Once Upon a List (3 page)

 

2.

E
ntering her Barbie-pink childhood bedroom with a reluctant sigh, Clara dropped her suitcase on the ground, observing that aside from Libby's fancy new stationary bicycle set up in the corner, the space still did not appear to have been altered since she left for Boston University. Her complete collection of
Sweet Valley High
books remained in a neat stack beside her baton-twirling trophies on the bookshelf, the crystal tissue box was right where it had always been on the nightstand, and there was good ol' Natalie Marissa, her beloved Cabbage Patch Kid doll, propped against some frilly eyelet pillows in the center of Clara's bed. Natalie Marissa looked as if life hadn't been kind to her either—weary and beaten—similar to the way Clara felt and imagined herself to appear (though, thankfully, Clara's head wasn't loose and droopy as a result of having once been accidentally popped off by an overzealous boy scout).

Prompted by natural instinct, Clara picked up Natalie Marissa and gave her an affectionate squeeze. “Hi, old girl. Long time no see. How've ya been?” she inquired. Then it dawned on her that she'd just asked an inanimate object with a disastrous orange yarn “Mohawk” (compliments of “Clara's Hair Salon” and yet another “healthy trim” gone awry), a sincere question. “Holy crap,” Clara mumbled, quickly returning Natalie Marissa to the bed, wondering if perhaps she was a touch closer to the proverbial edge than she'd imagined. “No offense,” she added apologetically to her doll. “
Oh God!
I'm still doing it!”

Stepping inside this vestige of a room was like boarding a direct portal to her past. Nothing had changed. Except for Clara herself.

Clara haphazardly hung a few items from her suitcase in the closet, including the dress she planned on wearing to the big Thanksgiving party, and tossed some clothes inside an empty dresser drawer. Next, she moseyed into the bathroom, which connected her bedroom to Leo's. After splashing a handful of cold water on her face, Clara spotted the digital scale and decided to step on for the hell of it. She watched the bright red numbers do their frantic little dance until at last they stopped at 115 pounds, exactly as The Human Scale had predicted. Clara was shocked.

At just over five-foot-eight inches tall, and blessed with a metabolism that most people wouldn't think twice to kill for, her body had always been lithe and lean, typically fluctuating between 135 and 138 pounds—not that Clara was the type of person to attach a particular value to this genetic factor, which she had apparently inherited from her late father. Clara used to joke that she could eat like a huge, beefy bar bouncer named Biff, who drank raw eggs for breakfast and shopped at the Big & Tall Warehouse, and not gain an ounce. Come to think of it, lately her pants did seem to hang a bit looser than usual around her waist, but Clara had simply tightened her belt a few notches. Never did it dawn on her that she'd actually dropped a good twenty pounds. Maybe Tabitha—whom she had chosen to serve as maid of honor at her wedding and whom she'd recently been drifting away from—was correct, Clara worried. Maybe she really had stopped taking care of herself since “the loss,” as Tabitha had suggested. Maybe during their last, heated confrontation she shouldn't have snorted at Tabitha's stinging accusation of “being stuck in a devastating downward spiral” and then called her a “judgmental, meddling witch,” a particularly low blow on Clara's part since she knew her best friend—or perhaps
former
best friend was more accurate—loathed sharing her name with that bratty, nose-wiggling child sorceress from television's
Bewitched.

Clara was trudging her way out of her bedroom to go meet Libby and Leo downstairs for a nightcap when a brown, mangled, square box sitting atop her dresser—next to the framed photograph of Patrick Swayze in a rather dreamy pose from
Dirty Dancing
—caught her eye. It was hard for her to believe that there had actually been a time in her life when she'd fantasized about becoming Mrs. Clara Swayze. Or fantasized about anything, really . . .

She picked up the mysterious package, addressed to
Ms. Clara James Black
in fancy, cursive penmanship, gave it a gentle little shake, and searched it all over for a return address. But there wasn't one. How odd, she thought.

“What's this?” Clara asked Libby, carrying the box into the music room, which, adorned with polished oak paneling, jewel-toned fabrics, and overstuffed leather furniture, possessed a rich, club-like atmosphere. Clara discovered her mother and brother sitting in front of the fireplace, where a crackling fire blazed. She took a seat on the couch beside Leo.

