The Life List Read online

  I laugh. What do you know? Gorgeous and funny.

  “And when you used your full names, the idiots never made the Sesame Street connection?” Jay asks.

  “Nope.” He leans into the table and holds up his index finger, as if he’s standing at a lectern. “Though technically they were morons, not idiots. You see, an idiot is a dumb person whose mental age is less than three years, while a moron is a dumb person whose mental age is between seven and twelve.”

  The three of us stare at him, speechless. Finally, Jay laughs and slaps his back. “Get a life, you repugnant pedant!” He shakes his head and reaches for the brandy bottle. “Another drink?”

  It’s after midnight when we say good-bye to Jay and Shelley. Herbert walks me to my car. We stand under a star-strewn sky, and I plant my hands in my coat pockets.

  “That was fun,” I say.

  “It was. I’d love to see you again. Are you free at all next week?”

  I wait for my heart to leap from my chest, but it just keeps beating its regular steady rhythm. “I’m free Wednesday night.”

  “Could I take you to dinner, say, sevenish?”

  “Sounds great.”

  He leans over and pecks me on the cheek, then opens my car door. “I’ll call you Monday to confirm. Drive safely.”

  I drive away, wondering what my mom would think of Herbert. Would he be the kind of man she would choose for my future husband and the father of my children? I think so. Did she play a part in setting me up with him? I’m guessing she might have.

  I look both ways at an intersection and see it on my passenger seat. The bottle of Malbec I journeyed uptown for. I forgot to take it in. What a pointless trip—except for that glimpse of my Burberry man.

  The next three weeks dissolve as quickly as the last patches of snow. As planned, Herbert and I have dinner Wednesday night, which leads to dozens of phone calls and six additional dates, each one a bit more interesting than the one before. He has so many qualities I genuinely love, like when I’m telling a funny story and the corners of his lips curl into a smile before I even reach the punch line. Or the way he makes sure I’m his final telephone call, because he wants me to be the last person he talks to before he drifts off to sleep.

  But other things—small, insignificant, quirky things—nearly derail me. Like the way he refers to himself as Doctor Moyer to everyone he meets, as if the waitress or the maître d’ actually needs to know his title. And when they assume he’s a medical doctor rather than a man with a doctoral degree in history, he doesn’t correct them.

  But wasn’t I the one who told Megan and Shelley that life isn’t perfect? That we’re all just getting through this journey as best we can, and we need to compromise? And it’s hardly fair to call Herbert a compromise. In every objective way, he’s a catch-and-a-half.

  Yesterday we celebrated Chicago’s favorite and most raucous holiday, Saint Patrick’s Day. But rather than swilling green beer with a mob of friends alongside the emerald-dyed river, like Andrew and I used to do, Herbert served me Irish fondue by candlelight. It felt very grown-up and dignified. He chose the movie Once to watch afterward, a romantic musical set in Dublin. I lay cuddled in his arms on the sofa, marveling at his thoughtfulness. Later, we stood on his deck and gazed out at a moonlit Lake Michigan. A breeze blew in and he wrapped me in his coat. Holding me snug against his chest, he pointed out the constellations.

  “Most people refer to the Big Dipper as a constellation, but it is actually an asterism. The stars of the dipper are part of the larger constellation Ursa Major.”

  “Huh,” I said, studying the star-strewn heavens. “Just think, next Thursday I’ll be up in that very sky, on my way to Seattle.”

  “I’ll miss you,” he said, brushing his cheek against my hair. “I’m growing quite fond of you, you know.”

  A snicker burst from my chest before I had time to tamp it down. “C’mon Herbert, growing quite fond? Who uses terms like, growing quite fond?”

  He stared at me, and I thought I’d gone too far. But then his face flooded with humor and he offered up his dazzling white grin. “All right, smarty-pants, so I’m not exactly hip. Welcome to the world of nerd dating.”

  I smiled. “Nerd dating?”

  “That’s right. In case you haven’t heard, we nerds happen to be the best-kept secret in the dating world. We’re smart, successful, we never cheat. Hell, we’re just happy someone actually likes us.” He turned his gaze to the lake. “And we make excellent marriage material.”

