The Life List (2 page)

Catherine cocks her head and studies me, tapping her bottom lip with her perfectly manicured nail. “Listen, sweetie, why don’t you stay put. I’ll bring you up a plate.”

Stay put my ass! It’s my mother’s luncheon. I need to get downstairs. But the room is fuzzy and I can’t find my shoes. I turn in circles. What was it I was looking for? I stagger to the door barefoot, and then I remember. “Okay, shoes. Come out come out wherever you are.” I squat down and peer under the bed.

Catherine grabs me by the arm and pulls me up. “Brett, stop. You’re drunk. I’ll tuck you into bed and you can sleep it off.”

“No!” I shake off her hold on me. “I can’t miss this.”

“But you can. Your mother wouldn’t want you—”

“Ahh, there they are.” I grab my new black heels and work to plant my feet into them. Jesus, my feet have grown two sizes in the last hour.

I barrel down the hallway as best I can, my feet half in, half out of my pumps. With both hands outstretched to steady me, I stagger from one wall to the other, like a pinball. Behind me, I hear Catherine. Her voice is stern but she’s keeping it low, as if she’s speaking through clenched teeth. “Brett! Stop right now!”

She’s nuts if she thinks I’m going to skip the funeral luncheon. I have to honor my mother. My beautiful, loving mother …

I’m at the staircase now, still trying to push my swollen feet into these Barbie doll pumps. I’m halfway down the staircase when my ankle twists.

“Eeow!”

At once a sea of guests, all who’ve come to pay tribute to my mother, turn to watch me. I catch glimpses of horrified women raising their hands to their mouths, and men gasping as they rush to catch me.

I land in a heap in the foyer, my black dress hiked to midthigh, minus one shoe.

T
he sound of clattering dishes wakes me. I wipe the drool from the side of my mouth and sit up. My throbbing head feels thick and murky. I blink several times and look around. I’m at my mom’s house. Good. She’ll have an aspirin for me. I notice the living room is cast in shadows, and workers mill about, stacking plates and glasses into brown plastic bins. What’s going on? It hits me like the crack of a baseball bat. My throat seizes up and I cover my mouth. All the pain, every scrap of anguish and sadness crashes in anew.

I’ve been told that a long battle with cancer is worse than a short one, but I’m not convinced that this holds true for the survivors. My mother’s diagnosis and death came so quickly it seems almost surreal, like a nightmare I’ll wake from with a cry of relief. Instead, too often I wake having forgotten the tragedy, and I’m forced to relive the loss over and over, like Bill Murray in
Groundhog Day
. Will it ever feel okay, not having that one person in my life who loves me unconditionally? Will I ever be able to think of my mother without my chest cramping?

As I rub my aching temples, short snippets of fuzzy snapshots come rushing in, re-creating my humiliating fiasco on the stairs. I want to die.

“Hey, sleepy girl.” Shelley, my other sister-in-law, walks over to me carrying three-month-old Emma in her arms.

“Oh, God!” I moan and hang my head in my hands. “I am such an idiot.”

“Why? You think you’re the only person who’s ever gotten tipsy? How’s the ankle?”

I lift a bag of mostly melted ice from my ankle and turn my foot in circles. “It’ll be fine.” I shake my head. “It’ll heal much sooner than my ego. How could I have done that to my mom?” I plop the bag of ice water on the floor and pull myself from the sofa. “On a scale of one to ten, Shel, how awful was I?”

She bats a hand at me. “I told everyone you were suffering from exhaustion. And they bought it. It was an easy story to pitch, since you looked like you hadn’t slept in weeks.” She peeks at her watch. “Listen, Jay and I are getting ready to go now, it’s after seven.”

From the foyer I spot Jay squatting in front of their three-year-old, stuffing little Trevor’s arms into a bright yellow slicker that makes him look like a miniature fireman. His crystal blue eyes find mine and he squeals.

“Auntie Bwett!”

My heart trips and I secretly hope my nephew never learns to pronounce his
R’s
. I walk over to him and tousle his hair. “How’s my big boy?”

Jay clips the metal fastener at Trevor’s collar and pulls himself up. “There she is.” Aside from the telltale crow’s-feet flanking his dimpled grin, my brother looks closer to twenty-six than his thirty-six years. He drapes an arm around me. “Have a nice nap?”

“I’m so sorry,” I say, swiping a flake of mascara from under my eye.

