The Life List (8 page)

That was all she needed to hear. She’d either beg me to tell it on the spot or, more often than not, invite me to dinner later. Once our wine was poured, she’d lean in and tap my arm. “Your story, darling. Please, I’ve been waiting all day.”

I’d embellish the tale, using accents and dialects for effect. Even now I can hear the lilt of her laughter, see her dab tears from the corners of her eyes …

I catch myself smiling, and realize that, for the first time since her death, her memory makes me happy, not sad.

And that’s just the way she’d want it, the woman who loved to laugh.

T
he night before my performance I lie awake, restless and edgy. A slice of streetlight finds its way through the wooden blinds and lands on Andrew’s rib cage. Propping myself on one elbow, I gaze at him. His chest heaves in perfect synchronicity with the little popping noise that escapes his lips each time he exhales. It takes every bit of strength in me not to run my hand over the buttery smoothness of his skin. His hands are crossed over his flat stomach and his face is serene, not unlike my mother’s manufactured death pose.

“Andrew,” I whisper. “I’m so scared.”

His inert body invites me to continue, or so it seems. “I’m going to perform at a comedy club tomorrow night. I want so badly to tell you, so you can be there with me, or wish me luck. You used to be so good at making me feel safe. Remember how you stayed on the line with me the entire night before my presentation in Milan, just so you’d be there, next to my pillow, in case I woke up?” My voice catches. “But if I told you about this comedy act, I’d have to tell you about this ludicrous list Mother wants me
to complete, and I can’t do that.” I lift my head up to the ceiling and squeeze shut the tears in my eyes. “My life list is so different than yours would be.” I start to say,
I love you
, but the phrase gets stuck in my throat. I mouth the words instead.

He stirs and my heart misses a beat. Oh, God, what if he saw me? I sigh. What if he did? Would it really be so bad if the man I live with, the man I share a bed with, knows I love him? I shut my eyes and the answer comes to me full force. Yes it would be. Because I’m not sure he’d be able to say it back.

I plop against the pillow and stare at the ceiling vents. Andrew loves my success and my status, but that’s vanished. Does he truly love
me
? Does he even know me—the real me?

I cross an arm over my forehead. It’s not his fault. My mother was right. I’ve kept my true self hidden. I’ve abandoned my dreams and morphed into exactly the kind of woman Andrew wants me to be—unconventional, undemanding, and unencumbered.

I glance over at my sleeping boyfriend. Why have I given up on the life I once wanted? Is that little girl still rambling around inside me, feeling unworthy? Is my mother right? Have I forsaken my own dreams in a desperate attempt to win Andrew’s approval—the approval I never received from my father? No, that’s ridiculous. I decided years ago my father’s approval meant nothing to me. So why haven’t I fought for my dreams? Because Andrew had different aspirations, and I chose to follow his? No, that’s just the bighearted, self-sacrificing version of me I like to imagine. As much as I hate to admit it, there’s something else, something much less noble …

I’m afraid. As weak and gutless as it may sound, I don’t want to be alone. Leaving Andrew would be a huge gamble at this stage of my life. Sure, I might meet someone else, but at thirty-four, starting over seems too speculative, like transferring my life savings from a steady money-market account to a risky hedge fund.
True, the gains could be enormous, but the loss could wipe me out entirely. All that I’ve worked for could vanish in a flash, and I could end up with nothing.

At half past two, I finally pull myself from bed and lumber downstairs to the sofa. From the coffee table my cell phone flashes. I pick it up and read a text message, sent at eleven fifty.
Relax. You’re going to be great. Get some sleep now
.

It’s from Brad.

A slow smile crosses my face. I crawl under the chenille blanket and snuggle up to the sofa pillow. As if I’d just been kissed on the forehead and given a glass of warm milk, my heart slows and I feel safe again.

The way Andrew used to make me feel.

T
he size of a ballroom, Third Coast Comedy hosts a raucous, standing-room-only crowd tonight. Round tables fill the main floor, positioned before a wooden stage rising two feet high. Against the back wall, people gather three-deep at the bar, craning their necks to see the act. What’s up with all these people on a Monday night? Don’t they have jobs, either? From across the table, I grip Brad’s arm, shouting to be heard over the roar of the audience.