  For four years I couldn’t get Andrew to utter the M word. And there was Herbert, hinting at it after only six dates.

  I pressed closer to him. “I think I’m going to like nerd dating,” I said. And I meant it.

  The bright morning rays stream through my office window, and I hum while I pack my satchel for the day ahead. I’m searching for a watercolor paint set for my new kindergartner when the telephone rings. It’s Garrett.

  “I’m glad I caught you before you left the office. Peter had another violent outburst last night. Autumn couldn’t contain him. Luckily, the neighbors heard the ruckus and came to help. I’d hate to think what Peter might have done.”

  “Oh, no! Poor Autumn.” I rub my arms, imagining the horrible scene.

  “I just got off the phone with the folks at New Pathways. They’ve agreed to open a spot for him. He’ll start later this week, but as of today there will be no more homebound visits.”

  A surprising melancholy comes over me. Against all odds, I was still hoping for a happy ending—an ending where Peter made progress and was able to return to his old school, the one with ordinary kids who don’t need therapy two times a day.

  “But I never even got to say good-bye.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell him for you.”

  “And remind him how smart he is, tell him I wish him luck.”

  “Absolutely.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his tone is gentle. “You learn with these cases that you can’t save them all. It’s a tough lesson, especially for someone like you, who’s young and idealistic. I was the same way when I first started my practice.”

  “It feels like I’m deserting him,” I say. “Maybe if I’d had more time …”

  “No,” he says firmly. “I’m sorry, Brett, I’m not going to let you second-guess yourself. You did everything you could to help Peter, and then some. And you’ve been a tremendous help to me. I’ve really enjoyed working with you.”

  “I liked working with you, too.” My voice breaks. I’m shocked at how choked up I am, knowing I’m losing my connection to this man I’ve come to love and trust. I clear my throat. “I want to thank you. You were really there for me, not just with Peter, but with everything I was going through.”

  “It was a pleasure. Truly.” He hesitates a moment, and when he speaks his tone is lighter. “You do realize, don’t you, that you still owe me a drink?”

  The question catches me off-guard. It’s been weeks since we last mentioned that drink. I’ve come a long way since those bleak days last January when I was frantic to find a man and fall in love. Now I’m dating, arguably, the most eligible man in Chicago. Still, a part of me is curious about Dr. Taylor. I rub my temples.

  “Um, yeah, sure.”

  “Everything okay?” Garret asks. “You seem hesitant.”

  I blow out a stream of air. Hell, I’ve told the man everything else, I may as well be upfront now. “I’d love to meet you for a drink. It’s just that I started seeing someone recently …”

  “Not a problem,” Garrett says. He’s so gracious that I feel silly now. He probably had no romantic intentions whatsoever, and thinks I’m full of myself for assuming he did. “I hope things work out for you, Brett.”

  “Yeah, well, thanks.”

  “Listen, I’ll let you go. Let’s keep in touch.”

  “Yes, let’s,” I say, knowing that we won’t.

  I hang up from the last conversation I’ll have with Dr. Taylor. Like the final chapter
of a book, it’s bittersweet. There will be no more help from Garrett, and certainly no romance. And deep inside I realize it’s probably for the best. I’ve got Herbert now, and a new family I’m about to meet. Maybe Dr. Taylor really was a character in my mother’s play. He entered at a critical point, just when I needed him, and exited stage right, exactly as the script intended.

  I find the paint set I was searching for and grab my coat. I turn out the lights and close the door, making sure to lock it behind me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  I watch the city of Seattle take shape from the window of the 757. It’s a cloudy afternoon, but once we begin our descent, the ribbons of Lake Washington appear. It’s beautiful, this jigsaw piece of land surrounded by threads of blue water. I search the cityscape and nearly cry out when I spy the Space Needle. The plane descends and miniature blocks of houses emerge. I stare, mesmerized, knowing somewhere down there, in one of those little blocks of concrete and wood, lives a man and his daughter, my father and my half sister.

