The Life List Read online

  “This one?” I ask, holding up the book.

  She grins. “Libya!” I snuggle up beside her and lay my head on the pillow next to hers. She turns to me, smelling of peppermint toothpaste and vanilla shampoo, and kisses my cheek. “Read,” she commands, pointing to the book.

  Midway through the story, her breathing slows and her eyes fall shut. Taking great care, I unbraid my arm from beneath her neck and douse the bedside lamp. The room glows pink from her Little Mermaid night-light.

  “I love you, Zoë,” I whisper, bending down to kiss her cheek. “What a lesson you are to me.”

  When I return to the kitchen, the table is cleared and the dishwasher hums. I refill my wineglass and move to the living room, where John sits with his guitar perched like a toddler on his knee. He smiles when he sees me.

  “Have a seat. Can I get you anything? More wine? A cup of coffee?”

  I lift my glass. “All set.” I sit down on the chair next to his, admiring the dark glossy wood-and-ivory inlay of his guitar. “That’s beautiful.”

  “Thanks. I love this old Gibson.” He plucks a few notes before ducking out from under the leather strap. “It’s what kept me sane during those times in life when the waters were rising faster than I could bail.” With the care of a lover, he places the instrument in its metal cradle. “Do you play?”

  “I’m afraid that gene sailed right past me.”

  He chuckles. “What were you like as a child, Brett?”

  We settle back in our chairs and for the next two hours exchange questions and stories, tales and anecdotes, trying to fill in the missing pieces to a thirty-four-year puzzle.

  “You remind me so much of your mother,” he says.

  “That’s such a compliment. I miss her so much.”

  His eyes are heavy, and he looks down at his hands. “Yeah, me too.”

  “Did you ever try to keep in touch with her?”

  His jaw twitches ever so slightly. As if it’s his talisman, he pulls the guitar from its cradle and sets it on his knee. Keeping his eyes downcast, he picks at the strings, sending random, melancholy notes adrift. Finally he looks up at me.

  “Charles Bohlinger was a piece of work.” He blows out a stream of air as if he’d been holding it for three decades. “I wanted to marry your mother. Leaving her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I loved her the way I’ve never loved another woman. Ever.”

  I shake my head. “But you broke her heart, John. It was clear from her journal that she would have left Charles and followed you, but you didn’t want to settle down.”

  He flinches. “That’s not exactly true. You see, when your dad found out—”

  “Charles,” I say, interrupting him. “He was never a dad to me.”

  John looks at me and nods. “When Charles found out your mother and I had fallen in love, he was livid. He forced her to make a decision, either him or me. She looked him square in the eyes and said she loved me.” He smiles, as if the memory is still sweet. “She marched out of the kitchen then. Before I could follow her, Charles grabbed me by the arm. He promised me that if Elizabeth left, she’d never see her boys again.”

  “What? He couldn’t do that.”

  “Remember, that was back in the seventies. Things were different then. He swore he’d testify that she was a slut, an unfit mother. I smoked my share of weed back then, and he threatened to paint me as the pothead boyfriend. It wasn’t hard to figure out whom the courts would side with. I was nothing but a liability to her.”

  “God, that’s horrible.”

  “Losing Joad and Jay would have killed her. In the end I lied, so she wouldn’t have to choose. I told her I didn’t want a permanent relationship.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear a bad dream. “That nearly did me in. But I knew your mother. If she lost her boys she’d never recover.

  “We stood on the front porch. It was hotter than hell that afternoon. All the windows in the house were open. I was sure Charles was listening. But I didn’t care. I told your mother I loved her, that I’d always love her. But I just wasn’t the staying kind. I swear to God she saw through me. When she kissed me good-bye for the last time, she whispered, ‘You know where to find me.’ ”

  I ache for the sad woman in the navy maxi coat, pulling her sons in the wagon. “She thought you’d come back for her.”

  John nods, composing himself before continuing. “God, I can still see those eyes, green as the Irish hills and unwavering in their belief in me.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “But they divorced later. Couldn’t you have gone to her then?”

