The Life List Read online

  “Jesus!” Andrew holds tight the wheel and reins in the car. “I don’t get why you’re so hell-bent on having this at your mother’s house. It would be a whole lot easier to have it here.”

  Here? Andrew never calls the loft our house or our place. And technically, he shouldn’t. It isn’t our house, it’s his. Which could explain why I insisted the dinner be at Mom’s brownstone, the only place that feels like home lately.

  It takes us nearly thirty minutes to make the three-mile trek, and Andrew’s temper gains momentum with each passing minute. “The weather’s only going to get worse, with this freezing rain. Let’s just turn back.”

  “I need to do the prep work tonight. All the food is at Mom’s.”

  He curses under his breath.

  “We’re almost there,” I say. “And if we’re stranded at Mom’s it’ll be a blast. We’ll roast marshmallows in the fireplace, play cards, or Scrabble …”

  He keeps his eyes on the road. “You’re forgetting, one of us has work to do.” Without looking at me, he clamps a hand on my leg. “Have you had a chance to talk to Catherine yet?”

  My stomach twists, as it does each time he mentions working for Bohlinger Cosmetics. “She’s in London, remember?”

  “They just left yesterday. You didn’t call her Monday?”

  “She’s been so busy preparing to get out of town.”

  He nods. “You’ll talk to her next week then?”

  Ahead, Mother’s house comes into view like a lighthouse in a storm. Andrew pulls up to the curb. I let out a sigh and throw open my car door. “Ah, we’re here.”

  I grab the grocery bag and clamber up the porch steps, praying the unanswered question won’t follow us inside.

  By the time I finish the cranberry sauce and slide my pecan pie into the oven, the house smells almost like it did when Mother lived here. Tossing my apron over a bar stool, I stroll into the living room. Miles Davis pours from the speakers and the room glows with the amber light of the fire and Mother’s Venetian lamps. I sidle up to where Andrew sits on the sofa with his laptop.

  “What are you working on?”

  “Just seeing if anything new came on the market.”

  My chest tightens. The house again. I see the price range he’s searching and nearly gasp. Resting my head on his shoulder, I gaze at the screen. “Too bad the mortgage on the loft is upside down.”

  “Megan doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “But for now maybe we should look for something smaller. Something we can afford if we pool our savings.”

  “I never realized you were such a piker. Jesus, you’re about to inherit a fortune.”

  My stomach clenches. As much as I’d like to avoid it, it’s time to ask the question that has been burning in me for weeks.

  “What if there was no inheritance, Andrew? Would you still agree to help me with this list?

  He lifts his face and scowls. “Is this some sort of a test?”

  “There’s a chance I won’t get it, you know. I have no idea where my father is, thanks to my mother’s secrecy. I may not get pregnant.”

  He turns his attention back to the laptop. “Then we’d fight it in court. And we’d win.”

  Stop. That’s good enough. You’re only going to make him angry if you keep pestering him.

  “So your willingness to help me,” I say, my heart battering against my rib cage. “It has nothing to do with money?”

  His eyes flash with anger. “You think I’m after your money? Christ, I’m practically begging for a job here. And you still haven’t told me you’ll help! I’m doing everything you’ve asked, Brett. I’ve agreed to your dog, your teaching job, every damn request. I’m just asking for one thing in return: a job in the family business and the salary to go with it.”

  That’s two things, I think to myself. But he’s right. Begrudgingly or not, Andrew’s doing everything I’ve asked of him. So why am I not satisfied?

  “It’s tricky,” I say, grabbing his hand. “Mom didn’t like the idea, and she rarely made a poor business decision.”

  He yanks his hand from mine. “Is your mother going to dictate our lives forever?”

  I finger my necklace. “No … no. In the end, it would be Catherine’s call.”

  “Bullshit. You have the power to bring me on board and you know it.” He glowers at me. “I’m helping you with your goals, and I need to know you’ll help me with mine.”

  I look away. He’s not being unreasonable. It would be so easy to tell him yes. I could call Catherine on Monday and within a week or two she’d find a place for him in the company. He’s an attorney, after all, an easy fit with our legal team, the finance department, or even HR. I hold the power to change the ugly mood of this evening with one simple declarative sentence. Yes, I will help.

  “No,” I say softly. “I can’t help you. I don’t feel right going against Mother on this one.”

