Once Upon a List (6 page)

 

8.

T
he early morning sun beamed its gleaming brightness through the kitchen window, prompting Clara, immersed in the Saturday
Chicago Tribune
, to switch seats at the kitchen table to avoid a bothersome glare.

“What is this, musical chairs?” Leo inquired.

“Is it always so damn sunny in here at this hour?”

“Only when you're present.” He buried his nose in the entertainment section. “What's that pasty chef's name who you love so much?”

“Who? Alfred Guillaume?”

“Bingo. Check it out.” He flipped the paper around so that it was facing Clara and pointed to a large black-and-white photograph of the popular French chef, appearing under the headline,
“Move Over, Santa. Celebrity Chef Storms Into the Windy City!”

“Let me see.” Clara snatched the paper away from Leo and began reading. She gasped. “Wow. He's teaching a one-day-only intensive class on advanced gingerbread architecture at the Cooking and Hospitality Institute of Chicago.”

“Advanced gingerbread
architecture
? Sounds like it requires an engineering degree. What is that? Like a Frank Lloyd Wright cookie?”

“It means constructing houses and other edible edifices out of tasty spiced dough,” Clara replied, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world. It dawned on her just then that she hadn't baked a single item since Sebastian's accident. Although she used to wear it all the time, she didn't even know where her apron was.

“Ah, like on your time capsule list of things to accomplish,” Leo said. “How did you phrase it again?
Build a gingerbread house without using a stupid farty kit?”

“Something like that.” She soaked up the article.

“You don't hear
farty
enough these days.”

“Listen to this.” Clara read out loud:
“Receiving rare, one-on-one guidance from Chef Guillaume
—
world-renowned pastry master and Oprah-endorsed author of the bestselling how-to book
C Is for Cookie, Bitch!—
each student will create their own unique, delicious, and 100 percent edible holiday gingerbread house guaranteed to wow even the grumpiest Scrooge. A scrumptious, once-in-a-lifetime opportunity not to be missed! Register now!”
She put down the newspaper. “Wow. How great . . .”

“Do it,” Leo suggested nonchalantly, leafing through the sports section.

“Do what?”

“Register for the class. You're obviously gaga for Chef Guillaume. You're a terrific baker. And the subject clearly interests you. You just said it sounds
great
.” He gestured quotation marks.

“I'm not gaga.”

“Seriously.” Leo selected a muffin from the breadbasket on the table. “It sounds like you would really enjoy this class.”

“Yes,” agreed Clara. “But it's two weeks from today. I have to be in Boston the Friday before for work. Even if I
wanted
to register, it's not feasible.”

“So take a couple days off. Hell, take more than a couple days off. It's not as if you're exactly invested in your career at Scuppernong at the moment. You said so yourself the other night,” Leo reminded Clara. “Besides, Mr. Franklin urged you to take a sabbatical. This could be just what the doctor, or, in this case,
The Beer King
ordered.”

“Yeah. I don't think so.”

“Think about it,” he persuaded. “You don't have anything else concrete or pressing keeping you in Boston right now. What if you were to take him up on his offer and spend some time back home?”

“Oh please
. Right. Why? So I can make a silly gingerbread house from scratch and then cross that off my time capsule list too?”

“Why not?”

“Perfect.” Clara sipped her coffee. “While I'm at it, why don't I just go ahead and do everything else on my list until it's
all
crossed off?”

“I think that's an excellent idea.”

Clara shot her brother a look implying he might be stark-raving mad. “I was kidding. Only
kidding . . .”

Slowly, and with emphasis, Leo met Clara's bemused gaze with an expression void of humor. “I wasn't. You need a plan of action—something to help get you out of this horrible rut you're in. Sure, it might sound a tad unconventional, but it's no more farfetched than some of the other methods you've tried to overcome your grief. This could actually be worth consideration.”

Clara stared at Leo, dumbfounded. “My God . . . you're—you're really serious, aren't you?”

“Completely.”

“Oh, come on, Leo. I'm not in fifth grade anymore. I'm not
ten
.”

“No, but I'll tell you something. I just saw your eyes light up as if you were when you were reading that article. For a brief minute there, you weren't”—he searched for the correct word—
“lifeless.”

Clara winced.

“I'm—I'm sorry.” His face flushed with guilt. “I'm not trying to be cruel.”