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this! Couldn’t you have found some little hole in the wall?”

“Seven minutes and you’ll have goal eighteen behind you,” he hollers back to me. “Then you can move on to the other nine.”

“Oh, like that’s an incentive! Check this one off so I can get my horse and make some sort of peace with my dead asshole of a father?”

“Sorry.” He points to his ear. “I can’t hear you.”

I gulp my martini and turn to my friends. “You look cute tonight,” Shelley shouts over the din.

“Thanks.” I look down at my T-shirt. Across the front it reads
NEVER TRUST A PREACHER WITH A BONER
.

I hear another bout of laughter and turn my attention to the stage. Just my luck, I have to follow the crowd favorite, a lanky redhead who’s on a riff about bimbos and boobs. I watch a chubby guy at the front table with a beer and three shots lined up in front of him. He whistles and whoops and pumps his fist in the air.

The master of ceremonies jumps onto the stage and grabs the microphone. “Let’s give it up for Steve Pinckney.” The crowd goes wild.

My heart pounds and I suck in a giant breath.

“Good luck, sis,” Shelley shouts.

“Make me laugh, chica,” Megan adds.

Brad squeezes my arm. “Liz would be proud of you.” This makes my chest ache. From the corner of my eye I spot Bill, the manager, waving me to the stage.

Time folds in on itself. I creep toward the stage like an inmate heading to the electric chair.

“Next we have Brett—” The MC pauses for the ruckus to die down. “Our next guest is first-timer Brett Bohlinger. Let’s give him a hand.”

I climb the steps to the stage. My legs shake so violently I fear they’ll buckle beneath me. Somehow I make it to the microphone, and once there grab hold of the metal stand with both hands to steady me. A bright white spotlight blinds me and I squint into the crowd. Acres of faces stare up at me expectantly. I’m supposed to make a joke now, aren’t I? What was it? Help me, God! No, help me,
Mom
! After all, you’re the one who put me up to this crazy stunt. I close my eyes. As if we were sitting at her dining room table, I imagine her voice.
Your story, darling. Please, I’ve been waiting all day
. I take a deep breath and dive into the shark-infested waters of Third Coast Comedy.

“Hello everyone.” My tremulous voice is squelched by an obnoxious
screech from the microphone. The drunk at the front table groans and covers his ears. I snatch the mike from its cradle. “Sorry,” I say. “It’s been awhile since I’ve been on stage. I didn’t realize I’d be heckled by the microphone.” I chuckle nervously and sneak a peek at my friends. Megan has a counterfeit grin on her face. Shelley records me on her iPhone, and Brad’s knee bobs like he’s got palsy.

“Um, you-you probably expected a guy when you heard the name Brett. I get that all the time. It’s not living—I mean, it’s not easy living with a boy’s name. You wouldn’t believe how mean kids can be. I’d run home from school crying after being teased, and I’d beg my brother, Tiffany, to beat them up.”

I shade my eyes and gaze out at the crowd, waiting for the laughter. But all I hear is a little spatter of high-pitched giggling from Megan. “That’s right,” I say. “My brother,
Tiffany
.”

“You’re not funny,” the drunk yells out in a singsong voice.

I gasp, as if I’d been kicked in the gut. “And, uh, would you believe all that teasing and tormenting about my name occurred at a Catholic school? H-how many of you are the product of a Catholic school?”

A small portion of the crowd claps, and I take that for encouragement. “The-the nuns at my school were so strict, recess at Saint Mary’s was the bathroom break we got after lunch.”

Brad, Megan, and Shelley laugh especially loudly at this one. But the rest of the crowd sits watching me, some smiling politely, others checking their watches or cell phones.

“You forgot the punch line,” someone hollers.

I think I’m going to vomit—or worse yet, break into tears. I glance at the digital clock positioned at the foot of the stage. Only two minutes, four seconds have passed. Jesus, I’ve got five more minutes up here! What’s next? Oh, God! I don’t remember a single joke. Horrified, I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and reach into my back pocket for the last resort.

“Aw, Jesus, note cards!” a voice shouts from the back. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

My lip quivers. “Back at Saint Mary’s …”

The crowd moans. “Enough with the Catholic jokes!” someone shouts.

