The Bucket List

by Georgia Clark

  “You have no idea how often I’ve had to watch Moana,” Mara says. “Do you want to know how far I’ll go? Back in time so I can murder everyone who made that fucking movie.”

  Watching my niece do just about anything these days is enough to make me spontaneously ovulate. “What a nightmare.”

  “You have no idea,” Mara says again.

  “Look, Mommy!” Storm runs up with a stick. “Look! It’s a stick!”

  “That’s great, baby,” Mara calls back. “Stay where I can see you, please.” She pours herself some more iced tea. Instead of drinking it, she turns the cup in a restless circle. “Have you rescheduled the surgery?”

  “No.” I let out a heavy sigh. “Maybe you were right. Maybe I am too young to make a decision like this. I’ve royally fucked up a lot of other things this year.”

  My sister half shrugs without looking at me. As if unconvinced.

  I stare at her. “You still think I shouldn’t do it, right?”

  She purses her lips, avoiding my gaze. “I don’t know. I—I don’t know.”

  My sister never, ever changes her mind about anything. She still maintains Hanson is a good band because she believed that when she was nine.

  This is different. I wait.

  She picks up an orange and peels the skin with her fingers. It takes her a long time to speak. “There was a really long period when I thought I’d never get over Mom dying. I’d live with it, I’d get used to it, but I’d never truly move past it. It was in me, like . . . well, like a cancer. But lately I’ve started thinking that being a mom is my way to get past it. To heal myself. Being a mom makes me understand Mom, and it makes me feel closer to her, even though she’s gone.” The orange is unpeeled. She slices it in half with a paring knife, perfuming the air with a spray of citrus. “Storm is my life. I don’t want to be one of those annoying parents who says, ‘You’ll understand when you have kids,’ but you will understand if you have kids, Lace.”

  I smile a small smile.

  She cuts the orange into quarters. “And maybe I owe it to her. To Mom. To find out. If I . . . if Storm . . .” Her jaw tightens.

  She’s considering it. I can’t believe it . . . but then again, I can.

  Finally, Mara looks at me. Her face is raw with fear. “I don’t know what I’d do if I had it, and I gave it to her. To my daughter. I just don’t know how I’d live with that.”

  I scoot next to her and put my arm around her shoulder. “But that wouldn’t be your fault, Mar. That’s just genetics.”

  My sister shakes her head, crying quietly. Her voice is shredded. “What if my daughter dies of the same thing my mom died of? What if I made it happen?”

  My eyes are wet, my throat tight. I want to say, That won’t happen. I want to say, You’re both safe. But I can’t say that. “When you get tested,” I say, “then you’ll know. We’ll both know, and then we can decide what to do next.”

  Mara covers her face with her hands. “I can’t lose you, Lace. I can’t. I can’t do it again.”

  “You won’t. I’m here, Mar. I’m right here.” I rock her gently, smoothing her hair, kissing her forehead. I’m so grateful that she lets me. “I love you, Mar. I’ll always be here.”

  I hold my sister tightly. I never want to let her go.

  50.

  * * *

  After a week of torrential rain, Tom and Peter’s wedding day dawns cloudless and exactly seventy-two degrees. I’m not above believing Tom has personally arranged for this to happen. Patricia is going to be there, and Eloise, who is visibly annoyed at the news Buntley’s own Lacey Whitman made the exclusive guest list. “Tom’s the lead investor in Clean Clothes,” I reply when she quizzes how I know the couple.

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “Your other job.”

  “Actually, I’m quitting the app. So I’ll be all ready to join the fashion team,” I add. “When Patricia makes her decision.”

  Eloise turns a lovely shade of pale mint green.

  Myself, Steph, Vivian, and Vivian’s date, Brian, are all driving up together. Brian Wong is an engineer, an old B-school friend who Vivian occasionally solicits for business advice and sex. He shares Vivian’s proclivity for efficiency. “I’ve mapped the route using Google Maps,” he says, “because they do the best job comparing their predictions against actual time in traffic in order to fine-tune their algorithms and data sources. If we stop for gas once and keep bathroom breaks to under three-point-five minutes per person in a multistall facility, we should arrive between five thirty and five thirty-three.”

