The Life List

Chapter Nine

CHAPTER NINE

B rad 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 shrill sound of a school bell rings out, knocking me from my reverie. My eyes shoot to the clock above the chalkboard. Oh, dear God! School’s about to start.

I rush to Mrs. Porter’s desk and search for lesson plans. I lift the attendance book and scramble through a stack of worksheets, but find no lesson plans. I yank open the desk drawer. Nothing. I plow through the wooden cabinet. Still nothing! Where the hell are my lesson plans?

From down the hall I hear the rumble of an army stampeding toward the classroom. My heart races and I snatch a file folder from a metal basket. The loose papers spill onto the floor. Damn! I catch a glimpse of LESSON …before it cascades to the floor and lands upside down under my desk. My lesson plan. Thank you, Lord!

The army is closer now. My hands tremble as I gather the fallen papers. I’ve retrieved most of them, except the most important one, the lesson plan wedged under Mrs. Porter’s desk. On my hands and knees, I crawl toward it, desperate to retrieve it. But it’s too far back. That’s when my students arrive, my hindquarters providing the first impression of their substitute teacher.

“Nice ass,” I hear somebody say, followed by hearty laughter all around.

I pull myself from under the desk and smooth down my slacks. “Good morning, boys and girls.” I raise my voice so I can be heard over the morning chatter. “I’m Ms. Bohlinger. Mrs. Porter isn’t here today.”

“Cool!” a freckled redhead says. “Hey everyone. We got a sub today! Sit anywhere you want.” Like in a game of musical chairs, my students leap from their desks and fight to capture a new seat.

“Back to your own desks! Now!” But my words are swallowed by the chaos. It’s only eight twenty and I’ve already lost control of my classroom. I turn my attention to the back of the room where a girl with Medusa braids screams at a brown-skinned boy who looks to be about twenty.

“Stop it, Tyson!”

Tyson twirls while pulling her bright pink scarf, winding it around his waist tighter and tighter.

“Give me my fucking scarf!” Medusa says.

I march over to them. “Give her the scarf, please.” I reach for it, but he shimmies from me and continues to spin in circles, stretching the scarf like he’s pulling taffy. “C’mon now. Pink’s not even your color.”

“Yeah,” the freckled boy shouts from across the room. “Whatcha want with a pink scarf, Ty? You gay or something?”

Tyson springs to life. He’s almost as tall as I am, and a good twenty pounds heavier. He leaps over row after row of desks in search of the redhead.

“Stop!” I rush down the aisle as quickly as I can, but I can’t leap the rows like he does. He’s already got the kid by the throat, shaking him like a martini. My God, he’s going to kill this kid! And it’ll be my fault! Could I be charged with manslaughter? I call to Medusa, “Get the principal!”

By the time I reach the scuffle, the boy’s freckled face glows red and his eyes are frantic. He’s struggling to wedge Tyson’s fingers from his neck. I yank on Tyson’s arm, but he jerks away. “Let go!” I scream. But my voice doesn’t seem to penetrate.

Kids gather around the fight, whooping and hollering, escalating the frenzy.

“Sit down!” I shout. But they don’t flinch. “Stop it! Now!” I work to peel Tyson’s fingers from the boy’s neck, but they’re like steel pipes. Just as I open my mouth to scream, a stern voice calls out from the doorway.

“Tyson Diggs, come here. Now!”

Instantly Tyson lets go of the boy’s neck. I nearly collapse with relief, and turn to see Mrs. Bailey in the doorway. At once, the students retreat to their seats, silent and orderly.

“I said come here,” she repeats. “You, too, Mr. Flynn.”

The boys skulk forward. She claps a hand on each of their shoulders and nods to me. “Proceed with your lesson, Ms. Bohlinger. These young men will be spending the morning with me.”

I want to thank her. No, I want to bow down and kiss her feet. But I don’t trust my voice. I simply nod, hoping she can identify the gratitude in my face. She closes the door behind them. I take a deep breath and turn to my class.

“Good morning, boys and girls,” I say, leaning one hand on a student’s desk to steady myself. I try out a shaky smile. “I’m your substitute teacher.”

“Duh!” a girl who looks seventeen says. “We know that.”

“When’s Mrs. Porter coming back?” another girl asks, her sequined T-shirt identifying her as a PRINCESS .

“I don’t know, exactly.” I look around the room. “Any more questions before we get started?” Started on what? The damn lesson plan is still under my desk.

The princess raises her hand. I lean in to read her name.

“Yes, Marissa? You have a question?”

She cocks her head, pointing her pencil at my orange Prada flats. “Did you actually pay for those?”

All I can hear is high-pitched, juvenile laughter, and I’m back at Meadowdale. I clap my hands. “Enough!” But my words are swallowed by the chaos. I need to get these prepubescent monsters on track, now. I spot a girl in the front row, presumably named Tierra. “You,” I say. “Help me.”