“I know.” Clara sighed, closing her eyes, neither asleep nor really awake. She was just so damn tired of it all. She forced a quivery, unnatural chuckle. “Hell . . . Might as well call a spade a spade . . .” She looked down at her lap, as if saddled with some bleak, terrible shame, quietly confessing, “I feel lifeless. Actually?
Dead
is more like it. And apparently there's nothing I can do about it.”

“Jesus, Clara.” Leo's face tensed at her resignation. “What would Sebastian do if he heard you say that?”

She gave a weak, dismissive shrug. “Doesn't matter . . . He's gone.”

“It does matter!” Leo, visibly shaken, pounded his fist on the table. “I know for a fact he'd tell you that you're
not
dead—not at all. So you have to do whatever it takes for you to stop feeling that way. Even if it means building a fancy cookie house!” Leo inhaled a deep breath. When he spoke again his tone was softer, yet even more intense. He looked Clara directly in the eye. “You know as well as I do it would have destroyed Sebastian to see you like this.”

Clara straightened her spine, shaking her head as if trying to clear away a thick cobweb of dust.
“UGH!”
She released a huge, pent-up sigh. “I don't know . . . Maybe you're right,” she conceded, considering it further. “Insane—and I do mean
insane
—as it sounds, maybe Sebastian would tell me to at least give that silly old time capsule list a try.”

“Maybe he would,” Leo mused, returning his attention to the newspaper, for he knew his sister did her most productive thinking in silence.

L
ater that afternoon, Clara lay in bed trying to focus on a mystery novel, which, desperate for distraction, she'd randomly picked up at the airport on her way to Chicago. But, after turning page after page and not processing a single word, she finally surrendered, closing the book—and then her eyelids—with a weighty sigh. A former bookworm, there was a time not too long ago when Clara read at least one novel per week. Sebastian would curl up in bed with the latest issue of
Podiatry Today
or
Journal of the American Podiatric Medical Association
(his favorite!), she'd snuggle up with something on the
New York Times
bestseller list or an old classic she hadn't read yet, and their shared reading bonanza—also known as “Literary Nerd Fest”—would begin. It wasn't necessarily the “coolest” way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but for them, lounging around for hours together in bed was not only an indulgence, it was perfect. Besides, it usually led to pretty great sex. Or a pretty great nap. Or, if they were lucky? Both.

Clara couldn't stop her breakfast conversation with Leo from turning over and over (and over) in her mind. Sure, when she'd first mentioned accomplishing everything on her time capsule list she was only teasing. But now, the more Clara considered it, the more sense it somehow made. After all, she was at the bottom of the proverbial barrel, about as desperate as they come, she figured. And she couldn't deny that kissing Billy/William Warrington had jolted her with a gratifying, hair-raising rush, which she hadn't felt in far too long, ultimately reminding her that she was alive. It was as if, but for a brief, super gay, magical moment, she'd awoken from a deep and powerful slumber, only to fall right back under its cruel spell.

Leo had been correct about so many things. She'd lost her ambition, and there used to be so much. Becoming president of Scuppernong . . . Taking the company global . . . Seeing the Northern Lights in Alaska with Sebastian before becoming mom to Julian and Edith, the children they'd have . . . Corny annual holiday photos where they'd all wear matching handmade sweaters, as would Milk Dud, their dog . . . Summer vacations back home in Chicago with Libby and Leo . . . Visiting all fifty states together . . . A bigger house in a great area of Boston—nothing fancy, just someplace nice where Julian and Edith (and the identical twin girls they'd have later in life named Marsha and Barbra, although she hadn't yet broached this subject with Sebastian) would have lots of space to run around and ride their bikes and build a tree house like Maple Manor . . . Saving every last art project the kids made in school, and cherishing their childhood poetry more than that of the “Masters” . . . Supporting Sebastian as he opened his own successful practice, growing wrinkled and old with him by her side, never taking for granted just how very, very lucky they were . . .

Contrary to the way Clara currently felt, she knew that she was not dead. And something in her life did need to change in order for her to stop feeling and behaving as such. Indeed, action was required. Considering the myriad solutions she'd already tried to no avail, she was officially lost enough to wonder if maybe,
just maybe,
her time capsule might possibly be the answer.

