Once Upon a List

by Robin Gold

  “You know I’m only teasing, love.” Meg flashed Lincoln a dazzling smile.

  Why this gorgeous woman who reminded Clara of a young Audrey Hepburn was managing the gift shop—as opposed to strutting her stuff on a professional catwalk—was a mystery to Clara. She and Lincoln certainly made a handsome couple.

  “Did he show you the Evolving Planet yet?” Meg asked her, referring to the museum’s popular exhibit that took visitors on an awe-inspiring journey through four billion years of life on Earth, featuring an expanded dinosaur hall, including every major group and the worlds they lived in.

  “He told me about it, but we decided to wait and see it with my brother, who’s a huge dinosaur fan,” Clara explained. “He’s a five-year-old boy trapped in a thirty-seven-year-old adult body when it comes to this sort of stuff.”

  “Hmmm . . . Sounds like someone I know.” Meg arched her eyebrows and smirked at Lincoln, who, grinning, appeared altogether enchanted by her.

  “Well, I look forward to giving Leo an extra special, behind-the-scenes tour,” he announced.

  “Oh, he would adore that,” Clara assured him, imagining that her brother might need to be shot with a tranquilizer gun at some point during the experience. “I just hope you don’t regret making that offer.”

  “Nonsense,” insisted Lincoln. “Leo and I go way back. It’ll be terrific to catch up with him and show him around.”

  “Can you join us for dinner, Meg?” Clara felt her empty stomach begin to grumble. “I think we’re going to try a new Chinese restaurant called Syn-Kow over by Wrigley Field.”

  “I’d love to.” She smiled. “I hear their egg rolls are to die for. But I’ve got a book club meeting this evening.”

  “Yes, tonight’s book is the great Hollywood Wives by Jackie Collins,” Lincoln revealed.

  “We’re reading the classics,” explained Meg. Placing her hand under his wrist, she lifted it and glanced at his watch. “Oh dear, I’d better get back to the gift shop. I promised I’d be gone just a few minutes. Enjoy your evening—and Clara, I hope we can all get together sometime soon.”

  “Absolutely,” Clara replied.

  “I’ll leave the door unlocked for you and tell Rodrigo to let you up,” Lincoln said to Meg, kissing her ruby lips goodbye.

  “Nicest doorman in all of Chicago,” she told Clara. Then, squeezing Lincoln’s hand, she sparkled. “I should be there by ten-thirty, hun.”

  “Oh boy,” Clara groaned, placing her hand over her stuffed belly. “You might need to roll me out of here in a wheelbarrow. I can’t have another bite.”

  “Does that mean your last sparerib’s up for grabs?” Lincoln eyed the succulent pork with desire.

  “Go ahead. By all means.”

  Reaching his chopsticks across the table, he lifted it from Clara’s plate. “Thank you. And how about that dumpling?”

  “Be my guest.” She gestured for him to take it.

  “You know, I’ve tried a lot of Chinese restaurants since I’ve been in Chicago, and so far this one’s my favorite by a long shot.”

  “Me too,” Clara agreed. “I’d definitely come back here.”

  “Deal.” Lincoln smiled, popping her leftover vegetable dumpling in his mouth.

  After the waitress had cleared their plates, she brought them the bill and two fortune cookies, which arrived on a small green dish that was shaped like a dragon and had dry-ice smoke shooting from its nostrils.

  “We have to read our fortunes out loud,” Lincoln proclaimed, removing his cookie from its plastic wrapper and snapping it in half.

  Clara reached for hers.

  “Mine says”—he squinted his dark, chocolate-colored eyes a bit—“You are gifted at walking.”

  “What?” She giggled. “What the hell kind of fortune is that?”

  “A lame one,” Lincoln concurred with a chuckle. “But actually, it reminds me of something. By any chance, do you happen to have your time capsule list with you?”

  “Always,” Clara confirmed.

  “May I see it, please?”

  “Of course.” Grabbing her purse beneath her chair, she wondered what Lincoln was up to.

  He gave the list—which had begun to assume a crinkled and shabby appearance due to constant handling—a swift perusal and then announced that he had a proposition for her.