  He rises from the sofa. I reach out my hand to him, but he jerks away, as if my touch burns. “You used to be so easy, so agreeable. But you’ve changed. You’re not the girl I fell in love with.”

  He’s right. I’m not. I swipe a tear from my cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to ruin the evening.”

  He paces the length of the room, dragging a hand through his hair. I know this look. He’s making a decision. He’s deciding whether or not I’ll be part of his life. As if rendered impotent, I stand watching him, unable to speak and barely able to breathe. Finally, he stops in front of the bay window, his back to me. His shoulders fall, as if a mighty tension just left his body. He turns to me.

  “Ruin the evening? You just ruined your life, baby.”

  It seems treasonous to sleep in Mother’s bed tonight. She’s the enemy, after all. Because of her, I’ve lost my job, my home, and all hope. Yes, Andrew was difficult—even a jerk sometimes—but he was my jerk, and without him I’ll never get pregnant.

  I drag a comforter down the stairs and heave it onto the sofa. It takes a moment to adjust to the ambient glow from the streetlights. From across the room my eyes meet my mother’s. The photo was taken at an awards ceremony two years ago when she was named Chicago’s Businesswoman of the Year. Her salt-and-pepper hair is cut in her signature style, a boyish crop of layers I used to say nobody but she and Halle Berry could pull off. She’s stunning, yes, with her high cheekbones and flawless olive skin. But beyond her physical beauty, I always felt the shot captured Mother’s very essence, her wisdom, her serenity. Rising, I cross the room and snatch the photo, plunking it on the coffee table in front of the sofa. I settle back under the comforter and stare at her.

  “Did you plan to ruin my life, Mom? Is that what you wanted?”

  Her green eyes penetrate mine.

  I move the photo nearer to me and glare at her. “Who are you, anyway? Not only did you lie to me your entire life, but because of you, I’ve lost Andrew, the one person who could help make my dreams come true.”

  Tears slide past my temples, into my ears. “I’m all alone now. And I’m so old.” I choke on the words. “And you were right. I want a baby so badly it hurts. And now … now my dream’s been yanked away like some cruel prank.”

  I bolt upright and jab a finger at her smiling face. “Are you happy now? You never liked him, did you? Well, you got your way. He’s gone. Now I have nobody.” I slam the photo facedown on the coffee table with such force I’m sure I’ve cracked the glass. But I don’t check. I roll over and cry myself to sleep.

  Mercifully, the first hint of dawn creeps through the bay window, giving me permission to rise from my fitful sleep. The first thing I do is hunt down my cell phone from beneath the rumpled comforter and check for messages. I hate myself for it, but I’m hoping for a message from Andrew. I stare into the phone, but the only message I have is a text from Brad, sent at midnight, Pacific time. Happy Turkey Day.

  I type back, U, 2. He’s in San Francisco with Jenna, and suddenly I miss him ferociously. If he were in town, I’d in
vite him to dinner. I’d pour out my heart to him, and then I’d listen as he shared his frustrations with Jenna. Just like Andrew and me, he and Jenna are having a rough go. “A couple of magnets,” he tells me. “One moment locked in attraction, the next repelling each other.” We’d open the wine while preparing sage stuffing. We’d laugh out loud, eat too much, watch movies … everything Andrew and I were supposed to do. But when I imagine it with Brad, it’s casual and breezy rather than forced and stilted.

  I’m about to send the text when I notice my mother’s photo, facedown on the coffee table. I lift it. Her eyes tell me she’s forgiven me for yelling at her. Pressure builds behind my eyes. I kiss my finger and touch it to the glass, leaving a fingerprint on her cheek. Her face shows encouragement today, something akin to prodding, as if she’s trying to nudge me forward.

  I gaze down at my phone, my index finger positioned on the SEND button. As if of their own volition, my fingers return to the keyboard and type one more sentence.

  Miss u.

  Then I press SEND.

  It’s only six o’clock in the morning. The entire day looms ahead of me like the wastelands of Siberia. I check my phone again, then, in frustration, heave it across the room. It lands with a dull thud on Mom’s Persian rug. I plop down on a chair and rub my temples. If I stay in this house checking my phone every thirty seconds I’ll lose my mind. I grab my jacket and scarf, wedge my feet into a pair of Mother’s rubber boots, and trudge out the door.

