The Life List (24 page)

“Thing is, I really don’t need your help. Soon as the baby comes I’ll be better.”

“I know,” I say, wishing I believed my words. But I don’t. She looks waxen in the harsh morning light, and judging from her belly she’s not gaining enough weight.

“Do you have any names picked out?” I ask, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Uh-huh,” she says, scratching her legs with both hands. “I’m gonna name my baby after my little brother.”

“Your brother must be a special guy.”

“He was. Smart too.”

“Was?” I ask softly.

“He died.”

“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” I know enough now not to pry. As soon as things get personal, Sanquita shuts down. We ride in silence for another minute when, to my surprise, she continues.

“I was in sixth grade. Deonte and Austin, they was the only kids at home. The rest of us was in school. They got hungry. Deonte climbed up on the counter. He was trying to reach a cereal box.”

The hairs on my arms rise and I want to tell her to stop. This time I don’t want to hear what happens next.

She gazes out the passenger window. “He didn’t know the stove was on. His pajamas caught fire. Austin tried, but he couldn’t do nothing.”

She shakes her head, her eyes focused on the horizon.

“I probably been mad at my mom ever since. Them people from the county said it wasn’t her fault, but I know why she didn’t wake up when my brothers screamed. When I got home from
school I flushed everything down the toilet. No way was we going to foster care. Sometimes I wonder why I did that.”

My gut wrenches. Marijuana? Cocaine? Meth? I don’t ask. I reach over and gently place a hand on her arm. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. Deonte will live on through your baby. That’s so thoughtful.”

She looks at me. “Uh-uh. Not Deonte. I’m gonna name him Austin. Austin wasn’t never the same after that day. My mom, she made him think it was his fault. He turned real quiet. He had all kind of problems. He stopped going to school when he was fourteen. About two years back he shot hisself with my uncle’s pistol. After he seen Deonte die, living was just too hard for him.”

A
side from the nurses and the chipper receptionist sitting behind a glass panel, we’re the first to arrive at Dr. Chan’s office. Sitting beside me in the sterile reception area, Sanquita completes her paperwork.

“Sanquita Bell,” a nurse calls from an open door.

Sanquita gets to her feet. “You coming?”

I look up from my magazine. “It’s okay, I can stay here.”

She bites the side of her lip but doesn’t move.

“Or I can come in, if you want me to. It’s up to you.”

“That’d be straight.”

I can hardly believe it. She wants me with her. I toss aside my magazine. Placing a protective hand on her shoulder, we follow the nurse into the exam room.

Wearing a flimsy green hospital gown, Sanquita sits atop the examination table with a sheet covering her skinny bare legs. With her hair tied back in a rubber band and her face absent any makeup, Sanquita looks like a child waiting to see her pediatrician. We hear a gentle knock on the door, and Dr. Chan steps into the room. She introduces herself to Sanquita, and turns to me. “You are?”

“I’m Brett Bohlinger, Sanquita’s teacher—and friend. Her mother lives in Detroit.”

She nods, as if the vague answer suffices. After a thorough examination, multiple blood draws, and an exhausting array of questions, Dr. Chan peels off her latex gloves and tells Sanquita to get dressed. “I’ll meet you across the hall, in my office.”

W
e sit facing the doctor’s desk, and she wastes no time before getting to the point. “You have a very serious condition, Sanquita. And the pregnancy adds a significant complication. The tenuous condition of your kidneys is further compromised by the stress of your pregnancy. When your kidneys don’t function properly, your potassium levels rise, as I suspect they have. When this happens, you risk going into cardiac arrest.” She shuffles some papers on her desk, and I can’t decide if she’s uncomfortable or impatient. “I want to see you again once I receive the lab results, but time is of the essence. I suggest you abort the fetus as soon as possible.”

“What? No!” Sanquita turns to me as if I’d betrayed her. “No!”

I press a hand to her arm and turn to the doctor. “She’s well into her second trimester, Dr. Chan.”

“Late-term abortions are performed when the mother’s life is at risk. In this case, it is.”

Sanquita pulls herself to her feet, obviously ready to have this conversation behind her. But I remain seated. “What’s her prognosis if she doesn’t?”

She looks directly at me. “She has a fifty–fifty chance. The baby’s chances are more like thirty percent.”

