The Life List (27 page)

I drop my phone and knead my forehead. Jesus, have I sunk so low I’m hustling a sixty-something? This damn list is making me crazy. I’m sizing up every guy I meet, like a director searching for the perfect character to play the role of husband and father in her play. This isn’t what my mom wants.

I click off my phone and toss it into my bag.

B
rad sits at the bar drinking a martini, looking especially handsome in his powder-blue shirt and black cashmere jacket. But as always, his hair is a little mussed, and today a mustard-colored stain dots his tie. My heartstrings tug. God, I’ve missed him. He rises when he sees me and holds out his arms. Without hesitating, I fill them.

Our hug is especially fierce, as if we’re both trying to squeeze the love and friendship back into our twosome. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers in my ear.

“Me too.”

I slip off my coat and find the hook under the bar for my purse. Once settled, there’s an awkward silence between us, a disturbing lull that’s never been there before.

“Want a drink?” he asks.

“Just water for now. I’ll have a glass of wine with dinner.”

Brad nods and sips his martini. The television over the bar is tuned to CNN, but the volume is muted. I stare at it anyway. Have I ruined everything? Will our friendship forever be tainted by that mortifying make-out session?

“How’s Jenna?” I ask, breaking the silence.

He drags the toothpick of olives from his martini and stares at it. “Good. We seem to be back on track.”

A branding fork sears my heart. “Good.”

His eyes are as tender as a koala bear’s. “If our timing had been different, I think you and I could have been pretty amazing.”

I force myself to smile. “But as they say, timing is everything.”

The silence returns. Brad senses the change between us, too, I can tell. He plays with his toothpick, dunking the olives into the martini and dredging them back to the surface. Dunking. Dredging. Dunking. Dredging. I can’t let this happen. I won’t let this happen! I love our friendship too much to let it slip away because of a twenty-minute mistake.

“Look, Midar. You’ve got to know, I was feeling a little desperate that night.”

He looks over at me. “Desperate, huh?”

I punch his arm. “It was New Year’s Eve, after all. Give a girl a break.”

Laugh lines crease the corners of his eyes. “Ah. So I was just your booty call?”

“You got that right.”

He grins. “Real nice, B.B. I should’ve known.”

My smile fades and I run a finger over the rim of my water
glass. “Honestly, Brad? I thought maybe it was part of my mom’s plan. You know, sort of a postmortem fix-me-up, just like she’s doing with the rest of my life.”

He swivels on his stool to face me. “Your mom knew I was unavailable, Brett. She met Jenna that same night she met me. She wouldn’t have done that to you, or to me.”

I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched in the gut. “Then why, Brad? Why did my mom hire you? Why did she insist you open every letter? Why did she make sure we were in constant contact if she knew you weren’t available?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Beats the hell out of me. Unless, maybe, she actually liked me, and thought you might, too.” He rubs his chin in thought. “Nah, that’s too far-fetched.”

“Way!” I tease. “Seriously. I thought for sure my mom was orchestrating our romance. Otherwise, I’d never have had the nerve to …” I feel heat rise to my cheeks and I roll my eyes. “The nerve to do what I did.”

“Seduce me?”

I sneer at him. “Ah, as I recall, you tried to seduce me, just a week earlier.”

He chuckles. “Let’s not go tit-for-tat here. Besides, it was the holiday season. Give a guy a break.”

And just like that, we’re back to the old Brad and B.B.

“Jenna’s coming here in two weeks. I’d love for you to meet her, if you’re okay with it.”

I smile, and it actually feels genuine. “I’d like that.”

He looks over my shoulder and tips his head. “Looks like our table’s ready.”

We move to our table by the window, and I break into a riff about Peter, Sanquita, and my other students. “They’ve got her on terbutaline to stop contractions, but I’m still worried.”

Brad watches me, grinning.

“What?”

“Nothing. Everything.” He shakes his head. “You’re so different from that woman sitting in my office last September. You really like this job, don’t you?”

“I do. I love it. Can you believe it?”

