The Life List Read online

  The Life List is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known public figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life figures appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Bantam Books eBook Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Lori Nelson Spielman

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  BANTAM BOOKS and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of

  Random House, Inc.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-54088-1

  www.bantamdell.com

  Cover design: Marietta Anastassatos

  Cover image: Ira Heuvelman-Dobrolyubova/Flickr/Getty Images

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  A Reader’s Guide

  About the Author

  Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.

  —CARL JUNG

  CHAPTER ONE

  Voices from the dining room echo up the walnut staircase, indistinct, buzzing, intrusive. With trembling hands I lock the door behind me. My world goes silent. I lean my head against the door and take a deep breath. The room still smells of her—Eau d’Hadrien perfume and goat’s-milk soap. Her iron bed creaks when I crawl over it, a sound as reassuring as the tinkle of her garden chimes, or her silky voice when she’d tell me she loved me. I came to this bed when she shared it with my father, complaining of an ache in my belly or monsters under my bed. Each time Mom took me in, holding me close and stroking my hair, whispering, “There will be another sky, my love, just you wait.” And then, as if by miracle, I’d wake the next morning to find ribbons of amber streaming through my lace curtains.

  I kick off my new black pumps and rub my feet in relief. Scooting backward, I settle against the yellow paisley pillows. I’m going to keep this bed, I decide. No matter who else wants it, it’s mine. But I’ll miss this classy old brownstone. “She’s as sturdy as Grandmama,” Mom would say about her home. But to me, no house, no person, was ever as steady as Grandmama’s daughter—my mother—Elizabeth Bohlinger.

  Suddenly I have a thought. Blinking back tears, I bound from the bed. She hid it up here, I know she did. But where? I throw open her closet door. My hands grope blindly behind designer suits and dresses. I yank at a rack of silk blouses, and they part like theater curtains. There it is, nestled in her shoe rack like an infant in its crib. One bottle of Krug, sequestered to her closet for the past four months.

  Once it’s in my clutches, guilt infests me. This champagne belongs to Mom, not me. She splurged on the outrageous bottle on our way home from her first doctor’s appointment, and promptly tucked it away so it wouldn’t be confused with the regular bottles downstairs. It was a symbol of promise, she rationalized. At the end of her treatments, when she was given a clean bill of health, she and I would open the rare champagne as a celebration of life and miracles.

  I finger the silver foil and bite my lip. I can’t drink this. It was meant for a celebratory toast, not for a grieving daughter too weak to make it through a funeral luncheon.

  Something else catches my eye, wedged between the spot where I found the champagne and a pair of suede loafers. I reach for it. It’s a slim red book—a journal, I suspect—secured with a faded yellow ribbon. The leather cover is cracked and weathered. To Brett, she has written on a heart-shaped gift tag. Save this for a day when you are feeling stronger. Today, raise a glass to us, my dear. What a duo we were. Love, Mom.

  I trace my finger over the handwriting, never as neat as one would expect from someone so beautiful. My throat aches. Despite her assurance of a happy ending, my mom knew the day would come when I would need rescuing. She’s left me her champagne for today, and a sliver of her life, her inner thoughts and musings, for tomorrow.

  But I can’t wait until tomorrow. I stare down at the journal, desperate to read her words right now. Just one quick peek, that’s all. When I tug the yellow ribbon, though, an image of my mom takes shape. She’s shaking her head, gently chastising my impatience. I glance at her note, telling me to wait until I’m stronger, and I’m torn between my wishes and hers. Finally, I set the journal aside. “For you,” I whisper, and tap the cover with a kiss, “I’ll wait.”

  A moan rises from my chest, cracking the silence. I slap a hand over my mouth to catch it, but it’s too late. I double over, clutching my ribs, and literally ache for my mother. How will I ever manage to stumble through this world without her? I have so much more daughter left in me.

  I grab the champagne. Holding the bottle between my knees, I pop the cork. It shoots across the room, knocking over a bottle of Kytril from my mom’s bedside table. Her antinauseants! I scramble to the bedside and gather the triangular tablets in my fists, remembering the first time I offered one to Mom. She’d just had her first chemo treatment and was full of false bravado for my sake. “I feel fine, really. I’ve had menstrual cramps that have given me more grief.”

  But that night, nausea hit her like a tsunami. She swallowed the white tablet, and later asked for another. I lay with her while the drug mercifully took effect and allowed sleep to come. I snuggled next to her, in this very bed, and stroked her hair and held her close, just as she’d done for me so many times. And then, raw with desperation, I closed my eyes and begged God to heal my mother.

  He didn’t listen.

  The pills stream from my palm into the plastic prescription bottle. Leaving the lid loose, I position the bottle on the table’s edge, close to her bed, so she can easily reach them. But no … my mom’s gone. She will never take another pill.

