The Life List Read online

  Ha! Megan will finally get what’s coming to her. And Andrew, too. They’re shallow and self-centered and materialistic and—

  I stop myself. What right do I have to judge? Most of my adult life I’ve been a material girl, too, with my designer clothes and BMW, my expensive purses and jewelry. And wasn’t I just as shallow and selfish when I abandoned Carrie at the time she needed me most? Yet she forgave me. Perhaps it’s time I paid it forward.

  “Meggie girl, set your goals higher. You’re a beautiful woman with tons of potential. Find someone who adores you, someone who’ll treat—”

  She laughs. “Oh, Brett, stop being so fucking phony. I understand you’re jealous, but get over it. He. Doesn’t. Love. You!”

  The wind is knocked from me. Pay it forward? Uh-uh. Not today.

  “You’re right. You two really are perfect for each other.” I climb into my car. “And Megan, stop worrying about your short arms. They’re the least of your problems.”

  With that, I’m off to find my lovable, loyal mutt.

  Brad is waiting at the curb when I pull up to the Aon Center in my new/used car.

  “What’s up? The Beemer in the shop?” He gives me a quick peck on the cheek and buckles his seat belt.

  “Nope. I traded it in.”

  “You’re kidding. For this?”

  “And some much-needed cash. It just seemed wrong, driving a car like that when most of the families I work with don’t even own one.”

  He whistles. “You are committed to this job.”

  “Yup, though I have to confess I’m pretty excited to have the next two weeks off. I’m officially on Christmas break.”

  He groans. “I want your job.”

  I laugh. “I really did get lucky. The kids are incredible. But I’m worried about Sanquita. She’s not looking very healthy these days. She’s four months along and it’s hard to tell she’s pregnant. She sees whoever’s on duty at Cook County Health Department, but these are just regular doctors, with no expertise in kidney disease. I’ve made an appointment with Dr. Chan at University of Chicago Medical Center. She’s supposed to be one of the best nephrologists in the country.”

  “And what’s new with psycho dude?”

  “Peter?” I let out a sigh. “I saw him this morning. He’s smart as a whip, but I just can’t seem to reach him.”

  “Still talking to his shrink?”

  I smile. “Yeah. That’s been a huge perk. Garrett’s such a dear man. He’s so wise and so skilled, yet at the same time he’s completely approachable. We talk about Peter, but then we end up discussing our families or our dreams. I even told him about my mother’s wishes.”

  “You like this guy.”

  If I didn’t know better, I’d say Brad was jealous. But that’s crazy. “I adore Dr. Taylor. He’s a widower. His wife died of pancreatic cancer three years ago.”

  I cover my mouth and yawn.

  “Tired?” Brad asks.

  “Exhausted. I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately.” Except, perhaps, that I’m pregnant! I turn to him. “Heard anything from Jenna?”

  He stares out the window. “Nada.”

  I squeeze his arm. What a foolish woman.

  Smells of wood shavings and animal dander assail us when we step through the doors of the Chicago Animal Rescue Shelter. A silver-haired woman wearing Wrangler jeans and a flannel shirt saunters over to us, swinging her arms with each stride. “Welcome to CARS,” she says. “I’m Gillian, one of the volunteers. What brings you here today?”

  “I’ve been approved for pet adoption,” I tell her over background barking. “I’m here today to find my dog.”

  Gillian points a stubby finger at a gated section of the building. “Our registered dogs are in this area. These are the dogs with pedigrees and papers. They usually go very quickly. A gorgeous Portuguese water dog came in just last night. ’Course, he won’t last but a minute. Ever since the Obamas chose Bo, the breed’s been in huge demand.”

  “I’m looking for more of a mutt,” I say.

  She raises an eyebrow. “You don’t say?” She pivots and makes a swooping gesture with her arm. “Mutts are terrific. The only problem with a mutt is that you don’t know their family history. You’ve no idea of the temperament of the animal or chances for diseases, based on genetic stock.”

  Kind of like me. “I’ll risk it.”