  “I lost track of her. Once I left, I convinced myself I’d done the right thing. I tried my damnedest not to torture myself with what-ifs. For years this old guitar was about the only thing that brought me any pleasure.

  “Fifteen years later I met Zoë’s mother. We were together eight years, though we never married.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “Melinda moved back to Aspen—that’s where her family lives. Motherhood wasn’t her thing.”

  I want to know more, but don’t ask. I’m guessing a child with Down syndrome wasn’t her thing.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “for all your losses.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m the last person who deserves sympathy. Life is good, as they say.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And only getting better.”

  I smile at him. “I wonder why my mom didn’t contact you when she divorced, or after Charles died.”

  “My guess is that in those early days she waited for me, expecting a letter or a phone call, some form of contact. But as time passed, and that letter never arrived, she decided I didn’t love her after all.”

  A shiver goes through me. Did my mother die thinking the love of her life was a fraud? Suddenly I blurt out a question that has been plaguing me for weeks.

  “John, why haven’t you asked for a paternity test? Or maybe you do want one, which is fine with me.”

  “No. No, I don’t. Not for a moment did I doubt you were my daughter.”

  “Why not? Everyone else questioned it. I could be Charles’s daughter just as easily as I am yours.”

  He pauses and strums a random chord. “Charles had a vasectomy after Jay was born. Your mother told me about it soon after we became friends.”

  I blink, stunned. “He knew I wasn’t his child? God, no wonder he didn’t like me.”

  “And he’d only have to take a look at you if he needed further proof.”

  “I was an unwanted pregnancy. I never knew that.”

  “Now, that’s where you’re wrong. Your mother was devastated when she found out he’d had the procedure. She told me so. She’d wanted another child. In fact, she told me she’d always wanted a daughter.”

  “She did?”

  “Very much. You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when Mr. Pohlonski informed me I’d given her such a priceless gift.”

  I lift my hand to my mouth. “And she gave the gift back to us when she left me that journal.”

  His eyes smile and he reaches out his hand to me. “You’re the gift that keeps on giving.”

  ——

  By Saturday, it feels like I’m leaving my family rather than the two strangers I met on arrival. I squat next to Zoë in the airport lobby and hug her to my chest. She clings to me, clutching my sweater. When she pulls away, she holds out her thumb.

  “My sister.”

  I press my thumb against hers, our new ritual. “I love you, my sister. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

  John pulls me into a giant bear hug. His arms are strong and protective, the way I always imagined a father’s hug would be. I breathe deeply and close my eyes. The scent of his leather jacket mingles with his spicy cologne, smells that will forever be my dad’s. Finally, he loosens his grip and holds me at arm’s length.

  “When can we see you again?”

  “Come to Chicago,” I say. “I want everyone to meet you and Zoë.”

/>   “We will.” He kisses me and pats my back. “Now scoot, before you miss your flight.”

  “Wait. I have something for you.” I reach into my bag and retrieve my mother’s leather journal. “I want you to have this.”

  He nestles it in both his hands as if it were the Holy Grail. I see the little muscle in his jaw twitch, and I kiss his cheek.

  “If you ever doubted her love for you, you won’t once you’ve read this. All of Elizabeth’s feelings are here, in black and white.”

  “Are there other journals? Did she continue to write after I left?”

  “No. I searched the house wondering the same thing, but I never found another. I think her story ended with you.”

  Five hours later, the plane touches down at O’Hare. I glance at my watch. Ten thirty-five, twelve minutes early. I turn on my cell phone and discover a text message from Herbert. Meet you at baggage claim.

  I’ve never dated a nicer guy. Now I won’t have to hail a cab. I won’t have to schlep these bags by myself. I’ll get to see Herbert. But for the life of me, I can’t muster any enthusiasm. I must be tired. All I can think about is getting home to my little apartment in Pilsen, climbing into bed, and calling Zoë.

  As promised, I find him in baggage claim, sitting in a metal-and-Naugahyde sling chair, reading what appears to be a textbook. His face comes alive when he sees me. He jumps up and I step into the arms of the most gorgeous man in the airport.