When Clara's eyelids fluttered open once again, she peered at the flashing clock on her bedside table. She was stunned to discover this idea had been somersaulting in her mind for over an hour! And that's when she knew there was something to it. Surely there must be, Clara told herself. How sick she was of being trapped in a prison invisible to others because the walls were inside her. Perhaps her time capsule could help unlock the penitentiary door, and remind her of who she was once upon a time, before tragedy darkened her life and the numbing evil slumber spell had been cast.

Or perhaps she was nuts.

In her mind, both were real possibilities. Either way, as far as Clara was concerned, she had nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by trying.

On September 2 she would turn thirty-five, which gave her approximately nine months to accomplish her list before her deadline.

With no time to waste, Clara jumped out of bed and hurried to her dresser to retrieve her time capsule.

 

December

 

9.

C
lara returned to Boston, registered for the Advanced Gingerbread Architecture course, cancelled her daily delivery of the
Boston Globe,
and forwarded her mail to Libby's address, since she wasn't yet certain where she'd be lodging during her temporary stay in Chicago. Then she informed The Beer King of Boston that she was going to take him up on his generous offer of an extended sabbatical after all, packed a few suitcases, and by the first of December was back in River Pointe. Back on a mission that even she herself thought was crazy. She just hoped it might be crazy enough to work. So far, nothing else had, and now Clara feared that her future,
if
she had one, hinged on it: her time capsule from the past.

On her first day in town, Clara woke groggy and discombobulated after the long drive from Boston. She hadn't a clue where she was. Sitting up in bed, glancing around, Patrick Swayze soon set the record straight.

Well
,
this is it
, Clara thought to herself, stretching as she considered her time capsule list. According to Leo's hypothesis, having a distinct purpose would help her heal, and her list provided her with just that: a purpose. Clara peered at the alarm clock on her bedside table, which read 9:30 a.m., reminding her that time was ticking and she best get started straight away. After all, she had a lot to accomplish in a matter of just nine months. She had a sneaking suspicion September would be here before she knew it.

Yawning, Clara slid out of bed. She removed a copy of her time capsule list from her pocketbook (the original, along with several extra copies, remained safely tucked away inside the capsule in her suitcase), unfolded it, and gave it a quick review:

Things to Do before I'm 35

• Have a pet dog (who cares if it sheds! BESIDES LIBBY!)

• Replace Lincoln's mom's beautiful vase I broke

• Serve on a real live court jury (awesome!!!)

• Visit the Wisconsin Dells

• Dig up Leo's recorder from the backyard & apologize for burying it (& letting him stay punished for losing it!)

• Become a teacher

• Become the President of the United States

• Attend the Ice Capades

• Learn Morse code

• Eat at America's largest buffet

• Ride in a hot air balloon

• Run a race (10K like Dad used to run? Find out what a K is!)

• Donate blood

• Swim with dolphins

• Build a gingerbread house from scratch (no dumb farty kits allowed!) (and who cares if it's messy! BESIDES LIBBY!)

• Sleep in a real tent

• Eat sugar cereal & McDonald's during the week (not just on weekends!)

• Apologize to Stella for stealing her Twirly Curls Barbie & give it back to her

• Grow my own garden with an avocado tree

• Apologize to Stella for stealing her Chia Pet (and accidentally killing it)

• Beat Leo at Memory

• Help others through charity like Libby (donate time if I'm poor when I'm old)

• Find a cure for heart attacks

• Kiss Billy Warrington (Clara + Billy = TRUE LOVE FOREVER!)

 

Then, ready to get to work, she made her way downstairs in search of Libby.

A pleasant melody floated from the music room, leading her straight to her target. Before entering the space, she paused in the polished oak, domed archway. Debussy's “Clair de Lune” had always been one of Libby's favorite tunes, and Clara could recall being soothed by it as a young child while drifting off to sleep at night. Watching her mother's balletic hand gestures from behind, she considered how comfortable, how inexplicably right Libby appeared sitting on that red velvet piano bench, swaying ever so gently, her head tilted to the side. Somehow, her mother had found her purpose. She'd identified precisely where she belonged, like a cat that fit perfectly in a windowsill. Wondering if she too might someday discover her “inexplicably right” place in this world, Clara exhaled a dreamy sigh.