  I need the champagne. “Here’s to you, Mom,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “I was so proud to be your daughter. You knew that, right?”

  In no time the room is spinning, but my pain is mercifully eased. I lower the champagne bottle to the floor and pull back the down comforter. The cool sheets smell faintly of lavender. It feels decadent to lie here, away from the crowd of strangers one floor below. I burrow deeper under the covers, indulging myself in just one more moment of silence before returning downstairs. Just one more minute …

  A loud knock startles me from my stupor. I sit up. It takes a second before I realize where I am … shit, the luncheon! I bolt from the bed, stumbling over the champagne bottl
e as I lurch for the door.

  “Ouch! Oh, damn!”

  “You okay, Brett?” my sister-in-law Catherine asks from the open doorway. Before I can answer, she gasps and rushes into the room. She squats before the damp rug and lifts the bottle. “My God! You spilled a bottle of Clos du Mesnil 1995?”

  “I drank a good bit of it first.” I plop down beside her and dab the Oriental rug with the hem of my dress.

  “Jesus, Brett. This bottle cost over seven hundred dollars.”

  “Uh-huh.” I drag myself to my feet and squint at my watch, but the numbers are all blurry. “What time is it?”

  She smooths down her black linen dress. “It’s almost two. Lunch is being served.” She tucks a stray curl behind my ear. Even though I tower over her by a good five inches, she still manages to make me feel like I’m her unkempt toddler. I half expect her to lick her fingers and pat down my cowlick. “You look downright gaunt, Brett,” she says, repositioning my pearl necklace. “Your mother would be the first to say that despite your grief, you must take care of yourself.”

  But that’s not true. My mom would tell me I look pretty, even though my makeup has been cried off. She’d insist that the humidity has enhanced my long auburn waves, not created a frizzy rat’s nest, and that my puffy, red-rimmed eyes are still the soulful brown eyes of a poet.

  I feel tears threaten and I turn away. Who’s going to boost my confidence now that my mom’s gone? I bend down to grab the empty bottle, but the floor wobbles and lurches. Oh, God! I’m on a sailboat in the middle of a cyclone. I grab hold of the bed frame like it’s my lifeline and wait for the storm to pass.

  Catherine cocks her head and studies me, tapping her bottom lip with her perfectly manicured nail. “Listen, sweetie, why don’t you stay put. I’ll bring you up a plate.”

  Stay put my ass! It’s my mother’s luncheon. I need to get downstairs. But the room is fuzzy and I can’t find my shoes. I turn in circles. What was it I was looking for? I stagger to the door barefoot, and then I remember. “Okay, shoes. Come out come out wherever you are.” I squat down and peer under the bed.

  Catherine grabs me by the arm and pulls me up. “Brett, stop. You’re drunk. I’ll tuck you into bed and you can sleep it off.”

  “No!” I shake off her hold on me. “I can’t miss this.”

  “But you can. Your mother wouldn’t want you—”

  “Ahh, there they are.” I grab my new black heels and work to plant my feet into them. Jesus, my feet have grown two sizes in the last hour.

  I barrel down the hallway as best I can, my feet half in, half out of my pumps. With both hands outstretched to steady me, I stagger from one wall to the other, like a pinball. Behind me, I hear Catherine. Her voice is stern but she’s keeping it low, as if she’s speaking through clenched teeth. “Brett! Stop right now!”

  She’s nuts if she thinks I’m going to skip the funeral luncheon. I have to honor my mother. My beautiful, loving mother …

  I’m at the staircase now, still trying to push my swollen feet into these Barbie doll pumps. I’m halfway down the staircase when my ankle twists.

  “Eeow!”

  At once a sea of guests, all who’ve come to pay tribute to my mother, turn to watch me. I catch glimpses of horrified women raising their hands to their mouths, and men gasping as they rush to catch me.

  I land in a heap in the foyer, my black dress hiked to midthigh, minus one shoe.

  The sound of clattering dishes wakes me. I wipe the drool from the side of my mouth and sit up. My throbbing head feels thick and murky. I blink several times and look around. I’m at my mom’s house. Good. She’ll have an aspirin for me. I notice the living room is cast in shadows, and workers mill about, stacking plates and glasses into brown plastic bins. What’s going on? It hits me like the crack of a baseball bat. My throat seizes up and I cover my mouth. All the pain, every scrap of anguish and sadness crashes in anew.

  I’ve been told that a long battle with cancer is worse than a short one, but I’m not convinced that this holds true for the survivors. My mother’s diagnosis and death came so quickly it seems almost surreal, like a nightmare I’ll wake from with a cry of relief. Instead, too often I wake having forgotten the tragedy, and I’m forced to relive the loss over and over, like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Will it ever feel okay, not having that one person in my life who loves me unconditionally? Will I ever be able to think of my mother without my chest cramping?

  As I rub my aching temples, short snippets of fuzzy snapshots come rushing in, re-creating my humiliating fiasco on the stairs. I want to die.