  In the east, pinks and oranges mop up a gunmetal-gray sky. A bitter wind cuts from the east, knocking the breath from me. I cover my nose with my scarf and pull up my hood. Across Lake Shore Drive, I’m greeted by the haunting howl of Lake Michigan. Angry waves slap the shore, retreat, and crash again. I traipse along the Lakefront Trail, my hands buried deep in my coat pockets. The path that hosts fitness buffs and tourists all summer long has lost its clientele this morning, a depressing reminder that everyone in the entire city is celebrating with friends and family. Households are waking, chatting over coffee and bagels, dicing celery and onions for their stuffing.

  I round the bend of the Drake Hotel and head south. An empty Ferris wheel comes into view, like a ring on the finger of the Navy Pier. The abandoned wheel looks as forlorn as I feel. Will I be alone forever? Guys my age are already married, or dating twenty-year-olds. In the dating meal of life, I’m a leftover.

  A jogger runs toward me, his Labrador leashed before him. I move aside to let them pass and the dog sizes me up with friendly eyes. As the runner passes I spin around. He’s clad from head to toe in black Under Armour, but still, there’s something familiar about him. He’s looking back at me, too, and for a moment our eyes lock. He hesitates, as if he’d like to run back and talk to me, but then thinks better of it. He smiles and raises his arm in greeting, then turns and continues on. I watch him move into the distance. Finally, it hits me. I think that was the Burberry man—the man I spoke to on the train … and on my way out of the building! Or was it?

  “Hey!” I call, but the roar of the tide swallows my words. I break into a run. The last time I saw him I was leaving for a lunch date. I’ll let him know I’m single now. I need to catch him! But my clunky boots make it impossible to gain on him. He’s a good fifty yards away now. Faster! Suddenly, the toe of my boot catches on something and I fall flat on my ass. I sit on the cold concrete, watching the Burberry man disappear down the trail.

  Oh, God, I’ve reached a new low. Andrew and I just broke up last night. And here I am this morning, chasing—yes, chasing—after a man whose name I don’t even know. Could I be any more pathetic? As if my biological clock weren’t enough pressure, my mother has strapped a ticking time bomb on my back, and it’s due to explode next September.

  The day has officially clocked in by the time I wander back to Mother’s house, but typical of November in Chicago, thick gray clouds have moved in, holding the sun hostage. Tiny specks of snow flutter in the air, instantly vanishing when they land on my wool coat. A foreboding feeling comes over me as I climb the concrete steps to my mother’s door. I don’t want to be alone today. I can’t bear the thought of being that pitiful character you see in the movies, cooking for one on Thanksgiving Day.

  I clear the dining room table I’d set last night, carefully folding Mother’s treasured napkins and tablecloth. She bought the hand-embroidered linens when we visited Ireland three years ago, and insisted we use them at every family celebration. Tears stream down my face. We never imagined our family celebrations would vanish so quickly.

  To further torture myself, I second-guess my relationship with Andrew. Why aren’t I lovable? Fresh tears sting my eyes. I picture him moving on without me, finding a woman who’s absolutely flawless, someone who could make him happy. Someone he’d want to marry.

  Through a teary haze, I manage to stuff the turkey and push it into the oven. Mechanically, I peel potatoes and mix the ingredients for my mother’s sweet potato casserole. By the time I slice fruit into a bowl, I’m no longer crying.

  Three hours later, I remove the most gorgeous turkey I’ve ever prepared. The skin shines crisp and golden, and juices bubble from the bottom of the roaster. Next, I take out the sweet potato casserole and breathe in the familiar aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon. From the refrigerator, I grab the fruit salad and cranberry sauce. I slice the remaining tomatoes into the salad and set it next to my pies. After I’ve double-wrapped everything, I load the food into picnic baskets and cardboard boxes retrieved from the basement.

  On my way, I call Sanquita at Joshua House. She’s waiting at the door when I arrive.

  “Hi, sweetie. Take this, can you?” I hand her the basket and turn back to the car. “I’ll be right back.”

  “You brung us Thanksgiving dinner?” she asks, eyeing the picnic basket.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Miss Brett’s brung us dinner,” she calls to her housemates. She peers inside the basket. “Not just turkey loaf, like we had earlier, but real turkey with all the fixin’s.”