  Along with the other passengers, I traipse to baggage claim, where hordes of people await their travelers. I search out the faces. Some seem impatient, holding up hand-printed signs with names on them. Others seem excited, bouncing on the balls of their feet while seeking out the passengers. One by one, everyone around me seems to claim their friends and relatives. But I stand alone, sweaty and nauseous.

  I scan the crowd for a dark-haired man with a twelve-year-old girl. Where are you, Johnny and Zoë? Did they forget I was coming today? Could Zoë have fallen ill again? I pull my cell phone from my purse. I’m checking for messages when I hear my name.

  “Brett?”

  I spin around. In front of me stands a tall, silver-haired man. He’s clean-shaven and borderline preppy. His eyes find mine, and when he smiles I see the man from the video, the man he was thirty-four years ago. I hide my trembling chin and nod.

  As if he, too, doesn’t trust his voice, he opens his arms to me. I step to him, closing my eyes and breathing in the scent of his leather coat. I let my head fall against the cool leather and he rocks me back and forth. For the first time, I know what it feels like to be held by my father.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, finally pulling away and holding me at arm’s length. “You look just like your mother.”

  “But I got my height from you, I see.”

  “Your eyes, too.” He takes my face in his hands and stares into it. “My God, I’m glad you found me.”

  Joy floods my soul. “Me too.”

  He tosses my carry-on bag over his shoulder and drapes his other arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get your suitcase, then we’ll pick Zoë up from school. She’s nearly beside herself with excitement.”

  We talk nonstop on our way to Franklin L. Nelson Center, Zoë’s private school. Every question he’d failed to ask during our phone conversations he asks now. I can’t stop grinning. My father is actually interested in me, and what’s more, there’s an ease and familiarity between us that I hadn’t even dared hope for. But when he veers down the tree-lined entrance to the school, the ugly jealous monster inside me springs to life again. As excited as I am to meet Zoë, I want more time with Johnny. Alone. When she climbs into the car, I’ll be the outsider once again, a role I’ve grown weary of.

  Nelson Center is a sprawling, one-story building, beautifully landscaped and tended. Tuition here must cost a fortune.

  “School isn’t over for another ten minutes, but Zoë wanted her classmates to meet her new sister. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  He holds open one of the steel double doors and I pass through to a large vestibule. On a wooden bench, a little girl wearing a navy uniform sits swinging her legs in front of her. She jumps to her feet when she sees me, but then hesitates. When John moves through the door, she lets out a whoop.

  “Daddy!” Her round face is utterly gleeful. She lumbers full force toward us and locks her pudgy arms around my hips. I hug her, but she only comes to my rib cage. John looks on, grinning.

  “Okay, Zoë,” he says, tapping the top of her head. “Better let your sister breathe.”

  She finally loosens her grip on me. “You my sister,” she declares.

  I squat down next to her and gaze into her smooth, alabaster face. How could I have ever resented this angel? Her shiny hair is dark, like her dad’s and mine. But unlike our brown eyes, hers are green and shrouded with extra folds of skin.

  “Yes, I am. We’re sisters, you and I.”

  She smiles at me and the shiny, sea-green marbles become half-moon slits. Her thick pink tongue peeks out from between a vast overbite. I instantly love this girl who is my sister … this girl who has Down syndrome.

  With one hand in John’s and the other in mine, she pulls us down the hall toward her classroom. Along the way, John points out some of the special facilities at the school. One hallway is designed as a city street. Storefronts line both sides of the brick street, with traffic lights and crossing signals at each intersection.

  “This area teaches the kids how to cross streets safely, how to interact with store clerks, how to figure money when purchasing items, and so forth.”

  When we finally reach Zoë’s classroom, we step into a frenzy of activity as Miss Cindy, Zoë’s bright-eyed teacher, and her assistant, Mr. Kopec, work to get their eight mentally challenged students ready for dismissal. Mr. Kopec zips the coat of a boy behind a walker. “Harvey, you need to keep your coat zipped, ya hear? It’s cold out there today.”

  “Who’s missing a scarf?” Miss Cindy calls from the coatroom, holding up a red snake of wool.

