The Life List (25 page)

He pulls my sweater over my head and slips his hands beneath my bra, cupping my breasts. “Oh, God,” he whispers against my neck. “You’re so beautiful.”

I’m on fire now. I reach down and blindly fumble with his belt buckle. I find the leather strap and pull it free. Then I yank open the buttons of his jeans.

And from the other room, I hear his phone ring.

His body stiffens and his fingers come to a halt on my nipples.

It rings again.

With every instinct I possess, I know it’s Jenna. And I know Brad knows it, too.

“Ignore it,” he whispers, kneading my breasts. But his fingers are clumsy now, as if they’ve lost their rhythm—or their interest.

I bury my head against his chest and listen to the phone ring again. Finally, his hands fall to his side.

A sick feeling comes over me. I am such a fool. What was I thinking? I disentangle myself and cross my arms over my bare chest. “Go,” I say. “Answer the phone.”

But the ringing has stopped now. The only sound is the despondent moan of the furnace and Brad’s heavy breathing. He stands before me, his pants unbuttoned and his shirt rumpled, and rubs the back of his neck. He reaches out for me, and there’s no mistaking the heavy look in his eyes. It’s a tender gaze that says he doesn’t want to hurt me. A look that tells me his heart belongs to someone else.

I try to work my lips into a smile, but the corners tug downward
with a will of their own. “Call her,” I whisper, and bend down to get my sweater.

I hear him calling to me as I dash down the porch steps. I reach the sidewalk and break into a run, terrified my world will fall out from under me if I stop for even the briefest moment.

CHAPTER TWENTY

M
ercifully, the Christmas holiday ends and my teaching job resumes. Who would have thought my life could be so pathetic I’d rather be at work than on break? I hoist my leather satchel on one shoulder and my overnight bag on the other. “Have fun at Aunt Shelley’s, Rudy boy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I’m on the road before the clock strikes six, but already the predawn traffic is cranky. I mentally review the long day ahead of me. What in hell possessed me to keep my Monday-night shift at Joshua House on my first day back at work? Though truth be told, it’s probably better that I’m at the shelter, rather than at home lamenting the baby who wasn’t, the new love who wasn’t, and the father who might not be.

I turn on the overhead lights and my office wakes from its slumber. On the windowsill, I spy my geraniums. The blooms have gone to seed and the leaves are brittle and yellowed, but they’ve managed to survive the two-week hiatus—just as I have. I
switch on my computer. It’s not quite seven, which means I have two glorious hours to get organized before my busy day begins. First-semester final exams start tomorrow, and Sanquita will be taking five before the week’s end.

The blinking red light of my telephone tells me I’ve got messages. I grab my notepad and listen. The first two are new referrals. The third message is from Dr. Taylor, sent on December 23. I sit down when I hear his voice and nibble on my pencil eraser.

“Hey, it’s Garrett. Just in case you happen to retrieve your messages during your break, I wanted to give you my cell phone number. It’s 312-555-4928. Call me anytime. I’ll be around. Holidays can be difficult, especially your first Christmas without your mom.” He pauses. “Anyway, I just wanted you to know how to reach me. And if it’s the New Year when you’re listening to this message, I’m glad you survived the holidays. Congratulations and happy New Year. Let’s talk soon.”

I drop my pencil and stare at the phone. Dr. Taylor genuinely cares about me. I’m not just the teacher of his patient. I listen a second time, just to hear his voice, and I catch myself smiling for the first time in days. I dial his number, hoping he’s an early bird, too.

He is.

“Happy New Year, Garrett. It’s Brett. I just got your message.”

“Hey! Well, I just … I wasn’t sure if …”

He sounds embarrassed, and I smile. “Thank you. I really appreciate it. How were your holidays?”

He tells me he spent Christmas with his sisters and their families. “We had dinner at my niece’s house in Pennsylvania.”

“Your niece’s house?” I’m thrown off for a moment. But of course, unlike baby Emma, his niece is an adult, maybe even my age. “How nice.”