  “We should stop for snacks,” Steph pipes up from the back seat. “I need to eat every two hours.”

  “You have hypoglycemia?” Brian looks worried, presumably not at her health, just at the addition of another variable.

  “No,” Steph says. “I just get a bit peckish.”

  Brian holds up a ziplock bag. “Fruit, candy, bottled water, and gluten-free vegan sandwiches.”

  Vivian shoots him a look of approval—her version of lust—and overtakes the car in front of us.

  “Gross,” I mutter to Steph. “At least you’re still on Team Spinster.”

  Steph chokes on the mouthful of Skittles she’s just inhaled, coughing. “Sorry,” she wheezes. “Wrong pipe.” Her cheeks are flushed.

  Odd.

  * * * *

  A suited valet commandeers our Zipcar, directing us to follow a stream of cocktail-attired guests along a rose-petal-strewn path around the back of the estate. I loved my dress when I rented it, but now it feels gaudy; wrong. Fitted black top with a crew neck, strappy back, and full high-low gold skirt that scoops above my knee and falls mid-calf in the back ($415 retail, but thanks to Rent the Runway and an insider’s promo code, mine for the weekend for $45). I don’t like how my breasts look in it, and I can’t put my finger on why: Is the dress too tight? Are they too small? I keep rearranging them with the frustrated air of a harried parent. Vivian looks stunning in a formfitting off-the-shoulder black gown. It shows off her slim frame and looks classy as heck. The look I pulled together for Steph is “lady summer tux”: black cigarette pants, fitted white blouse, bright red lipstick. I managed to score her some Stella McCartney red flats, albeit a loan. All in all, very cute and queer.

  “Let’s take a pic before we get drunk and ruin our makeup.” I pull the girls in. We grin at the camera, the textbook definition of Best Friends Forever. Click, and then the phone dies. “Shit.”

  Vivian trains perfectly lined eyes on me. No smile now. “Is Elan coming?”

  I take a punch of adrenaline. “No idea.” Slicking my lips with gloss, I add, “I assume he was invited.”

  “I bloody hope not,” Steph mutters.

  Vivian twists to her. “Why do you care?”

  Steph blinks. “Because he’s let you both down. Hasn’t he?”

  Brian taps his smartwatch. “It’s five thirty-five. If we want to have one cocktail before the ceremony, consumed at a pace of one sip per—”

  “Got it,” I say, gesturing at the girls. “Vamos, chicos.”

  “Chicos means boys,” Vivian says coolly. She is low-key pissed. Because I’m leaving Clean Clothes? Or because . . . she knows. I’ve been sidestepping the prospect of seeing Elan, but now that we’re here I can’t control a mounting feeling of . . . what? Apprehension? Excitement? The idea that I actually want to see him disgusts me. I can still recall the dank stone smell of the dungeon.

  Steph loops her arm through mine, jumpy. “There’s a bubble lounge. I don’t even know what that is, but I need to be there!”

  We join the guests wending through neat flower beds of pink and red roses to the preceremony party in the “backyard.” Which is unlike any backyard I’ve ever been in. Hundreds of guests mill on a manicured lawn that has an uninterrupted view of the Atlantic, a majestic sweep of glinting blue-green. Inside the huge white tent on the far right of the lawn, a giant black-and-white photograph of the grooms hangs above piles of professionally wrapped gi
fts. A quartet of musicians in white tuxedos play classical music by the koi pond in front of the house. An empty band stage with a full lighting rig and six-foot speakers is at the far side of the lawn. Gorgeous gay waiters circulate with small, elaborate finger food and crystal glasses of pale champagne. Steph and I pluck one, and take a generous sip.

  “Ooh,” Steph says. “That’s good champagne.”

  “How do you know what good champagne tastes like? We only ever drink prosecco.”

  “This is so beautiful,” Steph gushes. “Look, there’s a petting zoo! Amazing! I bet the meal is going to be ten bloody courses.”

  “I remember a time not so long ago when you were distinctly against the mainstreaming of gay weddings,” I say. “Something about LGBTQ people not needing legitimacy from the straight world.”

  “No, no.” Steph’s eyes rove the chichi crowd. “This is fantastic.”

  “Or an obtuse underlining of our status as sad singletons.”

