The Life List (16 page)

“Shit!” I pound my fist on the steering wheel. “Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit!”

November 14, my date with Carrie Newsome.

CHAPTER TWELVE

C
arrie is so gracious when I call her hotel room that I’m actually tempted to drive back to McCormick Place and see her. “Absolutely not,” she says. “I’ve been listening to the news and it sounds horrific out there. I worried you’d had an accident.”

I shake my head. “I almost wish I had. At least then I’d have a good excuse.”

She laughs, the same friendly, easy laugh of her youth. “Don’t worry about a thing. I had a nice glass of wine in the dining room. It was heaven.”

“I’m usually more organized than this. I just started a new job and …” I trail off, not wanting to confess I was chatting it up with my student’s shrink while she was sitting alone in the hotel restaurant. “I’m so sorry.” I take a deep breath. “For everything, Carrie.”

“Forget about it. Tell me about this new job.”

My heart speeds, but I have to do this. “I’ve never forgiven
myself for how awful I was, that time you came to visit. You trusted me, and I let you down. I never even replied to your letter.”

She laughs. “What? Brett, that was years ago! We were kids.”

“No. I’m so ashamed. That must have been such a confusing time. I should have been there for you.”

“Honestly, Brett, I understand. Sure, I was hurt. But I got over it. I can’t believe you’ve been torturing yourself all these years.”

“I should have written back immediately, begging
your
forgiveness. I was such a coward.”

“Stop. I forgave you years ago.” She laughs. “Now will you please forgive yourself?”

“Okay,” I say. “But there’s one more thing you should know.”

I reveal my initial motivation for contacting her after all these years. “So you see, it started as an order from my mom, but once I found you, I realized how much I’d missed you.”

She’s silent, and I think she’s about to tell me off. “Your mother was so wise,” she finally says. “I wish I could thank her.”

My heart is lighter than it’s been in years. Until now, I hadn’t realized just how laden with shame it was. I dab the corner of my eye and smile. “So tell me what I’ve missed out on these past eighteen years.”

She tells me about the loves of her life: Stella Myers, her partner of eight years, and their three adopted kids. It strikes me how Carrie’s lifestyle—the one I once thought abnormal and odd—is so much more conventional than mine.

“I’m so happy for you,” I say. “And your parents, how are they?”

“As kooky and lovable as ever. Hey, remember their annual Christmas brunch?”

“Absolutely. Best brunch ever.”

“They still have them, and I was thinking, if you’re free, you and your boyfriend should come. This year it’s on Sunday the eleventh. Madison’s only a two-hour drive.”

Memories come flooding back, Mr. Newsome in his Birkenstock sandals, a scotch in one hand and his camcorder in the other, and Carrie’s mother strumming her guitar, playing Christmas carols and old folk songs.

“I’ve told Stella all about you. You’ll love her, Brett. She’s a teacher, too. And my parents would be thrilled to see you. My dad has some great videos of us. He always liked you—your mom, too. Please, say you’ll come.”

Suddenly I’m so homesick for my old friend that I’d drive across the country to see her. I cradle the phone with my shoulder and grab my calendar. “Okay,” I say, grinning. “It’s on my calendar in bold letters. And this time, Care Bear, I’ll be there for you. I promise.”

I
fall asleep at the kitchen table while writing out a menu for Thanksgiving dinner. That’s where Andrew finds me when he gets home from work.

“Hey,” he says, gently nudging my arm. “Time for bed, sleepyhead.”

I wipe a string of drool from my mouth. “What time is it?”

“Only ten fifteen. You must be exhausted. Let’s get you up to bed.”

I push myself from the table and spy my partially completed menu. “I want to have Thanksgiving this year,” I say. “At Mother’s house. I’ll make all her traditional dishes. What do you think?”

“Suit yourself. I told you Joad and Catherine won’t be around, didn’t I?”

I frown. “No. I didn’t know that.”

He opens the refrigerator. “Joad left a message the other day. They’re going to London. A business trip, apparently.”