  “A proposition? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, here’s the deal,” he began. “At the beginning of May there’s a 10K charity race in the city to help raise money for cancer research. It’s a fantastic cause. And God knows every cent helps.” Lincoln paused, absentmindedly fiddling with his cookie wrapper. “I’m running it in Jessica’s honor,” he explained. “May’s the month that she passed away, so it couldn’t be more fitting as far as timing goes. And I know it’s something that she would have felt passionately about. Jess was a volunteer for the American Cancer Society right up until the very end.” Clearing his throat, Lincoln cast his eyes downward, as if he didn’t want Clara to glimpse the shadow of melancholy in them. “I could really use a partner to help me train and stay motivated.”

  Certain that there had to be some sort of misunderstanding, Clara’s eyebrows lifted with genuine surprise. “Are you talking about me?”

  “No. I’m talking about our waitress. Can you ask her if she’s interested?”

  Tilting her head to the side, she gave him a look. “Funny.”

  “Of course I’m talking about you. See, I was thinking that if you participate in the race as well, you could simultaneously knock two items off your list.” Lincoln looked at it again, reading aloud: “Run a race (10K like Dad used to run? Find out what a K is!) and Help others through charity like Libby.”

  “You do have a point,” Clara admitted reluctantly.

  “By the way, a K is 0.62 miles.” He winked.

  “And it’s certainly a wonderful cause. There’s no doubt about that. But, Link, in all honesty, I don’t think I have the stamina to even run around the block.” Clara wasn’t proud of this fact, but, regrettably, it was true. “I mean, realistically, I don’t think I’m in the right kind of physical shape to be able to pull off a 10K.”

  “Neither am I.” Lincoln pointed at his sides. “Look at these love handles! Meg calls them Ben & Jerry. That’s why I thought that maybe, if you were interested, we could help each other train. You know, root each other on? And you could always bring Milk Dud along,” he persuaded. “Dogs are ‘gifted at walking’ too.”

  Clara did the math in her head. “So that equals 6.2 miles.” She passed her fortune cookie back and forth from one hand to the other, pondering the idea. “That’s a lot.”

  “It is.” Lincoln sipped his hot tea. “Anyway, no pressure. I figured it couldn’t hurt to throw it out there.”

  Contemplating Jessica and how much she obviously meant to Lincoln, Clara could only imagine the symbolic significance this charity race held for him. She had no doubt that if the proverbial table was turned and she was running a race in Sebastian’s honor, Lincoln would support her. He was the sort of man who’d go out and buy matching team t-shirts and possibly even twin sweatbands with a corny message on them. It occurred to Clara that perhaps he needed more than a training partner. Perhaps what Lincoln really needed was a friend who could relate to what he was going through, someone who knew firsthand the indescribable sort of devastating emotional loss that had become a permanent part of his everyday life—not pronounced or glaring in the forefront, but rather quietly existing deep in the background, like an ever-present scab that at any moment could be yanked off a wound that never quite heals.

  Studying Lincoln, Clara recognized the heavyhearted flicker of grief in his eyes. She knew that look all too well. She felt it in her gut. And for the first time in almost a year, she was able to feel pain that was not her own. Striking her all at once, it made her want to
weep. But, instead, Clara placed her hand on top of Lincoln’s, smiled, and softly declared, “I’m in.”

  He appeared taken aback. “You—You are?”

  “I am,” Clara reiterated in a stronger voice. “But, I want to make one thing clear.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not doing this because it’s on my time capsule list.”

  “You’re not?” Now Lincoln sounded really surprised.

  “Nope.”

  “Oookay.” He seemed leery. “Then, if I may ask, why are you doing it?”

  Clara grinned, pausing before she answered. “For Jessica Foster.”

  At first, Lincoln just looked at her without saying a word. And then, swallowing hard, he nodded and smiled gratefully, whispering, “Thank you.”

  “But you”—Clara pointed at him—“are in charge of the training part.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  Sitting at a table for two by the window at Syn-Kow, with the entire wait staff clapping their hands and singing a Chinese version of Happy Birthday to a mortified-looking diner nearby with a sparkler in his green tea ice cream, they shook on it.

