The Life List

by Lori Nelson Spielman

“And Andrew’s about as far from Old MacDonald as you can get,” Shelley says, pouring another packet of sugar into her coffee. “What does he think of all this? Is he prepared to step up? Give you babies?”

  “Buy you a horse?” Megan adds, erupting in high-pitched giggles.

  “He is,” I say, pretending to examine my spoon. “I’m sure he is.”

  Megan’s eyes dance. “I’m sorry. I just don’t see how you’re going to manage a horse in the middle of downtown Chicago. Does your building allow pets?”

  “You’re hilarious, Meg.” I rub my temples. “I’m beginning to think my mom was out of her mind. What fourteen-year-old doesn’t want a horse? What little girl doesn’t want to be a schoolteacher and have babies and a dog and a beautiful house?”

  Shelley wiggles her outstretched fingers. “Let’s see that list again.” I pass it to her, and she mumbles as she peruses it. “STAY FRIENDS WITH CARRIE NEWSOME, FALL IN LOVE, HAVE A RELATIONSHIP WITH MY DAD.” She looks up. “These are a cinch.”

  I narrow my eyes. “My father’s dead, Shelley.”

  “She obviously wants you to make peace with him. You know, visit his grave site, plant some flowers. And look, you’ve already accomplished number seventeen, fall in love. You’re in love with Andrew, right?”

  I nod, though for some reason my insides freeze up. I can’t remember the last time we actually spoke the words I love you. But that’s perfectly natural. After four years, it’s implied.

  “Then go to Mr. Midar’s office and tell him. And tonight, look up this Carrie Newsome chick on Facebook. Send a few messages. Reconnect. Bingo! Another score.”

  My breath catches. I haven’t spoken to Carrie since she left my house, hurt and humiliated, nearly nineteen years ago. “What about number twelve, help poor people? That’s not so hard. I’ll donate to Unicef or something.” I look to my friends for reassurance. “Don’t you think?”

  “Absolutely,” Megan says. “You’ll finish quicker than a horny frat boy.”

  “But that damn baby,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “And the live performance and the teaching job. I swore I’d never again set foot on a stage or in a classroom.”

  Megan grips her wrist and pulls, an annoying habit she thinks will lengthen her arms. “Forget about a teaching job. Just sub for a few days, maybe a week or two. You get through it, and voilà! That one’s in the bag.”

  I mull it over. “A substitute teacher? My mom never said I had to have my own classroom.” A slow smile makes its way across my face. I lift my latte. “Here’s to you, girls. On Monday afternoon, martinis are on me. By then I’ll have an envelope or two from Mr. Midar.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I stop at the florist Monday morning and pick up a bouquet of wildflowers before heading straight to Mr. Midar’s office. I figure I’ll treat myself each time I accomplish one of that girl’s life goals. On impulse, I pick up a bouquet for Midar, too.

  As the elevator rises to the thirty-second floor, a mixture of anticipation and excitement bubbles up inside me. I can’t wait to see his face when I tell him what I’ve accomplished. But when I burst into the swanky office and stride up to Claire’s desk, she looks at me as if I’m insane.

  “You want to see him now? Absolutely not. He’s working on a huge case.”

  As I turn to leave, Midar shoots from his office like a jack-rabbit from its hole. He searches the waiting room and breaks into an adorable grin when he spots me. “Ms. Bohlinger! I thought I heard your voice! Come in.”

  Claire looks on with her mouth agape as Mr. Midar waves me into his office. I hand him the wildflowers as I pass in front of him.

  “For me?”

  “I’m feeling generous.”

  He chuckles. “Thank you. Decided not to splurge on a vase, though, huh?”

  I fight back a smile. “You’re on your own. I’m unemployed, as you probably know.”

  He searches the office until he lands on a ceramic urn of silk flowers. “Yeah, that’s a bummer about the job. Your mother plays hardball.” He yanks out the artificial flowers and tosses them into his wastebasket. “Gotta get some water. Be right back.”

