thinking.”

I hid the letter beneath a stack of
Seventeen
magazines while I thought about how to respond. But weeks turned into months, and then years. By the time I finally had the heart to deal with her sexual orientation, I didn’t have the backbone. I was too much of a coward to resurrect the memory of that awkward weekend or, more accurately, my disloyalty. My insensitivity burns me with shame.

I
t’s Monday and I’ve just hung up from a call with the Chicago Public Schools when Brad texts me. His meeting on the North Side was canceled, and he wonders if I can meet him for lunch at P. J. Clarke’s. Just as he promised my mother, he’s keeping close tabs on me, making sure I’m inching closer to my goals.

I dab some gloss on my lips, pour my freshly brewed coffee into a to-go cup, and head down the stairs. As I waltz out of the building, I nearly collide with a tall, dark-haired man. Coffee sloshes onto my coat.

“Shit!” I say without thinking.

“Oh, Jesus. I’m so sorry.” His contrite voice suddenly turns chipper. “Hey! We meet again!”

I break from dabbing my coat and look up, into the gorgeous eyes of the Burberry man.

“Well hello,” I say, grinning like a silly teenager who’s just been noticed by the football star.

“Hello.” He points back to the building. “You live here?”

“Uh-huh. Do you?”
Phony! You know damn well he does!

“Not anymore. I rented here for a couple of months while my condo was being renovated. I’m just stopping by to get my security deposit.” His eyes land on the coffee stain. “God, I ruined your coat. C’mon, let me buy you another cup. There’s a Starbucks right around the corner. It’s the least I can do.”

He introduces himself, but I don’t hear a word he says. My mind is still languishing on the invitation for coffee. Oh, hell yes! But wait … I’m supposed to meet Brad. Just my luck.

“Thanks, maybe another time. I have a lunch date.”

His smile fades. “Okay then, have a nice lunch. Again, I apologize for the coffee stain.”

I want to call after him, to explain that my date is just a friend, that I’m free for coffee later. But that’s despicable. Brad
is
just a friend … but Andrew’s not.

“
H
ow’s everything in your world?” I ask Brad after we’ve ordered our BLTs. “Planning your next trip to San Francisco?”

“I’m hoping to go Thanksgiving weekend,” he says. “Nate will be with his dad. But Jenna hasn’t decided what she’s doing.”

I nod, but inside I worry that Brad’s being jerked around.

“How about you?” he asks. “Made any headway on the list?”

I scoot to the edge of the booth and prop my head high. “As a matter of fact, I have. Remember Mrs. Bailey, that principal I told
you about from Douglas Keyes? Well, she recommended me for this homebound job—that’s where you teach sick kids at their houses or in the hospital.”

“Cool. Like one-on-one teaching?”

“Exactly. I have an interview tomorrow morning.”

He lifts his hand for a high-five. “Awesome!”

I wave him away. “Don’t get too excited. I’ll never get the job. But for some reason, Mrs. Bailey thinks it might be a good fit for me.”

“Well, I’m rooting for you.”

“Thanks. And that’s not all.” Our sandwiches arrive and I tell him about my dinner date on the fourteenth with Carrie. “She lives in Madison. She is a social worker now, and she’s in a relationship. I can’t believe she has three kids.”

“It’ll be good to catch up with her, huh?”

I feel my face heat. “Yes, but I was a rotten friend. I have a lot of making up to do.”

“Hey,” he says, and covers my hand with his. “You’re making headway. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks. And guess what else? I finally told Andrew about the list. He’s on board!”

Instead of cheering, Brad gives me a sidelong glance. “Really?”

I wipe my mouth on my napkin. “Yes, really. Why is that so surprising?”

He shakes his head as if he’s trying to clear it. “I’m sorry. No, that’s great.”

“Have you heard anything more from that detective? Steve what’s-his-name?”

“Pohlonski,” he says, downing his sandwich with a shot of Diet Coke. “Not yet. But I’ll let you know the minute he has something.”

“It’s been over a week. I’m thinking it’s time to cut him loose, hire someone else.”

