The Life List (6 page)

“Wait!”

He stops midway to the door and looks at me over his shoulder.

My heart thrums in my chest. “I need to tell you something.”

He turns and squints at me, as if his normally transparent girlfriend is suddenly out of focus. Finally, he returns to the edge of the bed and kisses the top of my head like I’m a featherbrained five-year-old. “Stop this nonsense. What you need is to get your gorgeous ass out of bed. You’ve got a company to run.” He pats my cheek, and before I know it he’s disappeared from the room.

I hear the door click shut and bury my face in my pillow. What the hell am I going to do? I’m not the CEO of Bohlinger Cosmetics. I’m not even a menial advertising exec. I’m an unemployed failure, and I’m terrified of what my status-conscious boyfriend will think of me when he finds out.

I wasn’t surprised when Andrew told me he was from the wealthy Boston suburb of Duxbury. He had all the trappings of someone from old money—Italian shoes, Swiss watch, German car. But he was always evasive when I asked him about his childhood. He had one older sister. His father owned a small business. It frustrated me that he offered nothing more.

Three months and two bottles of wine later, Andrew finally spat out the truth. Red-faced and angry that I’d pressed him, he told me that his father was a mediocre cabinetmaker whose aspirations far exceeded his accomplishments. His mother worked behind the deli counter at the Duxbury Safeway.

Andrew wasn’t a rich kid. But he was desperate to be perceived as one.

I felt a surge of warmth and respect for Andrew I hadn’t felt before. He wasn’t an entitled child. He was a self-made man who’d had to struggle and work for his success. I kissed his cheek and told him I was proud of him, that his working-class roots made me love him more. Instead of smiling, he shot me a look of contempt. I knew then that Andrew found nothing admirable about his modest beginnings, and that growing up among the affluent had left a scar.

At once, a wave of panic grips me.

The rich-little-poor-kid has spent his entire adult life accumulating markers of success, hoping to compensate for his humble roots. And I wonder, now, if I’m just one of them.

F
rom the driveway, I stare up at Jay and Shelley’s picture-perfect Cape Cod. Manicured shrubs line the brick sidewalk, and orange and yellow mums spill from white concrete urns. An uncharacteristic wave of jealousy comes over me. The proverbial bed they’ve chosen to lie in is sumptuous and cozy, while mine is lumpy and teeming with bedbugs.

Through the brick walkway, I gaze into their lush backyard and catch sight of my nephew running with a rubber ball. He looks up when my car door slams.

“Auntie Bwett!” he calls to me.

I rush to the backyard and scoop up Trevor, and we twirl until
I can’t see straight. For the first time in three days, I can feel a genuine smile light my face.

“Who’s the boy who makes me happy?” I ask, tickling his belly.

Before he can answer, Shelley steps from the brick patio, her hair heaped atop her head in an accidental ponytail. She’s wearing what I suspect are a pair of Jay’s jeans, rolled up at the ankles.

“Hey, sis,” she calls. We were friends and college roommates before she married my brother, and we still get a silly kick out of calling each other sister.

“Hey, you’re home today.”

She traipses over to me in ragg wool slippers. “I quit my job.”

I stare at her. “No you didn’t.”

She bends down to pull a weed. “Jay and I decided it’d be best for the kids if one of us stayed home. With your mother’s inheritance we don’t need the extra money.”

Trevor wriggles from my grip and I lower him to his feet. “But you love your job. What about Jay? Why doesn’t he quit?”

She stands up, holding a dead dandelion in her hand. “I’m the mommy. Makes more sense.”

“So you’re done. Just like that?”

“Yup. Lucky for me, the woman who filled in during my maternity leave was still available.” She plucks dried fronds from the dandelion and tosses them at her feet. “They interviewed her yesterday and she started today. I didn’t even need to train her. It all worked out perfectly.”

I hear the catch in her voice, and I know it’s not as perfect as she wants me to think it is. Shelley was a speech pathologist at Saint Francis Hospital. She worked in their rehab unit, teaching adults with traumatic brain injuries not only how to talk again, but how to reason and negotiate and socialize. She used to boast that it wasn’t a job, it was her calling.

