But when their dad died, they grew closer, and the age gap mattered less. They called each other a few times a day, whispering their grief and shock, crying with each other. Lauren went to visit all the time, holding Sebastian, laughing at his sweetness, crying because her dad wasn’t there to see it. As time passed and the shock of grief lessened, they just got closer.
Lauren’s relationship with her mother, on the other hand, shriveled. Donna had always been the competent, brisk, all-knowing, all-powerful parent, but when her husband died, she crumbled. It was completely understandable. A love like Donner-n-Dave’s, as Rhode Islanders pronounced it, didn’t happen often. They had been the envy of all who knew them. Donna didn’t seem to notice that her daughters had also lost someone incredibly important. Her focus was on herself, which wasn’t exactly a surprise, as Jen and Lauren discussed. She’d been a good mother, totally solid, but not the kind who paid a lot of attention to her girls. As a teacher, her students ate up a lot of her patience. She wasn’t cruel . . . it was just that the girls (especially Lauren) were something of an afterthought. Husband, job, community, and oh, yeah, two daughters, too!
Lauren had always felt that if she were, say, kidnapped, it would take her mother a week or so to notice she was gone. “Shoot, where’s that Lauren got off to?” she might say, failing to notice the ransom note taped to the door.
But her dad . . . her dad would’ve charged to her rescue.
When he died, the family seemed diminished by a lot more than one-fourth. It was like 90 percent of them were dead, too.
Grief, you see, is lonely for everyone involved. Mom had lost her life partner. Jen didn’t have the luxury of grieving the way Lauren did, not with a baby to care for, and her sorrow had to be dealt with in bits and pieces. And Lauren had to live with the knowledge that Dad wouldn’t see all the important milestones of her adult life—graduation from college, job, first apartment, getting married, having kids. He was just . . . gone.
It was thoughts like those that could bring a person to her knees.
But she was her father’s child, and with the help of a good therapist, her sister’s love, Sarah’s rocklike friendship and the new friends she made in college, she kept on moving forward. She was a weeper, thank God, so there were no repressed emotions.
She wanted to live a life her dad would be proud of. That she would be proud of. Parents die. Disney taught that right from the beginning. When the tears came, sometimes predictably, sometimes taking her by surprise, she gave herself five minutes for a full-on sob, then got back to the stuff at hand. She changed majors. Got a good internship that morphed into a job offer.
And then, that day after graduation, she made her list.
Lists had magical powers, Lauren thought. All that crap about writing down your dreams and checking in? It worked. It had gotten her through college, especially after her dad died, keeping her focused and punctual.
This list would be different. It would be a life list.
She went to her laptop—who was she, Jane Austen?—and dared to dream big. No one else would see it, after all, so why not put it all out there?
When she was done, it felt good. It made her feel oddly safe. Over the next few years, she looked at it periodically. She liked checking back in and crossing things off. She’d add things, too. And somewhere along the line, she started writing to her dad about the things on the list, or just life in general. It never failed to make her heart ache in the most painful and wonderful way, this little communication with her dad in the Great Beyond.
She got three promotions in her first two years at Pearl Churchwell Harris, Architects, putting in long hours, hitting it off with her boss, Bruce Churchwell, the Mighty and Beneficent. With her third raise, she left the apartment she shared with two other women and got a tiny one of her own. She made time for her sister, mom and friends. She dated, though very casually. She volunteered at a community center and rode her bike on the weekends.
And then, life changed with the kind of pulse that makes the world stop for a second, that lets you listen to the breath of stars and ocean. The day you recognize your life will never be the same.
* * *
THAT MOMENT CAME on a Friday in early February, and a snowstorm earlier in the week left Providence looking snug and warm, like a movie set. Walking to the Hope Center, Lauren had delighted in the prettiness of the city; going home, she wasn’t sure she saw a thing.
Oh, no. Her mind was too busy for that, even as her breath fogged in the cold air, and cars drove carefully down the snow-narrowed streets.
She needed to document this night, to talk with someone who would understand that this was it, the day she saw her future. Someone who would cherish her news and not say the wrong thing, but would understand the glow, the ember of something beautiful.
Her dad, obviously.
She came home to her little apartment in the old mill building, flicked on the lights, shrugged out of her raincoat and slipped off her painful, beautiful high heels. Usually, she took a moment to appreciate her home—she was a designer, after all—but tonight, she had things to do.
She wanted to do this properly, because it felt so momentous. Almost as if writing to her dad would make it official. So, not wanting to rush it, she went to the kitchen and took out a bottle, trying to make every movement deliberate, special, memorable. She unscrewed the cap and poured the wine into one of the very cool (and cheap) wineglasses she’d bought from IKEA. Held it up to the light to appreciate the lovely golden color.
She took her wine to the velvet couch her mother had told her not to buy. (“Why would you want a red couch? It looks like it’s drenched in blood.”) Settled herself, took a sip of the wine, set the glass on the coffee table and opened up her laptop with a great sense of anticipation welling in her chest.