  “Hey, sleepy girl.” Shelley, my other sister-in-law, walks over to me carrying three-month-old Emma in her arms.

  “Oh, God!” I moan and hang my head in my hands. “I am such an idiot.”

  “Why? You think you’re the only person who’s ever gotten tipsy? How’s the ankle?”

  I lift a bag of mostly melted ice from my ankle and turn my foot in circles. “It’ll be fine.” I shake my head. “It’ll heal much sooner than my ego. How could I have done that to my mom?” I plop the bag of ice water on the floor and pull myself from the sofa. “On a scale of one to ten, Shel, how awful was I?”

  She bats a hand at me. “I told everyone you were suffering from exhaustion. And they bought it. It was an easy story to pitch, since you looked like you hadn’t slept in weeks.” She peeks at her watch. “Listen, Jay and I are getting ready to go now, it’s after seven.”

  From the foyer I spot Jay squatting in front of their three-year-old, stuffing little Trevor’s arms into a bright yellow slicker that makes him look like a miniature fireman. His crystal blue eyes find mine and he squeals.

  “Auntie Bwett!”

  My heart trips and I secretly hope my nephew never learns to pronounce his R’s. I walk over to him and tousle his hair. “How’s my big boy?”

  Jay clips the metal fastener at Trevor’s collar and pulls himself up. “There she is.” Aside from the telltale crow’s-feet flanking his dimpled grin, my brother looks closer to twenty-six than his thirty-six years. He drapes an arm around me. “Have a nice nap?”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, swiping a flake of mascara from under my eye.

  He plants a kiss on my forehead. “No worries. We all know this is hardest on you.”

  What he means is, of the three Bohlinger children, I’m still single, the one with no family of my own. I counted on Mom the most. My brother feels sorry for me.

  “We’re all grieving,” I say, pulling away.

  “But you were her daughter,” my oldest brother, Joad, says. He rounds the corner of the foyer, his wiry frame nearly hidden by a colossal floral spray. Unlike Jay, who brushes his thinning tresses straight back, Joad shaves his head smooth as an egg, which, along with his clear-framed eyeglasses, gives him an urban-artsy vibe. He turns sideways and pecks me on the cheek. “You two had a special bond. Jay and I couldn’t have managed without you, especially near the end.”

  It’s true. When our mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer last spring, I convinced her we would fight it together. I’m the one who nursed her after surgery, the one who sat beside her at every chemo treatment, the one who insisted on a second, and then a third opinion. And when all the experts agreed her prognosis was grim, I’m the one who was with her the day she decided to stop the heinous treatments.

  Jay squeezes my hand, his blue eyes bright with tears. “We’re here for you. You know that, right?”

  I nod and pull a Kleenex from my pocket.

  Shelley breaks our silent grieving when she steps into the foyer, lugging Emma’s car carrier. She turns to Jay. “Hon, could you grab that jade plant my parents sent?” She glances at Joad, then me. “You guys don’t want it, do you?”

  Joad nods at the botanical garden in his arms, in case she might have missed it. “Got mine.”

  “Take it,” I say, baffled that anyone would care about a plant when our mother just died.

  My siblings and thei
r spouses shuffle from our mother’s brownstone into the misty September evening while I stand holding open the rosewood door, just as Mother used to do. Catherine is the last to pass, tucking an Hermès scarf into her suede jacket.

  “See you tomorrow,” she says, planting a Casino Pink kiss on my cheek.

  I groan. As if deciding who’ll get which plant isn’t enough fun, at ten thirty tomorrow morning, all of Mother’s assets will be doled out to her children like it’s a Bohlinger awards ceremony. In a matter of hours I’ll become president of Bohlinger Cosmetics and Catherine’s boss—and I’m not the least bit confident I can handle either.

  The night’s stormy shell cracks, revealing a cloudless, blue-skied morning. A good omen, I decide. From the backseat of a Lincoln Town Car, I stare out at the frothy shoreline of Lake Michigan and mentally rehearse what I’ll say. Wow, I’m humbled. What an honor. I’ll never replace Mother, but I’ll try my damnedest to move the company forward.

  My head throbs, and again I curse myself for drinking that damn champagne. What was I thinking? I feel sick—and not just physically. How could I have done that to my mother? And how can I possibly expect my siblings to take me seriously now? I grab my compact from my purse and dab powder on my cheeks. I must appear competent and composed today—the way a CEO should. My brothers need to know that I can handle the business, even if I’m not always able to handle my alcohol. Will they be proud of their little sister, moving from advertising executive to president of a major company at age thirty-four? Despite yesterday’s debacle, I think so. They have their own careers, and aside from their stock shares, they have little to do with the family business. And Shelley’s a speech pathologist and a busy mommy. She doesn’t give a whit who runs her motherin-law’s company.