  Steph tugs me forward. “Let’s mingle.”

  “With who?”

  We only get ten feet into the crowd before discovering the answer to this question.

  In a waiter’s outfit, offering drinks to a group of old white dudes who are attempting to up their stock by awkwardly flirting with the only Cool Young Person in their social orbit, is Luna.

  Steph’s tongue unfurls in front of her like a roll of carpet.

  “You knew,” I say. “You knew she’d be here.”

  “We’ve been texting,” she says. “Just a little. I didn’t want to tell you because I wanted to give you space to reach out to her on your own. But you didn’t, so . . .”

  “So you figured you’d date my . . . whatever . . . without telling me?”

  “You haven’t spoken to her since the sex party,” Steph says. “You’re not still interested, are you? Because I really like her.”

  What can I say? I have no right to be annoyed. “No, go have fun. I’ll be here, crying into a shrimp cocktail.”

  “There’s loads of cute people here,” Steph says, aggressively side-eying Luna.

  “Who are all with their plus-ones. The point of bringing you was so we could be washed-up old maids together. Society’s castoffs, cautionary tales.”

  “That doesn’t sound very appealing,” Steph says. “Shhh, here she comes.”

  Luna slides in front of us with her tray of champagne. “Hello, ladies.”

  “Hi,” I sigh.

  Steph giggles and turns the color of a beet.

  “Fancy, huh?” Luna leans close, ice-blue eyes on Steph. “We’re serving a 1990 Möet and Chandon Dom Pérignon. Each glass costs, like, seventy dollars.”

  “I knew it was good champagne!” Steph explodes. “It tastes like fireworks!”

  Luna smiles at Steph. Steph smiles at Luna. How best to destroy this unhinged lesbian lovefest? Recount Dr. Ho’s description of a mastectomy at the open mike?

  “I’m going to charge my phone,” I tell two people who couldn’t care less, and make my way inside.

  * * * *

  The enormous kitchen is a bright bustle of waiters restocking trays and a couple of well-dressed women giving a steady string of orders into headsets. I scoot around them, into an empty formal sitting room with a bank of windows overlooking the party. I plug my phone in, feeling a flutter of relief as it starts charging. My lifeline to the outside world, should I need it.

  Beyond the windows, the crowd mingles. Peter is black, and so are many of the guests: some from obvious wealth, others more like me: downing champagne in rented gowns, taking two canapés at a time, gawking at the view. Even though the grass is always greener and I would love to have as much green as the Bacons, there’s no denying you enjoy the trappings of wealth more when you don’t have it.

  Or maybe that’s the kind of thinking Eloise was talking about. My very own Regina George is standing by the koi pond, shading herself with a delicate paper parasol. She is looking extraordinarily pregnant in a long white dress that clings to her giant tits and belly and butt. I suppose because there’s no bride, she chose to ignore the no-white-dress rule. Color me unsurprised. Her Aryan race husband looks like he’s been carved out of a loaf of white bread with the personality to match. I dislike him on principle, but shamefully, I’m a little jealous. Of course Eloise gets the husband and the baby and the dream job she’s willing to walk away from. I’d be a better mother than her and I cook most of my meals in the microwave. They’re standing in a group that includes a very famous Broadway actor, the editor in chief of Architectural Digest, and Patricia. Our boss just got back from the Amalfi Coast. She’s looking relaxed and refreshed in a floor-sweeping silk-georgette gown swirled with painterly summer florals. Feminine, flattering, and fashion-forward. I should’ve worn something less . . . something more like that.

  Elan isn’t here. I know I should feel relieved by this, but part of me feels disappointed. Even though I know seeing him will hurt me, I want to. I don’t even know why. I’m mulling this over, alone in the enormous empty sitting room, waiting for my phone to juice up, when I spot a tall young man in a cream linen suit. Dark blond hair. Glasses.

  Noam Cooper.

  Cooper is here.

  Why the fuck didn’t Steph tell me that Cooper was going to be here? I might not have come if she . . .

  Oh. That’s why.

