Once Upon a List (4 page)

 

3.

U
pon completing their history class unit on legendary ancient and lost civilizations, Miss Jordain, Clara's fifth-grade teacher, assigned each student to create a personal time capsule. Referencing a worn Oxford English Dictionary, she read aloud to the class, “A time capsule is defined as
a container used to store for posterity a selection of objects thought to be representative of life at a particular time
.” After listing some specific guidelines to follow when filling the capsule, Miss Jordain distributed to each student an empty glass tube and announced that she would collect their finished creations the following week. “I want you all to think very hard and very carefully about the personal artifacts and information that you choose to include in your time capsule,” she cautioned. “Do not lose sight of the fact that it will be used as an important method of communication with people in the future. For other generations it will serve as a valuable reminder of your story so that it is not forgotten or lost, like our dear Atlantis and Lemuria.”

Never in Clara's wildest dreams did she imagine she'd see her time capsule again. In fact, she'd completely forgotten about it. Which was why to be sitting here now, in her mother's music room, decades later, balancing the “ancient” relic in the palms of her hands sent shivers down her spine.

Her fifth-grade time capsule contained an interesting collection of gems: a photograph taken after a January blizzard of Clara, Libby, and Leo poking their heads out the icicle-laced window of Maple Manor; a crinkled admissions ticket stub to Disney World; an individual packet of McDonald's “fancy” ketchup; a “Finding Your Way” Brownies patch, which Clara had earned with her troop by mastering command of the compass; and a small, brittle molar tooth. A horrified expression crossed Libby's face when Clara displayed the tooth. “Where did you get that?” she harrumphed. “Does the Tooth Fairy owe you money?”

At the bottom of the time capsule, tucked neatly inside of its original pink envelope, Clara also discovered Natalie Marissa's official Cabbage Patch Kid birth certificate.

“My God. Remember what you went through to get one of those dolls?” Libby smiled. “I had never seen you so hell-bent on attaining something in all my life. The unwavering determination you had . . .” Shaking her head, she chuckled at the memory. “There was no stopping you.”

Clara recalled her quest to have a Cabbage Patch Kid, searching toy store after toy store, adding her name to waiting list after waiting list—she'd even once contemplated Cabbage Patch–napping a doll from her friend Stella. Finally, after trying for over a year, Clara's prayers were answered in the form of Natalie Marissa. The moment she held Natalie Marissa in her arms and inhaled her sweet, fresh plastic and artificial baby powder scent, the pain and frustration of her struggle to adopt a Cabbage Patch Kid instantly vanished. At the time, Clara viewed Natalie Marissa's birth certificate as an unequivocal symbol of hope: tangible proof that good things
do
indeed come to those who are patient and believe. And so into her time capsule it went.

Clara stared at the birth certificate, a million miles away. She wished she could have but a tiny fraction of that youthful hope back again. If only it were possible . . .

The final remaining relic inside the glass tube had been a specific requirement by Miss Jordain. Slowly, Clara removed it as a surprising flood of memories washed over her. She gawked at the tightly folded sheet of white paper before carefully unfolding it. On it was a detailed list of things ranging significantly in importance that Clara hoped to accomplish before age thirty-five, when she figured her time would probably be up, just as it had been for her father. Miss Jordain's original assignment had been to create a list of everything you hoped to accomplish before the end of your lifetime, which implied when you were wrinkled and gray with grandchildren and hair growing in places it shouldn't. But when Clara asked Miss Jordain for special permission to modify the term of her list, explaining the reason for her request, Miss Jordain gave Clara's shoulder a gentle squeeze and nodded, “Of course that's all right, dear.”

Miss Jordain did attempt to convince her that there was absolutely no correlation between when her father passed and when her time would eventually come, but Clara was steadfast in her conviction, and when the wheels in her head began spinning, she suddenly feared the worst for her teacher, gulping, “Why? Are
you
thirty-five yet?”

“Okay then,”
Miss Jordain, forty-seven, replied, smiling at Clara, “I look forward to receiving your time capsule next week,” and continued strolling down the narrow aisle of desks.

“That's terrible!” Leo almost spit out his wine when his sister recounted this tale. “Why haven't I heard about this before? I would've straightened you right out. I had no idea you were really convinced that life ends at age thirty-five. Jesus, that's awful.”

“Not as awful as when Miss Jordain called me after school that day to suggest it might be beneficial to have a friendly little
For Whom the Bell Tolls
chat with my daughter
with the vivid imagination
.” Libby extended an open hand to Clara. “Okay, Wednesday Addams. Let's see your list.”

But Clara was too absorbed in reading it to hear her mother's request. Created at age ten, before reality encroached upon that magical sense of childhood power that allowed her to believe anything was possible—something she had continued to believe up until Sebastian's “accident”—it felt to Clara as if her list belonged to a complete and utter stranger.

And in a way, it did.

 

4.

