Chapter 2 #2
That support group was where I created my list. One of our therapy assignments was to write down all the experiences or achievements we hoped to accomplish in our lifetime.
A bucket list of sorts, one I knew I’d only be able to complete if I didn’t die.
Number twelve was to bury a time capsule, so I collected a bunch of belongings I thought represented myself, put them in a small wooden treasure chest purchased at a garage sale, and planned on burying it next to the crab apple tree in our backyard.
Then my tumors started growing again.
I hadn’t completed a single item.
Despite the cheerful, optimistic front I put on for my family’s sake, the hope I’d had began to slip away.
What was the point of tackling a bucket list or burying a time capsule when, more likely than not, I wouldn’t be around in twenty years to dig it up or celebrate my accomplishments?
So I’d tucked the list into the time capsule and abandoned them both at the back of my closet.
Which was where I found it now, nearly four years later, as I went through my clothes to appease Stella.
A long moment passed as I stared at the chest. Part of me was afraid to open it, knowing the memories preserved inside might be painful, but I was curious about what my younger self deemed important enough to include. Cradling the time capsule in my arms, I carried it over to the bed and sat down.
I rolled my eyes when the first thing I saw after lifting the lid was a tube of Sass Shine lip gloss. Looking back now, I could admit I’d been a smidge vain. But that was before five years of cancer took its toll on my body.
Pushing the lip gloss away, I unearthed a small photo album.
I snorted at the cover—Live, Laugh, Love!
sparkled up at me in a glittery, looping font—and turned to the first page.
It was a family photo taken at eighth grade graduation: Mom and Dad were beaming with pride; Stella looked irritated at being photographed, a great cosmic irony if there ever was one; Drew was flexing his biceps as usual; and then there was me, hand on my hip, posing like I was a model for a fashion magazine.
The next page was a shot of me and my siblings, probably around the age of twelve. We were sporting patriotic swimsuits—it must have been our birthday—and bad tans as we stood on the shore of a lake.
Then came a picture of me, Willow, and Trixy.
When Mom made me join cancer club, I dragged Willow, the only friend I’d made as an outpatient, along with me.
That was where we met Trixy for the first time, back before the osteosarcoma took her leg.
I couldn’t remember who had taken the picture, but the three of us were sticking our tongues out at them.
I flipped the page.
My throat instantly tightened at the sight of myself in my old cheerleading uniform, surrounded by the rest of the squad. I swallowed, staring at the image for several seconds before snapping the album shut.
After setting it aside, I returned my attention to the chest. Inside I found a leaking snow globe I’d purchased with my allowance at a boardwalk gift shop in South Carolina, along with a plastic bag of seashells.
There was also a collection of fabric swatches and Vogue Living magazine clippings from when I thought I’d become an interior designer.
My fingers brushed against a faded, folded-up piece of notebook paper. Even though I knew what was written inside, I gingerly opened the page.
I2D2:
Get an infinity symbol tattoo
Fly first class
Meet the Heartbreakers
Pass my driver’s test
Chainsaw
Hold a baby alligator
Beat Mrs. Sprinkles
Kiss a stranger in the rain
Pickle jousting
Say “yes” to everything for a day
Sinister liquid from the snow globe had leaked onto the paper and saturated the ink, turning the final item into a black smear beyond the word “go.” Despite these mysteries, I was jealous of who I’d been in those days, back before fear and uncertainty took root in me.
Fifteen-year-old Cara had herself figured out.
She knew what she wanted out of life. She had hopes and dreams. Sure, some of them were ridiculous and immature, but at least she’d had them.
That was more than I could say now.
I glanced around my room, which was another sort of time capsule to my life before: mounds of costume jewelry and accessories I would never wear again; stacks of interior design magazines; a vanity for putting on makeup I no longer wore; gold accents and faux-fur throw blankets that, in retrospect, were glaringly ostentatious.
Even the scarlet color I’d painted my walls no longer spoke to me.