  It takes less than ten minutes to find him. Through a metal cage, a fluffy canine stares at me with coffee bean eyes that are at once friendly and pleading.

  “Hello, boy!” I tug Brad’s coat sleeve. “Meet my new dog.”

  Gillian opens the cage. “Hey, Rudy.”

  Rudy scampers to the cement floor, his tail flickering like a rattlesnake’s as he sniffs us. He stares up at Brad, then me, as if checking out his prospective parents.

  I scoop him up and he squirms in my arms. He licks my cheeks and I laugh with joy.

  “He likes you,” Brad says, scratching the dog’s ears. “He’s adorable.”

  “Isn’t he?” Gillian agrees. “Rudy’s a year and a half old, full grown. My best guess is that he’s part bichon frise, part cocker, with a smidgen of poodle to complete the recipe.”

  Regardless, the final product is delicious. I nuzzle his soft fur. “Why would someone give away a dog like this?”

  “You’d be surprised. Usually it’s a move, or a new baby, or a clash in temperaments. If I remember right, Rudy’s owner is about to marry someone who doesn’t want a pet.”

  It feels like Rudy and I are a matched set: two homeless mongrels who’ve just lost the ones they loved—or thought they loved.

  While I write the check for my new pup and all his accoutrements, Brad studies a flyer about the shelter. “Listen,” he says. “CARS is committed to ending animal suffering and believes in no-kill communities to help the stray, abused, and neglected companion animals in urban areas, like Chicago.”

  “Cool,” I say, scribbling the date on the check.

  Brad taps a photo in the flyer. “Gillian, you actually adopt out horses?”

  I lift my pen, midword, and narrow my eyes at him.

  “We sure do,” Gillian says. “Whatcha looking for?”

  He lifts his shoulders. “I’m completely clueless. Give me an idea of what’s out there.”

  “Are we talking for you, or your children?” Gillian asks, flipping pages in a three-ring binder.

  “Never mind, Gillian,” I say. “We’re not getting a horse.”

  “Just us,” Brad tells her. “For now, anyway.”

  For a sweet, fleeting instant, I imagine a child—my child—horseback riding. But that’s years down the road. “We need to talk about this one,” I say to him. “There’s absolutely no way I can care for a horse.”

  “Here she is.” Gillian positions the binder in front of us and taps a chipped nail on a picture. “Meet Lady Lulu. A thoroughbred gelding, fifteen years old. She was a racehorse early on, but now she’s got some issues with arthritis and whatnot, so the owner won’t keep her.” She keeps her eyes on Brad, obviously sensing he’s the only one with any interest. “Lulu would be perfect for pleasure or light trail riding. And she’s a total sweetheart, just a baby. Come see her.”

  I tear the check from my checkbook and hand it to her. “Thanks, Gillian. We’ll think about it.”

  “She’s stabled in Marengo, at Paddock Farms. You really should take a look at her. She’s a special one.”

  We head north on State Street, Rudy in the backseat secured in his crate. He peers out the window like a nosy tot, mesmerized by the honking traffic, the crowds darting in and out of stores, the Christmas lights twinkling from tree branches. I glance back at him and reach a hand to his cage.

  “You doing okay, sweetie?” I ask. “Mommy’s right here.”

  Brad swings around. “Hang in there, Rudy boy. We’ll be home soon.”

  We sound like proud parents, bringing our newborn home from the hospital. Within the dark confines of the c
ar, I smile.

  “About the horse,” Brad says, planting me firmly back in real time.

  “Yes, about the horse. I think that’s the goal I should be exempt from.”

  “What?” he asks. “You don’t want a horse?”

  “I’m a city girl, Midar. I love Chicago. And what kills me is that my mom knew this. Why would she keep such an absurd goal on my list?”

  “Real nice. You’re going to let Lady Lulu retire to the glue factory?”

  “Stop. I’m serious. I actually called around about boarding a horse. It would cost a fortune, all the feedings, and supplements, and grooming. Really, it adds up to a monthly fee more than most people’s mortgage. Do you realize what Joshua House could do with that money?”