“After all your whining and bellyaching, Elizabeth was right.”

I narrow my eyes at him and he laughs.

“Hey, the truth hurts.”

“Maybe. But what if I hadn’t gotten this homebound job? What if I was forced to teach in the classroom? I would have had a breakdown. Seriously. My mom just lucked out.”

He pulls a pink envelope from his pocket. Goal number twenty.

“You’ve been teaching almost three months. You’ve earned your envelope.” He opens the seal.

“ ‘Congratulations, dear daughter! Oh, how I’d love to hear all about your new job. I wonder where you’re teaching. I suspect it’s not a conventional assignment, since you were never much of a disciplinarian.’ ”

I gasp.

“ ‘Don’t be insulted, darling. Maria let those von Trapp children run wild and we loved her for it.’ ”

I smile, picturing my mother and me snuggled on the sofa, sharing a bowl of popcorn, watching our favorite movie,
The Sound of Music
.

“ ‘Like Maria, you’re an idealist, which is wonderful. You think if you’re kind, others will be kind in return. Instead, children often challenge those who seem sensitive, especially in front of an audience of their peers.’ ”

I think of the kids at Meadowdale, and Douglas Keyes Elementary, and Peter. “Yeah, they do.”

“ ‘I envision you teaching small groups of children, or perhaps
tutoring. Is that what you’re doing? How I wish I knew! No matter, I know you’re terrific. I know your students are benefiting from your patience and encouragement. And darling, I’m so very proud of you. You were a fine advertising executive, but you’re a superb teacher.

“ ‘I bet your life on it.’ ”

I stare at the last line, my eyes swimming in tears. Yes, she did. My mom took a huge gamble, trying to fix a life she thought was broken. She wanted to ensure my happiness, plain and simple. I just hope she doesn’t lose the bet.

T
he following week I’m driving to work when my phone rings. From the caller ID, I see it’s Johnny. What now? His princess still has the sniffles? As I pull over to the curb, I realize it’s not even dawn on the West Coast. I shiver with the first prickle of fear.

“Hey, Brett.” His voice sounds gravelly, like he’s exhausted. “Just wanted to let you know, Zoë’s in the hospital.”

My breath catches.
No! Zoë has a cold. You don’t go to the hospital for a cold!
I grip the phone. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“She’s got pneumonia—exactly what I feared. The poor kid’s been plagued with respiratory problems since birth.”

I hang my head in shame. My sister is sick—extremely sick. And all I could think about was myself. I cover my mouth. “Oh, John. I’m so sorry. Is she going to be okay?”

“She’s a fighter. She’ll get through it. She always does.”

“What can I do? How can I help?”

“There’s nothing to do now but wait. But keep her in your thoughts, will you?”

“Always,” I say. “Please, give her a hug for me. Tell her to stay strong, and that I’m praying for her.”

“And, Brett, if you would, keep sending those cards. She insisted
on taking them with her. She’s got every card you’ve sent on her hospital nightstand.”

I close my eyes. I’d begun doubting whether he was even giving those cards to Zoë. Tears of shame and sorrow trail down my face. My sister is seriously ill and, until now, I hadn’t trusted her or my father.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T
hough technically the shortest month, February with its gray, blustery days seems endless. Along with cards, balloons, and flowers, I call every day to check on Zoë. She was discharged last Friday, only to be readmitted the following Monday. The poor girl can’t seem to gain strength and I feel helpless, being two thousand miles away.

It’s my thirteenth consecutive day at my mother’s house, since by my rules the clock starts over every time I’m at Joshua House. But still, my stomach roils every time I think of Joad’s words:
I thought you, of all people, would want to follow Mother’s rules
. Could he be right? Would Mother want me out of her house? It seems so cruel, given all I’ve lost. And my mother was never, ever cruel.

With his words ringing in my ears, I drive to Pilsen on Saturday morning. I’ll do a quick cruise through the little burb, and when I get home I’ll email Joad and Brad. I’ll tell them about my fruitless search. We’ll all feel better.

