The Life List (28 page)

The tiny apartment reminds me of a miniature doll’s house, but on this chilly gray day it feels more cozy than cramped. Empty, it has a decent-sized main room with an old marble fireplace on one wall and an immaculate kitchenette in the back. Adjacent to the kitchenette is a bedroom the size of my mom’s walk-in closet. Off the bedroom, a pink-and-black-tiled bathroom boasts a pedestal sink and claw-foot tub. The entire apartment would fit into my mother’s living room, and as in Mother’s room, the floors are hardwood while the walls are topped with cove moldings. Blanca looks on, nodding and smiling, while Selina points out every detail.

“I picked out this bathroom cabinet. It’s from Ikea. They make really good stuff.”

I open the cabinet and peer inside, as if its quality could sway my decision. But it wouldn’t matter what the cabinet looked like. I’ve already made up my mind.

“You like this light fixture? I told my mom no brass.”

“I love it,” I say, embellishing my enthusiasm.

Blanca claps her hands together, as if she understands, and says something in Spanish to her daughter. Selina turns to me.

“She likes you. She wants to know if you’d like to live here.”

I laugh. “Yes. I would.
Sí! Sí!
”

——

W
hile I sign the lease, Selina tells me that she is the first of her family to be born in America. Her mother grew up in a rural village outside Mexico City, and came to the United States with her parents and three younger siblings when she was seventeen.

“Before she could enroll in high school, she found out she was pregnant with me. We lived with my aunts and uncle and grandparents in a tiny house just around the corner.
Mis abuelos
—my grandparents—they still live there.”

“When did you move here?” I ask.

“About a year ago. My mom, she’s a cook just down the block at El Tapatio. She always told me we’d have our own house someday. When this one went into foreclosure a year ago, she couldn’t believe she’d saved enough money for the down payment. It took us seven months to fix up the apartment, but we did it, didn’t we, Mama?”

She throws an arm around her mother’s shoulder and Blanca glows with pride, as if she secretly understood the entire exchange.

Their story seems so similar to my mother’s that I start to tell them. But then think better of it. In truth, it’s a vastly different story, and once again I’m humbled at how very fortunate I am.

I
spend the rest of the weekend packing my clothes and ferrying boxes to Pilsen. On Monday afternoon, the same movers who emptied Andrew’s loft last November load up a few meager furnishings from Astor Street and deliver them to my new apartment. I was tempted to take Mother’s iron bed, but it’s much too big for my tiny apartment. Besides, it belongs at Astor. That way, when I visit it’ll be waiting for me, just like Mom always was.

Instead, they carry my old double bed up the stairs, along with my cherry dresser. I direct them to position our old love seat from Arthur Street in front of the fireplace, framed by a couple of mismatched end tables. A scratched coffee table from my mom’s attic is perfect in front of the sofa, and the seventies terra-cotta lamp I found at a thrift shop looks almost hip now.

From a cardboard box, I lift four bowls and plates I borrowed from my mom’s cabinet. I put them in my new cupboard, along with some spare utensils and a couple of pots and pans. Moving to the bathroom, I arrange my cosmetics and three sets of towels in the lovely Ikea cabinet.

When the movers leave and every last box is unpacked, I light half a dozen candles and open a bottle of wine. The room glows amber from the candles and terra-cotta lamp. With Rudy at my feet, I curl up on the sofa with my book. Music from my laptop floats through the room. Within minutes I’m fast asleep in my snug little apartment in Pilsen.

M
arch is just around the corner, and panic is setting in. I’m nearly halfway to my September deadline, with only five of my ten goals completed. I’m hopeful that I can establish a relationship with my dad, but those other four goals seem impossible. In the next six and a half months I must fall in love, have a baby, buy a horse, and get a beautiful house. Aside from the ludicrous horse goal, these goals are out of my control.

In need of a distraction, I drive to Evanston. Though the Saturday temperature is still below freezing, the brilliant sunshine teases of springtime. With my car window cracked, I breathe in the crisp air and suddenly long for my mother. She’ll miss her favorite season this year. The season of hope and love, she always said.