Besides the Heartbreakers collage and my collection of wigs and scarves, nothing had changed.
If I wanted to fill the chest with new memories and bury it in the backyard, would I have anything to put inside that represented me now?
Perhaps my patient wristbands from the hospital and piles of medical bills?
That was a depressing thought. The only thing I’d done in the past year was watch TV, and I couldn’t put Netflix in a box.
The truth was I had no clue who I was anymore or what I wanted to do with whatever life I had left. Somewhere along the way, I’d lost the insight my younger self had.
What did I have to do to get back to her?
I glanced down at the list in my hands and suddenly I knew.
Maybe, just maybe, if I completed this list, I could break free from the standstill I was trapped in and stop squandering the remaining sand in my hourglass.
Some obvious improvising would be required—there was no effing way I was permanently inking an infinity symbol on my body—but what better way to return to my previous self than by following her lead?
Over at my desk, I found a pen and drew a line through number three.
Funny how the one experience I thought I’d never have, the unrealistic wish, was the only item I could cross off.
I rummaged through my top drawer for a tack, then pinned the list to a corkboard that was cluttered with Polaroids, paint sample cards, and inspirational quotes.
I took a picture for good measure, just in case I needed to reference it.
Now what?
I sank onto my computer chair, gaze still fixed on my list. It was easy enough to say I would complete it, but the actual follow-through? That would be the real challenge. Some of the things I’d written down were daunting, while others would take time, effort, and money to complete.
And number eleven? I didn’t even want to ponder how I’d go about accomplishing that.
Maybe the best approach would be to start with something simple.
Get my feet wet rather than plunging in headfirst. I had a few options to pick from but only one that I could start right now.
Number ten would be easy enough, especially considering the day was halfway over.
Was that cheating? Perhaps, but I’d already made the decision to allow myself a few creative edits.
Stella had repeatedly asked me to join in with her New Year’s resolution to declutter, and I was almost done with my closet.
Why not say “yes” and include my room as well?
I was still irritated with her, but I supposed a little spring cleaning wouldn’t hurt.
Not only would it make her happy, but I could also check a second item off my list. Two birds, one stone.
* * *
Three hours later, after tearing apart my entire room, I’d filled the cardboard box Oliver left for me and piled everything else destined for Goodwill in the middle of my floor.
Despite earlier protests about parting with my belongings, I had to admit I owned a lot of junk.
Why on earth had I kept a bronze medal from my gymnastics phase, an old iPod Nano, or my doll collection?
What I needed now was more boxes, and Stella’s satisfaction when I asked for another would be nothing short of irritating.
With a resigned sigh, I pushed myself to my feet and went to find her.
The sound of laughter and terrible screamo music led me to her room.
When I reached the open door, I was surprised to find Drew lounging on the floor alongside Stella and Oliver.
A deck of cards was spread out around them, like they were in the middle of a hand, but whatever game they were playing had been abandoned in lieu of conversation.
“Hey,” I said, focusing on Drew. “What are you doing home? I thought you were spending the day with Maisie.”
His expression fell slightly. “We were supposed to, but she got called in to work.”
“Ah, bummer.” I turned my attention to Stella. “Got any more of those boxes?”
By the way her face lit up, you’d think I asked if she wanted a million dollars, no strings attached. “Of course!” She shot to her feet, nearly slipping on some of the cards, and disappeared out of the room.
Oliver turned his gaze on me as I sank to the floor beside him. “How come you never came down for lunch?”
“Got wrapped up in cleaning. I figured I’d jump on board the bandwagon and become a weirdo minimalist.”
At this, Oliver cracked a smile. “Well, if you’re hungry, the leftovers are in the fridge.”
Something about Oliver’s statement made Drew frown. “By the way,” my brother added, a note of annoyance tinging his voice, “I know what a frittata is.”
“Oh yeah?” I arched a single brow. “Do tell.”
“It’s an egg-based Italian dish similar to quiche but without the crust.”