Lauren had just come from the opening of the community center where she volunteered. Two years ago, she’d suggested to Asmaa Quayum, the director, that the place needed an overhaul. Four grants later, after countless hours of pro bono design work and sweat equity from dozens of volunteers, the Hope Center had opened its new and beautiful doors to celebrate the transformation.
The event had been packed with donors, community members and the kids who’d helped paint and decorate. All three bosses from Pearl Churchwell Harris were there, smiling approvingly. Jen and Darius had come (her mother had not, but that was probably just as well). The RISD interior design class had come, as well as half a dozen former classmates.
Including one surprise guest.
Lauren took a deep breath, a sip of wine, and opened the list she’d started three years ago now. She’d updated it a dozen or more times, this path for her life, when she had felt a little lost and uncertain, when she wanted to reassure herself, when she felt lonely or unsure . . . or just when she wanted to feel close to her father. Some of the things on the list were to be expected, some were a little silly, and some were completely sincere.
THINGS TO DO IN THE NEXT FIVE YEARS
Get your dream job.
Find a great apartment.
Make a difference in the community.
Have little kids run up to you because they adore you.
Do something that would make Jen proud.
Buy and wear a really fancy dress to a significant event.
Meet the man you’ll marry.
She started typing.
February 6
Dear Dad,
Do I have news for you.
Today was a big day. My first solo project opened! The Hope Community Center. This was a big deal, not just for me but for Providence, Dad. We need a place like this, and even though it was there before, it was kind of grim and industrial, not to mention underused.
Not anymore!
There were so many happy families there tonight . . . I admit, I felt a little holy a
nd saintlike. But seriously! Saintlike! Parents now have a cool place to hang out, take classes, meet each other, and it’s all free. Kids have all sorts of activities—art, dance, computer classes. There’s a teen hangout room. A toddler playscape. And it’s so flippin’ pretty! Natural light, great flow, cool colors (none of that primary color shock wall look, you know what I’m saying?).
The party was fantastic. A few local restaurants donated the food and drinks—stuffies and hot wieners and a raw bar from the Eddy. We had Del’s lemonade for the kids, wine and champagne for us grown-ups.
Oh, Dad. If you had been there, you would’ve been so proud. I was thinking about you so hard, knowing you wouldn’t have missed the opening for the world. For a second, I thought I could feel you there. I swear I caught a whiff of Aqua Velva. Thanks for that, Daddy.
I wore my fancy dress. (Armani!!! Don’t worry, I got it online for cheap, and don’t forget, I did apparel design for a year and a half.) For the opening tonight, I wanted to look the part, like a successful public space/interior designer who works for a great firm and represents the Providence community. Because, even though it still surprises me, I am that person.
Back before you died, I admit that I was a little unfocused. I mean, winning Project Runway was basically the only plan I had for the future. (Thanks for loving me just the same.) I’m so glad I’m not designing clothes and am doing this instead. Seeing those families tonight was incredible, Daddy. Feeling like they have this gorgeous place, partly because I helped . . . I felt really proud. And humbled, and lucky, and just overjoyed. What a great job I have! Next stop, I want to overhaul an ER waiting room, because I was there two weeks ago. (Dad. I have asthma. Who knew?) Anyway, it was so frickin’ ugly I almost cried. If you’re sick, you should be able to be somewhere that doesn’t look like Jean Valjean’s prison cell.
But I digress. You know how I wanted little kids to run up to me because I’d done something great? It happened. Asmaa, the director of the Hope Center, gave her speech to welcome everyone. I didn’t know she was going to do this, but she said the NICEST things about me. How hard I worked, how I went above and beyond the call, how I made this place a second home for so many. And yes, I’ve been practically living there the past year, and I do love the kiddies. But she surprised me, and my eyes filled with tears, and Jen put her arm around me, and my bosses were beaming, because they’re really nice, but also because of the great PR.
Then . . . much to my complete shock . . . Asmaa called me up to the podium to say a few words, and Jen hugged me and had tears in her eyes, and all the kids who’ve been helping or hanging out and painting the walls . . . they all ran up to me and hugged me and they were saying, “Go, Lauren! Go, Lauren!” and it was the happiest moment of my life. I have no idea what I said, but it doesn’t matter. Jen said it was perfect, bless her.
I wish you could’ve seen me, Dad. I wish that so much.
Lauren got up, blew her nose, took a hit of her inhaler, since crying made her chest feel tight, and noticed that her mascara was at Terrifying Raccoon level from the bittersweet tears. She washed her face, got into her pj’s, put her hair into a ponytail and got back to her laptop. Took another sip of wine, settled into her couch and decided that once she was done with this update, she’d have that Pepperidge Farm coconut cake in the freezer for dinner, because she hadn’t eaten much at the opening. And also to celebrate, because . . . well . . . something important was coming to an end. Even more importantly, something else was about to begin.
Before we get on to the last thing on my list, Daddy, I have a little story to tell you. When I was a freshman, back in the good old days when you were alive, I went to a party. Which, you know, I did probably more than I should, but in hindsight, thank God I had fun then, because your death really took the wind out of my sails, Father. So I’m glad I got some irresponsibility in when I could.
