That night while Andrew sleeps, I creep from our bed, grab my laptop and my robe, and head for the sofa. Before I have time to Google Johnny Manns, I find a Facebook message from my old friend Carrie Newsome. I stare at the picture of the earthy-looking woman in the sweatshirt who was once my best friend.
Brett Bohlinger? My long-lost friend from Rogers Park? I can’t believe you remembered me—let alone found me on Facebook! I have so many fond memories of you. Believe it or not, I’m going to be in Chicago next month. The National Association of Social Workers conference is at McCormick Place on November 14. Would you have time to meet for lunch, or better yet, dinner? Oh, Bretel, I’m so glad you found me! I’ve missed you!
Bretel. The old nickname she’d given me when we were kids. She’d compiled a list of possibilities after I’d complained for a week straight about having a boy’s name. “How about Bretchen? Bretta? Brettany?” she asked. We finally settled on Bretel, a name that conjured images of candy houses and quick-witted children. And it stuck. To everyone else I was Brett. But to my dearest friend, I was Bretel.
It was a gilded autumn morning when Carrie announced her mother was taking a job at the University of Wisconsin. Dressed in plaid kilts and white blouses, we strolled down the sidewalk toward Loyola Academy, our new high school. I can almost hear the leaves crunching beneath our feet and see the canopy of reds and golds overhead. But the pain I feel over losing Carrie isn’t imagined. I really do feel an ache in my heart, as if, after all these years, it’s still bruised.
“My dad’s taking me to dinner tonight,” I told Carrie.
“That’s great,” she said, always my biggest ally. “I bet he misses you.”
I kicked a pile of leaves. “Yeah, maybe.”
We walked on in silence for half a block before she turned to me. “We’re moving, Brett.”
She didn’t use my nickname then. Alarmed, I looked into eyes flooded with tears. Still, I refused to understand. “We are?” I asked, in all sincerity.
“No!” Through her tears, she laughed, sending a missile of snot blasting from her nose.
“Gross!” I cried. We doubled over with laughter, pushing each other into the leaves, not wanting the merriment to end. Because when it finally did, we were left staring into each other’s empty faces. “Please, tell me you’re not.”
“I’m sorry, Bretel. We are.”
My world ended that day. Or so I thought. The girl who could read my thoughts, challenge my thinking, laugh at my dim-witted jokes was leaving me. Madison seemed as far from Rogers Park as Uzbekistan. Five weeks later I stood on her porch stoop and waved good-bye as the moving van pulled away. For that first year, we wrote to each other like faithful lovers. Until one weekend she came back to visit, and we never spoke again. For all the atoning I’ve done, I’ve never forgiven myself. And for all the new friends I’ve made, I’ve never loved another like I loved Carrie Newsome.
Her message stares at me like a hungry puppy beside the dinner table. Doesn’t she remember how I treated her the last time I saw her? I bury my head in my hands. When I finally lift my head, I type as fast as I can.
I miss you, too, Care Bear, and I’m so sorry. I’d love to see you on the 14th. Your hotel?
I push ENTER.
Next, I type JOHNNY MANNS.
CHAPTER NINE
Brad and I sit in the matching leather chairs. I sip a cup of tea while he drinks from a water bottle and tells me about his trip. I can smell his cologne, and up close I notice he once had a pierced ear.
“San Francisco’s awesome,” he says. “Ever been there?”
“Twice. It’s one of my favorite cities.” I hide my face in my teacup and ask, “Was it business or pleasure?”
“Pleasure. My girlfriend Jenna moved out there last summer. She got a job with the San Francisco Chronicle.”
Perfect. We’re both in relationships. We won’t have that distracting sexual tension between us. So why did my heart just take a nosedive?
“Wonderful!” I say, trying my damnedest to sound excited.
“It is. For her. She’s loving it, but it puts a strain on our relationship.”
“I can imagine. Being two thousand miles apart can’t be easy, not to mention the two-hour time difference.”
He shakes his head. “Or the eleven-year age difference.”
I quickly calculate and guess Jenna must be about thirty. “Eleven years isn’t such a huge gap.”