The village is bustling this morning. I’ve been told Pilsen has the most authentic Mexican restaurants in the city, and as I travel down the commercial streets, it’s easy to see the Hispanic influence. A Mexican bakery sits on one corner, a Mexican grocery store on the other. And everywhere, I see beautiful Mexican artwork. The place has a nice, ethnic feel to it, as if it’s filled with people searching for a better life … people like me.

I turn right on West 17th Place and creep down the potholed street. Like most of Pilsen, the houses on this street are mostly wood-framed, prewar homes in various stages of disrepair. I pass an empty lot littered with soda cans and liquor bottles and decide I’ve seen enough.

I let out a sigh. Good. Now, I can honestly say I’ve tried again. But before I have time to celebrate and hightail it out of here, a
FOR RENT
sign comes into view. I edge toward it and spy a pretty red-brick house … the very house I saw on the Internet six weeks ago! I can’t believe it’s still for rent. That can only mean one thing. It’s a disaster inside. But from the outside it looks lovely.

I slow to a stop. Decorative cornices painted a buttery yellow top each of the five windows, and a wrought-iron fence surrounds the perimeter. A dozen concrete steps lead to dual front doors, where urns filled with plastic poinsettia blossoms frame each door. I smile. Really? Plastic flowers? But it’s clear. Whoever owns this place takes great pride in it.

I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Sure, it looks sweet, but do I really want to trade my mother’s gorgeous brownstone for this place? I’m so comfortable on Astor Street, so safe and settled. Surely that’s what my mother would want.

Just as I pull away from the curb, a young woman steps from the left-side front door and locks it behind her. I stop the car and watch her. Her red heels must be four inches high. I wince as she skips down the steps, praying she won’t twist an ankle and tumble down. Her thick body is packed into a pair of skinny black jeans,
and she’s sporting a shiny gold jacket that seems insufficient for such a chilly day.

She makes it down the stairs without incident, and gets only a few paces when she spots me sitting in my car staring at her. Before I have time to look away, she smiles and waves, a gesture so open and trusting that on impulse, I take her cue and roll down the passenger-side window.

Up close I see
BJHS MARCHING BAND
printed on the left side of her jacket. Benito Juarez High School.

“Hi,” I say. “Sorry to bother you, but is this place still for rent?”

She takes a wad of gum from her mouth and tosses it into a snowbank, then leans her arms on the open window. Thick gold hoops dangle from her earlobes, along with at least six other earrings of various sizes and shapes. “Yes, it’s for rent, but why do you say
still
?”

“I saw it on Craigslist a few weeks ago.”

She shakes her head. “Not this place. We just put the sign up two hours ago. And trust me, my mom has no clue how to use Craigslist.”

I’m sure she’s mistaken, but still, the hairs on my arms rise. “Your mom’s the landlord?”

“Yeah, the absolute best!” She breaks into a grin. “At least, that’s what I tell her she’ll be. We just finished redoing the upstairs last week, so we’ve never actually rented it before.”

I smile, catching the contagion of her energy. “It’s a beautiful house. You’ll have no problem renting it.”

“You looking for a place?”

“Uh, sort of. But I’ve got a dog,” I add quickly.

She clasps her hands so tightly I fear one of her orange nails will pop off. “We love dogs—as long as it’s not aggressive. We’ve got a Yorkie. He’s just adorable. Fits in my purse, like Paris Hilton’s Chihuahua. Come in. My mom’s home now so you can meet her. The apartment is awesome! Wait till you see it.”

Her speech is so rapid-fire it takes a moment for me to process. I peek at my watch. It’s not even noon. What else have I got to do?

“Well, okay. Sure. If you’re sure your mom won’t mind.”

“Mind? She’ll be totally stoked. But one thing … she doesn’t speak much English.”

B
lanca and Selina Ruiz look more like sisters than mother and daughter. I shake Blanca’s soft brown hand and she leads me up a walnut staircase. Atop the landing, she unlocks a door, and then she steps aside and makes a sweeping gesture with her hand.