  “You’ve got a point. It is a tad wasteful. But it’s not going to break the bank, B.B. You just sold your car. You’ve got the money now.”

  “No I don’t! That money is for Pohlonski. My savings account is disappearing before my eyes.”

  “But that’s temporary. Once you get your inheritance—”

  “If I get my inheritance! Who knows when that will be? I can’t possibly meet all these goals within the year.”

  “Okay. Let’s just focus on one. It is possible that you could get the horse, right?”

  “But I don’t have the time. The closest place I found to board is an hour away.”

  Brad stares out the front window. “I think we’ve got to trust your mom on this one. So far she hasn’t let us down.”

  “This goal isn’t just about me. It’s about an animal—an animal I don’t have time to care for. I won’t do that. A dog is one thing, but a horse is, well, a completely different animal.”

  He nods. “Okay then. Let’s just put this goal out to pasture for the moment. Give you time to rein in your fears. I don’t want to be a neigh-sayer.”

  I roll my eyes at him but it’s good to hear him laughing again.

  “Stop horsing around,” I tell him, unable to resist his silly game.

  “Good one!” He holds up his hand for a high five. “You’ve got good horse sense.”

  “You’re a horse’s ass,” I say, trying to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, get off your high horse,” he says, busting himself up.

  I shake my head. “You are such a loser.”

  Brad carries Rudy across my mother’s threshold like his new bride. With his free hand, he drags a sack of dog supplies into the foyer while I click on lamps and plug in my Christmas tree. Smelling of pine, the room glows with the ethereal brilliance of the colored lights.

  “This place is gorgeous,” he says, lowering Rudy. Wasting no time, Rudy romps to the tree, sniffing at the red foil packages beneath it.

  “Come here, Rudy. Let’s get you some food.”

  Brad fills the water dish and I empty kibbles into the dog bowl. We move about in the kitchen like Fred and Ginger, each with our choreographed duties. He dries his hands on a terry-cloth towel, and I rinse mine in the sink. I turn off the water and he hands me the towel.

  “How about a glass of wine?” I ask.

  “I’d love one.”

  I reach for a bottle of Pinot Noir, and notice Brad’s eyes roving the kitchen like a prospective buyer’s. “Ever think about buying this place?”

  “This house? I love it here, but this house is Mother’s.”

  “All the more reason to keep it.” He leans against the center island. “To me, this house looks like you, if that makes sense.”

  I twist the corkscrew. “Really?”

  “Really. It’s elegant and sophisticated, but it also has a warm, mellow side.”

  Honey runs through my veins. “Thank you.”

  “You should think about it.”

  I pull a wineglass from the cupboard. “Could I even afford it? I’d have to buy it from my brothers, you know.”

  “Sure, you’ll be able to afford it. Once you get your final inheritance.”

  “But you’re forgetting, I need to fall in love and have babies. The love of my life might not want to live in my mother’s home.”

  “He’ll love this place. And there’s a park just down the street, perfect for your kids.”

  He says it with such certainty I almost believe him. I hand him his wine. “Did my mom ever tell you why she wanted my brothers and me to keep the house for the first year?”

  “Nope. But I’m guessing she knew you’d need a place to stay.”

  “Yeah, that’s my guess, too.”

  “And she probably figured the place is so nice you’d never want to leave.” He swirls his wineglass. “Which is why she included that thirty-day clause. She didn’t want you to get too comfy.”

  “Wait … what?”

  “That clause in the will. Nobody can stay more than thirty consecutive days. Remember?”

  “No,” I say honestly. “You mean I can’t stay here? I have to find another place to live?”

  “Yup. It’s all in the will. You have your copy, don’t you?”

  I clutch my head. “I just bought a dog. Do you realize how hard it’ll be to find a place that takes animals? And my furniture! I gave it all to Joshua House. I don’t have money—”

  “Hey, hey.” He sets down his glass and seizes both my wrists. “It’s going to be okay. Look, you spent the night at Joshua House last week, so technically the clock’s just starting. You’ve got plenty of time to find something.”

  I pull free my wrists. “Back up a sec. You’re saying because they weren’t consecutive, technically I’ve only been here six days?”

