Next Year I'll be Perfect

by Laura Kilmartin

  “Oh, God.” My head thunked on the counter as I realized that even Cathy the cartoon was married.

  And cancelled.

  Livvie dragged the edges of my hair away from the ice cream puddle where they had landed. “Stop thinking about Ryan.”

  “I'm not thinking about Ryan,” I sighed. “I'm thinking about Irving.” I lifted my head reluctantly from the table.

  “Irving? Who's Irving?”

  “Cathy's husb—never mind.” I focused again on the list in front of me. “God, Livvie. Can you believe that four years ago I was close enough to a size six to even consider it a reasonable target? And look at this: a partner at a firm. Jesus, I was a dreamer.”

  “Before you sink too deep into the pit of despair, don't forget that you also thought you could sleep with George Clooney. Thus, it's possible that when you wrote this list, you were doing tequila shots like they were going out of style, my dear. Don't make more of this than it is.”

  “Well, we did see Springsteen last year,” I mumbled, slightly mollified at the thought of being able to mark one of my goals as completed.

  “True! And don't forget that when you, David, and Eddie took that trip to San Francisco last year you forced them to rent a car and drive you to Hollywood. You've got the stupid picture of you standing next to Jimmy Stewart's star sitting on your desk at work.”

  Good point, but one that made me feel even sadder for some reason. Being a freakish fan of movies, television, and all things celebrity, I had felt much like Scarlett O'Hara coming home to Tara when my friends and I took that side trip to Hollywood.

  “Are you thinking about Gone With the Wind?”

  “No.”

  “Right.”

  “Look at me, Livvie. I'm fat, single, and working at a one horse operation—”

  Livvie rolled her eyes. “Stop. You love your job and you're not fat. I will admit that you're single, but correct me if I'm wrong, you were single yesterday and there was nothing wrong with it then.”

  “I was twenty-eight yesterday,” I whined.

  “And I'm thirty-seven! And divorced. It doesn't bother me.”

  “Of course it doesn't bother you. You're blonde, perky, and adorable. If you had a golden retriever, you'd be a walking LL Bean catalog cover.” I touched the paper in my hands, contemplating the list again in the new light cast by desperation. “If I just tweak some of these items, I bet I can still make it.”

  “Make it? Make what?” I saw the moment realization dawned in Livvie's eyes. “God, Sarah, it's a silly joke. It's not actually a to-do list!”

  “Why not? You've seen me accomplish some pretty impossible goals in the seven years we've known each other, and passing the bar exam doesn't even make the top ten. Have you forgotten the orange turtleneck sweater I knit in three days so I could go to a Halloween party dressed as Velma from Scooby-Doo? How about that dinner party I threw based entirely on Spam, eggs, and cheese fondue?”

  “Sarah, sweetie, I love you, but that dinner was disgusting.” She wagged her finger at me. “You may not want to count that among your great accomplishments.”

  Itchy to get started on my new plan, I grabbed the cake pan and proceeded to dump the remnants in the trash bin under the sink.

  One small step for man, and all that.

  Turning back to my friend, her mouth agape at my willful and unprecedented destruction of chocolate, I replied, “Piffle. Why can't I do this? You've always told me I can do anything I set my mind to!”

  “I'm sorry, but did you just say piffle? How many drinks did you let Eddie pour you tonight, anyway?” Running her hands through her hair, Livvie tried to reason with me. “Look, there are certain things no one can accomplish, not even you.”

  I refused to respond or even make eye contact. Petulance was one of my favorite flavors.

  “Come on, Sarah, just look at the list. The first item is, ‘Be happily married’. Do you really believe even you can be happily married within a year?” Livvie's words lingered in the air even as she went to the living room to put in a new CD.

  Happy that I didn't have to meet my friend's eyes, I chewed my lip in deep thought. I had to admit, as much as it pained me, that meeting a man, dating, getting him to propose and planning my dream wedding within a year might be a bit…let us say…challenging.

