Once Upon a List

by Robin Gold

  • Become a teacher

  • Become the President of the United States

  • Attend the Ice Capades

  • Learn Morse code

  • Eat at America’s largest buffet

  • Ride in a hot air balloon

  • Run a race (10K like Dad used to run? Find out what a K is!)

  • Donate blood

  • Swim with dolphins

  • Build a gingerbread house from scratch (no dumb farty kits allowed!) (and who cares if it’s messy! BESIDES LIBBY!)

  • Sleep in a real tent

  • Eat sugar cereal & McDonald’s during the week (not just on weekends!)

  • Apologize to Stella for stealing her Twirly Curls Barbie & give it back to her

  • Grow my own garden with an avocado tree

  • Apologize to Stella for stealing her Chia Pet (and accidentally killing it)

  • Beat Leo at Memory

  • Help others through charity like Libby (donate time if I’m poor when I’m old)

  • Find a cure for heart attacks

  • Kiss Billy Warrington (Clara + Billy = TRUE LOVE FOREVER!)

  “Billy Warrington. Oh my God . . .” Cracking a tiny smile, Clara shook her head, amazed, letting out a faint but fleeting giggle. She hadn’t heard the name of her first schoolgirl crush in decades, and Leo noted that he felt as if he hadn’t heard the sound of his sister’s laughter in just as long.

  After they’d returned Clara’s list to her time capsule, Leo leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. His expression turned more serious. “You haven’t mentioned work since you’ve been home.”

  “Neither have you,” Clara quickly countered.

  “Touché.” Leo smiled. “Same old, same old really. Though I did just start an interesting new case translating for a deaf plaintiff in a personal injury lawsuit. Poor man had his knee shattered in a terrible escalator accident at a movie theater downtown.” At the fresh age of thirty-seven, Leo was not only considered one of Chicago’s “sexiest most eligible bachelors” (as per a recent issue of Chicago magazine), he had already earned a highly regarded reputation as one of the city’s premiere certified court sign language interpreters, a challenging profession he not just liked, but genuinely loved. “And that’s really all I got,” he said. “How are things going with The Beer King of Boston?”

  Clara exhaled a forlorn sigh. She had feared this subject would come up. “Well . . . to be honest”—she focused on picking at her nails—“they’ve definitely been better.”

  Leo’s eyebrows pulled together. “Why? What’s going on?”

  “Do you promise you won’t tell Libby?”

  “Promise,” he said, nodding.

  “Swear on our siblinghood?” Clara double-checked, her face tensing. Never mind God or that little book called “The Holy Bible,” swearing on their siblinghood was as sacred as it got between Leo and Clara. It was their hallowed code of honor and neither would ever dare consider breaking it.

  “I swear on our siblinghood,” Leo vowed with a growing look of concern. “You’re making me nervous.”

  About a month earlier, Clara’s boss, Mr. Franklin, the president of Scuppernong Beer, also known as “The Beer King of Boston,” had urged Clara to take a sabbatical after she accidentally came to work one Saturday morning thinking that it was Friday. When she arrived at the microbrewery’s corporate headquarters, the office was completely empty aside from the janitorial staff and Mr. Franklin, who was there catching up on some business. Clara wasn’t aware that she’d done anything wrong until he inquired with a look of surprise, “To what do I owe this unusual pleasure?” Confused, she tried to act casual and told him that she figured she’d come to work today just like she did every other day, at which point The Beer King of Boston crinkled his gray, bushy eyebrows and asked if Clara was aware that it was the weekend. Then he suggested that he and Clara step inside his office for a little talk.

  Explaining that he and other “concerned colleagues” at Scuppernong had “all” observed that Clara had not been acting like herself “since the awful tragedy,” Mr. Franklin stressed how “very, very concerned” he was about her. “It’s as if you’re in a perpetual daze. Yes, you’re physically here, Clara, but your mind is obviously elsewhere. And it’s causing your work to suffer. Your sales numbers have been slipping for months now and you lost the Parker House hotel account. It’s no secret what a blow that was for the company. I’ve let this continue for far too long. It’s not good for Scuppernong, but more importantly, it’s not good for you. Something has to change.” Encouraging Clara to take as little or as much time as she needed to get herself straightened out, Mr. Franklin assured her that she would always have a place at the company.

