The Life List (29 page)

There he is! He’s standing on the platform waiting to board the northbound train. He’s holding his cell phone at his ear, smiling. My heart does a little cartwheel. Maybe I can catch this train. Who cares that it’s going in the opposite direction? I can finally meet this man!

“Excuse me,” I say to the girl in front of me. She’s listening to her iPod and can’t hear me. I tap her shoulder and she curses as I press past her. Squeezing against and around lollygaggers, I’m almost down the escalator when the doors to the train open. Passengers exit, and for a moment I’ve lost Burberry. A ripple of panic spreads over me. But then I find him. He’s taller than most of the others, and his wavy hair is a very dark brown. He stands aside while an older woman boards. I dash down the final steps. The last passengers board the train. My feet hit the concrete and skitter down the narrow platform toward Burberry’s compartment.

I hear the double bells and the recorded voice announce, “Doors closing.” I run faster, nearly full out.

Just as I reach the door, it slams shut. I slap the Plexiglas window.

“Wait!” I say aloud.

The train shoots off, and from the window I swear I see Burberry. I think he’s watching me. Yes, he is! He lifts his hand and waves.

I wave back, wondering whether we’re waving hello or good-bye.

T
houghts of this mystery man trail me as I drive to Shelley and Jay’s. What if I arrive and discover the gorgeous man in the Burberry coat is none other than Herbert Moyer? In a couple of weeks I’m meeting my father and sister—so anything is possible! I laugh at my foolishness, but my stomach knots the moment I pull into Jay and Shelley’s driveway. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a date. What will we talk about? What if he’s disappointed?

I make my way up the walk, my heart pounding beneath my black trench coat. Why did I agree to this? But of course I know the answer. I agreed to meet Herbert because in the next six months I’m required to fall in love and have babies. I blow out a huff of frustration and ring the bell.

“Anyone home?” I call, opening the door.

“Come in.” Jay steps into the foyer and gives me a once-over. “Wow! If you weren’t my sister, I’d say you looked hot.”

I’m wearing a black skirt and tights, with a clingy sweater and my cruel black pumps. I kiss his cheek and whisper, “All this effort for a guy named Herbert. Dinner better be good.”

I hear footsteps approach. When I spin around, an absolute god appears in the foyer.

“Dr. Moyer,” Jay says. “Meet my sister, Brett.”

He moves toward me with his hand outstretched. It’s large and soft and manly, all at once. His clear blue eyes meet mine as we shake hands. All thoughts of the Burberry man vanish.

“Hello, Brett.” He smiles and his chiseled features become warm and friendly.

“Hi, Herbert.” I stare up at him stupidly. So this is the kind of guy my brother thinks I deserve? I’m most definitely flattered.

D
r. Moyer’s manners are as impeccable as his Armani sports coat. I watch as he swirls his after-dinner brandy, the stem of the crystal snifter casually planted between his index and middle fingers. Refined, white bread. Not a grain of chaff.

Miles from their conversation about ancient Greece, I sip my brandy, thinking how completely incongruent his name is with that gorgeous exterior.

“Herbert,” I mumble.

Three pairs of eyes turn to me.

With the permission of two glasses of wine and a brandy, I bluntly ask, “Where did you get that name? Herbert?”

Across the table, my brother’s eyes go wide in disbelief. Shelley pretends to read the label on the brandy bottle. But Herbert just laughs.

“It’s familial,” he says. “I was named after my grandfather Moyer. I tried using nicknames from time to time, but Herb seemed too botanical, and Bert, well, that wasn’t an option. You see, my best friend all through school was a guy named Ernest Walker, and we weren’t exactly the coolest sodas in the fridge. You can only imagine the Bert and Ernie jokes we would have endured had I insisted on Bert.”

I laugh. What do you know? Gorgeous
and
funny.

“And when you used your full names, the idiots never made the
Sesame Street
connection?” Jay asks.