  Still, though, there was something so heartbreaking about giving up on the goals I'd set for myself. Just four years earlier I'd believed that each and every item on this list was possible (so maybe the George Clooney item was a result of the tequila, but still…) I glanced at the hopeful handwriting of my younger self once more and seriously considered whether I had been an idiot, or just a better person than I was now.

  And could I be that person – that hopeful person – again?

  I straightened my posture. “Hey, Livvie?”

  “Seriously, the apartment will smell like your brother's place if we don't clean tonight.”

  “Wait, Livvie,” I touch her arm. She looked at me, her eyes already knowing my mind. “I think I can do this. I mean, I admit the list might need a few modifications—”

  “Modifications?” Her eyes narrowed as she leaned toward me.

  “God. Don't ever cross examine me, Ms. Assistant District Attorney. This isn't a plot. Just some simple modifications. For instance, I agree I'm probably not going to get married by next September. I could probably be in a happy relationship by then, though, couldn't I?”

  I rushed over to the kitchen junk drawer, rummaged through the batteries and Chinese food menus until I triumphantly pulled out a pen. I scratched out the reference to marriage and replaced it with relationship.

  “I mean that's possible, right? That I can be in a happy relationship by the time I'm thirty?”

  God help me, it had to be possible.

  “Yes,” she agreed warily. “That's possible, I suppose.”

  Livvie leaned over my shoulder as we reviewed the list again. “What's with owning your own home? You have a great apartment. I didn't even know you wanted to buy a house.”

  “I'm going to be thirty next year. There's no reason I should still be sponging off my family in a cramped apartment.”

  Even as I spoke, I knew I was just being contrary faced with Livvie's resistance to my new (ahem, old) goals. In all honesty, my friend was right – I did have a great apartment, and I paid a fair rent to my Uncle who doubled as my landlord. However, the location was less than ideal as I occupied the second story of the building that housed the family diner where I still pulled as many shifts as possible with my busy schedule at the firm. While it was cozy being so close to the family I loved, the lack of privacy could also be stifling at times. I had squirreled away a small, but reasonable sum in my savings account, and there was no reason it couldn't be put to use as a down payment if I found the right property.

  “Fine. I'll give you a happy relationship within a year and even a new house if you want one. But you aren't going to be able to manipulate the rest of the items quite so easily. Did you look at the one about being a partner in a Portland law firm? That's going to be mighty tough to accomplish since you're currently working for a sole practitioner who doesn't want any partners.”

  I pointed my pen at my friend. “Wrong! I work for a sole practitioner who doesn't have any partners. We don't know that he doesn't want any partners. I could still reach this goal in a year.”

  Livvie's left eyebrow rose in disbelief. “Do you really think Frank Murphy is going to make you partner? There is no way Frank would ever share top billing in his firm.”

  “You never know until you ask. Who knows – maybe Frank is ready to share the load. I mean, I've worked for him since I passed the bar. None of his other associates lasted more than six months. I must be doing something right.”

  “You're out of your mind, Sarah. If you start pushing Frank for partnership you might just find yourself out on the streets with no job at all. Besides,” Livvie said, folding her arms across her chest and leanin
g her hip against the counter. “What with losing weight, getting a boyfriend, buying a house and screwing George Clooney this year, you'll probably be a little busy. Why not push off your professional accomplishments until next year?”

  “I was planning to cross off the George Clooney item.” I replied, starting to get annoyed at the levity with which my friend was treating my newly established life plan. “Now you're just mocking me.”

  “Of course I'm mocking you. You hate getting up from the chair to change the TV channel manually and this silly list has you climbing the tallest mountain in Maine.”

  “You've climbed Mt. Katahdin.” I challenged. “Are you saying you can do it, but I can't?”

  I could see in her eyes that Livvie knew she was treading into very dangerous territory.