  After a fair amount of groveling, Clara had somehow managed to convince him that a sabbatical was the last thing she needed. She promised to be more alert and improve her performance, assuring The Beer King that he would not have to speak with her about this matter again.

  Since then, the Scuppernong ice Clara had been skating on was so dangerously thin she was frightened it might crack at any point.

  The week before Sebastian’s accident, The Beer King had delighted in letting her know that he viewed her as an asset with tremendous potential at the company and he was personally nominating her for a promotion. Although Clara had worked as an accounts manager for only two years, he was highly impressed with her excellent sales numbers and the lucrative relationships she’d cultivated with a majority of the Scuppernong vendors. Confident Clara would make an outstanding director of sales (and probably a powerful vice-president “someday in the not-too-far-off future,” as he’d phrased it), he’d already arranged for her to meet with Human Resources the following week to discuss details. Clara had been elated about her promotion. In fact, it was a struggle for her to keep from jumping for joy right there in his office. While she majored in English in college, she minored in business, mostly because her father had been a great businessman and she wanted to follow in his footsteps. Well, what she really desired was to be a professional poet. But as she enjoyed reading poetry far more than she enjoyed writing it—and she also wanted to be able to pay her bills and eat food other than Ramen noodles—she knew she would need a more realistic backup plan. Little did Clara know when she joined Scuppernong that, like her father, she was actually an exceptionally skilled businessperson. As a beer drinker, she had always been genuinely fond of Scuppernong’s delicious brew, so it was easy for her to use her enthusiasm for the product—combined with her apparently innate business savvy—to sell large volumes of it to vendors. The laid-back atmosphere at the popular microbrewery’s headquarters complimented Clara’s easygoing style, and she got along well with associates at all levels. Happy and thriving in her position, it didn’t take long for her to realize that she had met her corporate calling. Nor did it take long for her to decide that someday she would be the company’s president. Her promotion would advance her one step closer to that ambitious goal. The meeting with HR that The Beer King had scheduled on her behalf was cancelled, however, when Sebastian passed away. And the distinguished promotion eventually went to someone else, which Clara failed to notice until Mr. Franklin brought it to her attention.

  Exhaling slowly, Leo ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair, which was just beginning to show the faintest hint of gray at the temples. “Well, it definitely sounds like you’re on shaky ground at work,” he said, frowning. “And it also sounds like The Beer King is genuinely worried about you.” He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, seeming to debate whether or not he should continue. “To be honest . . . and I hate to have to bring this up”—he sighed, clearly distressed—“but, after hearing that story, and knowing how depressed you’ve been lately . . . he’s not the only one.”

  Clara pointed at the remaining corner of grilled cheese
sandwich on his plate. “You gonna eat that?” she asked in a low monotone, avoiding eye contact.

  “All yours.” Leo pushed his plate across the table toward her. He studied Clara closely. There was a long, heavy moment of silence before he finally spoke. “I think we should talk about this.”

  “Talk about what?” She pretended to be dense.

  Leo cocked his head to the side. “Oh, come on. You know what”—he insisted, not playing games—“the way things have been going for the past eight months. The way you’ve completely withdrawn from everything and everyone—from . . . life.”

  “Please. I’m fine.” Clara tried to sound convincing.

  “You are far from fine and we both know it,” Leo argued. “I hardly even recognize you.”

  “Don’t be dramatic.”

  “I’m not,” protested Leo. “Look, the truth is, I’m not just worried about you, Clara,” he swallowed hard, wincing. “I’m scared.”

  “Scared?” she echoed in a detached tone.

  “Your voice doesn’t even sound like yourself anymore. And you sure aren’t acting like yourself. You aren’t acting like, well . . . anything.” Leo’s fist came down on the table. “Are you even listening to me?”