  He takes the urn with him and I’m left alone in his office, giving me a chance to check out his digs. I pass by the floor-to-ceiling window, admiring a southern view that spans from Millennium Park all the way to the Adler Planetarium. I slow when I near his massive walnut desk, littered with three substantial sets of files, his computer, and a coffee-stained mug. I search for framed pictures of the beautiful wife, the adorable child, and requisite golden retriever. Instead, I see a snapshot of a middle-aged woman and someone who looks to be her teenage son, lounging on the deck of a sailboat. His sister and nephew, I’m guessing. The only other picture is of Brad, in his cap and gown, squeezed between two beaming adults I presume are his parents.

  “All set,” he says.

  I turn to see him kick the door shut behind him. He places the urn of flowers on a marble-topped table. “Beautiful.”

  “I’ve got some good news, Mr. Midar.”

  “Please,” he says, waving me over to a pair of leather club chairs, cracked and weathered to perfection. “We’ll be working together for the next year. Call me Brad.”

  “Okay. And I’m Brett.”

  He takes a seat in the chair adjacent to mine. “Brett. I like that name. Where’d it come from, anyway?”

  “Elizabeth, of course. She was a fan of American literature. I was named after Lady Brett Ashley, the little tart in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises.”

  “Great choice. And Joad? Wasn’t that the family in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath?”

  “You got it. Jay was named after Jay Gatsby, Fitzgerald’s character.”

  “Clever woman. I wish I’d known her longer.”

  “Me too.”

  He gives my knee a sympathetic pat. “You okay?”

  I nod and try to swallow. “As long as I don’t think about it.”

  “I understand.”

  There it is again, the bruised look on his face I saw last week. I want to ask him about it, but it feels too intrusive.

  “I’ve got good news,” I say, sitting up straight. “I’ve already accomplished a life goal.”

  He raises one eyebrow but says nothing.

  “Number seventeen. I’ve fallen in love.”

  He inhales audibly. “That was quick.”

  “Not really. My boyfriend, Andrew … well, he and I have been together nearly four years.”

  “And you love him?”

  “I do,” I say, bending down to remove a tiny leaf stuck to my shoe. Of course I love Andrew. He’s smart and ambitious. He’s a superb athlete and flat-out gorgeous. So why do I feel like I’m cheating on this goal?

  “Congratulations. Let me get your envelope.”

  He stands and moves to the file cabinet beside his desk. “Number seventeen,” he mumbles as he searches. “Ah, here we go.”

  I rise from the chair and reach for the envelope, but he holds it protectively against his chest. “Your mother instructed me—”

  “Oh, God! What now?”

  “I’m sorry, Brett. She made me promise to open each envelope for you and read it aloud.”

  I plop back down in the chair and cross my arms over my chest like a sulky teenager. “Go on then, open it.”

  It seems to take him forever to open the envelope and remove the letter. Out of curiosity, my eyes trail to his left hand in search of platinum, but I see nothing but tanned flesh and a spattering of masculine hair. He pulls his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and takes a deep breath.

  “ ‘Hello, Brett,’ ” he reads. “ ‘I’m sorry you made the trip across town to tell me you’re in love with Andrew. You see, I’m waiting for that heart-stopping, I’d die for you kind of love.’ ”

  “What?” I throw up my hands. “She’s insane! That kind of love only exists in romance novels and the Lifetime channel. Any fool knows that.”

  “ ‘We often
choose relationships that mirror our past. In Andrew, you’ve chosen a man much like your father, though I know you’ll disagree.’ ”

  I gasp. The two men couldn’t be more different. Unlike Andrew, who admires a powerful woman, my dad was threatened by my mother’s achievement. For years, she was forced to downplay her success, laughing it off and calling her business her “hobby.” But eventually the orders came in faster than she could fill them. She had to rent a space and hire employees. Suddenly she was living her dream. That’s when their marriage fell apart.

  “ ‘Like your father, Andrew is ambitious and driven, but rather stingy with his love, wouldn’t you agree? And oh, how it pains me to see you toil for that acceptance, just as you toiled for your father’s. In vying for his affection, I fear you’ve abandoned your authentic self. Why is it that you feel unworthy of your own dreams?’ ”

  Tears sting my eyes and I blink them away. An image springs to mind. It’s dawn, and I’m making my daily trek to swim practice, dreading the frigid black water, but desperate to make my father proud. Years later I even minored in science, my least favorite subject, hoping to find common ground with the man, I eventually came to realize, I would never please.