“Exactly what I tell her. But she gets freaked out now and then.” He goes to his desk and retrieves the photo of the woman and her son—the one I mistook for his older sister and nephew. “This is Jenna,” he says. “And that’s her son, Nate. He’s a freshman at NYU.”
I study the woman with a bashful smile and bright blue eyes. “She’s really pretty.”
“She is.” He smiles at the picture, and I feel a pang of envy. How must it feel to be so adored?
I straighten in my chair and try to look officious. “I’ve got some news to report.”
He cocks his head. “You and Andrew are having a baby? Buying a horse?”
“No. But I have made my last visit to Charles Bohlinger’s grave site.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You’ve already made peace with him?”
I shake my head. “Charles Bohlinger wasn’t my real father, and I need you to help me find the man who is.” I tell him about my mother’s journal and the man she fell in love with the summer before I was born. “The final entry is on August twenty-ninth, the day Charles discovered the affair and Johnny left town. My mother was devastated. She wanted to leave Charles, but Johnny made her stay. Even though he loved her, he had dreams of being a musician. He couldn’t settle down. Whether or not she knew she was pregnant, I’ll never know. But she was—about two months’ along. With Johnny’s baby.” I notice Brad’s furrowed brow. “Trust me, Brad. Charles and I looked nothing alike. We had absolutely no connection. There’s not a doubt in my mind that Johnny Manns is my father.”
Brad sucks in a breath. “That’s a lot to take in. How do you feel about this?”
I sigh. “Hurt. Deceived. Furious. I can’t believe my mother didn’t tell me, especially once Charles died. She knew how much I wanted a father. But more than anything, I feel relief. It explains so much. I finally understand why my father disliked me. It wasn’t because I was a horrible girl, like I always thought. It was because I wasn’t his daughter.” I swallow and lift a hand to my mouth. “I’ve held so much anger for him. Now that I know the truth, that anger is fading.”
“That’s huge. And just think, you have a father out there somewhere.”
“Yeah, that’s the scary part. I have no idea how to find him.” I bite my lip. “I also have no idea how he’ll respond when I show up on his doorstep.”
Brad squeezes my hand and looks directly into my eyes. “He’ll love you.”
My foolish heart skips a beat. I reclaim my hand and fold it on my lap. “Think you could help me find him?”
“You bet.” He leaps to his feet and moves to his computer. “Let’s start by Googling him.”
“Wow!” I say, in mock admiration. “Google him? You think of everything. Give yourself a raise!”
He turns to me and his smile vanishes. But his eyes crinkle at the edges, and I know he gets me. “Smart-ass.”
I laugh. “You think I haven’t already Googled him? Come on, Midar.”
He returns to his seat and crosses a leg over his knee. “Okay, so what’d you find?”
“I thought I’d found him right off, a band leader named Johnny Mann. But he was born in 1918.”
“Yeah, that’d make him a pretty old geezer, even in 1978. Besides, this guy was Manns, not Mann, right?”
“That’s how she wrote it in her journal. But I’m not ruling out Mann. I’ve also tried John, Johnny, and Jonathan. The problem is, there are over ten million Google entries! There’s no way I can find him without narrowing the search.”
“What else did she say
about him? Was he from Chicago?”
“He was from North Dakota. I’m guessing he was my mom’s age from the way she describes him, though I don’t know for sure. He sublet the apartment above theirs when they lived on Bosworth Avenue, in Rogers Park. He was a musician, and he worked at a bar called Justine’s just down the street.”
He snaps a finger and points at me. “Bingo! We’re going there now—to Justine’s! We’ll ask around, see if anyone remembers him.”
I look at him and roll my eyes. “Remind me from which online university you earned your law degree.”
“What?”
“We’re talking over thirty years ago, Brad. Justine’s isn’t even Justine’s anymore. It’s a gay bar called Neptune.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “You’ve already checked it out, haven’t you?”
I fight a smile. “Okay, I admit it. I’m as dim-witted as you.” I throw up my hands. “Obviously, we can’t do this alone. We need an expert, Brad. Don’t you know someone who can help?”