“Got me. Why don't you open it and see?” said Libby, rising to retrieve a wine goblet for Clara from the fully stocked, built-in bar in the corner of the room.

“You're a poet and you don't even know it.” Leo pointed at her accusingly.

“I do too, darling.” Libby smirked, asking Clara, “What did you think of the floral arrangement in your room?” She waited for a response.

And waited.

And waited.

Clara felt Leo give her foot a light kick. Quickly straightening her spine, she opened her eyes wider. “Pardon?”

Libby and Leo exchanged a glance of concern.

“Uh . . . Libby asked you a question,” he prompted helpfully.

“Oh, I—I'm sorry.” Clara tried her best to look alert. “I was”—she used the first excuse that popped into her mind—“just thinking about this box.”

“Well, you were clearly lost in thought about
something
. I wanted to know if you like the flowers in your bedroom.” Libby examined Clara closely, filling her glass with a fragrant Merlot.

“The . . . flowers?” Clara repeated, dazed. She automatically launched into fib-mode, a well-intentioned tactic she had recently mastered in her ongoing effort to discourage people from worrying about her. “Oh, yes! That's right. I meant to thank you for them. They're beautiful.”

Sitting down in a club chair, Libby narrowed her eyes. “Oh yeah? What color are they?”

Busted. Clara had no idea what she could have been thinking. Her mother's keen sense of awareness had never worked in her favor. Sighing, she cringed, lacking the energy to pretend she hadn't just been caught red-handed with her dirty paw in the cookie jar. “Crap. I'm sorry, Libby. I didn't notice. But, I'm sure they really are beautiful.
All
of your arrangements are.” She attempted to save face, though this was no lie. Her mother's glorious floral displays were worthy of the cover of
House & Garden
magazine
,
and while Clara's bouquets paled in comparison, Libby had passed her botanical passion down to her.

“I don't get it. I thought chrysanthemums were your favorite,” exhaled Libby, deflated.

“They
are
,” Clara assured her. Because the chrysanthemum blooms in November, it represents the light of hope in dark times, which is why she had always loved it most, despite its ordinary appearance.

“I can't believe you didn't see the arrangement. It's huge! What are you, a zombie?”

Clara knew her mother's words were teasing, but only on the surface. This was not the first time since Sebastian's untimely passing that Libby had compared her to the so-called walking dead. Nor was it the second, or tenth time. Come to think of it, “zombie” was a pretty accurate description, Clara—feeling numb like usual—admitted to herself, offering her mother a forced, unconvincing half-smile.

She had tried her damnedest to bounce back after Sebastian's “accident,” as she referred to it. Even the word “death” was too painful and final for Clara to accept, much less say out loud. In the blink of an eye, her entire universe had shattered, instantly becoming an inconceivable memory. BAM! In one second. Just like that . . .
gone
. It struck Clara on a daily basis how one moment—one little, tiny, itty-bitty moment—could change
everything.
And it never ceased to leave her trembling.

Still, though it felt like something had been brutally ripped from the inside of her chest, Clara had no intention of going down without a fight. At least, not at first. The last remaining sparkle of eternal optimism in her wouldn't allow it. Thus, she had tried every known solution under the sun to help her cope with her unbearable grief and get her deteriorating life back on track, including, but not limited to: private counseling, group counseling, acupuncture, denial, kick-boxing, cupping, meditation, music/sound therapy, bonsai (
“Clip clip, hooray!”)
, prescription drugs (antidepressants and anxiety medication), illegal drugs (marijuana and ecstasy, which ironically made Clara feel sad), aromatherapy, writing (she lit her “grief journal” on fire), spiritual cleansing, self-help books, knitting therapy
(“Knit one, purl two, everyone can heal, so can you!”),
dolphin therapy (don't ask), long contemplative walks, short violent runs, Camp Good Grief for bereft adults, needlepoint, and deep tissue massage (ouch!).

