The Life List

Chapter Twenty-four

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

I watch the city of Seattle take shape from the window of the 757. It’s a cloudy afternoon, but once we begin our descent, the ribbons of Lake Washington appear. It’s beautiful, this jigsaw piece of land surrounded by threads of blue water. I search the cityscape and nearly cry out when I spy the Space Needle. The plane descends and miniature blocks of houses emerge. I stare, mesmerized, knowing somewhere down there, in one of those little blocks of concrete and wood, lives a man and his daughter, my father and my half sister.

Along with the other passengers, I traipse to baggage claim, where hordes of people await their travelers. I search out the faces. Some seem impatient, holding up hand-printed signs with names on them. Others seem excited, bouncing on the balls of their feet while seeking out the passengers. One by one, everyone around me seems to claim their friends and relatives. But I stand alone, sweaty and nauseous.

I scan the crowd for a dark-haired man with a twelve-year-old girl. Where are you, Johnny and Zo?? Did they forget I was coming today? Could Zo? have fallen ill again? I pull my cell phone from my purse. I’m checking for messages when I hear my name.

“Brett?”

I spin around. In front of me stands a tall, silver-haired man. He’s clean-shaven and borderline preppy. His eyes find mine, and when he smiles I see the man from the video, the man he was thirty-four years ago. I hide my trembling chin and nod.

As if he, too, doesn’t trust his voice, he opens his arms to me. I step to him, closing my eyes and breathing in the scent of his leather coat. I let my head fall against the cool leather and he rocks me back and forth. For the first time, I know what it feels like to be held by my father.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, finally pulling away and holding me at arm’s length. “You look just like your mother.”

“But I got my height from you, I see.”

“Your eyes, too.” He takes my face in his hands and stares into it. “My God, I’m glad you found me.”

Joy floods my soul. “Me too.”

He tosses my carry-on bag over his shoulder and drapes his other arm around my shoulder. “Let’s get your suitcase, then we’ll pick Zo? up from school. She’s nearly beside herself with excitement.”

W e talk nonstop on our way to Franklin L. Nelson Center, Zo?’s private school. Every question he’d failed to ask during our phone conversations he asks now. I can’t stop grinning. My father is actually interested in me, and what’s more, there’s an ease and familiarity between us that I hadn’t even dared hope for. But when he veers down the tree-lined entrance to the school, the ugly jealous monster inside me springs to life again. As excited as I am to meet Zo?, I want more time with Johnny. Alone. When she climbs into the car, I’ll be the outsider once again, a role I’ve grown weary of.

Nelson Center is a sprawling, one-story building, beautifully landscaped and tended. Tuition here must cost a fortune.

“School isn’t over for another ten minutes, but Zo? wanted her classmates to meet her new sister. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, of course not.”

He holds open one of the steel double doors and I pass through to a large vestibule. On a wooden bench, a little girl wearing a navy uniform sits swinging her legs in front of her. She jumps to her feet when she sees me, but then hesitates. When John moves through the door, she lets out a whoop.

“Daddy!” Her round face is utterly gleeful. She lumbers full force toward us and locks her pudgy arms around my hips. I hug her, but she only comes to my rib cage. John looks on, grinning.

“Okay, Zo?,” he says, tapping the top of her head. “Better let your sister breathe.”

She finally loosens her grip on me. “You my sister,” she declares.

I squat down next to her and gaze into her smooth, alabaster face. How could I have ever resented this angel? Her shiny hair is dark, like her dad’s and mine. But unlike our brown eyes, hers are green and shrouded with extra folds of skin.

“Yes, I am. We’re sisters, you and I.”

She smiles at me and the shiny, sea-green marbles become half-moon slits. Her thick pink tongue peeks out from between a vast overbite. I instantly love this girl who is my sister…this girl who has Down syndrome.

With one hand in John’s and the other in mine, she pulls us down the hall toward her classroom. Along the way, John points out some of the special facilities at the school. One hallway is designed as a city street. Storefronts line both sides of the brick street, with traffic lights and crossing signals at each intersection.

“This area teaches the kids how to cross streets safely, how to interact with store clerks, how to figure money when purchasing items, and so forth.”

When we finally reach Zo?’s classroom, we step into a frenzy of activity as Miss Cindy, Zo?’s bright-eyed teacher, and her assistant, Mr. Kopec, work to get their eight mentally challenged students ready for dismissal. Mr. Kopec zips the coat of a boy behind a walker. “Harvey, you need to keep your coat zipped, ya hear? It’s cold out there today.”