She doesn’t say
of survival
. She doesn’t have to.

——

S
anquita sits with her eyes fixed out the front window of my car, her face set like granite. “I’m not going back there. I won’t. That lady wants me to kill my baby. That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Sweetie, it’s not what she wants, it’s what she thinks is best for you. Your life is at stake. Do you understand?”

“Do
you
understand?” She glares at me. “You ain’t got no kids. You got no right telling me what to do!”

My heart shatters. The red bloodstain comes back to me full force. I work to keep my breathing steady. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

She stares out the passenger window and we drive in silence for several miles. We’re almost to Carroll Avenue when she finally speaks, her voice so soft I can barely hear her. “You wanted kids, didn’t you?”

She says it as if it’s too late, as if I’ve lost my window of opportunity. And in her world, thirty-four sounds ancient. “Yes, I did—I do—want kids.”

She finally turns to me. “You would’ve made a good mom.”

It’s both the sweetest and the cruelest thing she could have said. I reach over and squeeze her hand. She doesn’t pull away. “You will too, someday when you get your kidney problem resolved. But right now … I just don’t want to lose you.”

“Ms. Brett, don’t you see? My life don’t mean nothing if I don’t have my baby. I’d rather die than kill this baby.”

The
I’d die for you kind of love
. Sanquita has found it. And true to an obsessive love, it might just kill her.

I
t’s only ten in the morning when I drop Sanquita off at Joshua House. I’d planned to spend the morning with her, stopping for breakfast, doing a bit of baby shopping, but the mood is so far from celebratory I don’t even suggest it.

As I back out of the driveway, I catch sight of the pages I’d printed during my late-night apartment search, strewn on the
backseat. I pull over to the curb and thumb through them, looking for that nice brick house I saw in Pilsen. Maybe I’ll drive by it, just to see. Then I can tell Joad and Brad I’ve been looking.

I rifle through the pages. I see the six places in Little Italy, the four apartments in University Village, but I can’t find that pretty place in Pilsen. I know I printed it. Where did it go? On my lap, the other pages seem to beg for my attention like neglected children. What the hell … here goes nothing.

I try to cheer myself with the idea that I’ll be closer to work and Joshua House. But I’m not cheered. These South Side neighborhoods look dismal and depressing … even borderline dangerous. I perk up when I enter the Italian American village of Little Italy, with its vibrant shopping area and some of the best restaurants in the city. This could work. I search out the first address with my fingers crossed. But rather than one of the cute houses I’d seen in the village, I see a cement-block building with its front window boarded up like a patched eye. My God, this dump looks nothing like the picture on Craigslist. My anger mounts when I move on to Loomis Street, where the
FOR RENT
sign is lost in a yard littered with everything from old car tires to a rusted ironing board. Is this what my mother had in mind? I can’t decide if I’m hurt or offended or enraged. I decide I’m all three.

I
t’s five o’clock on New Year’s Eve, and I’m propped in the window seat of Mom’s brownstone clutching a bag of M&M’s. Outside, the sun is losing its battle to the moon as the city prepares for its annual hullabaloo. With Rudy curled at my feet, I give Carrie the latest update on the phone. I tell her about Sanquita’s doctor’s visit and Joad’s interrogation about my living situation.

“And Johnny called again last night. As usual, he only wanted to talk about Zoë. Her cold is worse. He’s worried. I want to say,
I get it. You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to show up on your doorstep
.”

“Don’t go jumping to conclusions. Once Zoë is healthy, he’ll be able to focus on you. Trust me. I know what it’s like to have a sick child. They become your world.”

I start to grouse that it’s just a cold, for God’s sake, but I stop myself. Sanquita was right. I don’t understand. I don’t have kids.

“So, how are your kids?” I ask.

“Great. Tayloe had a dance recital Thursday night. I’ll send you the video. She’s the tall one in the back who’s constantly out of step, just like I always was.”

We giggle. “What are you doing tonight?” she asks.

“Nothing. Jay and Shelley are at some swanky party. I offered to watch the kids, but Shelley hired a sitter. So, I’ve rented every old Meg Ryan film I could find.” I traipse over to the stack of DVDs on the coffee table. “There’s
Sleepless in Seattle
,
You’ve Got Mail
 … Want to come over?” I tease.