“Nope.” He leans into the table and holds up his index finger, as if he’s standing at a lectern. “Though technically they were morons, not idiots. You see, an idiot is a dumb person whose mental
age is less than three years, while a moron is a dumb person whose mental age is between seven and twelve.”

The three of us stare at him, speechless. Finally, Jay laughs and slaps his back. “Get a life, you repugnant pedant!” He shakes his head and reaches for the brandy bottle. “Another drink?”

I
t’s after midnight when we say good-bye to Jay and Shelley. Herbert walks me to my car. We stand under a star-strewn sky, and I plant my hands in my coat pockets.

“That was fun,” I say.

“It was. I’d love to see you again. Are you free at all next week?”

I wait for my heart to leap from my chest, but it just keeps beating its regular steady rhythm. “I’m free Wednesday night.”

“Could I take you to dinner, say, sevenish?”

“Sounds great.”

He leans over and pecks me on the cheek, then opens my car door. “I’ll call you Monday to confirm. Drive safely.”

I drive away, wondering what my mom would think of Herbert. Would he be the kind of man she would choose for my future husband and the father of my children? I think so. Did she play a part in setting me up with him? I’m guessing she might have.

I look both ways at an intersection and see it on my passenger seat. The bottle of Malbec I journeyed uptown for. I forgot to take it in. What a pointless trip—except for that glimpse of my Burberry man.

T
he next three weeks dissolve as quickly as the last patches of snow. As planned, Herbert and I have dinner Wednesday night, which leads to dozens of phone calls and six additional dates, each one a bit more interesting than the one before. He has so
many qualities I genuinely love, like when I’m telling a funny story and the corners of his lips curl into a smile before I even reach the punch line. Or the way he makes sure I’m his final telephone call, because he wants me to be the last person he talks to before he drifts off to sleep.

But other things—small, insignificant, quirky things—nearly derail me. Like the way he refers to himself as
Doctor
Moyer to everyone he meets, as if the waitress or the maître d’ actually needs to know his title. And when they assume he’s a medical doctor rather than a man with a doctoral degree in history, he doesn’t correct them.

But wasn’t I the one who told Megan and Shelley that life isn’t perfect? That we’re all just getting through this journey as best we can, and we need to compromise? And it’s hardly fair to call Herbert a compromise. In every objective way, he’s a catch-and-a-half.

Yesterday we celebrated Chicago’s favorite and most raucous holiday, Saint Patrick’s Day. But rather than swilling green beer with a mob of friends alongside the emerald-dyed river, like Andrew and I used to do, Herbert served me Irish fondue by candlelight. It felt very grown-up and dignified. He chose the movie
Once
to watch afterward, a romantic musical set in Dublin. I lay cuddled in his arms on the sofa, marveling at his thoughtfulness. Later, we stood on his deck and gazed out at a moonlit Lake Michigan. A breeze blew in and he wrapped me in his coat. Holding me snug against his chest, he pointed out the constellations.

“Most people refer to the Big Dipper as a constellation, but it is actually an asterism. The stars of the dipper are part of the larger constellation Ursa Major.”

“Huh,” I said, studying the star-strewn heavens. “Just think, next Thursday I’ll be up in that very sky, on my way to Seattle.”

“I’ll miss you,” he said, brushing his cheek against my hair. “I’m growing quite fond of you, you know.”

A snicker burst from my chest before I had time to tamp it down. “C’mon Herbert, growing quite fond? Who uses terms like,
growing quite fond
?”

He stared at me, and I thought I’d gone too far. But then his face flooded with humor and he offered up his dazzling white grin. “All right, smarty-pants, so I’m not exactly hip. Welcome to the world of nerd dating.”

I smiled. “Nerd dating?”

“That’s right. In case you haven’t heard, we nerds happen to be the best-kept secret in the dating world. We’re smart, successful, we never cheat. Hell, we’re just happy someone actually likes us.” He turned his gaze to the lake. “And we make excellent marriage material.”