“Who’s missing a scarf?” Miss Cindy calls from the coatroom, holding up a red snake of wool.

“Look,” Zo? announces in her raspy voice. “This my sister.” With that, her face erupts in joy, and she rubs her palms together like she’s making fire. Gripping my hand, she leads me around the room, pointing to pictures on the wall, showing me the fish tank, telling me the names of her friends. In all my life, I’ve never felt more worshiped.

Before we leave, John drives us around the thirty-acre Nelson complex. Zo? points to the playground.

“Her favorite place,” John says, reaching behind him to squeeze Zo?’s leg. “And there’s the greenhouse, where the kids learn to tend plants.”

We cruise past clay tennis courts and a newly paved asphalt track. Passing a red barn, I spot a wooden sign: THERAPEUTIC HORSEBACK RIDING PROGRAM .

“What’s that?”

“That was the equine center. The kids learned to ride horses. The original intent was to help with their balance and coordination, but you’d be amazed what it did for their self-confidence.”

“Pluto!” Zo? cries from the backseat.

John smiles into his rearview mirror. “Yeah, you loved that ol’ horse, Pluto.” He glances at me. “It was an expensive program. With budget cuts, they had to shut it down last fall.”

In my mind, a lightbulb flickers to life.

A s promised on SeattleTravel.com, the drizzle hasn’t let up since I arrived. But that’s fine with me. I’m perfectly content to stay inside John and Zo?’s cozy brick ranch on Friday. Brightly colored rugs cover the oak floors, and wooden bookshelves span the walls. In every available space and cranny I find interesting paintings and artwork, all from places John visited when he was a traveling musician. Zo? was allowed to play hooky today, and the three of us sit on a Navajo rug playing Crazy Eights while obscure indie musicians seduce me on the stereo.

It’s six o’clock in the evening, and John decides it’s time to fix his famous eggplant Parmesan. Zo? and I follow him into the kitchen and make a salad.

“Okay, Zo?, now we shake it, just like this.” I shake the salad dressing carafe and hand it to her. “Your turn.”

“I make dressing,” she says, shaking the glass container with both hands. But suddenly, the plastic lid loosens. Ranch dressing explodes, raining down the cabinets and pooling onto the counter-top.

“I’m so sorry!” I cry. “I didn’t check the lid.” I grab a dishcloth, anxious to clean up the mess that I’ve created. But behind me, I hear laughter.

“Zo?, come take a look at yourself!”

I spin around and see John leading Zo? to the oven door, where she can see her reflection. Blobs of white dressing cling to her hair and dot her face. Zo? thinks it’s hilarious. She scoops a dab from her cheek and licks her fingers.

“Yummy yummy.”

John laughs and pretends to snack on a lock of her hair. She squeals with delight. I watch this father–daughter scene, so unlike any in my memory, and work to etch it forever into my mind.

When we finally sit down to eat, John lifts his wineglass. “To my beautiful daughters,” he says. “I am a lucky man.”

Zo? lifts her tumbler of milk, and we all clink glasses.

After lighthearted dinner conversation, we loiter at the oak table, listening to tales of John’s early days after leaving Chicago. When he sees Zo? rubbing her eyes, he pushes back from the table.

“Let’s get you into your PJs, sleepy girl. It’s bedtime.”

“No. I stay with my sister.”

“Zo??” I ask. “Can I help you get ready for bed tonight?”

Her eyes go wide and she slips from her chair, grabbing me by the hand. We’re nearly out of the kitchen when she glances back at her dad. “You stay. My sister help me.”

John chuckles. “Okay, Miss Bossy Pants.”

She leads me into her cotton-candy palace of lavenders and pinks. Tieback lace curtains frame the windows, and her small bed is a jungle of stuffed animals.

“I love your room,” I say, clicking on her bedside lamp.

She changes into purple Tinker Bell pajamas and I help her brush her teeth. Then she climbs into her twin bed and pats a place beside her. “You go sleep now.”

“Can I read you a story?”

“Libya!” she says. “Libya!”

I crouch down in front of her book nook and search the titles for a story about Libya, to no avail. Finally, I spot a story about a pig named Olivia.

“This one?” I ask, holding up the book.

She grins. “Libya!” I snuggle up beside her and lay my head on the pillow next to hers. She turns to me, smelling of peppermint toothpaste and vanilla shampoo, and kisses my cheek. “Read,” she commands, pointing to the book.

