Once Upon a List (22 page)

 

July

 

30.

A
fter their trip to the Wisconsin Dells, Clara and Lincoln spent almost every night together, making up for lost time. Milk Dud's water bowl in Lincoln's living room was transferred to the kitchen, becoming a permanent fixture, and Clara left a toothbrush in his bathroom, as well as an extra copy of her time capsule list amidst a stack of old science journals and
Fossil News
magazines in his entryway.

Late one scorching hot evening shortly after Independence Day, while Clara and Lincoln were zipped inside of an old camping tent erected in the middle of Lincoln's comfortably air-conditioned living room, he brought up Clara's list. “There can't be much left on it,” he supposed, lying on his side next to Clara on top of a green sleeping bag built for two.

“Nope,” she confirmed, resting on her back. “In fact, now that I get to cross off
Sleep in a real tent
, I have only seven items remaining.” She proudly held up seven fingers.

“Seven items!” Lincoln placed a gentle kiss on her bare shoulder. “Good for you. That's terrific.” He kissed her right cheek. “Let's hear them.” He kissed her left cheek.

“Well, I still have to find Leo's damn recorder that seems determined to stay buried,” Clara began, having committed her list to memory by this stage. “I'm seriously contemplating snapping that bastard piece of plastic in half when I get my hands on it. And then there's
Grow my own garden with an avocado tree
.”

“Mmmm, I like avocados.” Lincoln kissed her forehead.

“I like
you
,” Clara twinkled, continuing.
Find a cure for heart attacks, Beat Leo at Memory.
” She let out a soft little moan as Lincoln traced a sensual trail of kisses down the side of her neck.

Morphing into a science geek, he stopped lavishing her with affection. “You can do it. It's all about math and strategy.”

Clara wondered if she'd misheard him. “Math and strategy?
Memory?”

“Absolutely. Based on your dubious tone, I'll assume the strategic value of different Memory moves may not be obvious, so I'll share some basic game mechanics.”

“Oh, by all means.” Clara couldn't believe how serious he'd suddenly become. “Please do.”

“The first key is to memorize the grid's four corner cards. They're critical. It's easier to remember other cards if you can relate them to a corner card. And then you have to master the efficient use of the ‘match' versus the ‘miss.' The ‘match' being the intentional reveal of an unknown card that makes a pair together with a previously known card. The ‘miss' being the intentional reveal of an unknown card that does not make a pair with a previously known card. The unknown card is all about risk. When do you turn one over? When do you choose
not
to turn one over in order to advance your position?” Lincoln paused. “Do you follow?”

Clara's head was starting to reel. “Christ, what did you do? Write your graduate thesis on Memory?”

“I grew up playing it with my brother. Besides, it never hurts to apply a scientific approach.”

“Right. Got any other helpful tips? Perhaps something just a
touch
less scientific?” Clara smirked. It turned out Lincoln was even nerdier than she'd given him credit for.

“As a matter of fact, yes, I do.” He kissed her belly button. “Repetition. Let's say you flip over a ‘red apple' card in the bottom left-hand corner on one turn, and then on your next play, you flip over a ‘blue bird' card that's just a few cards away from the red apple. What you need to do is mentally repeat ‘blue bird/red apple, blue bird/red apple, blue bird/red apple'—just keep repeating it again and again in your mind. Then, the next time you flip over a blue bird, your temporal lobe will subconsciously connect blue bird and red apple, and you'll know you need to turn over a card that's near the red—”

“Okay, okay, okay! My brain hurts!” Clara laughed. “I think I got it.”

“Really?” Lincoln quirked an eyebrow. “Good. Then I can go back to doing this . . .” Pushing up Clara's camisole just far enough to expose her abdomen, he covered it with light kisses. “Oh!” He stopped kissing her. “Typically, the player who takes the last turn and scores the final collect sequence wins.” He inched her camisole up even higher.

“Ooooh, I love it when you talk Milton Bradley to me! It's strangely alluring.” She flashed an amused smirk, delighting in the thrilling sensation of his lips on her body.

“Yeah? Wait 'til you hear my hypothesis on Chutes and Ladders.” He grinned mischievously. “But back to your list . . .”

“Yes! Please! Back to my list,” Clara chuckled, trying her best to remain focused, which Lincoln certainly wasn't making easy. “Next is
Apologize to Stella for stealing her Twirly Curls Barbie & give it back to her
. . . as well as
Apologize to Stella for stealing her Chia Pet (and accidentally killing it).

