The Life List (30 page)

Along with the other passengers, I traipse to baggage claim, where hordes of people await their travelers. I search out the faces. Some seem impatient, holding up hand-printed signs with names on them. Others seem excited, bouncing on the balls of their feet while seeking out the passengers. One by one, everyone around me seems to claim their friends and relatives. But I stand alone, sweaty and nauseous.

I scan the crowd for a dark-haired man with a twelve-year-old girl.
Where are you, Johnny and Zoë?
Did they forget I was coming today? Could Zoë have fallen ill again? I pull my cell phone from my purse. I’m checking for messages when I hear my name.

“Brett?”

I spin around. In front of me stands a tall, silver-haired man. He’s clean-shaven and borderline preppy. His eyes find mine, and when he smiles I see the man from the video, the man he was thirty-four years ago. I hide my trembling chin and nod.

As if he, too, doesn’t trust his voice, he opens his arms to me. I step to him, closing my eyes and breathing in the scent of his leather coat. I let my head fall against the cool leather and he rocks me back and forth. For the first time, I know what it feels like to be held by my father.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, finally pulling away and holding me at arm’s length. “You look just like your mother.”

“But I got my height from you, I see.”

“Your eyes, too.” He takes my face in his hands and stares into it. “My God, I’m glad you found me.”

Joy floods my soul. “Me too.”

He tosses my carry-on bag over his shoulder and drapes his other arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get your suitcase, then we’ll pick Zoë up from school. She’s nearly beside herself with excitement.”

W
e talk nonstop on our way to Franklin L. Nelson Center, Zoë’s private school. Every question he’d failed to ask during our phone conversations he asks now. I can’t stop grinning. My father is actually interested in me, and what’s more, there’s an ease and familiarity between us that I hadn’t even dared hope for. But when he veers down the tree-lined entrance to the school, the ugly jealous monster inside me springs to life again. As excited as I am to
meet Zoë, I want more time with Johnny. Alone. When she climbs into the car, I’ll be the outsider once again, a role I’ve grown weary of.

Nelson Center is a sprawling, one-story building, beautifully landscaped and tended. Tuition here must cost a fortune.

“School isn’t over for another ten minutes, but Zoë wanted her classmates to meet her new sister. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

He holds open one of the steel double doors and I pass through to a large vestibule. On a wooden bench, a little girl wearing a navy uniform sits swinging her legs in front of her. She jumps to her feet when she sees me, but then hesitates. When John moves through the door, she lets out a whoop.

“Daddy!” Her round face is utterly gleeful. She lumbers full force toward us and locks her pudgy arms around my hips. I hug her, but she only comes to my rib cage. John looks on, grinning.

“Okay, Zoë,” he says, tapping the top of her head. “Better let your sister breathe.”

She finally loosens her grip on me. “You my sister,” she declares.

I squat down next to her and gaze into her smooth, alabaster face. How could I have ever resented this angel? Her shiny hair is dark, like her dad’s and mine. But unlike our brown eyes, hers are green and shrouded with extra folds of skin.

“Yes, I am. We’re sisters, you and I.”

She smiles at me and the shiny, sea-green marbles become half-moon slits. Her thick pink tongue peeks out from between a vast overbite. I instantly love this girl who is my sister … this girl who has Down syndrome.

With one hand in John’s and the other in mine, she pulls us down the hall toward her classroom. Along the way, John points out some of the special facilities at the school. One hallway is designed as a city street. Storefronts line both sides of the brick
street, with traffic lights and crossing signals at each intersection.

“This area teaches the kids how to cross streets safely, how to interact with store clerks, how to figure money when purchasing items, and so forth.”

When we finally reach Zoë’s classroom, we step into a frenzy of activity as Miss Cindy, Zoë’s bright-eyed teacher, and her assistant, Mr. Kopec, work to get their eight mentally challenged students ready for dismissal. Mr. Kopec zips the coat of a boy behind a walker. “Harvey, you need to keep your coat zipped, ya hear? It’s cold out there today.”

“Who’s missing a scarf?” Miss Cindy calls from the coatroom, holding up a red snake of wool.