Midway through the story, her breathing slows and her eyes fall shut. Taking great care, I unbraid my arm from beneath her neck and douse the bedside lamp. The room glows pink from her Little Mermaid night-light.

“I love you, Zo?,” I whisper, bending down to kiss her cheek. “What a lesson you are to me.”

W hen I return to the kitchen, the table is cleared and the dishwasher hums. I refill my wineglass and move to the living room, where John sits with his guitar perched like a toddler on his knee. He smiles when he sees me.

“Have a seat. Can I get you anything? More wine? A cup of coffee?”

I lift my glass. “All set.” I sit down on the chair next to his, admiring the dark glossy wood-and-ivory inlay of his guitar. “That’s beautiful.”

“Thanks. I love this old Gibson.” He plucks a few notes before ducking out from under the leather strap. “It’s what kept me sane during those times in life when the waters were rising faster than I could bail.” With the care of a lover, he places the instrument in its metal cradle. “Do you play?”

“I’m afraid that gene sailed right past me.”

He chuckles. “What were you like as a child, Brett?”

We settle back in our chairs and for the next two hours exchange questions and stories, tales and anecdotes, trying to fill in the missing pieces to a thirty-four-year puzzle.

“You remind me so much of your mother,” he says.

“That’s such a compliment. I miss her so much.”

His eyes are heavy, and he looks down at his hands. “Yeah, me too.”

“Did you ever try to keep in touch with her?”

His jaw twitches ever so slightly. As if it’s his talisman, he pulls the guitar from its cradle and sets it on his knee. Keeping his eyes downcast, he picks at the strings, sending random, melancholy notes adrift. Finally he looks up at me.

“Charles Bohlinger was a piece of work.” He blows out a stream of air as if he’d been holding it for three decades. “I wanted to marry your mother. Leaving her was the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I loved her the way I’ve never loved another woman. Ever.”

I shake my head. “But you broke her heart, John. It was clear from her journal that she would have left Charles and followed you, but you didn’t want to settle down.”

He flinches. “That’s not exactly true. You see, when your dad found out—”

“Charles,” I say, interrupting him. “He was never a dad to me.”

John looks at me and nods. “When Charles found out your mother and I had fallen in love, he was livid. He forced her to make a decision, either him or me. She looked him square in the eyes and said she loved me.” He smiles, as if the memory is still sweet. “She marched out of the kitchen then. Before I could follow her, Charles grabbed me by the arm. He promised me that if Elizabeth left, she’d never see her boys again.”

“What? He couldn’t do that.”

“Remember, that was back in the seventies. Things were different then. He swore he’d testify that she was a slut, an unfit mother. I smoked my share of weed back then, and he threatened to paint me as the pothead boyfriend. It wasn’t hard to figure out whom the courts would side with. I was nothing but a liability to her.”

“God, that’s horrible.”

“Losing Joad and Jay would have killed her. In the end I lied, so she wouldn’t have to choose. I told her I didn’t want a permanent relationship.” He shakes his head, as if trying to clear a bad dream. “That nearly did me in. But I knew your mother. If she lost her boys she’d never recover.

“We stood on the front porch. It was hotter than hell that afternoon. All the windows in the house were open. I was sure Charles was listening. But I didn’t care. I told your mother I loved her, that I’d always love her. But I just wasn’t the staying kind. I swear to God she saw through me. When she kissed me good-bye for the last time, she whispered, ‘You know where to find me.’”

I ache for the sad woman in the navy maxi coat, pulling her sons in the wagon. “She thought you’d come back for her.”

John nods, composing himself before continuing. “God, I can still see those eyes, green as the Irish hills and unwavering in their belief in me.”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “But they divorced later. Couldn’t you have gone to her then?”

“I lost track of her. Once I left, I convinced myself I’d done the right thing. I tried my damnedest not to torture myself with what-ifs. For years this old guitar was about the only thing that brought me any pleasure.

“Fifteen years later I met Zo?’s mother. We were together eight years, though we never married.”

“Where is she now?”

“Melinda moved back to Aspen—that’s where her family lives. Motherhood wasn’t her thing.”

I want to know more, but don’t ask. I’m guessing a child with Down syndrome wasn’t her thing.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “for all your losses.”

He shakes his head. “I’m the last person who deserves sympathy. Life is good, as they say.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand. “And only getting better.”