Anyway, I was at a party, and I may have been underage drinking (I was, so go ahead and haunt me). And then this ripple went through the room, this shiver of excitement through the herd . . . because HE was here, the king of RISD, the golden boy, the future bazillionaire. Joshua Park.
Who was this young man, you ask? Let me tell you.
Joshua Park is:
extremely, extremely handsome.
apparently a certifiable genius who skipped a year in high school.
the inventor who designed something when he was 18 YEARS OLD that sold to a huge medical company for a ton of money. And then he kept doing things like that. He donated the design of something that will save premature babies and has been on CNN. Based on the rumors, he was about to invent time travel.
He was a senior at this particular party, and everyone was looking at him like he was Prince Harry. RISD’s pride and joy. Word had it that already, he had endowed the school with a million buckaroos.
Josh is also wicked handsome (I mentioned that, didn’t I?), and too cool for normal activities like parties, so he’s not just a genius and already killing it professionally . . . he also has this loner hot guy vibe. So there he is, and this swarm of people enveloped him, like bees crawling over the hive. Of course I was watching (we all were, and his name was being murmured through the crowd like a wave, Joshua Park, Joshua Park).
And then, the weirdest thing happened. I wanted to . . . I don’t know. Rescue him. I wanted to save him. He looked so stone-faced and uncomfortable, blinking a little too much, like he’d been inside for a week and had gotten his first glimpse of the sun, like a sad (extremely handsome) earthworm. My heart just went out to him.
So you know me, Dad. Save him, I would! Give him someone to talk to, someone who could help him relax and not pump him for info on how much he’s worth. Who doesn’t love your little girl, right? I’m nothing if not adorable, charming and a pretty good flirt (your daughter, after all).
I had no plans to jump him, kidnap him, rob him or trick him into marrying me. I just figured I’d meet the Golden One and befriend him and sure, see if the old Carlisle charm would work.
It didn’t.
I twisted and wove my way over, waited the appropriate amount of time as the throng told him how wonderful/amazing/brilliant he was, and finally, had my chance.
“So you’re Joshua Park,” I said. “The man, the legend.”
He didn’t answer. Looked at me and looked away.
“I’m Lauren Carlisle. Freshman, apparel design.” I smiled and hair-tossed (my hair was longer then, and, again, I was eighteen).
He looked at me and gave a tiny eye roll.
“What?” I asked.
“I wasn’t aware RISD had a clothing design major,” he said.
No, of course not. He was too erudite to know that.
“Do you have something against clothes?” I asked, bristling like an adorable hedgehog.
“No.”
“Good. I wouldn’t think so, since you’re wearing clothes. I mean, technically, they are clothes, if also a sin against humanity.” I smiled (charmingly, trying to give him a second chance). He was wearing baggy tan cargo shorts and an orange POLYESTER T-shirt, white athletic socks and sneakers.
No smile for my comment. He was clearly looking for someone else to talk to. This only made me try harder.
“How are you liking your semester so far?” asked I, taking a sip of my drink.
He shrugged.
“Not the most talkative guy, are you?”
Then he looked me up and down and said the following, which, yes, I remember word for word. “I imagine that because you’re pretty, you think people won’t notice that you’re also shallow and not that interesting.”
My mouth dropped open, Father dear. Also, I was chewing gum, and the gum came tumbling out, but I did catch it. “Wow,” I said. “That’s incredibly insulting. You don’t know me.”
“I don’t need
to know you.”
I think my head actually jerked back. I mean, I was just being a normal, happy, friendly college student. We had talked for all of fifteen seconds, and yet he had decided I was shallow and boring? BORING? I was many questionable things, but boring was not one of them!
I squished my gum into my napkin and dropped it in his drink, a move I am proud of to this day. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re condescending?” I asked.
“No.”
“Then please, let me be the first. You’re incredibly condescending. No wonder you don’t have any friends.”
And then I went over to talk to my friend Mara.
I glimpsed him a couple of times before he graduated that spring, but we never talked again.
Until tonight. Are you sensing the anticipation, Dad?
The open house was in full swing, and suddenly, I felt on the alert. Not in a scared way, but just . . . aware. The way you can tell a thunderstorm is coming before you even hear a thing. It took a few minutes, and then I saw him, and I recognized him immediately. He hadn’t changed, even though it’s been six or seven years. Still wicked handsome. Still dressed pretty badly (ill-fitting jeans and the ugliest Western shirt I’ve ever seen).
But this time, he was standing alone.
Looking at me.
He raised his chin in recognition, and when I was done chatting with the city councilman, I went over.
“Hello, Joshua Park,” I said.
“Hello, Lauren Carlisle.”
“You remember me?”
He almost smiled. “Your picture is in the foyer.”
So it was, among many photos hung there to thank the contributors and sponsors of the renovation. “Well, we did meet once,” I said. “You insulted me at a party my freshman year.”
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