Once Upon a List (25 page)

 

35.

T
he moment she read the e-mail reply from Stella Hirsch, Clara automatically shot out of her chair, grabbed her phone, and began dialing Lincoln's number. After a week and a half during which she had given up all hope on hearing back from her old friend, Stella had finally responded. And for the icing on the cake? Her automatic signature had even included her full mailing address. Grinning, Clara couldn't wait to share the great news with Link! It wasn't until she was just about to press the last digit of his number that it finally dawned on her, with the forceful power of an unexpected punch in the face, that he was in Argentina. Not to mention, they weren't on speaking terms. And he probably hated her. A sharp, searing pang of disappointment swept through her, followed by a dreadful sense of sadness. In a short period of time, she had grown so accustomed to sharing everything—both big and small—with Lincoln, that it had become second nature. Like blinking. She didn't just miss not communicating with him, she hated it. Clara didn't know if it hurt him the way it hurt her. But she knew if she dwelled on the pain, she'd break down in tears. Again. Silently commanding herself to keep it together, reminding herself that hearing back from Stella was a wonderful thing and it brought her one step closer to completing her time capsule list, she tried calling Leo. But he wasn't home. Last, but not least, she rang Tabitha.

“Score!” replied Tabitha upon being brought up to date on Stella. “Now all you have to do is send her a Barbie doll and you can cross that off your list too.”

“Yep,” said Clara.

“This is fantastic. You're practically done!”

“Yeah.”

“And you certainly waited long enough to hear back from Stella. I probably would have all but given up on getting a reply too.”

“Yeah.”

“So enough with the depressed
‘yeahs.'
You should be celebrating this moment of triumph! I wish I wasn't all the way in Boston. Why don't you grab a drink with Leo?” Tabitha suggested. “Or maybe see if Libby wants to meet for dinner? It sounds like you could use some company. You should go out, have some fun, take your mind off things.”

“Yeah . . .” Clara agreed, sullenly. “I know. I just don't feel like it, though.”

Noting that Clara's mood seemed to have progressed from situational discontentedness to something darker, Tabitha cut to the chase and asked if she was okay.

“I'm really trying my best not to let this whole Link thing get me too down,” Clara admitted with a heavy sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the world. “But it's so much easier said than done. I miss him. I really do.”

“Call him, Clara.”

“I told you last time we spoke, he's in Argentina and unreachable.”

“So leave him a message,” Tabitha urged. “Enough is enough. I'll put it this way: at least you have the opportunity to speak with him and make things right.”

“Yes, but—”

“No ‘
buts.'
” Tabitha cut her off, demanding, “What did you tell me when we were in Vegas?”

“Uh . . . Pass the Alka-Seltzer?” Clara extended her best attempt at levity.

But Tabitha was not having it. “We were discussing Sebastian, and you told me in no uncertain terms that it might sound cliché, but we need to cherish the relationships and friendships we have now, because we honestly never know what tomorrow may bring. We may
think
we know. But that's just ‘comforting ignorance,' as you called it. Because no matter how much we'd love to believe otherwise, we can never really know. That person could suddenly be gone in an instant”—Tabitha snapped her fingers—“permanently. Never to be seen again. And then what?” She paused, allowing her words to sink in. “Lincoln is still here, Clara. That is a gift that you of all people should recognize.”

Dabbing at her wet eyes with her sweatshirt sleeve, Clara reflected on her friend's powerful words. “I know,” she sniffled. “I know. You're right.”

“Of course I'm right. Where do you think I got all my wisdom?”

Clara let out a soft chuckle. “Thanks, Tab.” She blew her nose. “I needed that.”

“No problem. Oh! And by the way? You did tell me ‘pass the Alka-Seltzer,' too. But that was more of a desperate plea than a comment.”

Clara laughed, harder this time. “Oh gosh, my stomach hurts just thinking about it!”

W
hile navigating her way through Toys “R” Us toward its massive Barbie doll section, Clara passed an aisle of merchandise that caught her eye. Deciding to take a small detour, she slowly ambled down the row of dinosaur-themed toys, coming to a halt in front of a tall, metal bin filled with stuffed sauropods. She picked up a fluffy green Brontosaurus with pointy teeth and googly eyes, and stared at it. “Don't be scared. It's not real. He can't hurt you,” said a little, freckled-faced boy wearing a Superman cape with the price tag attached to it.