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t picture you as a stay-at-home mom.”

“It’ll be great. Almost all the women in this neighborhood are stay-at-home moms. They gather every morning at the park, have playdates, take Mommy–toddler yoga classes. You wouldn’t believe all the social stuff my kids missed out on when they were in day care.” Her eyes find Trevor, running in circles with his arms outstretched like an airplane. “Maybe this speech pathologist can finally teach her own kid how to talk.” She chuckles, but it hits the wrong chord. “Trevor still can’t say his—” She stops midthought and looks at her watch. “Wait, aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

“Nope. Catherine fired me.”

“Oh, my God! I’ll call the sitter.”

L
ucky for us, Megan Weatherby, the hypotenuse of our friendship triangle, has a hobby job as a realtor, with little ambition to actually sell houses. And lucky for Megan, she’s practically engaged to Jimmy Northrup, Chicago Bears defensive end, rendering real estate commission optional. So when Shelley and I call her on our way to The Bourgeois Pig Café, she’s already there, as if she’d anticipated this little crisis.

We’ve declared The Bourgeois Pig, in Lincoln Park, our favorite non-alcohol spot. It’s cozy and funky, filled with books and antiques and threadbare rugs. And best of all, there’s just enough background chatter to make us feel immune from eavesdroppers. Today the warm September sun beckons us outside, where Megan sits at a wrought-iron table wearing black leggings and a low-cut sweater that clings to the perfect mounds she insists are her real boobs. Her pale blue eyes are smudged with smoky gray shadow, and I’m guessing at least three coats of mascara. But with her blond hair captured in a silver barrette and a hint of pink blush on her ivory skin, she manages to maintain a smidgen of innocence, making her appear half call girl, half sorority girl—a look men seem to find irresistible.

Engrossed in her iPad, she doesn’t notice us as we near her table. I grab Shelley’s elbow and pull her to a stop.

“We can’t interrupt her. Look, she’s actually working.”

Shelley shakes her head. “She’s a poser.” She pulls me nearer and nods at the computer screen. “Check it out. PerezHilton.com.”

“Hey, y’all,” Megan says, grabbing her sunglasses from the chair just before Shelley sits on them. “Listen to this.” As we settle in beside her with our muffins and lattes, Megan launches into a riff about Angelina and Brad’s latest scuffle and Suri’s outlandish birthday party. Then she starts in on Jimmy. “Red Lobster. Seriously. I’m wearing an Hervé Léger bandage dress cut up to my ass, and he wants to take me to Red-fucking-Lobster!”

I believe everyone deserves that one outrageously bold friend who simultaneously mortifies and electrifies, the friend whose crude comments send us into fits of hysteria while we look over our shoulders to make sure nobody’s listening. Megan is that friend.

We met Meg two years ago through Shelley’s younger sister, Patti. Patti and Megan were roommates in Dallas, training to be flight attendants with American Airlines. But in the final week of training, Megan wasn’t able to reach a bag wedged in the back of an overhead bin. Her arms were decidedly too short for the job, an imperceptible flaw Megan is now obsessed with. Mortified, she fled to Chicago to become a realtor, and met Jimmy during her first sale.

“I can’t lie, I love those Red Lobster biscuits, but come on!”

Finally, Shelley interrupts. “Megan, I told you, Brett needs our help.”

Megan taps her iPad into submission and folds her hands on the table. “Okay, I’m all yours. What’s the problem, chica?”

When it’s not all about her, Megan can be an excellent listener. And judging by her folded hands and fixed gaze, today she’s giving me the floor. Taking full advantage, I spill every detail of my mother’s ploy to destroy my life.

“So that’s the deal. No income, no job. Just ten asinine goals I’m expected to complete in the next year.”

“That’s bullshit,” Megan says. “Tell the attorney to go fuck himself.” She plucks the list from my hand. “H
AVE A KID
. G
ET A DOG
. G
ET A HORSE.
” She lifts her Chanel sunglasses and gazes at me. “What the hell was your mother thinking? You’d up and marry Old MacDonald?”