C
lara tossed and turned in bed. She'd been struggling to fall asleep for almost two hours (typical since Sebastian's death) with Patrick Swayze staring at her (not typical) when the intoxicating aroma of grilled cheese sandwiches wafted up the staircase, down the hall, and underneath her bedroom door. This was one of the perks of having her brother around. Clara was happy that Leo had decided to pack a suitcase and lodge at Libby's, rather than at his own bachelor pad in the city, while she was in town. Lord knows their mother couldn't have been more elated to have both of her children home for the holiday. Throwing off her covers, Clara grabbed her favorite Harvard sweatshirt, which had once belonged to Sebastian, and proceeded directly to the kitchen.

“Hey. What are you doing up?” Leo, standing by the stove, waved his spatula at her.

Clara shrugged, inhaling the heavenly scent. “I haven't been sleeping well lately. But, I
have
been craving one of your sandwiches for months.”

“Say no more. You want it with or without?”

“With, please.” Clara yawned, taking her usual seat at the kitchen table.

“Order in! One midnight grilled cheese
with
avocado coming right up.”

Once again, Clara forced a semi-smile that sort of made it look as if she had to use the bathroom. She had no idea what Leo's secret touch was—it could have been the precise ratio of Muenster to American cheese—but his grilled cheese was honestly the best she had ever tasted, and seemingly impossible to replicate. She'd long since given up on trying.

When their late-night snack was ready, Leo joined Clara at the table. She was grateful to have this time alone with her brother. It reminded her of the good old days. Throughout the years, they had probably spent hundreds of hours bonding at this kitchen table during the midnight hour while the rest of the sane world slumbered, discussing anything and everything—or sometimes, just sitting there together in silence, not uttering a single word, with their noses buried in some book or magazine, warmed by the comfort of each other's company. These were the sacred hours that Clara missed most when she was in Boston, the hours when their masks came off that reminded her no matter how low or lonesome she felt, she was never really alone. Nor was her brother.

While they ate, Leo picked up Clara's time capsule, which had been left on the table when everyone retired to their bedrooms for the evening. “I wish I'd made one of these when I was in elementary school.” He eyed it enviously. “How incredible is it that your teacher took the time and energy to send these back to her students twenty odd years later?”

“I know,” Clara nodded while chewing. “I thought about that before. It couldn't have been easy for her to locate everybody.” It was difficult for Clara to imagine that Miss Jordain, the same woman who was rumored to enjoy topping her RITZ crackers with children's bone marrow, had extended the impressive effort to return the time capsules to their rightful owners. Perhaps she wasn't so wicked after all. “I wonder why she chose to send them back to us now? You know? Why exactly at this particular point in time?”

“You mean
in
July
?” Leo corrected her.

“Whatever. Think she had a reason?”

“I don't know.” He shrugged. “Could be.” Leo unfolded Clara's list of things she had hoped to accomplish before age thirty-five. “Let's see what we have here, shall we?” Grinning mischievously, he began reading aloud:

• 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!)

“I still can't believe you did that, by the way,” he interjected. “Nor can I believe you managed to keep it a secret from me for all these years. That was low.
Very impressive
. . . but low.”

“I'm sorry. But if you'd been forced to listen to you play that darn thing night after night you would have buried it too.”

Leo shot her a deadpan look. “A), That recorder wasn't even mine. It belonged to River Pointe Elementary School and was on loan to me for our class performance in the Spring Concert. B), That recorder was awesome. And C), I wasn't
that
bad.”

“Uh, I love you dearly, but I'm gonna have to beg to differ with you on that one.” Clara finished off the last of her sandwich, muttering, “Delicious.”

“Moving on!” Leo grinned and continued reading:

• 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!)

“Billy Warrington. Oh my God . . .” Cracking a tiny smile, Clara shook her head, amazed, letting out a faint but fleeting giggle. She hadn't heard the name of her first schoolgirl crush in decades, and Leo noted that he felt as if he hadn't heard the sound of his sister's laughter in just as long.

After they'd returned Clara's list to her time capsule, Leo leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. His expression turned more serious. “You haven't mentioned work since you've been home.”

“Neither have you,” Clara quickly countered.

“Touché.” Leo smiled. “Same old, same old really. Though I did just start an interesting new case translating for a deaf plaintiff in a personal injury lawsuit. Poor man had his knee shattered in a terrible escalator accident at a movie theater downtown.” At the fresh age of thirty-seven, Leo was not only considered one of Chicago's “sexiest most eligible bachelors” (as per a recent issue of
Chicago
magazine), he had already earned a highly regarded reputation as one of the city's premiere certified court sign language interpreters, a challenging profession he not just liked, but genuinely loved. “And that's really all I got,” he said. “How are things going with The Beer King of Boston?”

Clara exhaled a forlorn sigh. She had feared this subject would come up. “Well . . . to be honest”—she focused on picking at her nails—“they've definitely been better.”

Leo's eyebrows pulled together. “Why? What's going on?”

“Do you promise you won't tell Libby?”

“Promise,” he said, nodding.

“Swear on our siblinghood?” Clara double-checked, her face tensing. Never mind God or that little book called “The Holy Bible,” swearing on their siblinghood was as sacred as it got between Leo and Clara. It was their hallowed code of honor and neither would ever dare consider breaking it.

“I swear on our siblinghood,” Leo vowed with a growing look of concern. “You're making me nervous.”