Though putting on a happy face was getting harder by the minute, Clara dredged up a smile.

“My favorite dinosaur is the Allosaurus,” he shared, sticking his finger up his nose. “What's yours?”

“Hmmm”—Clara thought about it—“that's a very good question. I like the Giganotosaurus a lot, but think I'm gonna have to go with the classic T-rex.”

“I'm gonna be a paleontologist when I grow up!” The little boy examined a booger on his fingertip.

“Is that so? I happen to know a paleontologist.” Clara returned the Brontosaurus to the bin.

“Really?”
The little boy's eyes lit up. “Is he the neatest, coolest, most awesomest?” He wiped his booger on his cape.

Clara smiled. “Yeah. He is.”

Upon returning home, she fished out a box of stationery from under her bed, and wrote a concise, heartfelt letter of apology to Stella. Next, she tucked the folded note inside of the brown cardboard mailing box containing the brand-new Twirly Curls Barbie doll she'd just purchased, sealed the box closed with packing tape, and addressed it to
Ms. Stella Hirsch
.

“Well, Milk Dud”—Clara exhaled, tapping the box a few times—“
that is that
. What do you say? Shall we bring this package to the post office and call it a day?”

Milk Dud barked.

“Let's do it. Come on, boy.” Clara patted her thigh, collecting her purse, Milk Dud's leash, and, of course, the most important item of all: Stella's box.

Later, toward nightfall, Clara sat down at the Ping-Pong table with her time capsule list, her red pen, and a stiff rum cocktail garnished with a sprig of fresh mint from her balcony garden. Slowly, she drew a line through
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).

Then, leaning back in her chair, feeling a sense of amazement, Clara's lips curled upward into a grin, for although she could hardly believe it herself, only one item remained on her list.

T
hat evening, in Clara's dream, she was once again back inside of her grand, old Southern plantation. Though it was still in the process of being renovated, Clara, all dolled up in a green satin gown with a bustle, was hosting a big, festive party in the grand ballroom for an eclectic group of dear friends.

“Haven't you learned anything?” Billy/William Warrington, holding hands with his husband, Hans, asked Clara.

“Yeah, haven't you learned anything, honey?” demanded Nurse Pam with her hands on her hips.

“Ms. Thing
, haven't you figured it out yet?” wondered Greg, the pint-sized Pottery Bin employee with stiff bangs hair-sprayed perfectly in place.

“Don't you know? Don't you knowwy wowwy know?” cooed Jane, the overzealous animal lover from For Pets' Sake.

“Think about it, Clara,” encouraged Patrick Swayze, wearing a black leather jacket fit for a dancing renegade.

“Doubt is
all
up here,” Frank, the kind proprietor of Frank's Antiques, reminded her, raising an index finger to his head.

“Can't go back—enjoy your ride!” urged the bronzed, teenage Plunge Boy from Noah's Ark.

“
Sí, señorita
. Believe in it and it'll grow,” reiterated Alejandro from the green nursery, carrying a giant avocado tree covered with plump fruit.

“I can talk,” admitted Natalie Marissa, Clara's Cabbage Patch Kid, sipping a martini with olives.

“Would you like me to help you figure this all out?” asked the Good Samaritan who hailed a taxi for Clara the snowy, winter morning after she did not have intercourse with Todd and Cheez Whiz.

Out of nowhere, the darling little bald girl who had smiled and waved at Clara during the 10K Race to Beat Cancer sprinted across the ballroom, grinning as she gave Clara a thumbs-up. Only, Clara almost didn't recognize her, for she had a full head of thick blonde curls.

Suddenly, Sebastian, dressed in Confederate army regalia, stepped forward from the mass of hungry guests huddled around the hors d'oeuvres table.

The band in the corner, being conducted by James Black, stopped playing music, and the room fell completely silent as Clara's astonished eyes filled with tears. She stood there, staring at her fiancé, paralyzed, as if suspended in midair.