  “Welcome home,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ve missed you.”

  I pull away and stare up at him. He’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. “Thanks. I missed you, too.”

  We stand holding hands, watching the conveyer belt spit suitcases. In front of us, a baby peers over her mother’s shoulder, wearing a pink headband with a bright green daisy attached to it. With wide blue eyes, she stares at Herbert, quite possibly appreciating the view. Herbert leans in and smiles at her.

  “Hey cutie,” he says. “Aren’t you a pretty girl.”

  Already a flirt, the baby breaks into a wet, dimpled grin. Herbert laughs aloud and turns to me. “Is there anything more transcendent than a baby’s smile?”

  It takes me a second to translate transcendent. I think he means extraordinary. And at this moment, I think he’s transcendent, too. On impulse I lean in and kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

  He cocks his head. “What for?”

  “For picking me up at the airport. And for appreciating a baby’s smile.”

  His face turns pink and he turns his attention to the carousel. “I heard something about a life list you’re supposed to complete.”

  I groan. “My brother has a big mouth.”

  He chuckles. “One of your goals was to have kids, wasn’t it?”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, trying to sound casual. But inside my chest there’s a drummer on steroids. “What about you? Do you want kids someday?”

  “Absolutely. I love kids.”

  My suitcase falls from the chute. I step forward to fetch it but Herbert grabs hold of my arm. “I’ve got it.”

  As he steps to the carousal, the baby’s eyes find mine. She studies me, as if sizing me up, deciding whether I’d make a decent mommy. I’m reminded of my time line—the one imposed by both Mother Elizabeth and Mother Nature—and wait for the familiar wave of panic to strike. But this time it doesn’t.

  In one fell swoop, Herbert scoops up my bag and returns to my side.

  “Are we all set?” he asks. “Do you have everything you need?”

  I glance at the baby, as if for confirmation. A smile lights her face. I fit my hand into the crook of Herbert’s elbow. “Yes, I believe I do.”

  After letting Rudy out for his four A.M. potty break, I fall back into bed, taking full advantage of Sunday by sleeping until nine o’clock. My excuse is that I’m still on Pacific Time. When I finally rise, I take my coffee into my sunny living room and work the Tribune crossword puzzle, feeling positively decadent and happy. Rudy lies curled on the rug beside me, watching me knock off the puzzle, square by square. Finally, I pull myself from the sofa and go to my closet, where I swap my pajamas for my sweats. I clip Rudy’s leash to his collar, and he turns in circles, anticipating our outing. Clutching my iPod and sunglasses, I push open the front door and scamper down the stairs.

  Rudy and I start off with a leisurely stroll. I lift my face to the sun, marveling at the cloudless blue sky and the promise of spring in the air. Gusts of Chicago wind lap my cheeks, but unlike the hateful, ill-tempered gales of February, the late-March winds are kinder, more charitable, almost tender. Rudy pulls ahead of me and I have to tug at his leash to keep him from dragging me away. I check my watch when I reach 18th Street, secure my earbuds, and break into a run.

  Eighteenth Street is a bustling commercial corridor with Mexican bakeries, restaurants, and grocery stores on either side. As I jog along the sidewalk, I realize my mother was right to make me venture out of my comfort zone. I never dreamed I could call a place so modest and humble my home. I picture my mother in the heavens, perched in her director’s chair with a bullhorn in her hand, calling the shots for each scene of my life. Now that Herbert’s a character in my play, I can actually imagine falling in love and having babies—two goals I doubted I’d ever accomplish, let alone in a matter of months.

  We’re all the way to Harrison Park when Rudy finally poops out. We rest a minute, then stroll back toward home. Along the way, my thoughts linger on Herbert Moyer.

  He’s remarkable. Last night when we left the airport, it was clear he wanted me to spend the night. And I was tempted. But when I told him I needed to retrieve Rudy, that I was exhausted and wanted to sleep in my own bed, he completely understood. I’m convinced the term gentleman was coined for Herbert Moyer. What’s more, he’s the most doting man I’ve ever dated. He opens doors, pulls out chairs … I swear if I asked him, he’d carry my purse. I’ve never felt more adored.