“Look,” Zoë announces in her raspy voice. “This my sister.” With that, her face erupts in joy, and she rubs her palms together like she’s making fire. Gripping my hand, she leads me around the room, pointing to pictures on the wall, showing me the fish tank, telling me the names of her friends. In all my life, I’ve never felt more worshiped.

Before we leave, John drives us around the thirty-acre Nelson complex. Zoë points to the playground.

“Her favorite place,” John says, reaching behind him to squeeze Zoë’s leg. “And there’s the greenhouse, where the kids learn to tend plants.”

We cruise past clay tennis courts and a newly paved asphalt track. Passing a red barn, I spot a wooden sign:
THERAPEUTIC HORSEBACK RIDING PROGRAM
.

“What’s that?”

“That was the equine center. The kids learned to ride horses. The original intent was to help with their balance and coordination, but you’d be amazed what it did for their self-confidence.”

“Pluto!” Zoë cries from the backseat.

John smiles into his rearview mirror. “Yeah, you loved that
ol’ horse, Pluto.” He glances at me. “It was an expensive program. With budget cuts, they had to shut it down last fall.”

In my mind, a lightbulb flickers to life.

A
s promised on SeattleTravel.com, the drizzle hasn’t let up since I arrived. But that’s fine with me. I’m perfectly content to stay inside John and Zoë’s cozy brick ranch on Friday. Brightly colored rugs cover the oak floors, and wooden bookshelves span the walls. In every available space and cranny I find interesting paintings and artwork, all from places John visited when he was a traveling musician. Zoë was allowed to play hooky today, and the three of us sit on a Navajo rug playing Crazy Eights while obscure indie musicians seduce me on the stereo.

It’s six o’clock in the evening, and John decides it’s time to fix his famous eggplant Parmesan. Zoë and I follow him into the kitchen and make a salad.

“Okay, Zoë, now we shake it, just like this.” I shake the salad dressing carafe and hand it to her. “Your turn.”

“I make dressing,” she says, shaking the glass container with both hands. But suddenly, the plastic lid loosens. Ranch dressing explodes, raining down the cabinets and pooling onto the counter-top.

“I’m so sorry!” I cry. “I didn’t check the lid.” I grab a dishcloth, anxious to clean up the mess that I’ve created. But behind me, I hear laughter.

“Zoë, come take a look at yourself!”

I spin around and see John leading Zoë to the oven door, where she can see her reflection. Blobs of white dressing cling to her hair and dot her face. Zoë thinks it’s hilarious. She scoops a dab from her cheek and licks her fingers.

“Yummy yummy.”

John laughs and pretends to snack on a lock of her hair. She
squeals with delight. I watch this father–daughter scene, so unlike any in my memory, and work to etch it forever into my mind.

When we finally sit down to eat, John lifts his wineglass. “To my beautiful daughters,” he says. “I am a lucky man.”

Zoë lifts her tumbler of milk, and we all clink glasses.

After lighthearted dinner conversation, we loiter at the oak table, listening to tales of John’s early days after leaving Chicago. When he sees Zoë rubbing her eyes, he pushes back from the table.

“Let’s get you into your PJs, sleepy girl. It’s bedtime.”

“No. I stay with my sister.”

“Zoë?” I ask. “Can I help you get ready for bed tonight?”

Her eyes go wide and she slips from her chair, grabbing me by the hand. We’re nearly out of the kitchen when she glances back at her dad. “You stay. My sister help me.”

John chuckles. “Okay, Miss Bossy Pants.”

She leads me into her cotton-candy palace of lavenders and pinks. Tieback lace curtains frame the windows, and her small bed is a jungle of stuffed animals.

“I love your room,” I say, clicking on her bedside lamp.

She changes into purple Tinker Bell pajamas and I help her brush her teeth. Then she climbs into her twin bed and pats a place beside her. “You go sleep now.”

“Can I read you a story?”

“Libya!” she says. “Libya!”

I crouch down in front of her book nook and search the titles for a story about Libya, to no avail. Finally, I spot a story about a pig named Olivia.

“This one?” I ask, holding up the book.

She grins. “Libya!” I snuggle up beside her and lay my head on the pillow next to hers. She turns to me, smelling of peppermint toothpaste and vanilla shampoo, and kisses my cheek. “Read,” she commands, pointing to the book.