“If you’ve got
When Harry Met Sally
, I’m there.”

“First one I picked.”

We laugh. “God, Bretel, I miss you. We’re going to a party with some of Stella’s work friends. Truth be told, I’d trade my night for yours. Sometimes I really envy you.”

“Don’t,” I say, returning to my window seat. “There’s nothing enviable about my life.” My throat seizes up. “It’s depressing being alone, Car. I walk down the street and see these young couples—more often than not pushing a baby carriage—and I feel so old. What if I never meet anyone? What if I never have kids? Will the neighbor children race past my house, afraid of the crazy old lady who lives all alone?” I grab a tissue and dab my nose. “Jesus, am I going to die here alone, in my mother’s brownstone.”

“No. You’re not allowed to live there, remember? More likely you’ll die alone in some shabby rental.”

“Oh, real nice.”

She’s laughing. “You’re going to be fine, Bretel. You’re thirty-four, not ninety-four. And you will meet someone.” She pauses. “In fact, I’m guessing you already have.”

“Really?” I stuff my tissue into my pocket. “And who might that be?”

“Your mother’s attorney.”

My heart pitches. “Brad? No way.”

“Have you ever thought about it? And don’t lie to me.”

I sigh and grab another handful of M&M’s. “Okay, maybe.” I tell her about the last time I saw him, and his halfhearted attempt to seduce me. “He and Jenna are on a hiatus. He was lonely and a little drunk. It would’ve ruined everything if we’d hooked up.”

“Their relationship’s been on and off for months. You told me so yourself. Look, I’ve been thinking. You know how you wondered why your mom hired Brad, instead of using that old fart she’d used for years?”

“Yeah?”

“I think she was setting you up with Brad.”

I sit up. “You think she wanted Brad and me to get together?”

“Yup.”

Like a burst of sunshine splitting a stormy sky, I’m suddenly illuminated. I can’t believe I didn’t figure this out sooner. Mother chose Brad Midar to handle her estate, rather than Mr. Goldblatt, knowing we would fall in love. She orchestrated an entirely new relationship for me with a man she knew and respected. The red journal wasn’t her last gift to me, after all!

I
stare at the phone and mentally rehearse what I’m going to say for the forty-seventh time. My hands are shaking, but I also feel strangely calm. I’m not alone. My mom is with me on this, I can
feel it. I finger the little gold charm, my parachute, to ensure soft landings. I take a deep breath and punch in the number. He picks up on the third ring.

“It’s me,” I say.

“Hey, what’s up?” He sounds groggy, and I picture him stretching and grappling for the clock to check the time. I’m tempted to tease him about what a couple of losers we are, alone on New Year’s Eve, but now’s not the time for joking. I swallow hard.

“Would you like some company tonight?”

There could be no mistaking my message. He doesn’t say anything at first, and my heart sinks. I’m about to laugh and tell him I was only joking when I hear his voice, soft and warm like a glass of sherry on a frigid night. “I’d love some.”

D
ainty flakes fall from the sky like sifted flour. I turn right on Oakley and cruise down the quiet street, softly lit by streetlamps. Miraculously, I find a parking spot just a block from his duplex. A good omen, I decide. I step from my car and as I near his house, I break into a trot. All is the way it should be. Together, we’ll accomplish every last goal, including the dreaded horse. Even my false pregnancy seems less devastating now. Brad will make a terrific father, much better than Andrew ever would. I’m giddy now, thrilled to start my new year, my new life.

I stop when I reach his porch. What if my hunch was wrong, and Carrie’s, too? My heart pounds in my temples. Am I making a mistake? Before I have time to rethink things, the door swings open and our eyes meet. He’s sporting a pair of jeans and a cotton shirt, untucked. He looks so gorgeous I want to throw my arms around him. But I don’t have time. He beats me to the punch.

He kicks the door shut behind us and flattens me against the wall. My breath comes fast and my head spins. I wriggle out of my coat and lock my arms around the back of his neck. Cupping
my face with his hands, he kisses my neck, my lips, his tongue mingling with mine.

He tastes faintly of bourbon and I want to drink him up. I run my fingers through his hair. It’s thick and soft—exactly how I imagined it would feel. His hands travel down my body. He lifts my sweater and his fingers find my bare skin. My body erupts in gooseflesh.