The Life List (9 page)

D
ressed in my favorite Marc Jacobs suit, I’m sipping a latte at The Bourgeois Pig when Megan arrives midmorning. “Not another crossword puzzle!” She plops her purple Dolce & Gabbana tote on the table and snatches the puzzle out from under me. “I finally realize why your mother gave you a fucking deadline. Have you done a goddamn thing since that comedy act last week? When she told you to go after your dreams, I don’t think she meant napping in the park.” She points to my suit. “You’ve haven’t even told Andrew yet!”

She tosses my newspaper aside and pulls the laptop from my satchel. “Today we’re going to find your old friend.”

“I can’t just contact Carrie out of the blue. I need to figure out a plan first.” I push the computer away and rub my temples. “I’m telling you, this list will ruin my life.”

Megan studies me with a furrowed brow. “You’re a strange
bird, Brett. I’ve got a feeling those goals might actually make you happy. It’s Andrew’s life you’re afraid of ruining, not yours.”

I’m taken aback by her candor and insight. “Maybe. But either way, I’m screwed. I’ll lose my boyfriend, and I still won’t be able to knock off these goals by next September.”

Ignoring my little rant, she slides back her chair. “I need caffeine. You get on Facebook while I get my fix.”

While Megan stands in line at the counter, I log on to Facebook. But instead of searching for Carrie, my fingers type
BRAD MIDAR
into the search bar. It’s a cinch to spot him, even in the one-square-inch profile picture. Staring at his photo, I catch myself smiling. It occurs to me to send him a friend request, but he might think that’s crossing a professional line—as if text messages and hugs don’t. And then I think of my own boundaries. What would Andrew think if he knew I was searching out a friendship with the attorney I’ve kept secret from him?

I grip two fistfuls of my hair. What’s wrong with me?

“Did you find her?” Megan says, coming up behind me with a macchiato and a scone. I slap shut the laptop. “Not yet.”

I wait until Megan is on the other side of the table before I open the computer again, this time typing
CARRIE NEWSOME
in the search bar.

With her chair scooted next to mine, we wade through several pages, and then I spot her. Sporting a Wisconsin sweatshirt, she’s remarkably unchanged. Still athletic looking, still wearing glasses, still smiling. Guilt takes hold of me. How could I have been so cruel?

“That’s her?” Megan asks. “No wonder you wanted to lose her. Don’t they sell tweezers in Wisconsin?”

“Stop it, Megan.” I stare at her photo through a teary haze. “I loved this girl.”

Growing up, Carrie and her parents lived two blocks away from us on Arthur Street. We were opposites, she the spunky tomboy, me the skinny girlie-girl. One afternoon when I was five years old, she sauntered past my house toting a black-and-white ball. When she saw me, a girl about her age, she recruited me to play soccer with her. I suggested we play House instead, but she wouldn’t hear of it. So we walked to the park and climbed the monkey bars and swung and giggled the rest of the afternoon. From that day on, we were inseparable—until years later, when I abandoned her.

“I have no right to expect a friendship from this woman. And what’s worse, I’m only doing it now because I have to.”

“Really?” She tugs her arm. “Because I’d say she has no right to expect a friendship from you.”

I shake my head. Megan would never understand that a person who looks like Carrie just might be out of our league.

“Jesus, Brett, what’s the big fucking deal?” In an instant, she’s hijacked the cursor and clicked
ADD FRIEND
.

I gasp. “I can’t believe you did that!”

“Way to go, chica!” She raises her coffee cup, but I don’t lift mine. At any moment now, Carrie Newsome will receive a cruel reminder of the once loved friend who betrayed her. I feel sick, but Megan’s already moving on. She rubs her hands together.

“Okay, we’re on a roll now. Let’s go to the pet store and find you a dog.”

“Forget it. Dogs smell bad. They mess up the house.” I sip my coffee. “At least that’s Andrew’s take.”

“What’s Andrew got to do with it?” She breaks off a corner of her scone. “Brett, I’m sorry, but do you really think Andrew’s part of your life plan? I mean, your mother basically told you he’s history. Are you willing to ignore her last wish?”

Megan has found my Achilles’ heel. I park my elbows on the table and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’ve got to tell Andrew
about this damn list. But he’ll go ballistic. He wants to buy a plane someday, not a horse! Kids aren’t part of his plan. He made that perfectly clear early on.”