He plants a kiss on my forehead. “No worries. We all know this is hardest on you.”

What he means is, of the three Bohlinger children, I’m still single, the one with no family of my own. I counted on Mom the most. My brother feels sorry for me.

“We’re all grieving,” I say, pulling away.

“But you were her daughter,” my oldest brother, Joad, says. He rounds the corner of the foyer, his wiry frame nearly hidden by a colossal floral spray. Unlike Jay, who brushes his thinning tresses straight back, Joad shaves his head smooth as an egg, which, along with his clear-framed eyeglasses, gives him an urban-artsy vibe. He turns sideways and pecks me on the cheek. “You two had a special bond. Jay and I couldn’t have managed without you, especially near the end.”

It’s true. When our mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer last spring, I convinced her we would fight it together. I’m the one who nursed her after surgery, the one who sat beside her at every chemo treatment, the one who insisted on a second, and then a third opinion. And when all the experts agreed her prognosis was grim, I’m the one who was with her the day she decided to stop the heinous treatments.

Jay squeezes my hand, his blue eyes bright with tears. “We’re here for you. You know that, right?”

I nod and pull a Kleenex from my pocket.

Shelley breaks our silent grieving when she steps into the foyer, lugging Emma’s car carrier. She turns to Jay. “Hon, could you grab that jade plant my parents sent?” She glances at Joad, then me. “You guys don’t want it, do you?”

Joad nods at the botanical garden in his arms, in case she might have missed it. “Got mine.”

“Take it,” I say, baffled that anyone would care about a plant when our mother just died.

My siblings and their spouses shuffle from our mother’s
brownstone into the misty September evening while I stand holding open the rosewood door, just as Mother used to do. Catherine is the last to pass, tucking an Hermès scarf into her suede jacket.

“See you tomorrow,” she says, planting a Casino Pink kiss on my cheek.

I groan. As if deciding who’ll get which plant isn’t enough fun, at ten thirty tomorrow morning, all of Mother’s assets will be doled out to her children like it’s a Bohlinger awards ceremony. In a matter of hours I’ll become president of Bohlinger Cosmetics and Catherine’s boss—and I’m not the least bit confident I can handle either.

T
he night’s stormy shell cracks, revealing a cloudless, blue-skied morning. A good omen, I decide. From the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car, I stare out at the frothy shoreline of Lake Michigan and mentally rehearse what I’ll say.
Wow, I’m humbled. What an honor. I’ll never replace Mother, but I’ll try my damnedest to move the company forward
.

My head throbs, and again I curse myself for drinking that damn champagne. What was I thinking? I feel sick—and not just physically. How could I have done that to my mother? And how can I possibly expect my siblings to take me seriously now? I grab my compact from my purse and dab powder on my cheeks. I must appear competent and composed today—the way a CEO should. My brothers need to know that I can handle the business, even if I’m not always able to handle my alcohol. Will they be proud of their little sister, moving from advertising executive to president of a major company at age thirty-four? Despite yesterday’s debacle, I think so. They have their own careers, and aside from their stock shares, they have little to do with the family business. And Shelley’s a speech pathologist and a busy mommy. She doesn’t give a whit who runs her mother-in-law’s company.

It’s Catherine I fear.

A graduate of Penn’s prestigious Wharton School of Business and a member of the U.S. synchronized swim team swim during the Olympic Games of 1992, my sister-in-law has the brains, the tenacity, and the competitive edge to run three companies simultaneously.

For the past twelve years she’s held the title of vice president of Bohlinger Cosmetics and been Mother’s right hand. Without Catherine, Bohlinger Cosmetics would have remained a small-but-prosperous cottage industry. But Catherine came aboard and convinced Mother to expand her line. In early 2002, she got wind of a new episode Oprah Winfrey would be launching called “My Favorite Things.” For twenty-one weeks straight, Catherine sent exquisitely wrapped packages of Bohlinger’s organic soaps and lotions to Harpo Studios, along with photos and articles about the all-natural, ecofriendly company. Just as she was preparing her twenty-second shipment, Harpo Studios called. Oprah had chosen Bohlinger’s Organic Black Tea and Grape Seed Facial Mask as one of her favorite things.