  So why, I ask myself now, didn’t I spend the night with him? Dog or no dog, you couldn’t have kept me away from Andrew. And it has nothing to do with Herbert’s ability as a lover. He’s wonderful—more attentive than Andrew ever was. Herbert is exactly the kind of man I’d hoped to find and everything my mother would have wanted for me.

  But still, a part of me is resisting his love. I worry sometimes whether I’m capable of a “normal” relationship, because if I’m totally honest with myself, sometimes I find Herbert’s attention and kindness suffocating. I’m worried that what feels normal to me, what I’ve grown most comfortable with, are cold, detached guys like Charles Bohlinger and Andrew Benson. But I cannot—I will not—screw this up. I’m wiser now, more aware, and I refuse to let my past destroy my future. Guys like Herbert Moyer are as rare as genuine Louis Vuitton handbags, and I need to thank my lucky stars that I’ve found the real deal.

  In the distance my house comes into view. I unclip Rudy’s leash and we race to the front door. From its place on the end table, the light of my cell phone blinks. Herbert wants me to help him pick out bar stools today. He’s probably eager to get going. I click on the voice message.

  “Brett, it’s Jean Anderson. Sanquita’s in labor. I’m taking her to Cook County Memorial. She’s asking for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Blood rushes to my head. I bound down the stairs and pound on Selina and Blanca’s door, breathless, asking if they could keep Rudy. On the way to the hospital I call Herbert.

  “Hey,” he says. “I was just going to call you. Can you be ready in an hour?”

  “Go ahead with your shopping plans without me. I’m on my way to the hospital. Sanquita’s in labor.”

  “I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Say a prayer. She’s still seven weeks from her due date. I’m so worried, for her and this baby.”

  “Of course. Let me know if I can be of any help.”

  The hospital entrance looms ahead and I slow down. “Thanks. I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  I p
unch off my phone, marveling at Herbert’s compassion. Andrew would never understand my need to be here with Sanquita. He’d make me feel guilty for ruining his plans. Herbert is a prince, no question about it.

  Miss Jean pushes herself up from a black vinyl chair and rushes to me when I enter the small waiting room. She grips my arm and we move as one into the hall.

  “It’s not good,” she tells me, her lids hanging heavy over her eyes. “They’re doing an emergency C-section. Her potassium level is too high. They’re afraid she’ll go into cardiac arrest.”

  Just as Dr. Chan warned us. “How’s the baby?”

  “Distressed as all get-out.” She shakes her head and puts a tissue to her nose. “This shouldn’t be happening. That girl has too much life in her. And that baby made it this far, it can’t die now.”

  “They’re not going to die,” I say, with more conviction than I feel. “Don’t lose faith now. Everyone’s going to be fine.”

  She glares at me with knitted brow. “You people think every storm ends with a rainbow. It’s not that way with black folk. This story isn’t going to have a happy ending. You might just as well know that now.”

  I take a step back, stabbed by another blade of fear.

  Twenty minutes later, a physician steps into the waiting room, plucking her paper mask from her face. She’s a young brunette who looks like she should be cheering at a high school football game instead of delivering babies. “Sanquita Bell?” she asks, her eyes scanning the waiting room.

  Jean and I bolt from our chairs and meet her halfway into the room.

  “How is she?” I ask. My heart’s drumming so fast I fear I might pass out before I hear the news.

  “I’m Dr. O’Connor,” she says. “Miss Bell delivered a two-pound, four-ounce baby girl.”

  “Healthy?” I manage to croak.

  Dr. O’Connor takes in a breath. “She’s extremely malnourished and her lungs aren’t fully developed. I’ve ordered a CPAP until she can breathe on her own. They’ve taken her to NICU—the neonatal intensive care unit.” She shakes her head. “All things considered, she’s a miracle, that little peanut.”