The Life List (23 page)

After ten minutes of grief-stricken paralysis, I leap to my feet, yanking the sheets from the bed. Tears stream down my face and I unleash loud, ugly wails. Beads of perspiration gather at my hairline. I wad the sheets and stuff them into a laundry basket. With the basket on my hip, I yank open the bedroom curtain. A Christmas morning as perfect as a Norman Rockwell painting greets me. But I cannot appreciate the day’s beauty. My soul is as hollow and barren as my womb.

I move through Christmas Day as if I’m anesthetized. Emma and Trevor are fascinated with my new puppy, and the three provide loads of entertainment for my siblings. But I watch vacantly, impervious to joy or laughter or even good food. Catherine takes a bite-sized portion from each dish on the table, while the others eat ravenously. I pick at my food indifferently.

The loss of my phantom child resurrects the memory of my mother’s death, and I grieve anew for her. For the third time today, I’ve locked myself into the upstairs bathroom. I’m hunched over the sink splashing cold water on my face, telling myself I’ll be okay.

I wanted that baby. I was sure I was pregnant. And my mother … she should be here, damn it. She, who always loved the holidays, deserved one more Christmas.

Last year we celebrated as usual, ignorant of the fate awaiting us in the New Year. Had I known it would be her last Christmas, I’d have given her something special, something that would have touched her heart. Instead, I bought her a panini grill from Williams-Sonoma. Even so, her face lit up with joy, as if it were the very gift she’d been hoping for. She pulled me into her arms that morning and whispered, “You make me merry, dear daughter.”

Every unshed tear in my chest suddenly breaks anchor. I slide to the bathroom floor, sobbing. I need my mother’s love so badly today. I’d tell her about the grandbaby I’d hoped to give her. She’d soothe me, and assure me there would be another sky.

“Brett,” Joad calls. He raps on the door. “Hey, Brett. You in there?”

I lift my head and take in a breath. “Umm-hmm.”

“There’s a phone call for you.”

I rise from the cold tile and blow my nose, wondering who’s calling. Carrie and I chatted for twenty minutes last night. It’s probably Brad, calling yet again to check on me, and to apologize
once more for his “lecherous” behavior. I open the bathroom door and trudge down the hallway. Trevor meets me halfway up the stairs and hands me the phone.

“Hello,” I say, patting the top of my nephew’s head before he skips back down the stairs.

“Brett?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

“Yes.”

Silence fills the air, and I wonder if I’ve lost the call.

“Hello?” I ask again.

Finally he speaks, his voice raw with emotion. “This is John Manson.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I
race back up the stairs, into my mother’s bedroom. I close the door behind me and sink to the floor, my back against the door.

“Hello, John,” I say when I finally find my voice. “Merry Christmas.”

He chuckles, a low sweet sound. “Merry Christmas to you.”

“You must think this is all very strange,” I say. “I’m just getting used to it myself, and I found the journal two months ago.”

“Yes. But it’s also very cool. I wish Elizabeth had contacted me, but I understand why she didn’t.”

You do?
I want to ask. Because I’d love to know. But this conversation can wait for another time—a time when we’re sitting across from each other holding hands, or snuggled together on a sofa, his arm slung around my shoulder.

“Where do you live?”

“Seattle. I have a little music store here, Manson Music. I even manage to get a guitar gig a couple times a month.”

——

I
can’t stop smiling, picturing this wonderful, musical man who is my father. “Tell me more. I want to know everything about you.”

He chuckles. “I will, I promise. But I’m a bit rushed at the moment—”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s Christmas. I won’t keep you. But I’d love to see you. Any chance you could come to Chicago? I’m off work until after the New Year.”

He sighs. “I’d love to see you, but the timing couldn’t be worse. I’ve got a twelve-year-old daughter. Her mother moved to Aspen awhile back and I have custody.”

“I have a sister?” Strangely, in all my father–daughter fantasies, this never occurred to me. “That’s awesome. What’s her name?”

“Zoë. And she is awesome. But she’s been coughing today. I’m afraid she’s coming down with a cold. Traveling right now is out of the question.”

“That’s too bad.” A thought occurs to me, and I instantly blurt it out. “Why don’t I come to Seattle? That way Zoë won’t have to travel and—”

“I appreciate the offer, but it’s not the time.” His voice is stern now. “I need to keep Zoë away from people, just to be cautious.”

At once I realize what’s happening. My father is making excuses. He doesn’t want to see me. He doesn’t want his impressionable young daughter to know his shameful secret. Why didn’t I see this coming? “Okay, some other time then. You better get back to Zoë now.”

“Yes, I’d better. But Brett, I’m happy to know you. I look forward to meeting you, just not now. You do understand?”

“Of course,” I say. “Give Zoë my love. Tell her I hope she feels better.”

I lay the phone at my side. I’ve finally found my father. And I’ve got a half sister, to boot. So why do I feel more rejected than ever?

All eyes are on me when I stride into the living room. “That was my dad,” I say, trying to sound chipper. “John Manson.”

Shelley rouses from her snooze. “How was he?”

“Wonderful. He seems really great. He’s kind, I can tell.”

“Where does he live?” Joad asks.

I plop down in front of the fire and hug my knees. “Seattle. And he’s still making music. Isn’t that cool?”

“Did you make plans to see him?” Shelley asks.

I search out Rudy’s sweet face and scratch his chin. “Not yet, but we will soon.”

