The Life List (17 page)

“
Was
the speech pathologist,” she says, slouching in her chair. “I’m nothing anymore.”

“That’s not true. You’re a mother, the most important—”

“I suck at motherhood. God, look at the way I just yelled at Trevor.” She clutches her head. “I’m going nuts here. I know I should be thankful I get to stay home with my kids, but if I have to go on one more playdate, I swear I’ll lose it.”

“Go back to work,” I say softly.

She rubs her temples. “And your brother’s losing interest in me.”

“What? No way.”

She slices another chunk of cheese, stares at it a moment, then plops it back on the plate. “I have nothing to share anymore. I’m boring and exhausted, and a shitty mom to boot.”

“Go back to work.”

“It’s only been a couple of months. I have to give it a fair shot.”

“Then maybe you two need to get away—without the kids. Plant yourselves on some tropical island. Drink cocktails with little umbrellas in them, soak up the sun.”

She raises her arms and stares down at herself. “Oh sure. Stuffing this body into a swimsuit’s going to cheer me right up.”

I look away. Poor Shelley. What could be worse than feeling like your IQ has shrunk while your rear end has expanded? “Okay, so skip the Caribbean. How about New York, or Toronto? See some shows, do some shopping, have some uninterrupted sex.”

She finally grins. She goes to the counter and brings back her calendar. “Maybe we could go somewhere for my birthday in February. Someplace different and fun, like New Orleans.”

“Perfect. Make a plan. Oh, and your calendar reminds me, I thought we’d have Thanksgiving at Mom’s, you know, so she could kind of be there with us.”

Shelley raises her eyebrows. “So you’ve forgiven her?”

“No. My blood still boils when I think of how she kept my
identity secret.” I shake my head. “But she is our mother, and I want her to be included in our holidays.”

She bites her lip. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, Patti invited us to Dallas.”

My heart plummets, but I don’t say anything.

“I haven’t spent Thanksgiving with my family in three years, Brett. Don’t make me feel guilty.”

I shake my head. “I’m sorry. Of course you should go. I’ll miss you, that’s all.”

She pats my hand. “You’ll have Andrew, and Catherine and Joad. That’ll be fun, right?”

“Actually, Joad and …” I stop myself. The last thing Shelley needs is more guilt. “You’re right, it’ll be fun.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
he night before Thanksgiving, Andrew and I load the car with a fresh turkey, three DVDs, two bottles of wine, and Andrew’s laptop. I’ve already stocked Mom’s kitchen with everything else we’ll need. But as soon as we pull out of our parking garage, the car skids across the ice, just missing the curb on the opposite side of the street.

“Jesus!” Andrew holds tight the wheel and reins in the car. “I don’t get why you’re so hell-bent on having this at your mother’s house. It would be a whole lot easier to have it here.”

Here? Andrew never calls the loft
our
house or
our
place. And technically, he shouldn’t. It isn’t our house, it’s his. Which could explain why I insisted the dinner be at Mom’s brownstone, the only place that feels like home lately.

It takes us nearly thirty minutes to make the three-mile trek, and Andrew’s temper gains momentum with each passing minute.
“The weather’s only going to get worse, with this freezing rain. Let’s just turn back.”

“I need to do the prep work tonight. All the food is at Mom’s.”

He curses under his breath.

“We’re almost there,” I say. “And if we’re stranded at Mom’s it’ll be a blast. We’ll roast marshmallows in the fireplace, play cards, or Scrabble …”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “You’re forgetting, one of us has work to do.” Without looking at me, he clamps a hand on my leg. “Have you had a chance to talk to Catherine yet?”

My stomach twists, as it does each time he mentions working for Bohlinger Cosmetics. “She’s in London, remember?”

“They just left yesterday. You didn’t call her Monday?”

“She’s been so busy preparing to get out of town.”

He nods. “You’ll talk to her next week then?”

Ahead, Mother’s house comes into view like a lighthouse in a storm. Andrew pulls up to the curb. I let out a sigh and throw open my car door. “Ah, we’re here.”