  “Okay. My turn.” Clara cracked open her fortune cookie, wondering what the hell she’d just gotten herself into. She had no idea how she was going to make it through this race without requiring CPR. Just thinking about it gave her a side stitch! But she knew how much her friend needed her.

  “What’s it say?” pressed Lincoln.

  “Let’s see . . .” She unfolded the little rectangular piece of paper, reading, “One old friend is better than two new ones.”

  “Can’t argue with that one,” Lincoln agreed, looking at her. “Now how come you get something meaningful and I’m a gifted walker?”

  Clara forced a small smile. But suddenly, she was far away, lost in her own thoughts.

  “Hey . . . You okay?”

  “Yeah.” She sighed, rereading her fortune. “This just made me think of my best friend in Boston who I’m kind of on the outs with. It’s nothing, really.”

  “Why are you on the outs?”

  Clara, visibly saddened by this fact, shook her head. “Oh, it’s a long, complicated story. Suffice to say, it’s all my fault. And the crappy part is I didn’t even realize it until it was too late.”

  “Well, I’ve got plenty of time.” Lincoln stretched his long legs, leaning back in his chair.

  “Are you sure?” Clara double-checked, thinking better of it. “You have to be sick and tired of listening to me drone on and on like a broken record about woe is me.”

  “Woe is not you,” he assured her, threatening, “Would you rather hear my latest dinosaur joke?”

  “So, as I was saying about Tabitha,” Clara replied instantly.

  Summarizing their decade-long relationship, she explained how she essentially dropped off the face of the planet after her fiancé’s accident. “It’s not like I wanted my friendship with Tabitha to suffer. I can’t tell you how wonderful she was to me after the accident. Not a day went by that she didn’t call, or stop by my house to check on me. She always included me in her plans and extended countless invitations my way. Of course, I rejected them all.” Clara rolled her eyes. “Tabitha couldn’t have been more supportive, Link. But I was such an emotional wreck I just couldn’t handle being around other people. Not even my closest friend. So I pushed her away. Again, and again, and again. Until she finally reached her breaking point.” Clara described their tense quarrel shortly before Thanksgiving in which Tabitha, near tears, had stated that whether or not Clara was in mourning, this was no way to treat an acquaintance, let alone her supposed best friend. “Oh, and by the way?” Tabitha had sniffled, “I’m engaged. In case you care.” Clara hadn’t even been aware that Tabitha was dating anyone special, despite her friend’s regular mention of Max.

  “Ouch.” Lincoln’s eyes were filled with understanding. “I felt the same way about being around other people after Jessica died. It was just . . . too hard.” He poured himself some more tea. “Life for them was business as usual. But my world was shattered. Totally unrecognizable. I couldn’t deal.”

  “Exactly. I was so out of my damn mind that I wasn’t even aware I was shutting people out. Although Tabitha did try to let me know. I can see that now.”

  “Well, isn’t that a step in the right direction?” encouraged Lincoln.

  “She was my maid of honor, for Christ’s sake! I completely turned my back on her.” Ashamed, Clara decided not to share how Tabitha had blown her off for coffee just before she returned to Chicago in December. Clara had hoped to conduct some damage control prior to leaving town and was looking forward to attempting to begin to mend their fractured friendship, but an hour before they were supposed to meet at the coffee shop Tabitha called and claimed that a “last-minute” work meeting had “just popped up,” and she was sorry to have to cancel their plans. “Wish I had time to chat. Have a good trip and send me an e-mail or call me sometime from Chicago. If you feel like it,” Tabitha had muttered before quickly hanging up the phone.

  “It is hard not to take that kind of rejection personally,” Lincoln conceded. “And let’s face it, grief is pretty damn hard to understand and relate to until you’ve been there yourself. I get that. But I also think you need to cut yourself a break and remember that you were—and still are—dealing with an inconceivable tragedy the best way you know how. We’re both aware that nothing, I mean nothing, prepares you for handling death. Unfortunately, you don’t just wake up one day and say, Okay, I’m done with mourning, and now it’s time to go right back to the normal life I had. We do the best we can, C.J.”