  Actually, Clara, staring at her lap, was so used to tuning everything out, it had become an unconscious gesture, as natural as blinking. “What? Yes. Of course.”

  Leo’s mouth turned down in an uncharacteristic scowl. “You know what? The Beer King’s right. It’s like you’re the walking dead.”

  Clara grimaced. She may have been existing in a numbing fog, but she wasn’t that bad. Was she?

  “I—I’m sorry.” Leo reached across the table to touch her arm. “But if I can’t say these things to you, who can?” He waited for Clara to respond. But she said nothing. “I’ve bitten my tongue for as long as I could. I was praying things would get better, but they’re only getting worse. There’s no way I can continue to watch you sink further into darkness. I can’t do it, Clara. I love you too much.” Leo inhaled deeply, hesitating for a moment. “The kind of trauma you’ve suffered . . . you—you have to get help.”

  “I’ve tried every form of help that exists,” Clara, slumped in her seat, said flatly. “And then some.”

  “I know.” He nodded. “I know you have. But you’ve got to try again.”

  “Yeah. Easy for you to say.”

  Leo stared at her. “No. It’s not. Believe me.” His voice was thick with emotion. “You’re in real trouble, butt-face,” he whispered. “Can you honestly tell me this is how you want your life to be?”

  Clara didn’t have the heart to tell him that Sebastian’s life wasn’t the only one that ended back in March. Nor did she have the guts to ask, How do I hold on when there doesn’t seem to be any end in sight? Finally, she lifted her chin and looked her brother in the eye, fully exposed and knowing that she could not lie. Not to Leo. Not while sitting across from him at that old marble table, inside those trusty, familiar four walls that held their secrets and deserved to be honored. All she could do was hope to repress the prickly knot that had started to form in her throat. “Listen,” she said softly, “I love you too. And I know your heart’s in the right place, but I really don’t want to talk about this right now. Besides, Libby gave me this same exact speech before bed. She also sang ‘Turn That Frown Upside-Down’ in an octave that was totally out of her range.” Clara rolled her eyes, trying her best to appear animated. “I think I’ve had just about as much as I can take for my first day back.” She stared at her brother. “Please,” she begged in a whisper.

  Standing up, Leo began clearing the table. “That song’s the worst.” He collected her plate.

  Clara smiled gratefully at him.

  And he smiled back.

  What a gift it was to be understood.

  5.

  The following afternoon, Libby, in her usual frenzy preparing for the annual Black family Thanksgiving party, sent Clara, against her will, to Foodthings, the local gourmet shop, to retrieve enough preordered side dishes to feed an army.

  Foodthings reeked of holiday cheer, with chattering shoppers zooming about in all directions. In years past, the store’s merry decorations and well-known festive atmosphere during holiday time always delighted Clara, signaling to her that her favorite time of year was finally here, which was why she typically made it a specific point of volunteering to go there on Libby’s behalf. But not this year. After waiting in line for almost half an hour, Clara was finally on deck. She couldn’t help but notice a young couple holding hands by the fresh seafood counter. When the obviously love-struck man fed the woman a free sample shrimp, tenderly plopping it into her open, waiting mouth, Clara immediately looked away. How she wished Sebastian could be there with her! This was supposed to be their first Thanksgiving together as a married couple. They were supposed to be the seafood couple making innocent shoppers nauseous. Clara’s eyes quickly settled at the deli counter, but once again her stomach turned when she spotted an elaborate hanging array of salamis. Salami was Sebastian’s all-time favorite food. He put it in everything from scrambled eggs to macaroni and cheese, and included it as the “secret ingredient” in his “famous” spicy chili. When he and Clara vacationed together in Italy, he even sampled it dipped in dark chocolate, declaring salame al cioccolato was the best thing he’d ever eaten. Sometimes the mere sight of an aged Genoa brought Clara to tears. Other times, it made her laugh out loud, summoning fond memories of her salami-loving soul mate. Such was the unpredictable, tempestuous roller-coaster ride of grief that had come to define her. The sea of shiny, happy faces that Clara felt like she was drowning in appeared to her to have so much to be thankful for. And though it shamed her, she was envious of every last one of them.

