The Life List (The List Trilogy) (2 page)

I suddenly feel really good about myself and calm enough to proceed with the eulogy. I stand proud in my three-inch black patent leather Via Spiga’s. My perfectly fitting Banana Republic pencil skirt has the cutest black satin stripe down the side. It really accentuates my small hips. My crisp white Calvin Klein blouse clings to my slender 5’6” body, and my pink cable knit sweater is tied loosely around my neck. My pearls are real, my legs have a fake tan, my blond hair is highlighted to perfection, and my skin is flawless, thanks to my overpaid esthetician. My eyes are ice blue and piercing through the faces of my past, and I’m actually enjoying it until they land smack dab on the one man that consumed most of it.

I saw him earlier when he drove up in his Porsche. That damn car. I can’t help but wonder if he bought it as some kind of last-ditch effort to get me back. I doubt it, since he hardly tried (at least not the way I wanted him to) when I left him that one, no wait, two…Jesus how many times did I walk out the door? So many that I lost count. He called right after my friend died. There’s still love there or maybe it’s a need to protect. Who knows, the break up is still so fresh. Our conversation wasn’t about what we went through over our last three years, but what she went through over her last one. It was bittersweet to
finally
have something else to talk to him about. He didn’t mention
the other woman
at all, and he didn’t ask about
the other man
. Not out of character for him to ignore the big pink elephants in the room, but I have to admit, for once it was a relief. At the end of the phone call he told me he had some pictures of the gang- the gang being the two of us, my best friends, and their husbands. He thought I might like to have them, and why not look at them together…over coffee. I cautiously accepted his invitation.

He’s dressed too casually for a memorial service and for a second it irritates me. It’s as if I had no impact on him during the time we were together. I never would’ve allowed him to show up to something like this wearing jeans. But this is how he is, and people have always found his casual approach to things endearing. I guess I have to admit, now that I don’t feel responsible for his actions, I kinda I find him a little endearing too.

He’s excessively handsome. I mean, really, one would not think it possible to cram so many striking features onto a man unless you saw it for your own eyes. If looks were all that mattered, I might still be with him. Unfortunately it wasn’t long after we moved in together that I couldn’t even see what he looked like anymore.

Now that the dust has settled, I can see him again, standing at the back of the memorial hall, dead center between the pews. He’s concentrating on every word I say, and it
almost
looks like he’s in pain. He should be. She was his friend too.

I’m at the part of the eulogy where I describe the relationship my deceased friend had with her husband, and my gaze shifts to the poor guy. It’s an unbearable sight. He’s shifting around in his seat like it’s taking all of his self-control not to run to the bathroom and throw up. At sixteen they formed a bond that was intimate and deep, and from the moment they met I was no longer her closest companion. When we were younger, my other two best friends and I would criticize their relationship. It wasn’t until I grew up that I could admit to myself that I was jealous of what they shared for over 15 years. And right now, especially, it’s worth noting; If you’re lucky enough to find your soul mate, you should treat them like you would die without them. You never know when either one of you is gonna the kick the bucket.

Ahhhh, there’s my mom trying to hide in the back of the room. She’s clinging tightly to my father and, of course, she’s wearing her trademark black sunglasses. I’ll let her get away with that look today because, after all, it’s a funeral. But normally, rain or shine, indoors or outdoors, day or night, those suckers are glued to her face. She thinks she’s hiding from the world when she wears them, but they just draw more attention to her.

Those damn sunglasses have
always
made me sad. They’re like her outward symbol of her inward insecurities that none of us- my brother, my dad, or I- have been able to alleviate, no matter how beautiful, smart, and needed we tell her she is. She wasn’t gonna come today. Said it was because she didn’t think she could handle the pain of seeing my friend’s mother bury her daughter, but I knew it was because she was afraid her sunglasses wouldn’t be big enough to hide behind. I stood my ground and told her she had to go… for me. And look, she showed up…for me. I will always give my mom first right of refusal for kissing my boo-boos. But on the days when her sunglasses are too small to do it, I have two remaining friends who can. And with that thought, my grip on their hands tightens once again.