“HOLY
CHRIST
!” shrieked Libby, glancing over her shoulder and jumping. “I had no idea you were there! How—How long have you been listening?”

“Just a minute or two.” Clara remained leaning in the doorway. “I'm sorry. Sounds beautiful.”

“Well, come in,” Libby beckoned. Regaining her composure, she gestured to the sheet music before her. “Want to turn pages for me? Like old times?”

“Oh gosh, it's been so long I don't think I even remember how to read music anymore. But thanks . . .” Clara, a former flute student who was forced to quit playing after suffering continual fainting spells from forgetting to breathe (a minor problem), took a seat on the sofa. “Would it be all right if I interrupt you for a minute though?”

“Of course.” Libby zipped over and joined her on the couch. “What's up? Would you like me to make you some breakfast? I have fifty boxes of frozen blueberry waffles out in the garage freezer.”

“Fifty
boxes?” Clara's eyebrows arched upward.

“I did a jingle for Wanda's Waffles.”

“Ah . . .” Clara chewed her bottom lip, hesitating. “Wow. No, thank you. I wanted to ask you something though. And
please
feel free to say no. Really. I promise you I'll understand if you're opposed to this. I know how you feel about disorder and mess and crumbs and little pieces of string and dust and hair and—”

“I'm going to interrupt you before you add wire hangers to that list.” Libby smirked. “What is it you're trying to ask, Clara-pie? Name it. Anything.”

Had Clara been presented with this dream offer as a child, she'd have asked for either a Pegasus or her own hot dog stand. Instead, she reluctantly handed Libby her time capsule list. “See
number one
.” She couldn't believe she was actually doing this.

Springing up to retrieve her reading glasses from the piano, Libby returned to the couch with an expression of curiosity. “Okay, let's see what we've got here—” She squinted her eyes a bit, reading aloud,
“Have a pet dog (who cares if it sheds! BESIDES LIBBY!).”

Clara grimaced in anticipation of what was to come next.

Slowly refolding the piece of paper, Libby's eyes grew large. She crossed her long, willowy arms. “You want me to buy you a
dog
?”

“No, no, no,” Clara said, shaking her head. Her mother had this all wrong. “Of course not. I'll pay for it myself. You know I'm only staying here temporarily until I find a more long-term—albeit
short-term
while I'm in town—solution. The thing is, I'd kind of hoped to get started with my list right away. As in,
today
. Which is why I wanted to know if it might
possibly
be okay if I were to
maybe
get a dog while I'm still staying here? With
you
.” She felt the need to clarify. “The person who views shedding animals as proof of the devil and never allowed us to have a dog in the past.”

Libby removed her reading glasses. Her lips curled into a smile as she shook her head in what appeared to be amazement.

Confused, Clara fidgeted with a limp strand of chestnut-colored hair that used to receive a healthy trim every six to eight weeks in order to help maintain its lustrous shine, but had long been neglected. “What? Why are you grinning at me like that? You're not gonna offer me fifty boxes of waffles again, are you?”

“Well, I can't say I'm surprised you want to hit the ground running with your list. You've always been a bound and determined, feast-or-famine type of person.”

Clara assumed her mother was referring to the fact that when her interest in a subject was piqued, or she committed herself to something, she tended to dive in headfirst—immersing herself in it, devoting herself wholeheartedly—as she'd done with Boston, opera, and all of her favorite poets. Upon falling madly in love with Keats when introduced to his poetry during her sophomore year of high school, Clara, moved openly to tears right in the middle of English class, not only dedicated herself to reading all of his poems, she mastered the complete works of Blake, Byron, Shelley, and Wordsworth until at last she'd consumed the entire canon of British Romantic poetry. And then she read it all again. Similarly, once Clara determined she didn't care for something or lacked interest in a topic, it was often difficult, if not impossible, to change her stubborn mind. Hence her disdain for exercise, religious zealots, and tofu. “I can't help it,” Clara said to Libby, shrugging. “I guess I'm just an all-or-nothing kind of girl.”

“I love that about you,” said Libby. “So then I suppose you'd like to get a dog this week?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“Good!”
Libby clasped her hand over her heart, exhaling a sigh of relief. “Good . . .”

“I was thinking more along the lines of today.”

Libby's alleviation vanished. “Today?
Today
?”

“Based on your clenched teeth and need to repeat everything twice, I'm gonna assume that's a
no
.”