He kissed her right thigh. “Jesus. Now I know who to blame if any of my stuff goes missing.”

“Yes, I'd suggest you hide your Barbie dolls,” Clara warned. “And, finally, last, but not least,
Become a teacher
.
Voila!”
She beamed. “That's the whole list.”

“I have a brilliant idea.” Lincoln kissed her left thigh. “You can teach people Memory strategy for winners!”

“Not bad . . .” She mulled it over, challenging with a smirk, “Perhaps I'll do just that. Oh yes, perhaps I will.”

“Well, it sounds to me like you've got this in the bag. You should be able to accomplish all of that before you turn thirty-five. You still have—what? Six and a half, seven weeks? I think you're gonna do it.” Lincoln planted a deep, passionate kiss on Clara's lips, pressing his body against hers.

“Mmmm.” She emitted a little gasp, wrapping her legs around him. “I think
we're
gonna do it.”

“By God, I think you're right.” He gave her a long, probing kiss. “That, my dear, is what you get when you
sleep in a real tent
.”

“In that case”—Clara giggled—“we might have to go apartment camping more often.”

T
he next day, back at her apartment, Clara sat down at the Ping-Pong table in front of her computer, logged on to the Internet, and got down to business. First, she conducted some basic research on the American Heart Association. As a child who missed her daddy something fierce, she had always dreamed of discovering a magical cure for heart attacks so that other kids wouldn't have to grow up without parents who suffered the same, cruel fate as James Black. As an adult who missed her daddy something fierce, Clara knew, sadly, that there was no such thing as a magical cure for heart attacks. Since she was not a doctor—hell, she could barely even draw a convincing heart on paper—she had no choice but to accept that her options were limited regarding
Find a cure for heart attacks
on her time capsule list. Thanks to Sebastian's hefty life insurance policy, however, her funds were not limited. Thus, with the goal of doing everything in her power to help prevent heart attacks, Clara jotted down the mailing address of the American Heart Association, retrieved her checkbook from her purse, and made an extremely generous donation in her father's name, saying a silent prayer that somehow it might make a difference.

Second, Clara conducted some research on Stella Hirsch, her elementary school classmate with enviable toys from whom she occasionally pilfered. A Google search yielded a list of nine different people. Clara had no idea if any of them was actually the person she was looking for, but, figuring it couldn't hurt to try, she sent each of them the following message with the subject line, “STELLA HIRSCH FROM RIVER POINTE, IL?”:

Dear Stella,

Please forgive the intrusion if I've got the wrong “Stella Hirsch,” but by any chance might you have attended River Pointe Elementary School and had your Twirly Curls Barbie and Chia Pet stolen from you as a child?

If so, I hold important information concerning the abovementioned burglaries and would appreciate it most sincerely if you could reply to this e-mail at your earliest convenience.

Thank you in advance and I hope to hear from you soon.

Sincerely,

Clara Black

P.S. I feel compelled to add that I am of sound mind and mean you no harm.

“Well, all we can do now is wait and see if anybody responds,” Clara said to Milk Dud, who was lying by her feet chewing on a plastic cheeseburger toy. “What do you think, boy? Will we hear back from Stella?”

Milk Dud barked.

Leaning back in her folding chair, she stretched her arms and exhaled as her mind turned to her conversation with Lincoln inside of the tent. How astonishing it was to consider her dwindling time capsule list had only a few remaining tasks! Soon, Clara knew, she would accomplish them. And then, at long last, she'd be done. Her list would be conquered. That would be that. She could retire her trusty red pen, for she'd have succeeded in what she set out to do. Only, wondered Clara,
then what?

For the first time, it began to sink in that the finish line truly was in sight. She didn't even have to squint to see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, and somehow, this shocked her. In a way, it felt to Clara like ages ago that she had shared her magical, gay kiss with Billy/William Warrington and then joked about doing everything else on her “silly” time capsule list. Yet, in another way, it felt like only yesterday that she and Leo were sitting at that old kitchen table after Thanksgiving, reading the Saturday newspaper, discussing the unlikely possibility of Clara registering for Chef Guillaume's gingerbread class. Pondering her long, surprising journey, again Clara asked herself,
THEN WHAT?