I grab the grocery bag and clamber up the porch steps, praying the unanswered question won’t follow us inside.

B
y the time I finish the cranberry sauce and slide my pecan pie into the oven, the house smells almost like it did when Mother lived here. Tossing my apron over a bar stool, I stroll into the living room. Miles Davis pours from the speakers and the room glows with the amber light of the fire and Mother’s Venetian lamps. I sidle up to where Andrew sits on the sofa with his laptop.

“What are you working on?”

“Just seeing if anything new came on the market.”

My chest tightens. The house again. I see the price range he’s searching and nearly gasp. Resting my head on his shoulder, I
gaze at the screen. “Too bad the mortgage on the loft is upside down.”

“Megan doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“But for now maybe we should look for something smaller. Something we can afford if we pool our savings.”

“I never realized you were such a piker. Jesus, you’re about to inherit a fortune.”

My stomach clenches. As much as I’d like to avoid it, it’s time to ask the question that has been burning in me for weeks.

“What if there was no inheritance, Andrew? Would you still agree to help me with this list?

He lifts his face and scowls. “Is this some sort of a test?”

“There’s a chance I won’t get it, you know. I have no idea where my father is, thanks to my mother’s secrecy. I may not get pregnant.”

He turns his attention back to the laptop. “Then we’d fight it in court. And we’d win.”

Stop. That’s good enough. You’re only going to make him angry if you keep pestering him
.

“So your willingness to help me,” I say, my heart battering against my rib cage. “It has nothing to do with money?”

His eyes flash with anger. “You think I’m after your money? Christ, I’m practically begging for a job here. And you still haven’t told me you’ll help! I’m doing everything you’ve asked, Brett. I’ve agreed to your dog, your teaching job, every damn request. I’m just asking for one thing in return: a job in the family business and the salary to go with it.”

That’s two things, I think to myself. But he’s right. Begrudgingly or not, Andrew’s doing everything I’ve asked of him. So why am I not satisfied?

“It’s tricky,” I say, grabbing his hand. “Mom didn’t like the idea, and she rarely made a poor business decision.”

He yanks his hand from mine. “Is your mother going to dictate our lives forever?”

I finger my necklace. “No … no. In the end, it would be Catherine’s call.”

“Bullshit. You have the power to bring me on board and you know it.” He glowers at me. “I’m helping you with your goals, and I need to know you’ll help me with mine.”

I look away. He’s not being unreasonable. It would be so easy to tell him yes. I could call Catherine on Monday and within a week or two she’d find a place for him in the company. He’s an attorney, after all, an easy fit with our legal team, the finance department, or even HR. I hold the power to change the ugly mood of this evening with one simple declarative sentence.
Yes, I will help
.

“No,” I say softly. “I can’t help you. I don’t feel right going against Mother on this one.”

He rises from the sofa. I reach out my hand to him, but he jerks away, as if my touch burns. “You used to be so easy, so agreeable. But you’ve changed. You’re not the girl I fell in love with.”

He’s right. I’m not. I swipe a tear from my cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the evening.”

He paces the length of the room, dragging a hand through his hair. I know this look. He’s making a decision. He’s deciding whether or not I’ll be part of his life. As if rendered impotent, I stand watching him, unable to speak and barely able to breathe. Finally, he stops in front of the bay window, his back to me. His shoulders fall, as if a mighty tension just left his body. He turns to me.

“Ruin the evening? You just ruined your life, baby.”

I
t seems treasonous to sleep in Mother’s bed tonight. She’s the enemy, after all. Because of her, I’ve lost my job, my home, and all
hope. Yes, Andrew was difficult—even a jerk sometimes—but he was my jerk, and without him I’ll never get pregnant.