  “Sarah, I trained to climb that mountain. Started on some intermediate trails, smaller mountains. I went to the rock climbing wall when the weather was bad. Please, please don't take this the wrong way, but I work out on a regular basis.” She pushed her hair back behind her ears, Livvie's only nervous tic, and one I'd seen her evoke only a dozen or so times during our friendship. “You…Well, you don't.”

  “It's okay, Livvie.” I nodded, agreeing with my friend. “You're right. I don't work out. There is no way I could climb a mountain now. It doesn't make any sense.”

  “Well thank you.” Livvie smiled, glad that I had finally seen things her way.

  “But by next year I'll be in great shape. If I'm going to be a size six, I'll have to start hitting the gym more often. Maybe I'll even go to the rock wall with you. It'll be fine. Don't worry.”

  “Sarah!”

  “What?”

  “You're saying that over the next twelve months you want to change everything about yourself – your professional life, your body, your romantic life, your hobbies – everything! Why would you want to change everything about you?”

  I took a moment, pretending for Livvie's benefit to give the matter a great deal of thought. It wasn't necessary, though, as I knew my reasoning before my friend had even posed the question.

  “Because I'm not who I want to be. Isn't that reason enough?”

  “You're gonna listen to a letter?”

  “No.” I tapped my finger on the signature line of the letter. “I'm gonna listen to myself.”

  Silent for a moment, Livvie held out her hand. “Alright then, let's take another look.”

  I handed over the slightly messy, marked-up list and ran around the counter to stand over my friend's shoulder to read:

  I, Sarah Jackson Bennett, being of mildly inebriated (but sound) mind and body do hereby swear before God and these witnesses that by the time I reach thirty years of age, I will have accomplished the following:

  1. Be happily married in an amazing relationship

  2. Fit into a size six purple suede miniskirt

  3. Be partner at a law firm

  4. See Bruce Springsteen in concert (Done!)

  5. Sleep with George Clooney (preferably before #1, but if not, make it a condition of the pre-nup)

  6. Own my own home

  7. Visit Jimmy Stewart's star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame (Done!)

  8. Climb Mt. Katahdin

  Do-able, I thought, nodding my head. Very, very do-able.

  And it would all start tomorrow.

  October

  “SEE YOU NEXT WEEK, STAN. Now button up your coat. It's getting cold out there.”

  I ushered Stan Walker – one of the regular patrons of my family's diner – to the front door as quickly as his bum hip would allow. With a quick glance at the Mickey Mouse clock on the wall to confirm what the empty diner already told me, I engaged the lock with a satisfying click and drew down the shade on the glass window. Sarge's Diner was officially closed for business and my Saturday shift was over.

  Working weekends, holidays and early mornings at the family diner had played a huge role in supporting me through law school as I survived on leftover meatloaf and tips. Even now, at a time when I valued my free time even more than the diner's free coffee, I continued to work Saturdays whenever possible.

  It was only right, after all, given that the diner was my father's idea in the first place. “Uncle” Jeremy Thornton and my father Edgar Bennett had been best friends and partners on the Portland police force for twenty years. Bored to tears after about two weeks of retirement, Dad convinced Jeremy to hock their gold watches and purchase a small diner located on the ground floor of the building where I now rented an apartment, and Sarge's Diner was born.

  When Dad died two years ago, Jeremy made me a silent partner over my not-so-silent protests that the diner should instead belong fully to him and his two sons. After several negotiations where we each claimed to know what my father would have wanted, I finally agreed to share in the meager profits, but only if allowed to also share in the work.

  It was an arrangement that worked well most of the time, the only exceptions being rare days like this one when I was left to close up alone. Before I could wallow too deeply in missing my makeshift family's cheerful chaos, though, I jumped at the piercing tone of the phone at my elbow. The ringer volume was set on high for the noisy diner crowd, but sounded like a scantily-clad coed auditioning for the next Friday the 13th movie when heard in an empty room.

  “Sarge's Diner, may I help you?”

  “Hi, Dad.” I immediately recognized the sarcastic words of Jeremy's oldest son David. “Gosh, you don't sound quite like yourself today.”