The volume in the classroom is mounting, and I don’t have a moment to spare. “I need my lesson plan, Tierra.” I point to the white sheet of paper wedged under the desk. “Can you climb under there and get it, please?”

Possibly the only obedient child in the room, she gets down on all fours and burrows under Mrs. Porter’s desk, just as I’d done earlier. She’s smaller than I am, and she reaches the paper easily. I watch as she plucks it up, and immediately I see the heading, LESSON 9—SILENT “ E. ” It’s not my lesson plan! It’s a friggin’ spelling list!

“Damn!” I say without thinking.

Tierra’s head jerks to attention, slamming against the underside of the desk and sending a boom like a thunderclap throughout the room.

“Get the nurse!” I scream to whoever might be listening.

——

A fter an interminable six hours and forty-three minutes, I shuffle the students from the classroom. I want nothing more than to race from the school grounds and throw back a strong martini, but Mrs. Bailey has summoned me to her office. With lavender reading glasses balanced on the end of her nose, she hands me a stack of papers and her pen.

“I need you to sign off on these incident reports.” She nods to the chair in front of her desk. “You might want to sit down. This could take a while.”

I slide into a vinyl chair and scan the first report. “You must be incredibly busy, dealing with these incidents all day long.”

She peers at me over her glasses. “Ms. Bohlinger, you sent more students to my office today than most teachers send in an entire school year.”

I cringe. “Sorry about that.”

She shakes her head. “I sense you’ve got a good heart, I really do. But your classroom management skills…”

“Once I get the hang of things, it’ll get easier.” Like hell it will . “Have you heard from Mrs. Porter? Did she have her baby?”

“She did indeed. A healthy baby girl.”

My heart sinks but I paste on a smile. “I’ll be back Monday then, bright and early.”

“Monday?” She pulls off her glasses. “You don’t think I’d allow you back in that classroom, do you?”

My first instinct is to be elated. I’ll never have to teach those little hoodlums again! But rejection growls in my face. This woman doesn’t want me in her building. I need to prove to her, and to my mother, and to that little girl with the silly dreams, that I can teach.

“Yes. I just need another chance. I can do better. I know I can.”

Mrs. Bailey shakes her head. “I’m sorry, sugar. No deal.”

——

W hether Brad really was available, or whether Claire sensed I was having a breakdown and hastily cleared his schedule, I’m not sure. Regardless, he’s waiting for me when I arrive at his office. My hair, wet from the afternoon downpour, clings to my skull, and I reek of damp wool. He wraps an arm around my shoulder and leads me to the familiar leather chair. He smells like evergreen trees. I close my eyes and begin to cry.

“I’m a loser,” I blubber. “I can’t teach. I can’t finish those goals, Brad. I can’t.”

“Stop,” he says softly. “You’re okay.”

“Have you heard anything from Pohlonski?”

“Not yet. I told you, it’ll be awhile.”

“I’m losing it, Brad. I swear I am.”

He holds me at arm’s length. “We’ll get you through this, I promise.”

His placating tone infuriates me. “No!” I say, pulling away from him. “You don’t know that! I’m serious. What happens if I can’t complete this list?”

He rubs his chin and looks me squarely in the face. “Honestly? I guess you’d be just like millions of other folks out there, beating the bushes for a job and trying to make ends meet. But unlike most people, you’d have no debt to deal with…no retirement account to worry about…”

His words shame me. I’ve been so laden in self-pity that I’d forgotten how lucky I am—even now. I lower my eyes.

“Thanks. I needed that.” I sink into the chair. “You’re absolutely right. I’ll find another advertising job. It’s time I got on with my life.”

“Your old life, you mean? With Andrew?”

A wave of sadness comes over me, imagining the rest of my days spent in a passionless job, and my evenings alone in a cheerless condo I can’t even call my own.

“Sure,” I say. “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

“That’s not true. You’ve got options. That’s what your mother is trying to show you.”

I shake my head, feeling my frustration mount again. “You don’t get it! It’s too late to start over. Do you know what the odds are of meeting the love of my life, and finding out he wants kids and a dog and a friggin’ pony? And my clock is ticking, Brad—that cruel, one-sided woman-hating biological clock.”

Brad perches on the chair facing mine. “Look, your mother thought completing that life list would lead to a better life, right?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

“Has she ever let you down?”

I sigh. “No.”

“Then make it happen, B.B.”

“But how?” I nearly scream.

“By channeling that bold little girl you used to be. You criticize your mom for being a coward, but you’re no different. You want those wishes, I know you do. But you’re too damn scared to take a chance. Go make your dreams happen, B.B. Do it! Now!”