Scrunching her eyebrows, deep in thought about what form her life was supposed to take next, she realized how much she would miss carrying the old, worn-out piece of paper around with her in her pocketbook, crossing a triumphant line through the goals she accomplished—one by one—feeling a sense of achievement as she watched her list gradually decrease over time. As Leo had hypothesized over half a year ago when Clara resembled the walking dead trudging morosely through life, her list had indeed given her a sense of purpose. It had provided her with desperately needed direction, serving as an unusual form of security and comfort. It did not happen overnight, but as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, Clara had come to revere that list because of it. It occurred to her the issue wasn't really completing everything on it. She had lost herself. And the
real
issue had been finding herself again. The time capsule list was simply an end to that means. And now it was all coming to an end. For some reason, this made Clara anxious as well as sad.

Turning off her computer, she let out a heavy sigh.

And then, out of nowhere, she had an epiphany.

Clara leaped from her chair and hurried to her bedroom, where on her nightstand she kept a spiral notebook that served as a journal to keep track of her strange and vivid dreams. After tearing out a piece of paper at its perforated edge, she returned to the living room.

Concentrating fiercely as she tapped her pen against the Ping-Pong table, she thought long and hard for a long while before writing anything down.

And then, Clara began composing a list of goals that she hoped to accomplish in the future.

Unlike her first list, this new one did not include a finite deadline, for Clara hoped that she would have many years ahead of her to accomplish its items. Nor did this new list occupy merely the front of one page, but rather it snaked along the margins, ultimately concluding at the bottom of the page's backside. Clara's first list was public knowledge, and over time, many interested pairs of eyes had perused it. Her new list, however, would be private. It was for her, and only for her. Clara knew that she would never share it with another living soul. Not even Leo. For there was no need, really. All that mattered was that she knew the list was there. And the fact that it was made Clara smile.

•
Sleep in a real tent

•
Find a cure for heart attacks

 

August

 

31.

T
he moment Lincoln and Clara sat down to Thursday night dinner at Syn-Kow, Lincoln, wearing an enormous grin, announced that he had “big news.” And then, practically bouncing in his seat, far too ecstatic to let anticipation build, he blurted, “I'm going to Argentina!”

“No,”
gasped Clara, immediately suspecting what the trip was about. “Lincoln! Tell me you're going to see the Argentinosaurus!” By this point, she too was practically bouncing in her seat.

“I'm going to see the Argentinosaurus!”

Clara squealed, quickly covering her mouth with both hands. She'd only been listening to him chatter about the remarkable, staggering Argentinosaurus—the world's largest known dinosaur for which there existed good evidence—for three months straight now. “Holy crap, Link! This is huuuge.”

“I know,” he said, nearly bursting with excitement. “Sayid invited me to fly out there a week from Monday to help with the dig. Check it out!” Retrieving an official itinerary from his sport coat's inner pocket, he handed it to Clara. “Can you believe it?”

She glanced at the piece of paper. “I sure can.” She rose and embraced Lincoln, her fingers sliding into the soft, thick hair at his nape before she planted a steamy, celebratory kiss on his lips. “Nobody deserves this more than you do. I am so thrilled for you.”

“Aw, thank you,” he said, blushing. “
And
thanks,
Sayid
.”

South America had become paleontology's newest hot zone—its dusty, eroding slopes producing an explosion of finds—and Sayid, Lincoln's good friend and colleague at the American Museum of Natural History in New York, was a member of a renowned team of scientists working to excavate the Argentinosaurus, named after the location where its fossil was first discovered in Argentina's sprawling Patagonian province of Neuquén. Lincoln had mentioned to Clara on multiple occasions that he hoped Sayid might invite him to visit the site and possibly even ask him to lend a hand. He'd said that merely having the rare honor to glimpse the fossil still buried in the earth would be not only one of the highlights of his career, but of his life.

Back in her seat, Clara perused Lincoln's itinerary. “Wow. So you'll be gone for two weeks? That's a long time.” Silently acknowledging she'd miss him while he was away, she attempted to return the document to him, but he told her it was hers to keep.

“Oh, get this! I still can't believe this part,” Lincoln admitted. “I'm staying at the camp
on-site
. It's literally situated right in the middle of nowhere. Nothing as far as the eye can see except for monstrous, 95-million-year-old bones.”

Clara realized she had never seen Lincoln this excited about anything before. “Oh, Link . . . It sounds like heaven.” She smiled, knowing that to him it was. And besides, spending two whole weeks apart wouldn't be
that
difficult, she told herself. Alas, as the old saying went, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

“I'm glad you think so. Because there's one more part to my news.” Lincoln reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. Holding it in his hand, he paused for a quiet, extended moment, not saying a word, just smiling at Clara.

“What?” she asked self-consciously, noting his penetrating gaze. “Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?”