He goes to his desk and returns with his cell phone. “I do have someone I use occasionally with divorce cases. Steve Pohlonski. He’s pretty good at detective work. But I can’t guarantee he can find Johnny Manns.”
“He’s got to!” I cry, suddenly desperate to find my father. “If he can’t, there’s got to be someone else who can. I won’t stop until I find this man.”
Brad studies me and nods. “Good for you. This is the first time I’ve seen you embrace a goal with enthusiasm. I’m proud of you.”
He’s right. It’s no longer my mom pushing me to accomplish goal number nineteen. It’s no longer that girl’s goal. A relationship with my father is something I want with all my heart, something I’ve wanted my whole life.
I leave the office wondering why it is I have this strange need to please Brad. Like my mother, he seems certain I can obtain these goals. Together, maybe we really will make my mom proud. Before I have time to ponder further, my phone rings. I open the double doors to Randolph Street and fish my phone from my purse.
“Brett Bohlinger? This is Susan Christian from the Chicago Public Schools. We’ve received your application and immunization records, and we’ve conducted your background check. I’m happy to say everything looks satisfactory. You’re now eligible to substitute-teach. Congratulations.”
A blast of October wind smacks me in the face. “Uh, okay, thanks.”
“We need a fifth-grade sub tomorrow at Douglas J. Keyes Elementary, in Woodlawn. Are you available?”
I’m lying in bed with my novel, reading the same paragraph for the third time, when I hear the door open. I used to be so happy to see Andrew at the end of the day. Now my chest constricts and I have trouble breathing. I need to tell him the truth, but at ten o’clock at night, when he’s exhausted and needs to relax, it hardly seems the time. At least that’s how I rationalize it.
I slap shut my book and listen to him rifle through the cabinets and the fridge. Next I hear the sound of his feet slogging up the stairs to our bedroom as if he’s wearing forty-pound boots. I can always gauge Andrew’s mood by the sound of his feet as they climb the steps. Tonight he’s exhausted and discouraged.
“Hey,” I say, tossing aside my book. “How was your day?”
He plops down on the edge of the bed holding a bottle of Heineken. His face is ashy, and dark circles hover like crescent moons beneath his eyes. “You’re in bed early.”
I glance at the bedside clock. “It’s almost ten. You’re just later than usual. Can I get you some dinner?”
“I’m okay.” He slides his tie down his chest and unbuttons his miraculously crisp blue shirt. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” I say, feeling my blood pressure soar at the thought of tomorrow’s substitute-teaching assignment. “But tomorrow’s going to be a bitch. Big meeting with some new clients.”
“You’ll adjust. Your mother handled it. You will, too.” He takes a swig of beer. “Catherine being helpful?”
I wave dismissively. “She runs the place, just like she always did.” Dear Jesus! I’m walking a wire, and I need to get off before I slip! I gather my knees to my chest and lock them in a hug. “Tell me about your day.”
He rakes a hand through his hair. “It sucked. Got a client who’s accused of murdering a nineteen-year-old for throwing a rock at his Hummer.” He sets his beer on a coaster and goes to his closet. “Makes running a cosmetics company look like a day at Disney.”
Though I’m not running the company, nor am I even a menial advertising exec, the insult hits its mark like a knuckle sandwich. As far as he knows, I’m the president of that cosmetics company. Therefore I’d appreciate a modicum of respect, and frankly, a bit of awe and admiration as well. I open my mouth to defend myself, but snap it shut before I utter the first word. I’m the liar in this scenario, and the only thing worse than a liar is a self-righteous liar.
He must see that I’m offended, because he comes up beside me and squeezes my arm. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by that. I’m just saying, you’ve got a good gig.”
My heart speeds. Now is the time. I take a deep breath. “But I don’t have a good gig, Andrew. I’ve been pretending—”
“Would you stop with the second-guessing already? I get it. You feel like an imposter. We all do, sometimes. But you’ve got to step up, babe, show that you’re up to the task. Stop doubting yourself. You’re coming into your own now, becoming the woman your mother—and I—always knew you could be.”
Oh, Jesus! I can’t tell him the truth now. “Um, well, I don’t know about that.”