“Melissa’s my oldest sister’s daughter. Hard to imagine she has two kids in high school now.” He pauses for a moment. “How were your holidays?”

“Lucky for you I didn’t get your message until today. If I’d had your number, it would have been programmed to speed dial.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. That bad.”

“My first patient doesn’t arrive until nine. Do you want to talk about it?”

I spare him the details about starting my period on Christmas Day and the humiliating episode with Brad, but I give him a snapshot of my holidays—the mourning of my mother, my futile search for an apartment, and Sanquita’s doctor’s appointment. It goes without saying he’s an excellent listener. He is, after all, a shrink. But this doctor who specializes in mental illness makes me feel like I’m normal, not like some psycho-freak bordering on dysfunction, the way I sometimes feel. He even has me laughing … until he asks if I’ve heard anything from my father.

“As a matter of fact, he called Christmas Day. He has another daughter,” I blurt out. “Someone he knows and adores. He’s not nearly as anxious to meet me as I am to meet him.” The minute I’ve uttered the words, I regret it. I shouldn’t be jealous of my sister. She’s not feeling well. I should be more understanding.

“You haven’t made plans to meet?”

“No.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Zoë’s got a cold. He doesn’t want her to travel, and he doesn’t want to expose her to any germs I might carry.”

“And that feels like rejection to you.” His voice is soft and kind.

“Yes,” I whisper. “I thought he’d catch the first flight to Chicago. Maybe he doesn’t want to upset Zoë by bringing me into the fold. Who knows? I feel so selfish, but I’ve waited so long. I just want to know him—and Zoë, too. She’s my sister.”

“Of course you do.”

“I feel like … like I’m some gift I gave my father, but it’s a gift he didn’t need after all. I gave him a duplicate, and he’s
crazy about the original.” I squeeze shut my eyes. “The simple fact is, I’m jealous of Zoë. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I do.”

“There are no
shoulds
when it comes to our feelings. They are what they are.” His voice is a cool washcloth on my fevered forehead. “It must feel as if your father is protecting your sister, but not you.”

I start to choke up and fan my face. “Um-hmm.” I glance at the clock. “Oh, my gosh. It’s eight thirty. I need to let you go.”

“Brett, your feelings are normal. Like every healthy person, you crave a relationship where you feel nurtured, protected, cared for. And you had great expectations that your father would fill those needs. And maybe he will. But those needs can be met in other ways, too.”

“Is this where you prescribe Xanax or Valium or something?”

He chuckles. “No. You don’t need meds. You just need more love in your life—be it from your father, or from a lover, or from another source, perhaps yourself even. What’s lacking is a basic human need. Believe it or not, you’re one of the lucky ones—you admit you need it. There are a whole lot of unhappy folks out there who’ve stuffed away their needs. Seeking love creates vulnerability. Only healthy people can allow themselves to be vulnerable.”

“I don’t feel so healthy at the moment, but since you’re the expert, I’ll take your word for it.” I glance at my calendar and see that I have a nine fifteen appointment with Amina. “I really have to go, and so do you. But thank you for the session. Am I going to get some big fat bill at the end of my treatments?”

He laughs. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll just make you treat me to lunch one day.”

I’m caught off-guard. Is Dr. Taylor hitting on me? Hmm. I’ve never dated an older man. But I must admit, I’m not exactly a dating tour de force with men in my age bracket. Could Garrett be the Michael Douglas to my Catherine Zeta-Jones? The Spencer Tracy to my Katharine Hepburn? My mind races for something
clever to say, something light but substantial that will imply the door is open—even if only a crack.

But I’ve waited too long.

“Get to work,” he says, more business-like than usual. “Please, call me after your next session with Peter, will you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.”

I want to get back to the topic of lunch, but he’s already saying good-bye, and next thing I know we’re disconnected.

Literally and figuratively.