  “Very funny, Thornton! What's up?”

  “I wanted to talk to Dad. I can usually catch him when you guys are locking up. Is he there?”

  I shook my head as if my friend could actually see the gesture. “Nope. Jeremy took the day off to take your brother to the airport. His flight back to Cozumel leaves Boston in about an hour.”

  “Poor Eddie.” David chuckled, sympathizing with his brother's plight. The drive from Portland to Boston should normally take two hours, but with Uncle Jeremy at the wheel, the trip could easily take three or more. The man was still an old school police officer at heart, and one of his most endearing and infuriating traits was his failure to go even one mile per hour over the posted speed limit.

  “You said things were going okay when we talked last week. How were they getting along when they left?”

  “Do you mean, ‘were they openly fighting?’” I scraped a fleck of dried pancake batter from the hem of my shirt. “Nah, no bloodshed yet. Although, when Eddie found out your father was driving him to the airport instead of me, I thought he was going to make a break for it. He had the same sad look on his face as Clyde when we took him to the vet.”

  “Why didn't you take him? Wasn't that the plan?”

  “That was Eddie's plan. The minute Jeremy found out he had an opportunity of a captive audience for his thousandth recital of the ‘Stop Wasting Your Life and Go to College' lecture, I was unceremoniously dumped as the family chauffeur and got solo diner duty instead.”

  While carrying on my conversation with David, I was simultaneously bustling around the diner in an effort to clean up as quickly as possible. My pace slowed automatically when it came time to retrieve the porcelain cream and sugar set laid out on the counter among the cheap silver napkin dispenser and plastic container of straws.

  Jeremy hated the fact my father used my mother's wedding china alongside the rest of the diner's heavy-duty, chipless, crackless dinnerware and was sure they'd be knocked to the ground someday and shatter – my father's heart along with them. My dad just tut-tutted his friend and reminded him, “Anna used her best china every single day of our married life. She never understood people who kept their most beautiful things in a box on the shelf. If she were here, she'd insist we use her best dishes, and I never could say ‘no’ to that woman.”

  It turned out my father was right. As if recognizing it's value, burly truckers and shaky seniors alike all seemed to take reverent care when using the fragile cream and sugar set and Jer
emy's worst fears were never realized. I was glad as I agreed with my father that fine things should be used, not hidden away. If not for its use in the diner, my mother's china would only have been enjoyed for a total of four years – two before my birth and two after.

  The spring before I turned three, she and Jeremy's wife Connie had been hit broadside by a drunk driver as they returned home from a night out with the girls. Both women were killed instantly, leaving their grieving widowers – already best friends and partners on the police force – to raise their now-blended family of three children.

  Eddie and I had been so young that we barely understood the change in family dynamics. All we'd ever known was a family of two fathers and siblings mingled together so that those of blood and those of choice were indistinguishable. David, though, had been old enough to register the seismic shift when his mother was taken away so suddenly. Whenever I took the time to reflect on the bond I shared with the eldest Bennett brother, I was humbled that he had embraced my father and me as true family rather than turn us away as fraudulent replacements. A perfectly understandable option for a motherless seven-year-old.

  “I can't wait to get a text from Eddie to hear how the ride went this afternoon.” David's tone turned to teasing as he continued, “So, is the diner still standing?”

  I bristled in outrage.

  “Hey, even the insurance guy said that wasn't my fault! I mean, even if I did use the wrong kind of soap… and I'm not saying I did,” I quickly added, “you were here when he said dishwashers aren't supposed to just explode that way.”

  Tucking the receiver firmly between my ear and shoulder, I grabbed a rag to attack a particularly large, sticky pile of syrup.

  “Did I say anything?” I'd heard the low tone of my friend's voice enough times since our childhood to know that he was barely able to contain his laughter.

  “You didn't have to say it. You insinuated.” I pouted. David may not have been my big brother by blood, but he certainly knew how to tease like he was. Having subdued the manmade lake of maple, I started stacking chairs on the now clean table.