Midway through the story, her breathing slows and her eyes fall shut. Taking great care, I unbraid my arm from beneath her neck and douse the bedside lamp. The room glows pink from her Little Mermaid night-light.

“I love you, Zoë,” I whisper, bending down to kiss her cheek. “What a lesson you are to me.”

W
hen I return to the kitchen, the table is cleared and the dishwasher hums. I refill my wineglass and move to the living room, where John sits with his guitar perched like a toddler on his knee. He smiles when he sees me.

“Have a seat. Can I get you anything? More wine? A cup of coffee?”

I lift my glass. “All set.” I sit down on the chair next to his, admiring the dark glossy wood-and-ivory inlay of his guitar. “That’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. I love this old Gibson.” He plucks a few notes before ducking out from under the leather strap. “It’s what kept me sane during those times in life when the waters were rising faster than I could bail.” With the care of a lover, he places the instrument in its metal cradle. “Do you play?”

“I’m afraid that gene sailed right past me.”

He chuckles. “What were you like as a child, Brett?”

We settle back in our chairs and for the next two hours exchange questions and stories, tales and anecdotes, trying to fill in the missing pieces to a thirty-four-year puzzle.

“You remind me so much of your mother,” he says.

“That’s such a compliment. I miss her so much.”

His eyes are heavy, and he looks down at his hands. “Yeah, me too.”

“Did you ever try to keep in touch with her?”

His jaw twitches ever so slightly. As if it’s his talisman, he pulls
the guitar from its cradle and sets it on his knee. Keeping his eyes downcast, he picks at the strings, sending random, melancholy notes adrift. Finally he looks up at me.

“Charles Bohlinger was a piece of work.” He blows out a stream of air as if he’d been holding it for three decades. “I wanted to marry your mother. Leaving her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I loved her the way I’ve never loved another woman. Ever.”

I shake my head. “But you broke her heart, John. It was clear from her journal that she would have left Charles and followed you, but you didn’t want to settle down.”

He flinches. “That’s not exactly true. You see, when your dad found out—”

“Charles,” I say, interrupting him. “He was never a dad to me.”

John looks at me and nods. “When
Charles
found out your mother and I had fallen in love, he was livid. He forced her to make a decision, either him or me. She looked him square in the eyes and said she loved me.” He smiles, as if the memory is still sweet. “She marched out of the kitchen then. Before I could follow her, Charles grabbed me by the arm. He promised me that if Elizabeth left, she’d never see her boys again.”

“What? He couldn’t do that.”

“Remember, that was back in the seventies. Things were different then. He swore he’d testify that she was a slut, an unfit mother. I smoked my share of weed back then, and he threatened to paint me as the pothead boyfriend. It wasn’t hard to figure out whom the courts would side with. I was nothing but a liability to her.”

“God, that’s horrible.”

“Losing Joad and Jay would have killed her. In the end I lied, so she wouldn’t have to choose. I told her I didn’t want a permanent relationship.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear a bad dream. “That nearly did me in. But I knew your mother. If she lost her boys she’d never recover.

“We stood on the front porch. It was hotter than hell that afternoon. All the windows in the house were open. I was sure Charles was listening. But I didn’t care. I told your mother I loved her, that I’d always love her. But I just wasn’t the staying kind. I swear to God she saw through me. When she kissed me good-bye for the last time, she whispered, ‘You know where to find me.’ ”

I ache for the sad woman in the navy maxi coat, pulling her sons in the wagon. “She thought you’d come back for her.”

John nods, composing himself before continuing. “God, I can still see those eyes, green as the Irish hills and unwavering in their belief in me.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “But they divorced later. Couldn’t you have gone to her then?”

“I lost track of her. Once I left, I convinced myself I’d done the right thing. I tried my damnedest not to torture myself with what-ifs. For years this old guitar was about the only thing that brought me any pleasure.

“Fifteen years later I met Zoë’s mother. We were together eight years, though we never married.”

“Where is she now?”

“Melinda moved back to Aspen—that’s where her family lives. Motherhood wasn’t her thing.”

I want to know more, but don’t ask. I’m guessing a child with Down syndrome wasn’t her thing.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “for all your losses.”

He shakes his head. “I’m the last person who deserves sympathy. Life is good, as they say.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And only getting better.”