I conclude the eulogy and I stand at the podium for a moment longer to take it all in. I turn to look at her casket, and a tiny smile forms on my perfectly lined lips. I’m overwhelmed with the guiltless knowledge that if it wasn’t for her agonizing death and all that it taught me, I wouldn’t be as happy as I am today.

Unload

February, 2001

We used to call ourselves the A-BOB’s. It stood for A Bunch of Bobs because for a brief period of time in high school we all had identical bob-style haircuts. When we went to parties where nobody knew who we were, we made up fake names, names we
really
wished our parents had given us like Vanessa, Charlotte, Tiffany and Ginger…you know, good ol’ fashioned slut names. One thing’s for sure, we loved to keep people guessing, and my best friends and I rarely used our real names, Chrissy, Courtney, Kelly and Nicole.

After the funeral, ol’ Charlotte, Tiffany, and I (a.k.a. Vanessa) spontaneously decided to spend a much needed week of grieving in Cabo San Lucas because the funeral after party, if that’s what you call it, didn’t really allow us the opportunity to do that. It was a chaotic blur of entertaining strangers, fake laughing, bad wine, and escaping to our dead friend’s bedroom to get away from it. We took turns smelling her clothes, sitting in her empty bathtub, rummaging through her purse, applying her lipstick, and using her hairbrush. We didn’t let our emotional guard down in front of the guests because it was her house, and she wouldn’t have wanted us to. So, we decided to go to Mexico to mourn in our own way; with old pictures, lots of tears, and massive amounts of tequila. We needed to be hysterically angry one minute and hopelessly lost the next. We needed to throw things at the wall, kick and scream deliriously for no reason and every reason, wish out loud that one of us had died instead, and then quickly admit we’re thankful we hadn’t. We needed to curse God, doubt God, and start believing in God. We needed to refill each other’s glass, fear for our own lives, worry out loud about our dead friend’s child and curse those that foolishly say she’ll be okay. We needed to argue about which one of us was closest to her, laugh at her laugh, talk shit about her stubborn streak, her horrible taste in cars, and her annoying ability to put her own needs ahead of anyone else’s, always. We needed to relive every memory shared with her for the last eighteen years, and we needed to do all of it over and over again until we were ready to face the fact that she was gone. For days we stayed up late, woke up swollen, kept our cell phones turned off, and wore no makeup, jewelry or semblance of a coordinating outfit. We sat by the edge of the pool and burst into unprompted fits of rage followed by long streams of silence. But mostly we made endless toasts to the magnificence of our bond, and we spoke as if
all
of us were still alive because her death was just too fresh.

There’s Kelly, the voice of reason amongst the four of us. She’s the most awesome wife, mother and school teacher in the entire world. She’s organized and bitchy just like me. But…Kelly and I are about as opposite as two people can be when it comes to our fashion sense. She’s a bargain hunter and a pack rat. She doesn’t live in filth or anything like that, but the chick won’t throw away her old clothes…even the ones from high school! She’s hell-bent they’ll make a comeback and sometimes even throws on something fluorescent to try and convince us of her point.

Kelly’s the one to tell you what’s on her mind, no matter how painful it is to listen to. She’ll tell you your outfit’s ugly, to shut up when you talk too much, and to stop whining when you complain too much. She isn’t a completely horrible person; she just tells it like it is. She’s the one person I’ve never been able to bullshit, and I’ve always gone to her when I needed a dose of reality and a good slap in the face. Kelly doesn’t wear her heart on her sleeve, and she doesn’t really care if you think she has one. Her actions let me know she loves me, but for the life of our friendship, I’ve never heard her tell me so.
Well, maybe that one time
.

The thing I admire most about Kelly is her confidence, but it’s always gotten in the way of her asking for help when I know she’s needed it. But lucky for her, I’m damn stubborn! I’m the only one who’s had the guts to come to her aid when she’s needed it the most. Like when she told me to stay away when her dad died and I showed up at her doorstep with a big bouquet of flowers anyway. Or when she went into labor after enduring a high-risk pregnancy, she said “stay home and I’ll call you when it’s over.” I didn’t. I paced outside of her delivery room and to her dismay yelled encouraging words to her through the closed door. I know my big sappy heart has bugged the shit out of Kelly for eighteen years, but I don’t care. Even though she’s never admitted it, she’s the only one of my friends who truly needs me.