“No, honey, not—not at all.” Libby took Clara's frail hand in her own, offering her best stab at a reaffirming grin. “Listen to me. I think what you're doing with your list is wonderful. I want this to work so badly.” She paused, a more serious expression crossing her face. “It
has
to. And Lord knows I'll help you any way I can.” She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of acceptance. “If it's a filthy canine that you want, how can I deny you? I'm just thankful you didn't want a hippo when you were ten.”

“Honestly?” Clara couldn't help but wonder if it was “Backwards Day.”

“I'll stock up on lint rollers.”

Clara cracked a half-smile. “My treat. Wow. Leo bet me twenty dollars that hell would freeze over before you'd allow this.”

“Well, I'm delighted I inspire my children to gamble.”

Filled with appreciation of her mother's surprising support, Clara impulsively hugged her. “Thank you. Really.” Then she had an idea. “Would you like to come with me to the animal shelter to pick out a puppy?”

Though Clara suspected Libby would have rather placed a cold beverage directly on the English antique mahogany coffee table without a coaster, she accepted the invitation, adding, “But first, how about we stop by the mall to check out one of those nifty Japanese robot dogs? I hear they're
much
better than the real thing. And no pooper-scooper required!”

“Nice try,” Clara replied, already on her way upstairs to get dressed.

S
till sluggish from her journey, Clara entered For Pets' Sake, River Pointe's local animal shelter, with zero preconceived notions about what type of dog she wished to adopt. Size, breed, age, and sex weren't of the slightest concern to her. She didn't care about the animal's personality, or how well it got along with other pets or people. It made no difference to her if it was cute or ugly, hairy or bald, neutered or pregnant with triplets. Considering such basic factors hadn't even occurred to Clara. As far as she was concerned, the only thing that mattered was accomplishing the first task on her time capsule list and crossing it off with the new red pen she'd purchased solely for this purpose. That is, until she spotted the scraggy, white-and-caramel-colored beagle. “There,” she said, pointing. “At the end of the row over in the corner”—she indicated the puppy's cramped cage, telling Jane, the overzealous shelter employee wearing a sweater with a howling wolf on the front and back—“how about that sad little Snoopy spawn with only one ear?”

“You mean
Dumbo
?” Jane double-checked, surprised. Unlocking the metal cage, she removed the lethargic puppy. “You're the first person who's wanted to meet this fella. He was found in an alley about two months ago after being attacked by a bigger dog. The poor pup had most of his right ear bitten off and some other serious wounds. We weren't sure he was gonna make it. But, as you can see, he persevered.
Yes he did!”
She cooed in a silly voice, tickling the dog's belly. “He diddy widdy
did
!”

Dumbo didn't bat a lash.

“Can he hear?” Clara inquired.

“He sure can. He's just a quiet guy.
Aren't you
?” Jane scratched his head, but the dog remained motionless. “Aren't you waren't you?”

Libby rolled her eyes.

“Is he playing dead?” asked Clara.

“He sometimes looks that way at first,” Jane explained.

“Charming. And he's healthy?” Libby probed. “He seems rather thin.”

“Fit as a fiddle!” Jane nodded. “He's had all his shots and there's no sign of fleas or heartworm. He's been through a lot of misfortune, which is why he can seem a bit aloof, but he's very gentle and sweet.”

Dumbo growled at Jane.

“His teeth were just cleaned. Would you like to hold him?” she asked Clara.

The moment the puppy landed in her extended arms, he began to bark, quietly at first, then louder. With his tail wagging back and forth like a high-speed windshield wiper, he covered Clara's thin face with wet, spastic kisses. “Well, hello there,” she said and smiled. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Then, turning to Jane, she declared in an emotionless tone, as if she were ordering a ham and cheese on rye at a deli counter, “I'll take him.”

“Uh . . . Isn't this a bit hasty?” Libby cautioned, stepping forward. “You're certain he's the one? Don't you want to look at any others? A dog with two ears perhaps?”

“Nonsense.” Clara nuzzled the wiggling puppy's head. “That's what makes him special.”

Dumbo howled and licked her nose.

“Well, I'd say he likes you!
Yes he does!”
beamed Jane. “I'm delighted. We were concerned that because of his trauma, people might view him as damaged goods and disregard him.”