I smile at him. “I wonder why my mom didn’t contact you when she divorced, or after Charles died.”

“My guess is that in those early days she waited for me, expecting a letter or a phone call, some form of contact. But as time passed, and that letter never arrived, she decided I didn’t love her after all.”

A shiver goes through me. Did my mother die thinking the love of her life was a fraud? Suddenly I blurt out a question that has been plaguing me for weeks.

“John, why haven’t you asked for a paternity test? Or maybe you do want one, which is fine with me.”

“No. No, I don’t. Not for a moment did I doubt you were my daughter.”

“Why not? Everyone else questioned it. I could be Charles’s daughter just as easily as I am yours.”

He pauses and strums a random chord. “Charles had a vasectomy after Jay was born. Your mother told me about it soon after we became friends.”

I blink, stunned. “He knew I wasn’t his child? God, no wonder he didn’t like me.”

“And he’d only have to take a look at you if he needed further proof.”

“I was an unwanted pregnancy. I never knew that.”

“Now, that’s where you’re wrong. Your mother was devastated when she found out he’d had the procedure. She told me so. She’d wanted another child. In fact, she told me she’d always wanted a daughter.”

“She did?”

“Very much. You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when Mr. Pohlonski informed me I’d given her such a priceless gift.”

I lift my hand to my mouth. “And she gave the gift back to us when she left me that journal.”

His eyes smile and he reaches out his hand to me. “You’re the gift that keeps on giving.”

——

B y Saturday, it feels like I’m leaving my family rather than the two strangers I met on arrival. I squat next to Zo? in the airport lobby and hug her to my chest. She clings to me, clutching my sweater. When she pulls away, she holds out her thumb.

“My sister.”

I press my thumb against hers, our new ritual. “I love you, my sister. I’ll call you tonight, okay?”

John pulls me into a giant bear hug. His arms are strong and protective, the way I always imagined a father’s hug would be. I breathe deeply and close my eyes. The scent of his leather jacket mingles with his spicy cologne, smells that will forever be my dad’s. Finally, he loosens his grip and holds me at arm’s length.

“When can we see you again?”

“Come to Chicago,” I say. “I want everyone to meet you and Zo?.”

“We will.” He kisses me and pats my back. “Now scoot, before you miss your flight.”

“Wait. I have something for you.” I reach into my bag and retrieve my mother’s leather journal. “I want you to have this.”

He nestles it in both his hands as if it were the Holy Grail. I see the little muscle in his jaw twitch, and I kiss his cheek.

“If you ever doubted her love for you, you won’t once you’ve read this. All of Elizabeth’s feelings are here, in black and white.”

“Are there other journals? Did she continue to write after I left?”

“No. I searched the house wondering the same thing, but I never found another. I think her story ended with you.”

F ive hours later, the plane touches down at O’Hare. I glance at my watch. Ten thirty-five, twelve minutes early. I turn on my cell phone and discover a text message from Herbert. Meet you at baggage claim .

I’ve never dated a nicer guy. Now I won’t have to hail a cab. I won’t have to schlep these bags by myself. I’ll get to see Herbert. But for the life of me, I can’t muster any enthusiasm. I must be tired. All I can think about is getting home to my little apartment in Pilsen, climbing into bed, and calling Zo?.

As promised, I find him in baggage claim, sitting in a metal-and-Naugahyde sling chair, reading what appears to be a textbook. His face comes alive when he sees me. He jumps up and I step into the arms of the most gorgeous man in the airport.

“Welcome home,” he whispers in my ear. “I’ve missed you.”

I pull away and stare up at him. He’s beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. “Thanks. I missed you, too.”

We stand holding hands, watching the conveyer belt spit suitcases. In front of us, a baby peers over her mother’s shoulder, wearing a pink headband with a bright green daisy attached to it. With wide blue eyes, she stares at Herbert, quite possibly appreciating the view. Herbert leans in and smiles at her.

“Hey cutie,” he says. “Aren’t you a pretty girl.”

Already a flirt, the baby breaks into a wet, dimpled grin. Herbert laughs aloud and turns to me. “Is there anything more transcendent than a baby’s smile?”

It takes me a second to translate transcendent . I think he means extraordinary. And at this moment, I think he’s transcendent, too. On impulse I lean in and kiss his cheek. “Thank you.”

He cocks his head. “What for?”

“For picking me up at the airport. And for appreciating a baby’s smile.”