Shelley greets me at the door wearing a crisp white blouse and
leggings. I notice a sheen of gloss on her lips; her curls fall softly at her chin.

“You look cute,” I tell her, taking my sleeping niece from her arms.

“You want to see cute?” she asks, leading me into her sun-drenched kitchen. “When Trevor wakes from his nap I’ll have him sing you this song we learned,
‘Five Little Rabbits.’
It’s adorable.” She chuckles. “Of course, he says
wabbits
.”

I’m surprised to hear Shelley make light of the once sensitive issue. Encouraged, I take it a step farther. “But can he sing it in Mandarin?”

She grins. “There will be no more talk of Mandarin or mom cliques.” She fills a teapot. “I called my old supervisor yesterday. I’m going back to work in May.”

“Oh, Shelley, that’s terrific! What was the final straw?”

She drags two cups from the cupboard. “I guess it was that weekend in New Orleans you suggested. Jay and I were an actual couple again, not just a mommy and a daddy. As we were packing up to head home, I started to cry.” She looks up at me. “I wouldn’t admit this to anyone but you and Jay. I love my kids dearly, but the thought of going back to those endless days of reading
Dora the Explorer
and
Cat in the Hat
were too much. I confessed that I wasn’t happy in this new role. Your brother simply said, ‘Go back to work.’ No judgment, no guilt trip. Last week he met with the chair of his department. He was granted a leave of absence. He’ll finish the semester, and then he’s off for a year. We’ll see how it goes from there.”

“So, Jay’s going to be a stay-at-home dad?”

She shrugs. “He’s going to give it a try. And you know what? I think he’ll be great. God knows he has more patience than I do.”

We’re sitting at the kitchen table, sipping tea and laughing like
old times, when Jay breezes in, wearing a pair of running pants and a Loyola sweatshirt. His face is flushed from his run, and he grins when he sees me.

“Hey! How’s my favorite sister?” He plops his iPod on the counter and moves to the sink. “Hon, did you ask Brett about next Saturday?”

“I was just about to.” She turns to me. “We’ve got a proposition for you. There’s this new guy in Jay’s department, Dr. Herbert Moyer. He’s some hotshot prof they recruited from Penn.”

Jay chugs a glass of water and swipes his mouth. “The world’s expert on the Byzantian conquest of Bulgaria.”

I shoot Shelley a look that says
WTF?
She grins and shrugs. “He hasn’t made many friends in Chicago yet.”

“Shocking,” I say.

Jay doesn’t seem to notice my sarcasm. “We thought it’d be nice to introduce you. You know, maybe have the two of you for dinner.”

A blind date with a Byzantine geek is about as appealing to me as the mom clique is to Shelley. “Thanks, but I don’t think so.”

Shelley gives me a sidelong glance. “What, you’re dating someone?”

I smooth down Emma’s hair and consider my love life since breaking up with Andrew. One measly false alarm with Brad … and that’s it. Not a single date. I couldn’t be more pitiful! I straighten in my chair, trying to muster up a shred of pride. Dr. Taylor springs to mind, just in time.

“There’s this man I’ve been talking to on the phone. He’s my student’s doctor. We tried to get together a couple of times, but so far it hasn’t worked out.”

Shelley scowls. “That widower you were telling me about? You’re not serious.”

I raise my chin. “He happens to be really nice.”

Jay tousles my hair. “So is Regis Philbin.” He grins and slides into the chair beside me. “Just meet Herbert. It won’t kill you. Besides, time is of the essence, isn’t it?”

“Don’t remind me.” I blow out a huff of air. “These last five goals are killing me. Falling in love and having a baby are two of the biggest events in a person’s life. You don’t just decide you’re going to do it and
wham!
it happens. These are matters of the heart. They can’t be checked off, like eggs and cheese on a grocery list.”

“Exactly,” Shelley says. “That’s why it’s important to get back out there. It’s a game of odds. The more men you meet, the better your chances of finding one you actually love.”

“Oh, now that’s romantic.” I kiss Emma’s head. “So who is this guy, Herbert? And who names their kid Herbert, anyway?”