  “Thanks again, William.” The female checkout clerk smiled at the man in line in front of Clara when he finished paying his bill. “Have a happy holiday. And tell Hans I say hello!”

  “I will. And happy Thanksgiving to you too,” replied William, grabbing his grocery bag and turning around to leave. Coming face to face with Clara, he stopped in his tracks and did a double take. “Clara?”

  Peering up from the National Enquirer, which she’d grabbed off a nearby shelf to help keep her distracted while she waited, Clara’s jaw nearly fell open.

  “I thought that was you,” William said.

  Could it really be? She silently wondered. No. . .

  “My goodness, it’s been ages!” He extended his hand.

  There, before Clara’s eyes, stood none other than her childhood crush. Or at least she thought it was her childhood crush. It was hard to tell for sure. The last time she saw him had been decades ago, when he still had metal braces on his teeth, far more hair on his head, and far less meat on his bones. “Billy . . . Warrington?” Shocked, Clara shook his hand.

  “I go by William these days,” he said, smiling at her. “Wow. Nobody’s called me Billy in years.”

  “Well, I’m still Clara,” she replied sheepishly, unable to believe that she was actually standing next to Billy fucking Warrington in the flesh. He smelled good and manly, like a combination of spearmint and musty cologne.

  “It’s terrific to see you,” he said. “Do you live around here?”

  “No, I’m just visiting for the weekend from Boston. And you?”

  William glanced at his Rolex. “Shoot! I apologize for having to rush off like this. Someone’s waiting for me in the parking lot and we’re already running ten minutes late to an appointment. Please forgive me.” Hurrying toward the exit, he stopped, looked over his shoulder, and grinned at Clara. “Maybe I’ll see you around town over the weekend.”

  She hadn’t so much as even considered Billy/William Warrington in decades, and now, in the span of a day, his name had come up not once, but twice. And here they were actually standing in the same room together! What were the odds? Clara did
not believe in coincidences. And though she had stopped believing in God, she speculated that this random encounter surely had to hold some level of significance. If everything in life happened for a reason, which seemed to be a popular—not to mention annoying—theory applicable to her fiancé’s untimely passing, then certainly this too had to be some sort of sign. Why, it just had to be.

  Suddenly, before Clara had time to even think about it, or realize what she was doing, she dropped the Enquirer on the floor, gave up her place in line, and raced after William. “Wait! William! HOLD ON!” she shouted. Operating on autopilot, she navigated her way through a slalom course of uniformed bag-boys, caught up to William just as he was about to step inside the revolving glass door, spun his body around, grabbed him by his trench coat lapel, yanked him toward her, and planted a big, wet, passionate kiss right smack dab on his lips.

  Several amused shoppers witnessing the spectacle clapped their hands, as if it were the climactic scene in a romance film, and a little wrinkled old lady wearing a shawl around her shoulders made a triumphant fist, grinning. “Go get him, honey!”

  When she finally ended their impromptu smooch, Clara pulled away from William, beaming.

  In an obvious state of confused astonishment, he pointed at the parking lot, stuttering, “Hans . . . Hans . . . Hans is out there waiting for me.”

  Equally surprised, Clara felt lightning bolts of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

  “He’s—He’s my husband,” said William, frozen in place with his startled eyes opened unnaturally wide.

  6.

  Clara raced through Libby’s front door to discover her family decorating the foyer with jewel-hued floral arrangements, candles, and gourds. “Hello!” she greeted them, grinning exuberantly and removing her coat to hang it up in the closet. “It looks wonderful in here. Very festive!”

  Libby and Leo shared a curious look.

  “You’ll never believe what happened to me at Foodthings. I mean, never!” Clara rushed on. “To be honest, I still can’t quite believe it myself.”