Ahhhhhh
Nicole, the sarcasm of the group. Whenever things get tense between the four of us, Nicole eases the awkwardness by cracking a joke or poking fun at the person who caused the friction. Her honest cynicism, although frustrating at times, has quickly turned major arguments between the four of us into super fun cocktails at happy hour more times than I can count. Thank God for her humor too, it’s gotta be the only thing that makes her fucked up job as an ER doctor at Highland Hospital in Oakland somewhat tolerable. Yep, gangland baby!

Nicole’s the person I
always
go to when I have something uncomfortable to confess. No matter how embarrassing or disgusting my confession is, she always has one of her own to make mine seem silly. She makes me feel sane when I know I’m not, and I’ve always been scared to death to lose the refuge she provides me. What’s she look like you ask? Well, bless her heart, but Nicole’s always a mess. You can usually find a stain on her clothes, and her curly hair is constantly disheveled. She’s also my only black friend. I wanted more, but she didn’t come as set. She’s late to everything and always has to borrow a buck from one of the three of us because she can’t remember where she put her purse. She’s a total disaster, but at the end of the day, her husband and child are the most perfectly loved and cared for people in the world. She’s got an amazing giggle and an enviable happy-go-lucky attitude. Throughout our friendship, Nicole’s sarcasm and my sensitivity, have caused a lot of drama. Out of the four of us, we’re the ones who have the most theatrical arguments and the most heartfelt reconciliations.

Courtney, Courtney, Courtney. She’s the problem solver of the group. She’s the rational one who’s always tried to talk the rest of us out of doing completely stupid things. But unfortunately for her, it’s always been three against one, so she spent the earlier years of our friendship in deep doo-doo with her parents. Courtney was voted most likely to succeed
and
best looking in high school. It’s a good thing for her she was my best friend back then or else I would’ve made her life miserable by slashing her tires or TP’ing her house. She was valedictorian of our high school class, her college undergraduate class,
and
her medical school. Yes, Courtney’s a doctor too, but not the laid back kind like Nicole. Court’s a friggin’ workaholic maniac who’s all about prestige. For a thirty-one year old, she’s got the longest job title in the world, something like:

Assistant Professor of Medicine

Assistant Residency Director

Primary Care Internal Medicine Residency Program

University of California, San Francisco School of Medicine

I don’t know what the hell any of that means, but she’s really fucking smart. If I ever get arrested, Courtney’s the girl I’ll use my one free phone call from jail on, because she’s completely reliable and entirely non-judgmental. She’s everyone’s friend, and I’ve never heard anyone say an unkind word about her. You can believe that if I did, I would’ve punched the person in the face. Courtney’s flaw (although she wouldn’t see it that way) is that she has an unhealthy need to help the world. Since high school she’s let her beauty fade more than I would’ve liked it, but stuff like that isn’t as important to her as it is to me. Work is what’s important to Courtney, and so it shocked the hell out of me that she married very young, at twenty-one. Perhaps she knew she wouldn’t have time to do it later. I mean, it wouldn’t surprise me if she had the ability to see into the future. She’s just that smart. Somewhere in the last few years she even found the time to pop out a kid. Looking back, I wonder if she thinks marriage and a kid were good choices. I’ll never ask her because I know she doesn’t have the time to second guess her life, and I don’t want to do anything to stress her out. She has enough of that. I’ll never get tired of telling Courtney to take care of herself because she’s my touchstone, and I love her so much.

Then there’s me, Chrissy. It’s not hard to figure out that I’m the emotional core of the group. But I’m not just the type of girl who sees a stray animal and bursts into tears. I’m so much more than that. For
most
of the last eighteen years, I haven’t let a month go by without talking to my friends, and I’ve even gone so far as to micro-manage the friendships they have with each other by making sure they call each other on birthdays and what not. Sometime during college, I got tired of being the mommy of our friendships, and I went on strike to see if they would call to check on me, but I only lasted three days before I picked up the phone. I was too afraid to get let down. I’ve always needed our friendship to be a success, and I have, at times, even created the false impression that we were closer than we really were. What’s even more fucked up is that when, for a brief period, we weren’t close at all, it was my fault.