Chapter 2 Rachel #2
Suddenly, the predictability feels less and less stable and more and more smothering.
My ears start to ring as the periphery of my vision gets dark.
The vise tightens on my chest as air refuses to enter my lungs.
Oh good, maybe I’m dying too, and then I won’t have to figure out where I’ve gone so wrong in my twenty-nine years here on this earth.
I frantically look around, trying to find something—anything—to ground me.
In case I forgot to mention, Richie was my emotional support person for my panic attacks. I used to joke that I didn’t need a service animal as long as I had her. Joke’s on me.
But seriously, if I don’t do something, I’m going to puke or pass out or maybe die because I’m pretty sure you have to keep breathing to live.
I grab the edge of the desk, hoping the pressure on my hands interrupts this impending and imminent spiral.
It doesn’t. I reach for my purse, thinking that an Altoid might help.
I’ve apparently lost all motor control as my hand jerks, sending my crossbody careening to the ground.
Since I hadn’t bothered zippering the bag all the way, the contents spill out, skittering across the floor.
Shit. I drop to my hands and knees, attempting to retrieve my belongings.
My hands grasp at the items, but I seem to lack the motor coordination to efficiently clean up my mess.
Last thing I need is for the guys to come in and see tampons all over the linoleum.
As I shove my personal items back into my purse, my gaze fixes on the folded piece of looseleaf.
With trembling hands, I unfold it, taking in my sister’s messy script.
Dear Rachel,
If you’re reading this, I’m dead, and you’re probably crying. It’s time to knock that shit off and put on real pants. Don’t even try to lie to me and tell me you’re wearing hard pants. I’ll haunt your ass.
If I didn’t have this stupid brain tumor, these are the things I’d want to accomplish in my life.
I know they seem pretty frivolous, and that’s a luxury I certainly don’t have, so why not ask you to do them?
I know you’re rolling your eyes at me, but humor me this last time, won’t you?
Plus, even though these are the things I want to do, I think they’d be good for you.
You worry too much, and I won’t be there to talk you down.
Maybe if you step outside your comfort zone, even a tiny bit, things won’t be so hard after I’m gone.
You need to live a little, and this list will help you do that.
You only live once. Oh, and I know we promised that we wouldn’t be like Mom, and you aren’t, so don’t feel guilty about number 9.
Everyone should do that once. It’s too late for me.
No one will want to screw a bald chick with a brain tumor.
I’m going to die a virgin, so you have to do this for me.
Live Like You’re Dying
Go somewhere on a plane by yourself
Jump out of a plane. Just kidding. But at least go parasailing once.
Go to a casino
Shoot a gun
See a moose in the wild
Perform on stage in a sexy sequined costume
Deliver a baby
Meet TJ Doyle from the Boston Buzzards
Have a one-night stand (I know, we promised we wouldn’t be like her, but this is intentional, so it’s okay)
Forgive Mom
By the time I get to number ten, I can barely see through my tears. At least I’m no longer hyperventilating. I guess Richie still is my emotional support person. Even so, this list is ridiculous, and there’s no way I’m doing any of it. It’s her bucket list. Not mine.
I can’t believe what she thinks I should be doing. It’s totally unachievable, even if I wanted to do these things.
Which I do not.
I mean, it’s realistic that Richie, as a physician’s assistant, would have the opportunity to deliver a baby. How would I ever go about doing that? And perform on stage in a sexy outfit? Me, the one with the panic attacks? I think not. Completely ridiculous.
I will concede that seeing a moose would be acceptable, as long as it doesn’t attack me. If I had to pick a wild animal to observe in nature, it’d be an orca. I’m not one to commune with nature, but if I did, moose wouldn’t be at the top of the list.
But don’t even get me started on the one-night-stand thing.
We promised—promised—each other that we’d never put a man before ourselves.
That men were scum, and we were better off without them.
We were never going to put pleasure above responsibilities.
I don’t care if she gave me permission to get frisky with a stranger, I’m not doing it.
While I could always see Richie eventually settling down with a man who treated her like gold, not unlike how Gramps treats Gram, I never saw that for myself.
I have no desire to get entangled and swap bodily fluids with a stranger.
That holds no appeal for me. If I was ever going to do that, the guy would have to meet the highest standards.
Like, ridiculously perfect. I’m pretty sure that man doesn’t exist outside of romance books.
We’re not even going to discuss number ten. Completely ridiculous.
So even if I wanted to, I couldn’t do this list.
As those thoughts pop in my head, shame washes over me.
I’ve got to at least try. I look at the list again.
Anxiety not only takes out the one-night-stand thing and performing on a stage, but flying and shooting a gun, too.
About the only thing that seems even quasi-achievable is the Boston Buzzards thing.
They’re a soccer team—I’m pretty sure. Richie was a huge sports nut. Probably because she was good at all of them. I, on the other hand, prefer to stay inside with a good book. Maybe I can go to a game or something. If I’m in the same building, it’s practically the same thing. That should count.
I take a deep breath. Okay, I can do one last thing for my sister, so she didn’t have to die a virgin in vain.