“Apparently rich people,” Jay says. “His father has over thirty patents. They have houses on each coast, along with a private island in the Caribbean. Herbert’s an only child.”

“He’s not going to be interested in someone like me. I’m a schoolteacher. I live in Pilsen, for God’s sake.”

Shelley waves me off. “That’s just temporary. Jay told him all about the delayed inheritance.”

My mouth drops. “What?” I turn to Jay. “Why would you do that?”

“You want him to know you’re in his league, don’t you?”

An uneasy feeling comes over me. Is this how I used to be? Did I judge people on where they lived, or how much money they made? As much as I hate to admit it, I think I did. Wasn’t
What do you do for a living?
one of the first questions I’d ask when meeting someone new? Was it just coincidence that all of the friends Andrew and I hung out with were wealthy and fit and attractive? I shudder. No wonder my mother forced me to shift lanes, away from that superficial, fast-paced freeway I was barreling
down. The lane I’m in now may be slower, and the scenery not nearly as glamorous, but for the first time in years I’m enjoying the ride.

“If he wouldn’t be comfortable dating the woman I am now, I don’t want to meet him.”

Shelley shakes her head. “Now
you’re
being judgmental. Lighten up. It’s just one night. I’m thinking next Saturday—”

Lucky for me, my cell phone interrupts further plotting. I peek at the caller ID.

“I’m going to take this. It’s Johnny.”

Jay takes Emma from me and Shelley moves to the sink to refill the teapot.

“Hello, John,” I say into the phone. “How’s Zoë?”

“Hi, Brett. I’ve got great news. I think this revolving door is finally going to stop. Zoë is coming home, this time for good.”

“Fantastic!” I say. I turn to Shelley and give her a thumbs-up. “You must be so relieved.”

“I am. And we’d love it if you could come visit us.”

I pause. “Really?”

“It would be easier if you’d come our way this time, if that’s okay. I’ll send you the airfare.”

“No, no, that’s no problem.”

“Listen, I insist. What do you say? Any chance you could get away?”

I bite my lip to keep my smile from hijacking my entire face. “I’ve got a couple of personal days I could use. Maybe sometime in March, once Zoë’s had time to settle in?”

“Sounds like a plan. We’re dying to meet you. Listen, I better get back to Zoë. Her doctor should be in any minute with the discharge papers. Check out the flights and let me know what you decide.”

I hang up the phone. My head feels light, as if I might faint.

“You okay?” Jay asks.

I nod. “I’m finally going to meet my dad! And my sister, too!”

Shelley rushes to me. “Oh, Brett! That’s wonderful.”

“Good going,” Jay says. “Now meet Herbert and make it a trifecta.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

T
he following Saturday, I take the forty-minute combined bus–train trip uptown to find a good bottle of wine for tonight’s dinner with Jay and Shelley … and Herbert. My stomach pitches every time I think of this damn date. I’m too old for first dates. And even when I was dating, blind dates were excruciating. They’re the lowest rung on the dating ladder. Blind dates are nothing more than a lesson in humility, a time when you actually get to see what other people think you deserve.

The arduous trip uptown is successful, and by one o’clock I leave Fox & Obel toting a 2007 bottle of Argentinean Malbec. Clutching my conspicuous brown-paper bag, I trudge back to the train station.

The station is abuzz at midday. I’m carried along with the crowd until we reach a bottleneck at the turnstile. That’s when I spot him. The Burberry man! The guy who spilled coffee on me. I haven’t seen him since Thanksgiving morning, running along
Lake Michigan with his black Lab. He’s through the turnstile and already making his way down the stairs to the station.

Time crawls as I maneuver past the crowd and through the metal turnstile. I work my way toward the stairs, zigzagging though a gaggle of tourists, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of Burberry. My heart pounds in my temples. Where did he go? I join the herd moving en masse down an escalator. Stepping to the left, I hustle past idle riders, all the while keeping an eye out for Burberry. I’m halfway down the escalator when I hear the rattle of a train. I watch the mob on the left side of the platform come alive. People pick up their bags, end their phone calls, and gravitate toward the approaching train.