“And that was okay with you?”

I look out the window, my mind stretching back to another time, a time when I was bold and fearless, and certain my dreams really would come true. But then it happened, as it must, and I learned that the world didn’t revolve around me.

“I convinced myself it was okay. Things were different back then. We traveled a lot … he’d join me on business trips. Our lives were so full it was hard to imagine having a child.”

“And now?”

She’s asking for the updated version of my life. The version where I eat alone most nights in front of the television and the last trip we took was to his sister’s wedding in Boston two years ago. “I’ve just lost my mother and my job. I can’t deal with more loss. Not yet.”

She dabs her mouth with the napkin, and I notice her eyelashes are spiked with tears. I grab her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to unload on you.”

Her face crumples. “I can’t go on like this.”

Oh. She’s not crying for me. She’s crying for herself. But I’m a fine one to talk. I’ve been so self-absorbed lately I make Megan look like a guidance counselor. I take her hand.

“More text messages on Jimmy’s phone?”

“Worse. They were having sex in our bed when I got home yesterday. Our goddamn bed! Thank God I was able to get the hell out before they saw me.”

“That jackass! Why would he bring her home, of all places? He knows you don’t keep a regular schedule.”

“He wants me to catch him. He doesn’t have the balls to break it off, so he’s hoping I will.” She tugs her left wrist and heaves a sigh. “It’s these damn arms. I’m deformed.”

“That’s ridiculous. You’re beautiful and you need to dump his ass.”

“I can’t. What would I do for money?”

“You’d start selling houses.”

She waves me off. “Phssh. I’m telling you, Brett, I must have been royalty in my past life, because I just can’t get used to this idea of working for a living.”

“Well, you can’t just sit there and take it. Maybe if you confront him—”

“No!” she says, nearly shouting. “I can’t confront him until I have another option.”

At first I don’t understand, but then it dawns on me. Megan wants a replacement before she gives up the original. She’s like a terrified child, hoping to find a new family to take her in before she becomes an orphan.

“You don’t need someone to take care of you. You’re a smart woman. You can make it on your own.” I hear my own words, and wonder if I’m speaking to Megan now, or to myself. I soften my tone. “I know it’s hard, Meggie, but you can do it.”

“Not happening.”

I sigh. “Then you need to put yourself out there. Maybe go online to one of those match sites.”

She rolls her eyes and pulls a tube of lip gloss from her purple bag. “Seeking gorgeous millionaire. Must like short arms.”

“I’m serious, Megan, you’ll have somebody new in no time. Someone much better.” A thought occurs to me and I snap my fingers. “Hey, what about Brad?”

“Your mom’s attorney?”

“Yeah. He’s really nice. And cute, too, don’t you think?”

She dabs her lips with gloss. “Uh-huh. There’s just one teensy problem.”

My nostrils flare. “What? He’s not rich enough?”

“Nope.” She smacks her lips together. “He’s already in love with you.”

My head snaps back as if I’ve been hit. Oh, my God! Could he be? But I’ve got Andrew. Sort of.

“Why do you think that?” I ask when I finally find my voice.

She shrugs. “Why else would he be so hell-bent on helping you?”

I should be relieved. What I need from Brad is friendship, not romance. But strangely, I deflate. “Nope. He’s on Team Elizabeth. He’s only helping me because he promised my mother he would. Trust me. I’m just his charity case.”

Instead of arguing with me, as I hoped she would, she nods. “Ah, got it.”

I hang my head. Am I no different than Megan, searching for a replacement before I lose the original?

M
y hands tremble when I open the letter. I read her words one more time.
Push yourself to do those things that scare you, darling
. Why, Mother? Why are you making me do this? I tuck the letter into my pocket and enter the gate.

It’s been seven years since I’ve been to Saint Boniface Cemetery. That last time was with my mom. We were going somewhere—Christmas shopping, I think—but she insisted we make a quick detour first. It was a frigid afternoon. I remember watching the wind whip across the street, changing what little snow we had into angry, whirling eddies of ice. My mother and I fought the gales, and together we fastened an evergreen wreath to my father’s headstone. I returned to the car then and turned the key in the ignition. Clouds of heat billowed from the vents. I warmed my hands and watched my mom standing silent, her head bowed. Then she dabbed her eyes with her glove and made the sign of the cross.
When she turned back to the car, I pretended to fiddle with the car radio, hoping to spare her dignity. I was embarrassed for her, a woman who still harbored devotion to the husband who’d abandoned her.