A
ll day long, a fine mist sprinkles the city like holy water, and now the temperatures are falling, creating havoc with traffic. As usual, I’ve scheduled Peter’s session last, knowing he has the power to ruin even my best day.

Today’s session is no different from the others. As usual, he refuses eye contact and grunts his answers through clenched teeth. Still, I can’t help but feel sorry for him, a bright child cooped up all day long in this smoke-filled house. As we finish our session, I pull a stack of books from my satchel.

“I was at the bookstore the other day, Peter. I thought you might like something to read, you know, to keep your mind busy.” I look up at him, hoping to see a flash of anticipation or excitement on his face. But he simply stares down at the table in front of him.

I pull my favorite from the stack. “I know you like history. This book is about children of the Dust Bowl.” I reach for another. “And this one tells all about Lewis and Clark’s expedition.”

I’m about to choose another when he yanks the books from my grasp.

I smile. “That’s right. Take them. They’re yours.”

He lifts the entire stack and holds them protectively to his chest.

My heart sings. It’s the first time our session has ended positively.

It’s still drizzling when I creep down the porch steps. I grip the iron rail, noting the coat of slush on the cement steps. My feet have reached the driveway when I hear the door open behind me.

I turn around. Peter stands on the porch in the rain, cradling his new books in his arms. He stares at me, and I wonder if he wants to thank me. I wait a moment, but he doesn’t say anything. He probably feels embarrassed. I wave and turn back toward my car. “Enjoy your books, Peter.”

A loud smacking sound startles me, and I spin around. Peter stands watching me with an evil grin on his face. The brand new books are splayed on the porch, soaking up the sloppy wet puddles.

I
unlock the door to my office, toss my wet bag on the floor, and rush to the telephone. It rings four times before he picks up.

“Garrett, it’s Brett. Do you have a minute?”

My voice is still shaking when I describe Peter’s cruel reaction to the books.

I hear him sigh. “I’m so sorry about this. I’ll make some phone calls tomorrow. His behavior at home is escalating. It’s time we found another placement for Peter.”

“Another placement?”

“Homebound isn’t the answer for this kid. Cook County has a first-rate program for mentally ill teens. New Pathways. The student-to-staff ratio is two-to-one, and students receive intensive therapy twice daily. Peter’s a tad young, but I’m hoping they’ll make an exception.”

I’m at once relieved and disappointed. Peter may soon be off my caseload. But it feels like I’m abandoning a mission, like I’m walking out on a play just before the ending. And who knows? Perhaps the ending would have been redeeming.

“Maybe he just thought those books were silly, or insulting,” I
say. “Maybe he was offended that I’d bought him presents, like he was a charity case.”

“This has nothing to do with you, Brett. He’s not your typical kid. I’m afraid you’re not going to win him over, no matter how hard you try. He wants to hurt you. So far it’s just emotional pain, but it concerns me that it could get worse.”

I remember Peter’s grin, cold and heartless. A shiver goes through me.

“I’ve frightened you, haven’t I?”

“I’m fine.” I gaze out at the dreary street below. I’d planned to stay here all evening, until my nine o’clock shift at Joshua House. But my cozy office suddenly feels isolated and ominous.

“Remember that lunch you mentioned earlier?”

Garrett hesitates. “Yes.”

I take a deep breath and squeeze shut my eyes. “Would you want to meet for coffee, now? Or maybe a drink?”

I hold my breath while I wait for his answer. When he speaks, I think I hear a smile in his voice. “I’d love to meet for a drink.”

T
raffic is horrendous, as I knew it would be. Rather than the trendy places Andrew and I used to frequent, I choose Petterino’s, a forties-style bar and restaurant near the Loop, where I think Garrett will feel comfortable. But it’s five forty and I’m still on the South Side, miles from the theater district. I’ll never make it by six. Why did I delete his message this morning before jotting down his cell phone number?

When my phone rings, I assume it’s him, telling me he’s stuck in traffic, too. But it can’t be. He doesn’t have my cell phone number, either.