The episode aired and business exploded. Suddenly every spa and high-end department store demanded the Bohlinger line. Manufacturing quadrupled in the first six months. Three major companies offered outrageous sums to purchase the company outright, but Catherine convinced Mother not to sell. Instead, she opened shops in New York, LA, Dallas, and Miami, and two years later expanded to the overseas markets. Though I’d love to think my marketing prowess had something to do with it, the company became a multimillion-dollar enterprise largely because of Catherine Humphries-Bohlinger.

It’s undeniable. Catherine is the queen bee, and as director of marketing I’ve been one of her loyal worker bees. But in a matter of minutes, our roles will be reversed. I’ll become Catherine’s boss—a thought that terrifies the bejesus out of me.

Last June, when my mother was in the throes of treatment and her presence at Bohlinger Cosmetics was a rarity, Catherine called me into her office.

“It’s important that you learn the nuts and bolts of the operation, Brett,” she said, perched behind her cherry desk with her hands folded in front of her. “As much as we’d like to deny it, our lives are going to change. You need to be prepared for your role.”

She thought my mother would die! How could she assume the worst? But Catherine was a realist, and she was rarely wrong. A chill came over me.

“Naturally, all of your mother’s shares will go to you, once she passes. You are, after all, her only daughter and the sole child in the business. You’ve also been her business partner longer than anyone else.”

A lump rose in my throat. My mother used to boast that I was still in diapers when I joined the company. She’d hoist me into my baby backpack and off we’d go, pitching her soaps and lotions to local shops and farmer’s markets.

“And as the majority shareholder,” Catherine continued, “you’re entitled to her position as CEO.”

Something in her cool, measured tone made me wonder if she resented this. And who could blame her? The woman was brilliant. And me—I just happened to be Elizabeth’s daughter.

“I’m going to help you prepare—not that you aren’t already.” She tapped open her computer calendar. “How about we start tomorrow, eight
A.M
. sharp.” It wasn’t a question, it was an order.

So each morning I’d pull up a chair next to Catherine’s and listen as she explained overseas business transactions, international tax codes, and the company’s day-to-day operations. She sent me to a weeklong seminar at Harvard Business School bringing me up to date on the latest management techniques, and enrolled me in online workshops on topics ranging from streamlining budgets to employee relations. Though many times I felt
overwhelmed, I never once considered bowing out. I’ll be honored to wear the crown that was once my mother’s. I just hope my sister-in-law doesn’t come to resent each time she’s asked to help polish it.

Mother’s driver drops me off at 200 E. Randolph Street and I gaze up at the granite-and-steel structure of Chicago’s Aon Center. Office space in this place must be outrageous. Obviously, Mother’s attorney is no slouch. I make my way to the thirty-second floor, and at precisely ten thirty Claire, an attractive redhead, leads me into Mr. Midar’s office, where my brothers and their wives have already gathered at a rectangular mahogany table.

“Can I get you some coffee, Ms. Bohlinger?” she asks. “Or perhaps tea? Bottled water?”

“No, thank you.” I find a seat beside Shelley and look around. Mr. Midar’s office is an impressive concoction of old and new. The space itself reeks of modernity, all marble and glass, but he’s softened it with Oriental rugs and several key pieces of antique furniture. The effect is soothing lucidity.

“Nice place,” I say.

“Isn’t it?” Catherine says from across the table. “I adore Stone architecture.”

“Same here. And there’s enough granite in this one to open a quarry.”

She chuckles as if I’m a little tot who’s just made a funny. “I meant Stone, as in Edward Durell Stone,” she says. “He was the architect.”

“Oh, right.” Is there nothing this woman doesn’t know? But rather than impressing me, Catherine’s intelligence makes me feel ignorant, her strength makes me feel weak, and her competence makes me feel as useless as a pair of Spanx on Victoria Beckham. I love Catherine dearly, but it’s a love that’s tempered by
intimidation—whether the result of my insecurity or Catherine’s arrogance, I’m not sure. Mom once told me I had all of Catherine’s intellect but only a smidgen of her self-confidence. Then she whispered, “And thank God for that.” It was the only time I ever heard Mother speak ill of Catherine the Great, but that single, uncensored statement gives me enormous comfort.

“It was originally built for Standard Oil Company,” she continues, as if I’m interested. “Back in ’73, if I’m not mistaken.”

Jay rolls his chair back, behind Catherine’s line of vision, and mimes an exaggerated yawn. But Joad seems riveted by his wife’s prater.