“No. There's nothing on your face. You look gorgeous. As always.” Lincoln took a deep breath, the gleam in his eye still shining. “Okay . . .” He fidgeted a bit with the envelope, tapping his thumb against it. “Are you ready?”

“Am I ready for what?” Clara gave him a playful look. “What are you talking about?”

Then, handing the envelope across the table to her, he explained, “This is for you.”

“What's this?” She eyed the sealed white envelope inquisitively.

Lincoln, almost on the edge of his seat now, watched her closely. “Well, go on. Open it.”

Following his orders, Clara ripped open the envelope. Her expression of curiosity quickly changed to one of confusion. “Wait . . . I don't understand. Why—Why are there two plane tickets to Argentina in here?”

Once again, he flashed her a beaming grin. “Because you're coming with me,” he replied softly. Lincoln allowed a few seconds for this to sink in. “You're going to Argentina, too, C.J.!”

Clara was speechless.

It was clear by the proud sparkle in his eyes that Lincoln was thrilled to be able to share this moment and this special experience with her. “Surprise! That's the second part of my news.” He rose out of his chair to gather her in a joyful embrace. “Well? What do you think?” He squeezed her closer. “Isn't it great?”

There were a few moments of stunned silence before Clara answered, “Uh, yeah . . . It's”—she hesitated, still processing this unexpected development—“great.”

His arms wrapped around her waist, Lincoln leaned back, looking Clara in the eye. “Well, you don't have to sound so exuberant about it,” he teased. “We're just going to see the Argentinosaurus.” Taking her shocked-looking face in both hands, he kissed her lips. “In
Argentina!
The whole trip's planned out and paid for.” He stopped briefly to reiterate before kissing her again with increased passion.

“It—
It is?”
Clara managed between kisses. She pulled her mouth away from his. “Wait. When did you buy these tickets?”

“Yesterday. You might notice they're first class.”

Only, Clara, with her brain reeling at a million miles per minute, was too busy thinking to notice anything.

“What's the matter? Don't you like first class?”

“Yes, yes, of course I do. I'm just . . .” Raking her hand through her hair, she remained at a loss for words. “Wow. I'm a little surprised, I guess, that you booked such a huge trip without mentioning anything about it to me first. You know what I mean?”

Obviously astonished, Clara sat back down, and Lincoln, following her lead, returned to his chair across the candlelit table from her.

“I know. I realize it's a big step. Absolutely. But I thought you'd be happy about it.” He studied her closely, a look of hesitancy clouding his face. There was a moment of silence. “I wasn't mistaken.
Was I?”

“No. No,” Clara responded, perhaps a bit too quickly, fearing she may have hurt his feelings with her lack of initial enthusiasm. “That's not what I'm saying.”

“Good.” Lincoln exhaled a sigh of relief. “Because this is going to be an incredible experience. Once in a lifetime, really! A bunch of the other guys are bringing their wives along, too,” he added brightly.

Clara gulped. For her, time seemed to grind to a halt.
Wives? Had he just said “wives”? The last time she checked, there was not a ring on her finger. She was definitely not Lincoln's wife. Never before had they even discussed the topic of marriage. The thought hadn't so much as crossed her mind. There was only one person in her life with whom Clara associated the word “marriage,” and that was Sebastian.

“Don't worry, there's a nice hotel not too far off,” Lincoln continued. “That's where Sayid's wife, Holly, is staying. You'll love her. Think about it, C.J. We've never done anything remotely like this together before.”

“I know.” She blinked. “That's kind of my point.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, puzzled.

Fingering her cloth napkin, Clara picked at its edge. “I mean . . . like you just said, taking a trip of this magnitude is a big deal.” She'd never even gone on a two-week-long vacation with Sebastian, and she couldn't help but wonder what the implications of accepting Lincoln's invitation might be. Sure, she enjoyed spending time with him, but was she really ready for this next step? A
two-week
trip halfway around the world? Were there invisible strings attached? Surely this significant trip would be a symbol of their commitment to each other and where their relationship was headed. Was she moving too fast with Lincoln? Why hadn't he consulted with her first before making arrangements? Did he really assume she wouldn't have to give it any thought whatsoever? Why had he used the word “wives” so casually? Why was she suddenly plagued with uncertainty? And why hadn't their waitress come to take their cocktail order yet? Eventually, as the confusing seeds of doubt continued to blossom in her mind, Clara realized that Lincoln was staring at her. She didn't know quite what to say. “Don't get me wrong. I'm honored you'd even think to take me with you.” She placed her hand over her heart in a gesture of sincerity. “Oh, I don't know . . . I suppose I'm just—”

“You're just”—Lincoln interrupted—“not looking excited like I hoped.”