He wipes his mouth. “I know you’re anxious about this, Brett, but he’s working on it. Like I said, he found ninety-six Manns born in North Dakota between 1940 and 1955. He’s whittled it down to six who might be possibilities. In the next week he’s going to call each one.”

“That’s what you told me three days ago! How long does it take to make a phone call? Give me the list. I’ll call them this afternoon.”

“No. Pohlonski says it’s best to have a third party make the initial contact.”

I sigh. “Well, he better have news for me by Friday or he’s off the case.”

Brad laughs. “Off the case? Someone’s been watching too much
CSI
.”

I try to maintain my pout, but inside I’m thinking how much I like this guy. “You’re annoying as hell, Midar.”

T
he sky is the color of a newborn’s eyes, and the surf foamy white atop smoky gray breakers. Meg, Shelley, and I power-walk past Grant Park, taking turns pushing baby Emma in her stroller.

“My IQ has dipped twenty points since I quit my job,” Shelley says, a bit breathlessly. “It’s been weeks since I’ve read a newspaper. And the mom cliques in the neighborhood—it’s worse than middle school!”

“Maybe staying home isn’t for you,” I say, striding beside her.

“I’m telling you, I’ve never seen such competitive women. The other day at the park, I happened to mention that Trevor can count to thirty. Not bad for a three-year-old, right? Wrong. Melinda immediately piped in, ‘Sammy counts to fifty.’ And Lauren, the blond bitch, pursed her lips and gestured to little Kaitlyn. ‘One hundred,’ she whispered. ‘In
Mandarin
.’ ”

Megan and I burst out laughing. “Speaking of competition,”
Megan says, swinging her fists in front of her. “Any luck finding that teaching job, Brett? The one where you don’t step foot in the classroom?” She erupts in giggles.

“Actually, I have.”

Shelley and Megan turn to me.

“I was offered a job this morning.”

“That’s great!” Shelley says. “See, and you didn’t think you’d be competitive.”

I bite my lip. “I was the only applicant.”

“In this job market?” Megan asks, tugging her arm as she strides.

“Uh-huh. It seems that two ninety-nine’s a difficult zone in the Chicago Public School District—that’s what the personnel director told me. He said you have to be a bit of a risk taker.” I tell them about the homebound position, teaching sick kids in their homes or at the hospital, one-on-one.

“Wait.” Megan pulls me to a stop. “You’ll be going into houses? On the South Side?”

My stomach aches and I start walking again. “That’s right.”

Megan keeps pace beside me, her eyes huge. “No fucking way! Girl, we’re talking housing projects … tenement buildings. Nothing but roach-infested shitshacks.”

“Megan has a point,” Shelley says. “You sure it’s safe?”

“Of course,” I say, wishing I felt as sure as I sounded.

“Listen,” Megan says. “Take the fucking job if you must, but then quit the minute it looks legit for Brad.”

“Can you believe it? I might actually accomplish goal number twenty.” I turn a circle and walk backward, facing them. “And guess what else, Shelley? Andrew hired Megan. We’re going to buy a house.”

“Get this,” Megan says, flipping Shelley’s arm with the back of her hand. “They’re buying a house on the lake. Cha-ching!”

“No,” I say. “Discourage the McMansions, Meg. Those houses are obnoxious.”

“If you say so. Of course, that kind of commission would be nice.” She bites her bottom lip, as if mentally computing her 6 percent cut.

“Forget it. We can’t afford it.”

“Andrew told me you’re going to get a fucking fortune. He also told me about your profit sharing. Trust me, you won’t have any problem getting a loan.”

I shake my head. “Any profit sharing goes straight into my retirement account. I’d get killed on taxes if I touched it. And he’s forgetting, we’ll have a child’s future to think about. Try to find something cute, something with a little backyard, maybe near a park.”

She looks at me as if I’m insane, but eventually she nods. “Absolutely. I’m on it.”

“It’s amazing how far Andrew’s come,” I continue. “Everything’s falling into place. I bought a book the other day,
What to Expect When You’re Expecting
. It’s so fun to think that I could be pregnant soon, and—”