  “Yes, but at this point I don’t even know what’s happening in Tabitha’s life. I’ve missed out on practically a whole year. For all I know she’s moved to Guam!”

  Surprise washed over Lincoln’s face. “Really? Tabitha was considering moving to Guam?”

  “No.” Clara sighed. “I was just proving my point.” She shook her head in disgust. “I don’t blame her at all for resenting me. I’m a selfish, terrible person. Oh, GREAT!” She threw her arms in the air. “And the snap on my pants just popped open!”

  Lincoln gave the man at the next table overtly staring at them a little wave. “All right, A) you’re gonna have to stop being so damn hard on yourself, and B) I didn’t say anything before, but I undid my top button after the pu-pu platter.”

  Clara couldn’t help but let out a little chuckle.

  “Let me ask you this: have you told Tabitha everything you just told me?”

  She shook her head. “I tried to, but . . .” Shrugging in defeat, Clara didn’t bother finishing the sentence.

  “Well”—Lincoln folded his arms across his chest—“what are you waiting for?”

  March

  21.

  It was an unusually balmy afternoon shortly after the first anniversary of Sebastian’s death. The sun peeked behind a passing cloud, and the scent of fresh-cut grass and sweet primrose laced the gentle breeze, which carried with it the hopeful promise of spring. Clara, squatting on her hands and knees in Libby’s backyard, gripping a pointed, scoop-shaped, silver garden trowel used for breaking earth, dug a fresh hole where she’d remembered burying Leo’s recorder when she was a young child.

  “I swear this is where I hid it,” she said yet again to Libby, who was towering nearby, between the large weeping willow tree and Maple Manor, with both hands on her hips and her eyebrows furrowed. “I’m sorry. I was wrong about the other eight holes I dug.” Clara flinched, trying to downplay the fact that she was slowly but surely transforming her mother’s meticulously maintained backyard into a crater-cramped zone that resembled a life-size version of Whac-A-Mole, the popular carnival redemption game. “But I have a good feeling about this one.”

  “Mm-hmm. How much deeper do you plan on digging?” Libby tapped her foo
t against the soft grass.

  “Not much.” Clara wiped a thin sheen of perspiration from her brow, fearing her mother was moments away from foaming at the mouth. “It was late at night when I buried the recorder, so it was dark outside, but I don’t remember it taking me too long to form the hole. So if I’m not mistaken, it should surface any time now.”

  “Any time now . . .” Libby echoed for effect. “Well, let’s certainly hope so.”

  Ten long minutes of Libby frowning later, Clara was still shoveling at a frantic pace, and her mother was chewing the corner of her bottom lip, watching the unsightly ninth ditch in her treasured garden continue to expand.

  “Uh, one more hole and you get a free sandwich?” Clara attempted to diffuse the increasing tension in the air.

  But Libby just stood there with her arms crossed, unamused.

  “I—I don’t understand.” Clara hurled brown dirt over her shoulder with the trowel. “I could’ve sworn this is where I buried the damn thing!”

  “Words every mother longs to hear escape her daughter’s mouth.”

  “I’m sorry. I really mean it. I assure you, I do not want to make a monumental mess back here. But you have to understand,” Clara pleaded, focusing on one thing and one thing only: her time capsule list. “I need to find that recorder!” She paused for a minute to catch her breath. “Is it okay if I try digging about three feet over to the left? Now I’m starting to think I may have made the hole a little bit closer to the house. I’m almost positive that was the area.” She nodded toward the precise location where she wished to break ground for the tenth time.

  “Oh, you’re almost positive?” Libby emphasized her words with raised arms, exasperated. “Fabulous. I feel much better now. Please, go ahead and form yet another ditch! You haven’t destroyed my tulip beds yet. And the hollyhock corner over there”—she pointed west—“looks ripe for the taking.”

  “I already told you three times that I promise to repair these holes and leave the backyard looking as beautiful as I found it,” Clara reminded her, trying to hold on to her last shred of patience, which she felt slipping away. “I’ll fix it all.”