About a month earlier, Clara's boss, Mr. Franklin, the president of Scuppernong Beer
,
also known as “The Beer King of Boston,” had urged Clara to take a sabbatical after she accidentally came to work one Saturday morning thinking that it was Friday. When she arrived at the microbrewery's corporate headquarters, the office was completely empty aside from the janitorial staff and Mr. Franklin, who was there catching up on some business. Clara wasn't aware that she'd done anything wrong until he inquired with a look of surprise, “To what do I owe this unusual pleasure?” Confused, she tried to act casual and told him that she figured she'd come to work today just like she did every other day, at which point The Beer King of Boston crinkled his gray, bushy eyebrows and asked if Clara was aware that it was the weekend. Then he suggested that he and Clara step inside his office for a little talk.

Explaining that he and other “concerned colleagues” at Scuppernong had “all” observed that Clara had not been acting like herself “since the awful tragedy,” Mr. Franklin stressed how “very, very concerned” he was about her. “It's as if you're in a perpetual daze. Yes, you're physically here, Clara, but your mind is obviously elsewhere. And it's causing your work to suffer. Your sales numbers have been slipping for months now and you lost the Parker House hotel account. It's no secret what a blow that was for the company. I've let this continue for far too long. It's not good for Scuppernong, but more importantly, it's not good for
you
. Something has to change.” Encouraging Clara to take as little or as much time as she needed to get herself straightened out, Mr. Franklin assured her that she would always have a place at the company
.

After a fair amount of groveling, Clara had somehow managed to convince him that a sabbatical was the
last
thing she needed. She promised to be more alert and improve her performance, assuring The Beer King that he would not have to speak with her about this matter again.

Since then, the Scuppernong ice Clara had been skating on was so dangerously thin she was frightened it might crack at any point.

The week before Sebastian's accident, The Beer King had delighted in letting her know that he viewed her as an asset with tremendous potential at the company and he was personally nominating her for a promotion. Although Clara had worked as an accounts manager for only two years, he was highly impressed with her excellent sales numbers and the lucrative relationships she'd cultivated with a majority of the Scuppernong vendors. Confident Clara would make an outstanding director of sales (and probably a powerful vice-president “someday in the not-too-far-off future,” as he'd phrased it), he'd already arranged for her to meet with Human Resources the following week to discuss details. Clara had been elated about her promotion. In fact, it was a struggle for her to keep from jumping for joy right there in his office. While she majored in English in college, she minored in business, mostly because her father had been a great businessman and she wanted to follow in his footsteps. Well, what she
really
desired was to be a professional poet. But as she enjoyed reading poetry far more than she enjoyed writing it—and she also wanted to be able to pay her bills and eat food other than Ramen noodles—she knew she would need a more realistic backup plan. Little did Clara know when she joined Scuppernong that, like her father, she was actually an exceptionally skilled businessperson. As a beer drinker, she had always been genuinely fond of Scuppernong's delicious brew, so it was easy for her to use her enthusiasm for the product—combined with her apparently innate business savvy—to sell large volumes of it to vendors. The laid-back atmosphere at the popular microbrewery's headquarters complimented Clara's easygoing style, and she got along well with associates at all levels. Happy and thriving in her position, it didn't take long for her to realize that she had met her corporate calling. Nor did it take long for her to decide that someday she would be the company's president. Her promotion would advance her one step closer to that ambitious goal. The meeting with HR that The Beer King had scheduled on her behalf was cancelled, however, when Sebastian passed away. And the distinguished promotion eventually went to someone else, which Clara failed to notice until Mr. Franklin brought it to her attention.

Exhaling slowly, Leo ran his fingers through his thick, brown hair, which was just beginning to show the faintest hint of gray at the temples. “Well, it definitely sounds like you're on shaky ground at work,” he said, frowning. “And it also sounds like The Beer King is genuinely worried about you.” He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip, seeming to debate whether or not he should continue. “To be honest . . . and I
hate
to have to bring this up”—he sighed, clearly distressed—“but, after hearing that story, and knowing how depressed you've been lately . . . he's not the only one.”

Clara pointed at the remaining corner of grilled cheese sandwich on his plate. “You gonna eat that?” she asked in a low monotone, avoiding eye contact.

“All yours.” Leo pushed his plate across the table toward her. He studied Clara closely. There was a long, heavy moment of silence before he finally spoke. “I think we should talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” She pretended to be dense.

Leo cocked his head to the side. “Oh, come on. You
know
what”—he insisted, not playing games—“the way things have been going for the past eight months. The way you've completely withdrawn from everything and everyone—from . . .
life
.”

“Please. I'm fine.” Clara tried to sound convincing.

“You are far from fine and we both know it,” Leo argued. “I hardly even recognize you.”

“Don't be dramatic.”

“I'm not,” protested Leo. “Look, the truth is, I'm not just worried about you, Clara,” he swallowed hard, wincing. “I'm
scared
.”

“Scared?” she echoed in a detached tone.

“Your voice doesn't even sound like yourself anymore. And you sure aren't acting like yourself. You aren't acting like, well . . .
anything.
” Leo's fist came down on the table. “Are you even listening to me?”