“Well . . .”
Guilt washed over Clara for being the obvious cause of the deflated expression now pinching his face. “I have a lot of thoughts racing at me all at once here. A couple minutes ago I was debating whether I want shrimp or pork lo mein, and now I'm just trying to”—again, she paused, wringing her hands as she searched for the right words—“process . . .
this
,” she said, nodding toward the plane tickets on the table.

“I know I took you a little off guard, but what exactly are you trying to process?” Lincoln folded his arms across his chest.

Where was she supposed to begin? “Well, for starters, there's Milk Dud,” she stuttered. “I—I don't know what I'd do with him for two whole weeks.”

“Libby loves that dog more than life itself. I'm sure she'd be glad to watch him.”

“Libby works,” Clara reminded him. “I can't just expect her to be available all day and night for two whole weeks. That's not realistic.”

“So we'll find a great kennel.”

“I don't even know where my passport is. Not to mention my big suitcase from Boston is still filled with stuff I haven't bothered to unpack yet. And, besides, I'm not sure I can just drop everything to jaunt off to Argentina for two whole weeks.”

Lincoln's eyebrows pulled together. “Why do you keep saying ‘
two whole weeks'
like that?”

Clara hurriedly took a sip of her ice water, wishing their waitress would come and take their darn drink order already. This unexpected situation definitely called for a mai tai. A strong one. Or four. “Because two weeks is a long time, Link,” she answered truthfully. “And, you have to admit, you haven't exactly given me a whole lot of advance notice here.”

“I didn't realize that much advance notice was needed.” A slight, yet notable, edge of defense had crept its way into Lincoln's tone. “I figured it's not like you punch a clock or anything. You're not working at the moment. You know?”

“Yeah, I know.” Clara, increasingly uncomfortable with the direction their discussion seemed to be heading, swirled around the ice cubes in her glass of water.

“Forgive me, but I think your time capsule list can wait a couple weeks. Big deal.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Does it really make a difference? It's not exactly a critical matter of life or death.”

However, for Clara, that's precisely what her time capsule had become: a matter of life or death. She winced at his dismissal. “Actually”—she blinked, both surprised and hurt by his belittling jab—“I have only one month left to finish everything on it.” She adjusted her napkin on her lap. “And, you obviously think differently, but it's critical to me.” Wounded, Clara looked away from Lincoln. “I thought you knew that,” she said quietly.

Lincoln swallowed hard, his expression softening. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply—”

“It's fine.” She saw the regret in his eyes and didn't want to make things worse by escalating the awkward conversation.

“No, that came out wrong,” Lincoln insisted. “I know how important your time capsule is to you, and believe me, I totally respect it.”

Clara sighed, forcing a small grin, though she could feel herself shutting down, as was her habit when she was officially done discussing a difficult topic or had reached her breaking point and could no longer deal with the situation. Doing her best to conceal her panic, she plastered on an even bigger smile. “It's
fine
. Really. It is.” She did not want to get into this any further with Lincoln. Not tonight, at least. Not while she was still struggling to make sense of his unexpected invitation and the sudden, unexpected feelings of doubt and confusion it had stirred inside her. “But I say we change the subject. Is that okay?”

“Yes.” Lincoln nodded. “Of course.” He quickly swept up the envelope and returned it to his jacket pocket.

“This is supposed to be a happy occasion, and that is
exactly
what it's going to be!” Clara declared, picking up her menu and flipping it open. She pretended to be engrossed in it. “I'm starving! Do you want to pick out a couple main dishes to share? We could each choose one?” She kept her eyes focused on the print, not pausing to let him respond. “Oh, look at this! ‘
Chef's Special Celebration Delight'
sounds like a perfectly appropriate entrée. We have to order that. Don't you think?”

Lincoln's eyebrows lifted in what appeared to be baffled surprise. And not the good kind of surprise. He nodded. “Uh . . . sure. That sounds great.” He found the dish on his menu. “Should we get it with jumbo prawns?”

“Absolutely,” Clara responded, a bit too enthusiastically. “You know what they say—
the more prawns, the merrier!”

Lincoln let out a little chuckle. “In that case, maybe we should order
‘From Dusk Til Prawn'
as well?”

Finally, the waitress, who had served them on many occasions, appeared at their table. “
Hello!
It's my favorite happy couple.” She grinned widely. “Can I start you off with drinks tonight?”