  “ ‘I only want you to be happy. If indeed you are convinced Andrew is your love, then share this life list with him. If he is willing to be your partner in accomplishing these goals, I underestimated your love, and his, and you can consider this goal achieved. But whatever the outcome, please know that love is the one thing on which you should never compromise. Come back when you’ve found your love, my darling. It’ll be worth it.’ ”

  I rub the knot in my throat and try to look cheery. “Great. I’ll be back in no time.”

  Brad turns to me. “You think he’ll go for it, then? The baby? The dog?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, gnawing my thumbnail.

  “ ‘I love you,’ ” Brad says.

  I snap to attention, but realize he’s only resumed his reading. “ ‘PS: You might want to begin with number eighteen: PERFORM LIVE, ON A SUPER BIG STAGE.’ ”

  “Oh, right. I’ll just sign myself up for the Joffrey Ballet. Has she completely lost it?”

  “ ‘I wonder what you had in mind. Ballet, I’m guessing, but perhaps a dramatic role. You adored your children’s theater troupe nearly as much as your dance classes. But you quit both for the sake of cheerleading. And though I supported this endeavor, I tried to convince you to audition for the school plays, to join the choir or band. You wouldn’t hear of it. Apparently your new friends did not favor these pursuits, and sadly that mattered to you. Where did she go, that fearless, self-assured girl who loved to entertain?’ ”

  A searing memory surfaces, one I’d kept submerged for twenty years. It was the morning of my modern dance recital—the first time I’d be on stage without Carrie. She’d moved two months earlier, just weeks after my parents separated. In a sudden fit of loneliness, I lifted the phone to call her. But before I had time to punch in her number, I heard my mother’s voice through the receiver.

  “Charles, please. She’s counting on you.”

  “Look, I said I’d try. The grant is due next week.”

  “But you promised her,” my mother pleaded.

  “Well maybe it’s high time she realized that the world doesn’t revolve around her.” He huffed then, with a mocking tone I’ll never forget. “Let’s get real, Liz. The girl’s not exactly Broadway-bound.”

  I waited thirty minutes before calling him, relieved when his answering machine picked up. “It’s me, Dad. There’s some sort of electrical outage at the auditorium. My recital’s been canceled.”

  That day marked the last time I ever set foot on stage.

  I swallow hard. “Where did she go? She went where every little girl with big dreams goes. She grew up. She got real.”

  Brad gives me a quizzical look, as if he wants me to elaborate, but continues reading when I don’t. “ ‘Given the time constraints, I suggest your performance be short and sweet, but something that nonetheless steals you from your rather stunted comfort zone. Do you remember celebrating Jay’s birthday last June at Third Coast Comedy? When the MC was plugging their upcoming amateur night, you leaned over and told me you’d rather tackle Mount Everest in a pair of Christian Louboutins. It struck me then, how timid you’d become. At that moment I chose to keep this goal on your list, and decided a stand-up comedy routine would be the perfect antidote for your meekness. You’ll be on stage, fulfilling both your wish and mine.’ ”

  “No! Never!” I turn to Brad, desperate to make him see things my way. “I can’t! I won’t. I’m not the least bit funny.”

  “Maybe you just haven’t worked at it lately.”

  “Look, I don’t care if I’m Ellen-friggin’-DeGeneres, there’s no way in hell I’m going to do stand-up. It’s time we moved on to Plan B.”

  “Brett, there is no Plan B. If you want to honor your mother’s wishes—and receive your inheritance—you must complete the list.”

  “No! Don’t you get it? I don’t want these damn wishes!”

  He rises and goes to the window. Silhouetted before the neighboring skyscrapers with his hands planted in his pockets, he looks like a Greek philosopher, contemplating the mysteries of life. “Elizabeth made me think she was doing you a favor with these goals. She told me you might be reluctant, but I had no idea.” He rakes a hand through his hair and turns to me. “I’m really sorry.”