  “Look,” Zoë announces in her raspy voice. “This my sister.” With that, her face erupts in joy, and she rubs her palms together like she’s making fire. Gripping my hand, she leads me around the room, pointing to pictures on the wall, showing me the fish tank, telling me the names of her friends. In all my life, I’ve never felt more worshiped.

  Before we leave, John drives us around the thirty-acre Nelson complex. Zoë points to the playground.

  “Her favorite place,” John says, reaching behind him to squeeze Zoë’s leg. “And there’s the greenhouse, where the kids learn to tend plants.”

  We cruise past clay tennis courts and a newly paved asphalt track. Passing a red barn, I spot a wooden sign: THERAPEUTIC HORSEBACK RIDING PROGRAM.

  “What’s that?”

  “That was the equine center. The kids learned to ride horses. The original intent was to help with their balance and coordination, but you’d be amazed what it did for their self-confidence.”

  “Pluto!” Zoë cries from the backseat.

  John smiles into his rearview mirror. “Yeah, you loved that ol’ horse, Pluto.” He glances at me. “It was an expensive program. With budget cuts, they had to shut it down last fall.”

  In my mind, a lightbulb flickers to life.

  As promised on SeattleTravel.com, the drizzle hasn’t let up since I arrived. But that’s fine with me. I’m perfectly content to stay inside John and Zoë’s cozy brick ranch on Friday. Brightly colored rugs cover the oak floors, and wooden bookshelves span the walls. In every available space and cranny I find interesting paintings and artwork, all from places John visited when he was a traveling musician. Zoë was allowed to play hooky today, and the three of us sit on a Navajo rug playing Crazy Eights while obscure indie musicians seduce me on the stereo.

  It’s six o’clock in the evening, and John decides it’s time to fix his famous eggplant Parmesan. Zoë and I follow him into the kitchen and make a salad.

  “Okay, Zoë, now we shake it, just like this.” I shake the salad dressing carafe and hand it to her. “Your turn.”

  “I make dressing,” she says, shaking the glass container with both hands. But suddenly, the plastic lid loosens. Ranch dressing explodes, raining down the cabinets and pooling onto the counter-top.

  “I’m so sorry!” I cry. “I didn’t check the lid.” I grab a dishcl
oth, anxious to clean up the mess that I’ve created. But behind me, I hear laughter.

  “Zoë, come take a look at yourself!”

  I spin around and see John leading Zoë to the oven door, where she can see her reflection. Blobs of white dressing cling to her hair and dot her face. Zoë thinks it’s hilarious. She scoops a dab from her cheek and licks her fingers.

  “Yummy yummy.”

  John laughs and pretends to snack on a lock of her hair. She squeals with delight. I watch this father–daughter scene, so unlike any in my memory, and work to etch it forever into my mind.

  When we finally sit down to eat, John lifts his wineglass. “To my beautiful daughters,” he says. “I am a lucky man.”

  Zoë lifts her tumbler of milk, and we all clink glasses.

  After lighthearted dinner conversation, we loiter at the oak table, listening to tales of John’s early days after leaving Chicago. When he sees Zoë rubbing her eyes, he pushes back from the table.

  “Let’s get you into your PJs, sleepy girl. It’s bedtime.”

  “No. I stay with my sister.”

  “Zoë?” I ask. “Can I help you get ready for bed tonight?”

  Her eyes go wide and she slips from her chair, grabbing me by the hand. We’re nearly out of the kitchen when she glances back at her dad. “You stay. My sister help me.”

  John chuckles. “Okay, Miss Bossy Pants.”

  She leads me into her cotton-candy palace of lavenders and pinks. Tieback lace curtains frame the windows, and her small bed is a jungle of stuffed animals.

  “I love your room,” I say, clicking on her bedside lamp.

  She changes into purple Tinker Bell pajamas and I help her brush her teeth. Then she climbs into her twin bed and pats a place beside her. “You go sleep now.”

  “Can I read you a story?”

  “Libya!” she says. “Libya!”

  I crouch down in front of her book nook and search the titles for a story about Libya, to no avail. Finally, I spot a story about a pig named Olivia.