I can’t help but smile. Megan can be self-centered, but at times like this when I need a laugh, I wouldn’t trade her for a dozen Mother Teresas.

“And Andrew’s about as far from Old MacDonald as you can get,” Shelley says, pouring another packet of sugar into her coffee. “What does he think of all this? Is he prepared to step up? Give you babies?”

“Buy you a horse?” Megan adds, erupting in high-pitched giggles.

“He is,” I say, pretending to examine my spoon. “I’m sure he is.”

Megan’s eyes dance. “I’m sorry. I just don’t see how you’re going to manage a horse in the middle of downtown Chicago. Does your building allow pets?”

“You’re hilarious, Meg.” I rub my temples. “I’m beginning to think my mom was out of her mind. What fourteen-year-old doesn’t want a horse? What little girl doesn’t want to be a schoolteacher and have babies and a dog and a beautiful house?”

Shelley wiggles her outstretched fingers. “Let’s see that list again.” I pass it to her, and she mumbles as she peruses it. “S
TAY FRIENDS WITH
C
ARRIE
N
EWSOME
,
FALL IN LOVE
,
HAVE A RELATIONSHIP WITH MY DAD.
” She looks up. “These are a cinch.”

I narrow my eyes. “My father’s dead, Shelley.”

“She obviously wants you to make peace with him. You know, visit his grave site, plant some flowers. And look, you’ve already
accomplished number seventeen, fall in love. You’re in love with Andrew, right?”

I nod, though for some reason my insides freeze up. I can’t remember the last time we actually spoke the words
I love you
. But that’s perfectly natural. After four years, it’s implied.

“Then go to Mr. Midar’s office and tell him. And tonight, look up this Carrie Newsome chick on Facebook. Send a few messages. Reconnect. Bingo! Another score.”

My breath catches. I haven’t spoken to Carrie since she left my house, hurt and humiliated, nearly nineteen years ago. “What about number twelve, help poor people? That’s not so hard. I’ll donate to Unicef or something.” I look to my friends for reassurance. “Don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Megan says. “You’ll finish quicker than a horny frat boy.”

“But that damn baby,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And the live performance and the teaching job. I swore I’d never again set foot on a stage or in a classroom.”

Megan grips her wrist and pulls, an annoying habit she thinks will lengthen her arms. “Forget about a teaching job. Just sub for a few days, maybe a week or two. You get through it, and voilà! That one’s in the bag.”

I mull it over. “A substitute teacher? My mom never said I had to have my own classroom.” A slow smile makes its way across my face. I lift my latte. “Here’s to you, girls. On Monday afternoon, martinis are on me. By then I’ll have an envelope or two from Mr. Midar.”

CHAPTER FIVE

I
stop at the florist Monday morning and pick up a bouquet of wildflowers before heading straight to Mr. Midar’s office. I figure I’ll treat myself each time I accomplish one of
that girl’s
life goals. On impulse, I pick up a bouquet for Midar, too.

As the elevator rises to the thirty-second floor, a mixture of anticipation and excitement bubbles up inside me. I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him what I’ve accomplished. But when I burst into the swanky office and stride up to Claire’s desk, she looks at me as if I’m insane.

“You want to see him now? Absolutely not. He’s working on a huge case.”

As I turn to leave, Midar shoots from his office like a jack-rabbit from its hole. He searches the waiting room and breaks into an adorable grin when he spots me. “Ms. Bohlinger! I thought I heard your voice! Come in.”

Claire looks on with her mouth agape as Mr. Midar waves me into his office. I hand him the wildflowers as I pass in front of him.

“For me?”

“I’m feeling generous.”

He chuckles. “Thank you. Decided not to splurge on a vase, though, huh?”

I fight back a smile. “You’re on your own. I’m unemployed, as you probably know.”

He searches the office until he lands on a ceramic urn of silk flowers. “Yeah, that’s a bummer about the job. Your mother plays hardball.” He yanks out the artificial flowers and tosses them into his wastebasket. “Gotta get some water. Be right back.”