I drag a comforter down the stairs and heave it onto the sofa. It takes a moment to adjust to the ambient glow from the streetlights. From across the room my eyes meet my mother’s. The photo was taken at an awards ceremony two years ago when she was named Chicago’s Businesswoman of the Year. Her salt-and-pepper hair is cut in her signature style, a boyish crop of layers I used to say nobody but she and Halle Berry could pull off. She’s stunning, yes, with her high cheekbones and flawless olive skin. But beyond her physical beauty, I always felt the shot captured Mother’s very essence, her wisdom, her serenity. Rising, I cross the room and snatch the photo, plunking it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I settle back under the comforter and stare at her.

“Did you plan to ruin my life, Mom? Is that what you wanted?”

Her green eyes penetrate mine.

I move the photo nearer to me and glare at her. “Who are you, anyway? Not only did you lie to me your entire life, but because of you, I’ve lost Andrew, the one person who could help make my dreams come true.”

Tears slide past my temples, into my ears. “I’m all alone now. And I’m so old.” I choke on the words. “And you were right. I want a baby so badly it hurts. And now … now my dream’s been yanked away like some cruel prank.”

I bolt upright and jab a finger at her smiling face. “Are you happy now? You never liked him, did you? Well, you got your way. He’s gone. Now I have nobody.” I slam the photo facedown on the coffee table with such force I’m sure I’ve cracked the glass. But I don’t check. I roll over and cry myself to sleep.

M
ercifully, the first hint of dawn creeps through the bay window, giving me permission to rise from my fitful sleep. The first
thing I do is hunt down my cell phone from beneath the rumpled comforter and check for messages. I hate myself for it, but I’m hoping for a message from Andrew. I stare into the phone, but the only message I have is a text from Brad, sent at midnight, Pacific time.
Happy Turkey Day
.

I type back,
U, 2
. He’s in San Francisco with Jenna, and suddenly I miss him ferociously. If he were in town, I’d invite him to dinner. I’d pour out my heart to him, and then I’d listen as he shared his frustrations with Jenna. Just like Andrew and me, he and Jenna are having a rough go. “A couple of magnets,” he tells me. “One moment locked in attraction, the next repelling each other.” We’d open the wine while preparing sage stuffing. We’d laugh out loud, eat too much, watch movies … everything Andrew and I were supposed to do. But when I imagine it with Brad, it’s casual and breezy rather than forced and stilted.

I’m about to send the text when I notice my mother’s photo, facedown on the coffee table. I lift it. Her eyes tell me she’s forgiven me for yelling at her. Pressure builds behind my eyes. I kiss my finger and touch it to the glass, leaving a fingerprint on her cheek. Her face shows encouragement today, something akin to prodding, as if she’s trying to nudge me forward.

I gaze down at my phone, my index finger positioned on the
SEND
button. As if of their own volition, my fingers return to the keyboard and type one more sentence.

Miss u
.

Then I press
SEND
.

I
t’s only six o’clock in the morning. The entire day looms ahead of me like the wastelands of Siberia. I check my phone again, then, in frustration, heave it across the room. It lands with a dull thud on Mom’s Persian rug. I plop down on a chair and rub my temples. If I stay in this house checking my phone every
thirty seconds I’ll lose my mind. I grab my jacket and scarf, wedge my feet into a pair of Mother’s rubber boots, and trudge out the door.

In the east, pinks and oranges mop up a gunmetal-gray sky. A bitter wind cuts from the east, knocking the breath from me. I cover my nose with my scarf and pull up my hood. Across Lake Shore Drive, I’m greeted by the haunting howl of Lake Michigan. Angry waves slap the shore, retreat, and crash again. I traipse along the Lakefront Trail, my hands buried deep in my coat pockets. The path that hosts fitness buffs and tourists all summer long has lost its clientele this morning, a depressing reminder that everyone in the entire city is celebrating with friends and family. Households are waking, chatting over coffee and bagels, dicing celery and onions for their stuffing.

I round the bend of the Drake Hotel and head south. An empty Ferris wheel comes into view, like a ring on the finger of the Navy Pier. The abandoned wheel looks as forlorn as I feel. Will I be alone forever? Guys my age are already married, or dating twenty-year-olds. In the dating meal of life, I’m a leftover.