“There’s not a doubt in my mind.” He pulls a cedar hanger from the closet and slides his suit coat over it. Then he removes his pants, finds their crease, and clips them to the hanger, bottom-side up. I study his smooth, tan skin and rippled abs. Along with his clothing and his physique, Andrew expects perfection in everything—including his girlfriend. A pit forms in my stomach.
“I’ve been thinking more and more about Bohlinger Cosmetics. I’d like you to consider bringing me aboard.”
I gasp. “I … I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
He shoots me a look. “Really? What’s changed? At one time you were all for it.”
Three years ago I went to my mother, asking her to create a position for Andrew. But she refused. “Brett, darling, I simply won’t consider it unless the two of you are married. And even then, you’d have a hard time convincing me to hire Andrew.”
“Why? He’s brilliant. Andrew works harder than anyone I know.”
“Andrew would be an asset to many corporations, no doubt. But I’m not sure he’s a good fit for BC.” She locked eyes with me then, the way she always did when she had something difficult to say. “My sense is that Andrew is a bit more aggressive than is necessary for a business such as ours.”
I swallow hard and force myself to look at Andrew. “But Mother was against it, remember? Besides, you’ve said many times what a good decision that was. You admitted you’d never be happy at a cosmetics company.”
He moves to the bed and leans over me, positioning one bare arm on either side of me. “But that was before my girlfriend was president of the company.”
“Which confirms the fact that you shouldn’t work there.”
He lowers his body, planting kisses on my forehead, my nose, my lips. “Imagine the fringe benefits,” he whispers, his voice husky. “We create an adjoining office next to your corner suite. I’m your company’s attorney as well as your private sex slave.”
I giggle. “You’re already my sex slave.”
Nuzzling my neck, he lifts my nightshirt. “There’s nothing sexier than a powerful woman. Come here, Madame President.”
But if you knew I was a powerless substitute teacher, would you still find me sexy? I grope for the lamp switch, grateful when the room goes black, and lie still as he makes his way down my body.
My good angel reminds me that I need to tell him the truth, and soon. My bad
angel tells her to mind her own business, and wraps her legs around his naked back.
I arrive at Douglas Keyes Elementary clad in black slacks and a black sweater, wearing my bright orange shoes in honor of Halloween season. Children love teachers who dress in holiday themes, though I refuse to wear the requisite appliqué pumpkin sweatshirts until I’m at least fifty.
Principal Bailey, an attractive African American woman, leads me down a terrazzo hallway toward Mrs. Porter’s classroom.
“Woodlawn is home to several housing projects and a variety of street gangs. Not the easiest group to teach, but we’re up for the challenge. I like to think Douglas Keyes Elementary serves as a safe haven for our youngsters.”
“Nice.”
“Mrs. Porter went into labor early this morning, three weeks earlier than expected. Unless it’s a false start, she’ll be out the next six weeks. Are you available to substitute long-term should we need you?”
My breath catches. “Uh, let me think …”
Six weeks? That’s thirty days! My temples throb. Atop a set of double doors at the end of the hall, I see a bright red EXIT sign. I’m tempted to make a dash for it, never to return. But I think of that girl’s list. If I serve my time for the next six weeks, I can achieve goal number twenty. Even Brad would agree I gave it a fair shot. I think of my mother’s—or rather, Eleanor Roosevelt’s—words. “Do something every day that scares you.”
“Yes,” I say, peeling my eyes from the EXIT sign. “I am available.”
“Terrific,” she says. “It’s not easy to find substitutes for this building.”
A mixture of panic and regret runs through my every nerve fiber. What the hell have I committed to? Mrs. Bailey unlocks the door and finds the light switch.
“You’ll find lesson plans on Mrs. Porter’s desk. If there’s anything else you need, just ask.” She gives me a thumbs-up before she pivots, and I’m left alone in my classroom.
I breathe in the scent of dust and musty old books, and gaze at a pasture of wooden desks. An old but familiar fantasy washes over me. For the first twenty years of my life, I dreamed of teaching in a classroom just like this.
The Life List Page 8