Unlike that day seven years ago, it is a glorious autumn day, the sky so pure and blue that winter’s threat seems laughable. Leaves play tag with the soft breeze, and other than the squirrels searching for nuts beneath walnut trees, I’m alone in the beautiful hillside cemetery.

“You probably wonder why I’m here, after all these years,” I whisper to the headstone. “Do you think I’m just like Mother? Unable to hate you?”

I brush dried leaves from the base of his headstone and perch on the marble slab. Reaching into my purse, I search out his picture from my wallet, wriggling it from between my library card and gym membership. It’s dog-eared and faded, but the only picture I’ve kept of the two of us. Mother snapped the photo Christmas morning when I was six years old. Dressed in red flannel pajamas, I’m propped at the edge of his knee, my hands folded, as though praying I could leave the precarious spot. He rests one pale hand on my shoulder; the other hangs limply at his side. An uncertain smile hovers at his lips, but his eyes are flat and empty.

“What was it about me, Dad? Why couldn’t I make you smile? Why was it so hard to put your arms around me?”

My eyes sting and I lift my head to the sky, hoping for that rush of peace my mother must have envisioned when she left this item on my list. But all I feel is the warm sun on my face and an open wound in my chest. I stare down at the picture. A teardrop lands on my pixie face, magnifying my injured eyes. I blot it with my shirtsleeve, leaving a warped ripple in its wake.

“Do you know what hurts most, Dad? It’s feeling that I was never good enough for you. I was just a little girl. Why couldn’t you tell me, even once, that I was good, or smart, or pretty?” I bite
my lip until I taste blood. “I tried so hard to make you love me. I really did.”

Tears stream down my cheeks. Pulling myself from the slab, I stare at the headstone as if it were my father’s face. “This was Mother’s idea, you know. She’s the one who wants me to establish a relationship with you. I’d given up on that dream years ago.” I run my fingertips over the engraved
CHARLES JACOB BOHLINGER
. “I wish you peace, Dad.”

I turn and walk away, then break into a run.

I
t’s five o’clock by time I reach Argyle Station, and I’m still shaken. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let that bastard get to me. The El is packed and I’m sandwiched between a teenage girl whose iPod blares so loudly I can hear the lyrical obscenities through her earbuds, and a man wearing a baseball cap that says godhearsu.com. I want to ask him whether God uses a Mac or a PC, but something tells me he wouldn’t find it amusing. I lock eyes with a tall, dark-haired man in a khaki Burberry trench coat. His eyes are laughing, too, and there’s something familiar about him. He leans in, both of us towering over the two young girls between us. “Technology’s amazing, huh?”

I laugh. “No kidding. Confessional booths may soon be a thing of the past.”

He grins, and I can’t decide whether to focus on the golden flecks in his brown eyes or his soft, sensuous mouth. I spy a black thread on his tan coat and it hits me. Could this be the Burberry man I used to watch from the window of the loft, coming into the building every evening at seven? I dubbed him the Burberry man because he always wore a Burberry trench coat—just like the one he’s wearing now. Though I never actually met him, I harbored a secret crush on him for a month or two—before he disappeared as quickly as he came.

I’m about to introduce myself when my phone rings. I see Brad’s office number and pick up.

“Hello, Brett. It’s Claire Cole. I got your message. Mr. Midar could see you October twenty-seventh at—”

“The twenty-seventh? That’s three weeks away. I need …” My voice trails off.
I need to see him
sounds too impassioned, too desperate. But after today’s cemetery visit, I’m on an emotional ledge, and I know Brad would talk me down. “I’d like to see him sooner, like tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry. He’s completely booked for the next week, and then he’s going on vacation. He could see you on the twenty-seventh,” she repeats. “He’s got an eight o’clock opening.”

I sigh. “If that’s the first he’s got, I’ll take it. But if anyone cancels before then, call me. Please.”

My stop is announced. I tuck my phone into my coat pocket and make my way toward the door.

“Have a good one,” Burberry says to me as I squeeze past him.