Smiling at her, Sebastian whispered, “Hi, baby. Nice bonnet . . .”

“What—What's going on here?” she asked him, trembling. “I don't understand.”

This time, Sebastian did not kiss her lips, but rather, covered her hand with his. “You know what to do . . .” His brown eyes twinkled. “You know.” Giving her hand a tender squeeze before he released it, he reminded her,
“The untold want, by life and land ne'er granted, Now, Voyager—”

“Now, Voyager—”
echoed the whole group.

Winking, Sebastian began walking backward, grinning lovingly at her
. “—sail thou forth, to seek and—”

And then, Clara woke up.

Her eyes sprang open, and she sat bolt upright in bed, her chest heaving.

She didn't bother reaching out her hand to feel the empty space beside her in bed. For Clara knew Sebastian was not there. She knew it all too well. After experiencing more of these strange dreams than she could keep track of, she had this disorienting middle-of-the-night routine marked down to a science by now. Only, this particular dream had been different from the usual. Very different. “You know what to do,” Sebastian had told her.
“You know what to do . . .”
Glancing at her alarm clock flashing 1:25 a.m., Clara wondered what he was talking about. What exactly had he meant? Again and again, she replayed this line in her mind, remembering the strong look of assurance on Sebastian's face, and the bright, powerful sparkle in his eyes that she loved and missed, incomprehensibly beyond words. “
You know what to do . . .”

Clara did not know what to do.

Tossing and turning, she struggled to deconstruct her dream in an effort to understand it. But she was at a loss. A complete loss. And now, to her dismay, she was wide awake, with a palpable sense of unease growing inside the pit of her stomach.

It did not take long for Clara's mind to spin into overdrive, and soon her stream of consciousness swept her up and away in an anxiety-fueled storm of swirling, complicated thoughts. She envisioned each raindrop of this storm to have a face. There was Sebastian, and her father, and all of the other people who had appeared in her odd dream. And then, of course, there was Lincoln. Lincoln, who had left the country without saying goodbye. Lincoln, who probably despised her. Eventually, all of the raindrops in this storm reflected his face. And soaked in restless agitation, Clara knew it was unlikely that she'd be falling back asleep anytime soon.

Holding Milk Dud in her arms, she watched the alarm clock flash 3:30 a.m.

She watched the alarm clock flash 4:30 a.m.

Then it was 5:30.

And 6:30.

The sun was now shining. Clara couldn't take it anymore.

Antsy and distraught, she threw back the comforter and slipped out of bed. She needed air—fresh, cleansing air—to help clear her mind. Without really giving it much thought, Clara changed into her running gear, laced up her sneakers—which she had to locate first at the bottom of her cluttered bedroom closet—and headed over to Grant Park. Although she had not gone for a jog since the 10K Race to Beat Cancer, she decided that perhaps a healthy dose of exercise would help tire her out—such was usually the case—so that she could finally get some real sleep.

“What could be more exhausting than this?” Clara asked herself, staring at the menacing, uphill path laid out before her. If battling The Mountain didn't help wear her out, then surely nothing would. It was a strenuous climb for Clara, and she remembered all of the many times she labored on up this trail with Lincoln huffing along at her side.

As Clara started up the incline, she replayed her last date with Lincoln in her mind, recalling almost verbatim the raw, painful conversation they'd had inside of his car. “I can't move forward with someone who's not ready to let go of the past and let me in,” he had said, his eyes spilling with melancholy.

Clara's feet pounded against the pebble-and-dirt-covered path.

She wondered what Lincoln was doing at that very moment, and envisioned him in a large, dusty expanse in the middle of nowhere unearthing ancient dinosaur bones. The idea of him engaged in an activity that brought him such pure joy made Clara smile.

She continued upward, and The Mountain grew steeper. Working hard, Clara felt beads of perspiration sprouting on her forehead. Never in her wildest imagination did she foresee herself continuing to jog after she had successfully crossed a line through “Run a Race” on her time capsule list. But then, never did she visualize herself doing most of the things on her list. That is, until she was so lost and low that she felt she had no place left to turn.