“On Thanksgiving? That’s crazy. I’ll call Catherine and see if they can get out of it.”

He lands on a block of cheese and a bottle of Heineken. “You really think they’re going to ditch London for a turkey dinner?”

I’m caught off-guard by a surge of loneliness. I assumed we’d all be together for our first holiday without Mother, helping to shore one another up. But in reality, I’m probably the only one who’d need shoring up. I let loose a sigh.

“You’re right. I guess it’ll be just us then, and Jay and Shelley and the kids.” I brighten and turn to Andrew. “Hey, let’s invite your parents. Think they’d come?”

“No chance. Too much traveling for them.”

“Boston’s not that far.”

“Still, it’s a hassle.” He slams shut the refrigerator door with his hip and pulls a knife from the drawer.

I stare at him. “Is that how it’s going to be with us one day? When our children grow up and invite us to Thanksgiving, you’ll think it’s a hassle?”

He slices a wedge of Asiago and pops it into his mouth. “Children?” he asks, one eyebrow raised. “I thought you said you had to have a child. Singular.”

“Whatever. You get my point.”

He swallows his cheese with a swig of beer. “If we have
a
child, I assume you’ll want to spend every holiday with him. That’s fine.”

A bitter taste fills my mouth. I don’t want to hear the answer to the next question, but still, I have to ask. “What about you? Will you want to spend time with our family?”

“Jesus!” He slams his beer bottle on the granite counter. Like his temper, it bubbles over. “It’s not enough that I’m willing to have a kid. No. You expect me to be Cliff Huxtable.” He shakes his head, and when he speaks again the volume is lower and I know he’s trying to contain his frustration. “I’m changing my entire life to make this damn fairy tale come true, Brett, and still I fall short.”

“I’m sorry. I appreciate all you’re doing, I really do.” My chin
starts to tremble and I lift a hand to cover it. “This isn’t what you want. I know that.”

The room fills with the stench of uncomfortable silence. He picks up the beer bottle and studies it. Finally, he rubs a hand over his face. “Can we talk about this another time? It’s been a hell of a day.”

I nod, but I know
another time
must happen soon. It’s just as selfish of me to expect him to share my dreams as it was for him to expect me to share his.

I
t’s Friday afternoon and I’ve purposely scheduled Peter’s appointment last, knowing how easily he can hijack my mood. Autumn points me toward the kitchen, where Peter sits at the cluttered table. Though he comes out of his room without a battle now, he’s still rude and sullen, not unlike his mother. Today she sits in the living room, infusing our session with the voice of Maury Povich and the smell of cigarette smoke.

I fumble through my bag and retrieve an algebra book. “We’re going to focus on math today, Peter. Most sixth-graders don’t do algebra. You should be proud to be in the honors section.”

I open to the chapter on polynomials. “Let’s see, Mrs. Kiefer wants us to review dividing polynomials today. Let’s take a look at number one. Can you give it a try for me?”

He studies the page, then knots his brow and scratches his head. “Too hard.” He slides the book to me. “Show me.”

I’m being duped, I know. Mrs. Kiefer assured me Peter would breeze through this assignment. But I find my pencil and paper. “It’s been a long time since I’ve worked with polynomials.” I copy the problem and silently berate myself for not having studied the lesson beforehand.

It isn’t long before I fish my calculator from my bag. I punch numbers, scribble digits on the paper, erase, punch in more numbers,
and erase again. All the while, Peter watches me with a smug smile on his face.

After a good five minutes, I have my answer—and an exhilarating sense of accomplishment. I blow up the bangs from my forehead and turn to him, smiling.

“I’ve got it. The answer is 3y over 8x to the negative fourth power.” I position the paper in front of him. “Now let me explain how I got my answer.”

He looks down his nose at my work like an arrogant professor. “Did you invert the negatives?”

My face heats and I examine my work. “Invert … what exactly … You mean, did I …?”

Peter sighs. “When finding the quotient of polynomials, negative numbers need to be inverted. A negative numerator becomes a positive denominator. You knew that, right? The correct answer is 3y over 8x to the eighth.”