His face turns pink and he turns his attention to the carousel. “I heard something about a life list you’re supposed to complete.”

I groan. “My brother has a big mouth.”

He chuckles. “One of your goals was to have kids, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huh,” I say, trying to sound casual. But inside my chest there’s a drummer on steroids. “What about you? Do you want kids someday?”

“Absolutely. I love kids.”

My suitcase falls from the chute. I step forward to fetch it but Herbert grabs hold of my arm. “I’ve got it.”

As he steps to the carousal, the baby’s eyes find mine. She studies me, as if sizing me up, deciding whether I’d make a decent mommy. I’m reminded of my time line—the one imposed by both Mother Elizabeth and Mother Nature—and wait for the familiar wave of panic to strike. But this time it doesn’t.

In one fell swoop, Herbert scoops up my bag and returns to my side.

“Are we all set?” he asks. “Do you have everything you need?”

I glance at the baby, as if for confirmation. A smile lights her face. I fit my hand into the crook of Herbert’s elbow. “Yes, I believe I do.”

A fter letting Rudy out for his four A.M . potty break, I fall back into bed, taking full advantage of Sunday by sleeping until nine o’clock. My excuse is that I’m still on Pacific Time. When I finally rise, I take my coffee into my sunny living room and work the Tribune crossword puzzle, feeling positively decadent and happy. Rudy lies curled on the rug beside me, watching me knock off the puzzle, square by square. Finally, I pull myself from the sofa and go to my closet, where I swap my pajamas for my sweats. I clip Rudy’s leash to his collar, and he turns in circles, anticipating our outing. Clutching my iPod and sunglasses, I push open the front door and scamper down the stairs.

Rudy and I start off with a leisurely stroll. I lift my face to the sun, marveling at the cloudless blue sky and the promise of spring in the air. Gusts of Chicago wind lap my cheeks, but unlike the hateful, ill-tempered gales of February, the late-March winds are kinder, more charitable, almost tender. Rudy pulls ahead of me and I have to tug at his leash to keep him from dragging me away. I check my watch when I reach 18th Street, secure my earbuds, and break into a run.

Eighteenth Street is a bustling commercial corridor with Mexican bakeries, restaurants, and grocery stores on either side. As I jog along the sidewalk, I realize my mother was right to make me venture out of my comfort zone. I never dreamed I could call a place so modest and humble my home. I picture my mother in the heavens, perched in her director’s chair with a bullhorn in her hand, calling the shots for each scene of my life. Now that Herbert’s a character in my play, I can actually imagine falling in love and having babies—two goals I doubted I’d ever accomplish, let alone in a matter of months.

We’re all the way to Harrison Park when Rudy finally poops out. We rest a minute, then stroll back toward home. Along the way, my thoughts linger on Herbert Moyer.

He’s remarkable. Last night when we left the airport, it was clear he wanted me to spend the night. And I was tempted. But when I told him I needed to retrieve Rudy, that I was exhausted and wanted to sleep in my own bed, he completely understood. I’m convinced the term gentleman was coined for Herbert Moyer. What’s more, he’s the most doting man I’ve ever dated. He opens doors, pulls out chairs…I swear if I asked him, he’d carry my purse. I’ve never felt more adored.

So why, I ask myself now, didn’t I spend the night with him? Dog or no dog, you couldn’t have kept me away from Andrew. And it has nothing to do with Herbert’s ability as a lover. He’s wonderful—more attentive than Andrew ever was. Herbert is exactly the kind of man I’d hoped to find and everything my mother would have wanted for me.

But still, a part of me is resisting his love. I worry sometimes whether I’m capable of a “normal” relationship, because if I’m totally honest with myself, sometimes I find Herbert’s attention and kindness suffocating. I’m worried that what feels normal to me, what I’ve grown most comfortable with, are cold, detached guys like Charles Bohlinger and Andrew Benson. But I cannot—I will not—screw this up. I’m wiser now, more aware, and I refuse to let my past destroy my future. Guys like Herbert Moyer are as rare as genuine Louis Vuitton handbags, and I need to thank my lucky stars that I’ve found the real deal.

In the distance my house comes into view. I unclip Rudy’s leash and we race to the front door. From its place on the end table, the light of my cell phone blinks. Herbert wants me to help him pick out bar stools today. He’s probably eager to get going. I click on the voice message.

“Brett, it’s Jean Anderson. Sanquita’s in labor. I’m taking her to Cook County Memorial. She’s asking for you.”