For four years I couldn’t get Andrew to utter the
M
word. And there was Herbert, hinting at it after only six dates.

I pressed closer to him. “I think I’m going to like nerd dating,” I said. And I meant it.

T
he bright morning rays stream through my office window, and I hum while I pack my satchel for the day ahead. I’m searching for a watercolor paint set for my new kindergartner when the telephone rings. It’s Garrett.

“I’m glad I caught you before you left the office. Peter had another violent outburst last night. Autumn couldn’t contain him. Luckily, the neighbors heard the ruckus and came to help. I’d hate to think what Peter might have done.”

“Oh, no! Poor Autumn.” I rub my arms, imagining the horrible scene.

“I just got off the phone with the folks at New Pathways. They’ve agreed to open a spot for him. He’ll start later this week, but as of today there will be no more homebound visits.”

A surprising melancholy comes over me. Against all odds, I
was still hoping for a happy ending—an ending where Peter made progress and was able to return to his old school, the one with ordinary kids who don’t need therapy two times a day.

“But I never even got to say good-bye.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him for you.”

“And remind him how smart he is, tell him I wish him luck.”

“Absolutely.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone is gentle. “You learn with these cases that you can’t save them all. It’s a tough lesson, especially for someone like you, who’s young and idealistic. I was the same way when I first started my practice.”

“It feels like I’m deserting him,” I say. “Maybe if I’d had more time …”

“No,” he says firmly. “I’m sorry, Brett, I’m not going to let you second-guess yourself. You did everything you could to help Peter, and then some. And you’ve been a tremendous help to me. I’ve really enjoyed working with you.”

“I liked working with you, too.” My voice breaks. I’m shocked at how choked up I am, knowing I’m losing my connection to this man I’ve come to love and trust. I clear my throat. “I want to thank you. You were really there for me, not just with Peter, but with everything I was going through.”

“It was a pleasure. Truly.” He hesitates a moment, and when he speaks his tone is lighter. “You do realize, don’t you, that you still owe me a drink?”

The question catches me off-guard. It’s been weeks since we last mentioned that drink. I’ve come a long way since those bleak days last January when I was frantic to find a man and fall in love. Now I’m dating, arguably, the most eligible man in Chicago. Still, a part of me is curious about Dr. Taylor. I rub my temples.

“Um, yeah, sure.”

“Everything okay?” Garret asks. “You seem hesitant.”

I blow out a stream of air. Hell, I’ve told the man everything
else, I may as well be upfront now. “I’d love to meet you for a drink. It’s just that I started seeing someone recently …”

“Not a problem,” Garrett says. He’s so gracious that I feel silly now. He probably had no romantic intentions whatsoever, and thinks I’m full of myself for assuming he did. “I hope things work out for you, Brett.”

“Yeah, well, thanks.”

“Listen, I’ll let you go. Let’s keep in touch.”

“Yes, let’s,” I say, knowing that we won’t.

I hang up from the last conversation I’ll have with Dr. Taylor. Like the final chapter of a book, it’s bittersweet. There will be no more help from Garrett, and certainly no romance. And deep inside I realize it’s probably for the best. I’ve got Herbert now, and a new family I’m about to meet. Maybe Dr. Taylor really was a character in my mother’s play. He entered at a critical point, just when I needed him, and exited stage right, exactly as the script intended.

I find the paint set I was searching for and grab my coat. I turn out the lights and close the door, making sure to lock it behind me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I
watch the city of Seattle take shape from the window of the 757. It’s a cloudy afternoon, but once we begin our descent, the ribbons of Lake Washington appear. It’s beautiful, this jigsaw piece of land surrounded by threads of blue water. I search the cityscape and nearly cry out when I spy the Space Needle. The plane descends and miniature blocks of houses emerge. I stare, mesmerized, knowing somewhere down there, in one of those little blocks of concrete and wood, lives a man and his daughter, my father and my half sister.