  It takes me three trips to get everything into Joshua House. Sanquita helps me pile it on the kitchen counter, where the other women gather like ants to a sugar cube. By now I recognize most of their faces and even know a few names. Tanya, Mercedes, and Julonia unload the food while the others lean in.

  “The stuffing’s right inside the bird, just the way I like it.”

  “Umm um! This casserole smells delicious.”

  “Check it out—pecan pie!”

  “Enjoy, ladies,” I say, gathering the empty baskets. “I’ll see you Monday, Sanquita.”

  “You don’t gotta go,” Sanquita mumbles, staring down at her feet. “I mean, you could eat something if you wanted.”

  I’m stunned. The girl who doesn’t trust people is opening the door to me—just a crack. As much as I’d like to enter, I can’t today. “Thanks, but I’ve had a long day. I need to get home.” Which is where, exactly? Maybe I should ask about vacancies here.

  She straightens her shoulders and hardness returns to her face. “ ’Course you do.”

  I run a finger beneath my eyes and find flakes of dried mascara. “I’m not feeling so great.” I look into her puffy face, and notice a patch of skin on her forehead that’s been scratched raw, a cruel side effect of waste buildup. “How about you, kiddo? How are you feeling?”

  “Good,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “I feel fine.”

  Just then Jean Anderson, the grouchy director, steps through the front door. The pocket on her wool coat is torn and she’s clutching a vinyl overnight bag.

  “Miss Jean,” Sanquita says. “You ain’t supposed to be here today.”

  “Lisa called in sick.” She shimmies out of her coat. “Funny how sickness always strikes on holidays.”

  “But your daughter’s here from Mississippi,” Mercedes says, “and your grandbabies.”

  “They’ll still be here tomorrow.” She reaches into the closet for a hanger, and when she turns back around, she spots me
. Her face turns to stone. “What are you doing here?”

  Before I can answer, Sanquita claps her hands. “Miss Brett brung us turkey and fixin’s. Come see.”

  She eyes me and doesn’t budge. “Are you all set then, Ms. Bohlinger?”

  “Uh, yes. I’ll get going.” I pat Sanquita’s arm. “See you Monday, sweetie.”

  I’m three blocks away when I screech to a halt and whip a U-turn. I pull up to the curb and dash up the porch steps, straight into Joshua House. Miss Jean stands at the kitchen counter slicing the turkey.

  “Umm um. This bird is a beauty. Mercedes honey, will you set the table, please?” Her smile vanishes when she sees me.

  “Forget something?”

  “Go home,” I tell her, breathless. “I’ll stay tonight.”

  She gives me a once-over, then turns her attention back to the turkey.

  I run a hand through my ratty hair. “I just got hired with the school district. They did a thorough background check. I’m safe, I promise.”

  She sets her knife on the cutting board and scowls at me. “Why would someone like you choose to spend your holiday at a homeless shelter? Don’t you have kin at home?”

  “I like it here,” I say, honestly. “And I adore Sanquita. Besides, my family is out of town and I’m alone. You, on the other hand, have a houseful of guests. You need to be with them.”

  “Go home, Miss Jean,” Mercedes tells her. “We’ll be fine.”

  She rakes her teeth over her bottom lip. Finally she throws her head toward the office. “Follow me.”

  As I trail Miss Jean down the hall, I glance over my shoulder. Sanquita stands watching, her arms crossed over her chest. Have I crossed a boundary? Am I invading her personal space by staying tonight? Our eyes meet. One hand emerges from within her crossed arms. I see a clenched fist, then a thumb. She raises it, giving me a thumbs-up. I could cry.

  Although Joshua House is at full capacity tonight, it’s free of drama, as far as Miss Jean can tell—no threatening ex-boyfriends, no addicts. “The guests—that’s what we call them—have the run of the house until seven P.M. After that, the kitchen’s off-limits. Children need to be in bed no later than nine o’clock. The television goes off at eleven thirty and everyone must retreat to their own quarters.” She points to a twin bed against the wall. “You’ll sleep here. We change the sheets on this bed daily, so in the morning you’ll strip it. Amy Olle will relieve you in the morning, eight A.M.” She lets out a sigh. “I think that about covers it. Any questions?”