Finally, when all else had failed, and Clara continued to sink deeper and deeper into melancholy, she decided to attempt suicide by leaving her car running in her closed garage. Only that didn't work either, thanks to her busted garage door, which had an aggravating mind of its own and refused to remain shut—prompting Clara to recall the film
Poltergeist
and wonder if perhaps the home she and Sebastian loved so much was built atop an ancient Indian burial ground.

After eight excruciating months, Clara had officially suffered her fill of torture attempting to pick herself up, dust herself off, and start all over again. Ultimately, she'd gained nothing but command of the dolphin alphabet, a couple clay pinch-pots, and a pathetic-looking handmade sweater with two neck holes. And so, with her grief sitting on her soul like a ten-ton brick, Clara—the same peppy girl voted “Most Likely to Brighten Your Day” in her High School senior yearbook—finally yielded to the escalating despair she'd battled so desperately to overcome, and allowed herself to descend into a thick, black fog of nothingness. At last, accepting that no other viable alternative existed, Clara ran out of steam and gave up on life. Simple as that. She just couldn't fight anymore. She was too depleted and broken to try, or even care. She was done—like her
Frisky Kittens in a Fruit Bowl
needlepoint that she'd completed a tenth of and knew would never see another stitch.

“Well, zombie or not, it's a treat to have you home.” Libby winked at Clara.

“So when did this box arrive?” Clara steered the conversation in a new direction, hoping to avoid further discussion about her disappointing absentmindedness. “Why didn't you mention anything about it to me?”

“I called you in Boston when it was delivered back in July and you specifically told me to put it in your bedroom. So I did.” Libby sipped her wine. “Remember?”

Clara drew a complete blank, which was reflected in her vacant expression.

“You said it probably wasn't anything important, or it would have been sent to you directly, and you'd just open it when you came home next.” Libby continued to attempt to jog her memory, but Clara's confused appearance revealed that she might as well have been speaking Klingon. “
Hello?
Is any of this ringing a bell?” Libby's voice was now laced with unequivocal concern. “Christ on the cross,” she exclaimed, snapping her fingers a few times when Clara didn't respond. “
Come on
. Get with the program, Clara-pie. Wake up!”

Right then, Leo, bless his little buffer heart, cleared his throat, interrupting, “I would like to propose a toast.” He raised his glass. “To Clara! Welcome home. It is wonderful to have you back.” He smiled at his sister.

Setting her concerns aside for now, Libby lifted her goblet and grinned as well. “Hear, hear! I will happily drink to that.”

The reunited Black family clinked their glasses together.

“Me too,” Clara felt obliged to say, wondering how she was going to make it through the weekend with her remaining sanity intact. Gazing out the music room window at the gently falling snow, she longed to be one of those snowflakes, swirling in the evening wind so peaceful and carefree, that come dawn would dissolve with the rising sun.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Open the package,” Libby coaxed, nodding at it as she sipped her wine, knocking Clara out of her dismal reverie.

Leo leaned over to get a better look. “There's no return address?”

“Nope.” Clara peeled off the brown paper wrapping. “But maybe there's a note or something inside.”

“That's strange,” he remarked.

When Clara finally managed to rip the cardboard box open and first glimpsed the astonishing object that lay inside, her jaw all but hit the Oriental area rug. “No . . . way . . .” she stammered in disbelief.

“What is it?” asked Libby. “Let's see.”

Flabbergasted, Clara slowly, and ever so carefully, removed the clear, foot-long, cylinder-shaped tube from the protective bed of Styrofoam peanuts it had been cushioned in, making sure not to damage it. She stared at the startling item with silent, genuine amazement.

“What the heck is
that
?” Leo asked.

“Yes, what is it?” echoed Libby, bending down with a grunt to pick up a couple of rogue peanuts that had fallen on the floor. “It looks futuristic.”

“Just the opposite,” Clara murmured, transfixed.

Suddenly, Libby gasped.
“Wait a minute . . .”
Giving the mysterious object a closer gander, her eyes expanded like saucers with a look of both shock and recognition. “I think I remember that thing. Yes . . . I
do
! I know what it is!”

Unable to tear her eyes from it, Clara softly stated, “It's my fifth-grade time capsule.”