“Invite him to Chicago,” Jay says. “We’d all like to meet him.”

“I will, as soon as his daughter gets well. Right now she’s a little under the weather. Can you believe it? I have a sister!”

Joad holds his Bloody Mary aloft and raises an eyebrow. “He’s got a real family then?”

My breath catches. “What do you mean,
real
family?”

“Nothing. I just meant …”

“What Joad means,” Catherine says, “is that he has a family he lives with, a family he knows.”

Jay sidles up next to me on the floor, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You’re his real family, too. But you need to brace yourself, sis. It’ll be different with you and Johnny, trying to bond now, after thirty-four years. He’s never rocked you to sleep, or climbed in bed with you when you had a nightmare …”

Or worried about me when I had the sniffles
.

Joad nods. “A woman in my office had a son she’d given up for adoption. When he looked her up nineteen years later, it was terribly disruptive. She had two young children then, and suddenly this stranger wanted access to their lives. She felt a complete disconnect from him.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear the
nightmarish image. Then he sees me. “It won’t be that way for you, though.”

A thick fog rolls into my chest. The father I’ve been searching for doesn’t want to meet me. He has another daughter, a
real
daughter he adores. And I’m the contagion he fears might harm their twosome. Did my mother anticipate this? Is this why she never told me about him?

A
t nine o’clock I stand at the front door with my shoes in my hand, exhausted and heartsick, shuffling my siblings from the house. Joad and Catherine are the last to leave, but standing in the foyer, Joad seems hesitant. He fumbles with his car keys before handing them to Catherine. “Go start the car, hon. I’ll be right there.”

Once she leaves, he turns to me. “I’ve been meaning to ask, how much longer do you plan to live here, in Mother’s house?”

His tone makes my pulse quicken. “I … I’m not sure. I don’t have anywhere else to go at the moment.”

He rubs his chin. “Mother stipulated a thirty-day max. You’ve been here since Thanksgiving, right?”

I stare at him, incredulous. At this moment, every good gene from my mother’s DNA is hidden, and all I can see is Charles Bohlinger. “Yes, but she said thirty
consecutive
days. I spend every Monday at Joshua House.”

His mouth doesn’t smile, but his eyes do, in a mocking way that makes me feel silly. “And what? You think the clock starts over each week?”

That’s exactly what I think. But the smirk on his face lets me know he disagrees. “What do you want me to do, Joad? I’m living on a teacher’s salary. I have no inheritance. I’ve given away all my furniture.”

He throws up his hands. “Okay, okay. Forget it. I just thought you, of all people, would want to follow Mother’s rules. Stay as long as you like. Makes no difference to me.” He pecks me on the cheek. “Thanks for a great day. Love you.”

I slam the door behind him, but the massive rosewood door is so heavy it doesn’t even catch. I march toward the living room, then turn around and heave my shoes at the door. “Damn you, Joad!”

Rudy bolts from his rug and peels toward me. I plop down in front of him. “And you,” I say, nuzzling his fluff. “Thanks to you, we have to find an apartment that takes scruffy ol’ mutts. What are we going to do?”

I
’m emotionally drained, and want nothing more than to sink beneath my mother’s sumptuous sheets and drift off to dreamland. Instead I lie awake at three in the morning, my mind leaping from thoughts of my father, to my childless womb, to the reality check from my sibs. The instant love I felt for my half sister has vanished, leaving in its wake a disturbing wave of jealousy and self-loathing.

I roll onto my side and my mind shifts to Joad. I play his words—his accusation—over and over in my mind until finally I throw back the covers and shuffle down the stairs. I find my laptop on the kitchen counter.

Within ten minutes, it’s painfully apparent that my meager income and furry friend will be significant obstacles to finding my new digs. After scouring pages of spiffy rentals that would eat up my entire month’s salary, I take a deep breath and revise my search. I can live without that second bedroom. But the prices for one-bedroom units are still too high. There’s only one solution: I have to move south. The desirable northeast neighborhoods
where I’ve spent my entire life are just too pricey. What does it matter that everyone in my entire world lives north of the Loop?

I press
ENTER
and realize I was right. Rentals south of the Loop are much, much cheaper … but
still
not cheap enough for someone with a first-year teacher’s salary. Without dipping into my retirement fund or subletting with a slew of strangers, my only option is to live south of the Eisenhower Expressway—an area I never, ever imagined I’d live.

I can’t do this! I can’t live in an area that’s foreign to me—an area riddled with crime and corruption. Again, I’m baffled. What the hell was my mother thinking?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T
he sun crowns over the horizon when, red-eyed and rumpled, I pick up Sanquita at Joshua House for her appointment with Dr. Chan. It’s a frigid morning—the kind of morning you remember by sound rather than sight … crunching snow beneath boots, cracking plates of ice on Lake Michigan, humming of furnaces running nonstop. Sanquita sits in the passenger seat wearing a velour running suit and a cropped jacket with a faux-fur hood, rubbing her bare hands in front of the heat vent.

“According to
U.S. News & World Report
,” I tell her, “University of Chicago Medical Center has one of the best nephrology programs in the nation.”

She pulls down the visor to shield the sunlight and leans back, tucking her hands under her legs. “I still don’t get why you’re doing this. Don’t you got better things to do?”

“I care about you.” She rolls her eyes, but I keep talking. “I
know you don’t want to hear it, and I know you don’t trust me yet, but it’s the simple truth. And when you care about someone, you want to help them.”