I can barely hold on to my note cards, my hands shake so violently. “Not only was it a Catholic school, but it was an all-girls school too. Kind of a two-for-one torture chamber.”

The crowd boos. My eyes tear up and I fumble through the cards. Oh, Jesus, help me! People begin talking aloud now, no longer disguising their boredom. Others head to the bar or to the restroom. I see Shelley lower her phone, no longer capturing this fiasco on film. The drunk at the front table leans back in his chair, a longneck bottle clenched in his chubby fist.

“Next!” he shouts, lifting his arm and pointing to the stage, beckoning the next act.

Screw this! I’m outta here! I spin around, ready to bolt. But standing at the bottom of the stage steps, I see Brad.

“Shake it off, B.B.,” he hollers over the noise. “Keep going.”

I love him so much at this moment that I want to leap off the stage and throw my arms around him. I also want to choke him. He—and my mother—are the ones who forced me to do this.

“You can do it. You’re almost there.”

Fighting every impulse to run for my life, I turn back to the audience—the abusive barbarians who think it’s intermission time.

“The nuns … they did everything in their power to keep us girls pure of thought.” Nobody listens, not even my support team. Megan is talking to some guy at next table, and Shelley is sending a text. Nobody except Brad. I glance over at him and he nods.

“We had this, this big crucifix in our classroom. Sister Rose—” I rub my aching throat. “Sister Rose actually put a pair of pants over Jesus’s loincloth.”

“Twenty more seconds, B.B.,” he shouts.

“My friend Kasey … won’t even change her baby boy’s diapers without closing her eyes.”

“Sit down, lady,” someone shouts. “You’re killing us.”

Brad begins a countdown. “Seven, six, five …”

I hear “zero” and slam the mike in its cradle. Brad whoops. When I leap from the stage, he grabs me in a hug. But I’m sobbing now. I break free and I race for the exit.

The night air is crisp and burns when I suck it in. Through tears I stagger across the parking lot until I find my car. I drop my arms on the rooftop and bury my head.

A moment later I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Don’t cry, B.B. You did it. It’s over now.” Brad rubs circles on my racking back.

“I sucked!” I say, pounding my fist on the roof. I spin around and face him. “I told you I wasn’t funny.”

He pulls me into his arms. I don’t resist.

“Damn my mother,” I say against his wool coat.

Silently, he rocks me.

“Why did she make me do this? I was a laughingstock—no, not a laughingstock … that would imply someone actually laughed.”

He steps back and removes a pale pink envelope from his pocket. “Shall we let her defend herself?”

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “You’re giving me the letter?”

He smiles and dabs a tear from my cheek. “I’m thinking you earned it, big time.”

We get in my car and I crank the heat. In the passenger seat beside me, Brad slides a finger beneath the seal of envelope number eighteen and begins to read.

“ ‘My Dearest Girl,

“ ‘You’re upset because you failed? Nonsense.’ ”

“What?” I say. “She knew I’d—”

Brad doesn’t let me finish. He just keeps reading. “ ‘At what point did you decide you must be perfect? For the life of me, I can’t pinpoint it. But somewhere along the road, you lost your chutzpah. That happy little girl who loved to tell stories and sing and dance became anxious and unsure.’ ”

Pressure builds behind my eyes.
It wasn’t you who silenced me, Mother
.

“ ‘But tonight you were alive, my little performer, just as you used to be, and for that I’m so very pleased. I believe such passion—even passion born of fear and anxiety—is far better than a life of banality.

“ ‘Let tonight’s tale serve as a reminder of your spunk, your fortitude, your bravery. When you’re fearful, grab hold of this courage and shake it loose, because now you know it’s yours, just as I’ve known all along.

“ ‘Eleanor Roosevelt once said, “Do something every day that scares you.” Continue to push yourself to do those things that scare you, darling. Take those risks and see where you land, for they are the very things that make this journey worthwhile.’ ” He pauses for a moment. “ ‘With all my love and pride, Mom.’ ”

I take the letter and re-read it, running my fingers over my mom’s words. Just what is it that she’s urging me to do? I think of Andrew, and the teaching job, and Carrie. I shudder. But as scary as those things are, there’s one thing that terrifies me more. I push it from my thoughts. It’s true, I failed tonight and lived through it, but I’m not ready for a repeat performance.

CHAPTER SEVEN