  Something about his tenderness, his undisguised angst makes me bend a little.

  “How could you have known? She did think she was doing me a favor. This was her last-ditch effort to change the trajectory of my life.”

  “She didn’t think you were happy?”

  I lower my eyes. “Apparently not, which is crazy. My mother rarely saw me without a smile on my face. She used to boast that I came out of the womb smiling.”

  “But behind the smile?”

  The softly spoken, straightforward question catches me off-guard. For some reason, I choke up. My mind goes to little Trevor, and the red splotches of joy that flood his chubby face when he’s laughing. My mom once told me I was just like him when I was a kid. I wonder where it goes, that kind of bliss? Perhaps the same place youthful confidence goes.

  “I’m perfectly happy. I mean, why wouldn’t I be?”

  Brad gives me a rueful smile. “Confucius say: The route to happiness is found in stand-up comedy.”

  I can’t help but smile at his lame Chinese accent. “Uh-huh. Confucius also say: Woman without humor should stay away from comedy club.”

  He chuckles and makes his way back to where I sit. He perches on the edge of his chair, his folded hands so close to my leg they’re almost touching me. “I’ll be right there with you,” he says, “if you want me to be.”

  “You would?” I look at him as if he’s just agreed to a double suicide. “Why?”

  He leans back and cradles his neck in his fingers. “It’ll be a blast.”

  “So we’d be like a comedy act … a duo?”

  He laughs. “Oh, hell no! I said I’d be with you, meaning, I’ll watch you—from the audience. This body won’t be anywhere near the stage.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Wimp!”

  “You got that right.”

  I study him. “Why are you being so nice to me? Did my mother put you up to this? Is she paying you or something?”

  I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. “In a way, yes. You see, last spring your mom came to an Alzheimer’s fund-raiser I was co-hosting. That’s how we met. My dad was diagnosed three years ago.”

  So that’s where the sadness comes from. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, me too. Anyway, with the economy in the tank, it looked like we’d fall short of our projections. But your mom stepped in. She made a huge contribution and pushed us over the goal line.”

  “And so now you feel obligated? That’s crazy. My mom did things like that all the time.”

  “The follow
ing week a package was delivered to my office. Soaps, shampoos, lotions, a whole slew of stuff from Bohlinger Cosmetics. It was addressed to my mother.”

  “Your mother? Wait, I thought you said your dad—”

  “That’s right.”

  It takes a second before the puzzle pieces fall into place. “Your mom was also a victim of Alzheimer’s.”

  “Exactly. She cried when I gave her the package. As his caretaker, her needs were pretty much ignored. Your mom knew she needed comfort, too.”

  “That’s my mother. She was the most sensitive woman I ever met.”

  “She was a saint. So when she made me executor of her estate and explained her plan for you, I gave her my word I’d see it through.” His face is fixed with ironclad determination. “And believe me, I will.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Unemployment has its benefits, especially for one who needs to prepare a comedy routine by the month’s end. I’m tempted to steal lines I’ve heard on Comedy Central, but I know Mom wouldn’t approve. Instead I spend the week scouring the city. Anything I hear or see that’s remotely funny becomes possible fodder for my act. In the hope of overcoming—or at least minimizing—the odds that I’ll make a complete ass of myself in public, I spend hours in front of the mirror working to perfect my material. All the while my stomach knots into a tight little rock, and dark circles form tree-rings beneath my eyes.

  It occurs to me that this could have been my mom’s intention all along. By putting the live performance at the top of my list, she thought I’d be too anxious and preoccupied to think about her. In truth, it’s had the opposite effect. Elizabeth Bohlinger loved nothing more than a good laugh. Each time I see someone acting silly, or hear something that makes me grin, it’s my mom I want to share it with. If she were alive, I’d call and say, “Have I got a story for you.”

  That was all she needed to hear. She’d either beg me to tell it on the spot or, more often than not, invite me to dinner later. Once our wine was poured, she’d lean in and tap my arm. “Your story, darling. Please, I’ve been waiting all day.”

  I’d embellish the tale, using accents and dialects for effect. Even now I can hear the lilt of her laughter, see her dab tears from the corners of her eyes …