  He’s shaking the hands of a cute gay couple, introducing his date, a gorgeous blond thing in a colorful maxi that looks like butterfly wings. Unpolished nails, no makeup. Oh, to be so beautiful that embellishments would actually take away from it. Cooper makes a joke and the two men laugh. Butterfly Dress smiles, like she doesn’t find it that funny or she just doesn’t get it. A small curl of satisfaction: looks like another humorless hookup for Noam Cooper. But my pleasure is short-lived. As the four of them chat in the afternoon light that’s spilling like honey, I want to be the one Cooper is touching on the arm, the one sitting next to him during the ceremony. But what used to be simple between us is now complex, and we don’t even have a relationship to explain that. Some people just don’t fit together. Or perhaps, some people are just no good at relationships. At being loved and loving someone else. The skill of a trend forecaster lies in recognizing pattern. The common thread between the failures of Cooper and Elan and even Luna, is me. I’m not just corrupted by my mother’s DNA.

  I can no longer pretend that my fuckup father’s DNA isn’t poisoning me too.

  51.

  * * *

  Pick a seat, not a side. We’re all family once the knot is tied.

  The light is twenty-four karat. Magic hour. Guests take their seats on the folding chairs facing an archway of white roses and the gloriously endless Atlantic. I linger, waiting for Cooper to sit without seeing me. Steph and I end up toward the back and somehow with a maddeningly perfect view of the boy and the way his arm rests on his date’s bony shoulders. I try to focus on the celebrant, a woman with the precise elocution of a middle school teacher, but my gaze keeps flitting back to Cooper. Every time it does, an ice cube sears my chest.

  Marriage is a kind of forecast, based in the belief that the relationship you have will stay consistent and satisfying enough to weather the inevitable storms. It’s a cultural collection delusion: optimistic, yes, romantic, certainly, but ultimately unrealistic. Our attention spans are getting shorter. We demand newness and novelty at an unprecedented rate. It seems impossible we’d find any one person interesting enough for a few years, let alone the length of our life. A soul mate who’s also our best friend, tasked with offering comfort and surprise, mystery and complete knowability.

  And yet, I want it. I want what Tom and Peter have, both of them bawling as they exchange rings in front of several million of their closest friends. If this whole ordeal has forced me to admit anything to myself, it’s that I want love. I want to get married. I think I even want a baby; shit, maybe I want two. I want a full, extraordinary life with someone who challenges me, and laughs with me, and
is hungry for adventure and intellectual pursuit and sex. I want a partner, in the most expansive sense of the word. It feels terrifying to admit this, because I might not get it. I have very little control over making it happen; I can’t conjure it through sheer will and hard work, like I conjured the rest of my life in New York. But I want it. I want love.

  Bang. I jump. White rose petals fill the sky, swirling around the two men, both laughing as they come back down the aisle, husband and husband. We stand and applaud and then, it’s over.

  “That was so beautiful.” Steph’s dabbing her eyes, sniffling.

  Cooper wipes a tiny tear from his date’s cheek and kisses it.

  “I’d like to get married,” I say, trying it out. “I know it’s a bourgeois construct, but I’d like to, one day.”

  “Well, yeah,” Steph says. “Me too.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. I need a bloody green card.”

  I smile, grateful for her levity, and we follow the crowd inside.

  * * * *

  The reception is in a gilded banquet hall the size of a small country. What possible use would this space have when not housing a socialite wedding party: ice-skating rink? Airplane hangar? Twenty circular tables are laden with gold-edged glassware, silverware, and skyward-reaching arrangements of ivory orchids and lilies. From the corner of my eye, I spy Cooper heading toward the back of the hall. I don’t think he’s seen me. It’s so crowded, there’s a good chance I could avoid him all night.

  Steph, Viv, Brian, and I are all seated at table four, a surprisingly prime spot close to the long head table. My place card indicates that Ms. Lacey Whitman is seated next to Ms. Vivian Chang.

  And Mr. Elan Behzadi.

  My stomach bombs.

  Did I not see him during the ceremony? Or is he planning to arrive after the display of genuine human emotion? I grab a glass of wine, and scoot around the table, subtly raking the guests as everyone filters in. Through the milling crowd and oversize flower arrangements, I see Patricia . . . and Eloise . . . and him. Talking to an older couple I don’t know. He’s dressed in a crisp white suit that is, unfortunately, extremely classy and rather sexy.