I lean my elbows on the table and massage my temples. “Yes, of course. You’re absolutely right. Good for you, Peter.”

I feel his eyes on me as he scratches his left arm, slowly and methodically, until finally I look over at him.

“Stupid itch,” he says, his eyes locked on mine.

Stupid bitch
is what he’s saying.

T
he sky has darkened to a smoky gray when I drive away from the old white house. After a few blocks, I stop the car in front of a deserted playground and pull my cell phone from my purse.

“Hello, Doc—Garrett. It’s Brett.”

“Hey. I was just thinking of you. How’d it go today?”

I lean my head against the headrest. “I just lost at
Are You Smarter Than a Seventh-Grader?
”

He laughs. “You’re dealing with a sixth-grader,” he reminds me. “Don’t get cocky.”

Despite my horrible session, I crack up. Then I suck up my pride and tell him about the math lesson—
my
math lesson.

“When he asked if I’d inverted the negatives, I looked at him like,
Duh? Invert what?
”

He roars with laughter. “I’ve been there. It’s humbling to be outsmarted by a kid.”

“Yeah, Peter’s probably thinking I’m the cafeteria lady, that the school couldn’t afford a real teacher.”

“You are the best thing the school could have sent, of that I’m certain.”

My heart does a little jig. “And I’m thinking he’s pretty lucky to have you for his doc. Want to hear part two of my tale of humiliation?”

“Absolutely.”

I tell him about Peter’s scratching and his rude comment. “Clearly, he was calling me a stupid bitch.”

“Clearly, that couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

I smile. “Yeah, well, you’ve never met me.”

He chuckles. “But I hope to someday. And when I do, I’m sure my hunch will be confirmed.”

My shitty day just improved a hundredfold. “Thanks. You’re really nice.”

“Yeah, well, you’ve never met me.”

We laugh. “All right,” he says, “I better not keep you. It’s officially the weekend.”

A wave of sadness hits me. I want to tell him it’s okay, that I’d rather sit here in my cold car talking to him than go home to the empty loft. Instead, I say good-bye.

T
iny flakes of snow skitter and flit through the chilly November air. Barren oak trees line both sides of Forest Avenue, their gangly branches stretching toward one another like beseeching lovers.
The manicured lawns of summer are hidden beneath a layer of snow, but each drive and sidewalk is perfectly clear. A few weeks ago I’d have gazed in admiration at the stately brick Tudors. But today the gaping contrast between this idyllic Evanston neighborhood and the South Side streets of my students unsettles me.

In the backyard, Jay and Trevor build a snowman while Shelley and I sit at her kitchen table, snacking on Cabernet and Brie. “This cheese is delicious,” I say, slicing off another wedge.

“It’s organic,” Shelley says.

“Huh, I thought all cheese was organic.”

“Nope. These cows were raised on a grass-fed diet. I learned this from the mom clique.”

“See, and you thought stay-at-home mothering offered no mental stimulation.”

She rolls her eyes and pours herself another glass of Cabernet. “I just don’t fit in with these women. It’s all about their kids, which is great, who can fault them for that? But come on! I asked one woman what she likes to read, and with a perfectly straight face she told me Dr. Seuss.”

I burst out laughing. “Oh, yeah,
Green Eggs and Ham
is a real page-turner.”

Shelley howls. “And that plot twist in
Horton Hears a Who—
brilliant!”

We’re doubled over laughing—until Shelley’s guffaws morph into sobs. “I love my kids,” she says, swiping her cheeks. “But—”

The back door pushes open and Trevor rushes into the kitchen. “Snowman all done, Auntie Bwett.”

Shelley spins around. “It’s Brrrett,” she snaps. “
Rrr
. Can’t you hear that?”

Trevor’s face collapses and he rushes back outside. I turn to her.

“Shelley! Trevor’s three years old. He’s not supposed to say his
R
’s yet, and you know it. You’re the speech pathologist.”