  “That’s right.”

  “So, as long as I take a night or two away each month, like when I’m at Joshua House, I’ll never go over the maximum?”

  “Uh, I don’t think—”

  I break into a victorious smile. “That means I can stay here indefinitely. Problem solved!”

  Before he has time to argue, I lift my water goblet. “Cheers!”

  “Cheers,” he says, clinking my goblet. “No vino tonight?”

  “I’m not drinking these days.”

  His glass is almost to his lips when he lowers it. “Earlier, you said you’ve been exhausted lately, right?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And you’re not drinking alcohol?”

  “That’s what I said, Einstein.”

  “Holy shit. You’re prego.”

  I laugh. “I think I am! I bought a pregnancy test but I’m too afraid to take it. I’ll wait until after the holidays.”

  “You’re afraid it’ll be positive.”

  “No! I’m afraid it’ll be negative. I’d be devastated.” I look up at him. “It’s not exactly the way I pictured it would be, being single and all. I’ll let Andrew decide whether he wants to be part of his child’s life. I won’t ask for child support. This is my dream, after all. I’ll raise my baby—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Slow down, B.B. You’re talking like this is a sure thing. Be careful you don’t, well, put the cart before the horse.”

  “Stop with those silly horse puns.”

  He holds me at arm’s length. “Seriously, Brett. I know you. You’re getting excited. Until you know for sure, put the brakes on.”

  “Too late,” I say. “I’m beyond excited. For the first time since my mother’s diagnosis, I feel joy.”

  We take our drinks into the living room where Rudy lies stretched in front of the fire. Brad plucks an envelope from his back pocket before taking a seat on the sofa. Goal number six.

  “Shall we hear what your mom has to say about Rudy?”

  “Please.” I sit down on an adjacent club chair, tucking my feet beneath me.

  He pats his shirt pocket. “Damn. I don’t have my reading glasses.”

  I leap from the chair and retrieve a pair of my mom’s reading glasses from her secretary desk. “Here you go,” I say, handing him a pair of fuchsia-and-periwinkle specs.

  He scowls at the flashy frames, but puts them on anyway.

  The s
ight of him in the gaudy women’s glasses sends me into hysterics. “Oh, my God!” I say, pointing at him. “You look hilarious!”

  He grabs me and pulls me down onto the sofa, securing me in a headlock. “You think this is funny, huh?” He rubs his knuckles on the top of my head.

  “Stop!” I say between fits of laughter.

  Eventually, we sober, but in the skirmish I’ve ended up next to him on the sofa, and his left arm is still wrapped around the back of my neck. A better woman would scoot away. After all, he’s only on a break from his girlfriend. But me? I stay right where I am.

  “Okay,” he says. “Behave.” With his right hand, he shakes the letter and manages to unfold it.

  Snuggled next to him, I nod. “Okay, Granny. Read.”

  He snarls his lip at me but begins the letter.

  “ ‘Congratulations on your new dog, darling! I’m thrilled for you. You loved animals so much as a child, but at some point in your adulthood you must have tucked away that passion. I’m not sure why, though I have my suspicions.’ ”

  “Andrew was a neat-freak. She knew that.”

  “ ‘Do you remember the stray collie that befriended us when we lived in Rogers Park? You named him Leroy and begged us to let you keep him. You probably don’t know this, but I went to bat for you. I pleaded with Charles to let you keep Leroy, but he was quite persnickety. He couldn’t tolerate an animal in the house. Too smelly, he said.’ ”

  I snatch the letter from Brad’s clutches and re-read the last two sentences. “Maybe I really did choose someone just like Charles, hoping to make him love me.”

  He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “But you realize it now. You’ll never have to please Charles Bohlinger—or any other man—to prove that you’re lovable.”

  I let his words sink in. “Yeah. My mother’s secret freed me. If only she’d told me sooner.”

  “ ‘Take good care of your mutt—it is a mutt, isn’t it? Will you allow your pet to sleep upstairs? If so, may I suggest you remove the duvet? It’s very costly to have it dry-cleaned.