The Someday Jar (14 page)

This is very exciting. Terrifying, but very exciting. I sit at a front table in Dave’s Diving School. The brick walls surrounding me are decorated with framed pictures of diving trips, colorful reefs, and an underwater shot of a rather large shark that I’m going to pretend is fake.

A few people trickle into the room. An elderly couple sit behind me and two men—father and son, perhaps?—situate themselves at the table on my left. I glance at the worksheets I was given when I arrived as my foot raps against the floor, eager to get started. Evan is meeting me here at one p.m. for a late lunch at the Mexican restaurant across the street, and then we have an appointment with Stacee to finalize the cake. Since he wasn’t thrilled with scuba diving, as it “seems far more dangerous than kickboxing,” I don’t want to keep him waiting.

Luckily, I was able to take the instructional portion of the class online last night. I learned all sorts of stuff like oxygen/nitrogen ratios, diving do’s and don’ts, and how pressure
affects the body—a lot. If I pass the quiz today, and after the required in-class lecture, I can attempt my first pool dive, which I hope is soon, because my bathing suit is creeping up my ass.

A few minutes later, a man with curly hair on his head and upper arms walks into the room. “Welcome to dive school.” He reaches for a marker and spells
DAVE
on the whiteboard. “I’m your instructor and I gotta tell you, I’m thrilled to be back.” He snaps the lid on the marker and pauses. “You guys are my first group since the accident. But I’m sure it won’t happen again, right? I mean what are the chances of two groups drowning?”

I stare at him in shock.
Oh, God. What have I gotten myself into?

He tosses the marker in the air, catches it, and says with a laugh, “Kidding.”

Ha-ha-ha.

After ninety minutes of discussion about equipment and safety and thirteen more lame jokes, Dave wraps up the lecture with coral reef preservation and responsibility.

“Any final questions? Comments? Complaints?” He passes out the one-page quiz, stopping in front of my desk. “When you walk out of here today, remember at least one thing. One thing. I cannot stress it enough.” His words are sharp. His stance solid. His eyes focused on me.

“Yes?” I’m rapt with attention.

“Never go diving alone.”

“Okay.”

“Reason one, if you have equipment problems, your partner can help you.”

“Got it.”

“Reason two, if you run out of air, your partner can share.”

I nod. Share air. Good.

“Reason three, if you come upon a shark, odds are fifty-fifty your partner will become lunch instead of one hundred percent you.”

He laughs. “Kidding.”

After I pass the test—a perfect score, thank you very much—Dave fits me with a dive regulator and a scuba buoyancy compensator and adds weight to my belt. With fins and mask in hand, I follow Dave and the others toward the pool. One of his assistants, Tracy—a broad-shouldered and tan twenty-something—rolls scuba tanks toward the pool’s edge.

I slip the mask to my forehead, snagging it briefly in my hair, then adjust the weight belt that digs into my side.

“Sure you want this?” Dave pats the scuba tank. “I think oxygen is for wussies.” He laughs. “Careful now, it’ll be heavy.”

I brace my legs. “Ready.”

He hoists the steel tank and straps it to my BC.

I nearly topple over.
Good Lord.
For once, he wasn’t kidding.

Tracy helps the others.

Dave waits for me to lower my mask and affix my regulator.

Okay, now I’m a bit freaked out. With this mask snug around my face, I find it hard to breathe. This growing tightness in my chest reminds me of the time Dad taught me how to suck air underwater in a Jacuzzi. He’d guided my fingertips to an airstream flowing from the seat bottom and said, “Purse your lips real tight around the air, like you’re gonna kiss it.”

I dove underneath the bubbles, did as he said, and took a breath. All was fine until the cycle shut off and midbreath I swallowed a lungful of water.

Mom was pissed.

Dave must see the apprehension in my eyes. “You’ll be fine. Trust me.” He wraps his hands around his neck and pretends to gasp for breath.

Funny.

He double-checks the air connections and tightens the strap of my weight belt. “Once you’re in the water, you won’t feel the weight of the tank or the rigidness of the equipment. Remember, keep an eye on the air level.”

I nod.

“You’re all set.” He moves me so my butt faces the pool. He inches me backward until my heels dangle off the edge.

Oh, God.

“When you’re ready, hold your mask and jump backward into the pool.” He moves on to the teenage boy beside me. He’s adjusted and fitted in no time and before I can blink, he effortlessly plunges into the pool.

Show-off.

I’m convinced none of the others will have his same level of fearlessness, especially the older couple, but within seconds, I’m the only one on the surface.

“You’re still here?” Dave jokes.

Lanie, don’t be a wuss. People do this all the time.

With a gentle nudge from Dave on my shoulder, I fall into the pool. The water swallows me slowly, cooling my skin.

Dave splashes into the water and offers an
okay
sign. I return it. He motions me toward the opposite end of the Olympic-sized pool. In the distance, I see my fellow classmates and the obstacles Dave mentioned beforehand. There’s a hula hoop to give us a feel for the size and span of our equipment, a large plastic turtle and several fish tethered on the pool
bottom to practice swimming near animals without endangering them, a net where we’ll learn how to untangle if our tank gets snagged, and my favorite, a makeshift coral arch to swim through.

All the same, I’m nervous as I flick my fins and follow Dave toward the deep end. But, hey, look at me. I’m breathing in and out, underwater. I’m scuba diving. This is easy. This is fun. I swim with the others along the pool bottom, play catch with a rubber torpedo, tossing it back and forth with Dave, and twirl around the faux fish.

Ten minutes later, Dave swims through the arch and motions me to follow.

Cool. I’m ready.

Midway, my hand accidentally snags my breathing hose—okay, maybe I do flail my arms a bit—and the regulator pops out of my mouth.

Oops. It’s okay. Don’t get flustered, Lanie. Just because Dave and the others swam to the shallow end, leaving you here alone, is no reason to panic.
Dave explained what to do in this situation. All I need to do is calmly grasp the regulator, gently insert it into my mouth, purge it, and, remaining relaxed and in complete control, take a breath. Simple. There is a backup regulator should this protocol not work.

The hose seems to have drifted out the other side of the arch.
Silly little bastard.
No problem.
Keep calm.
My lips are pressed tight and, though my lungs have developed the slightest ache, I’m in ten feet of water. If need be, I can shoot right up.

I tug on my breathing hose but it’s caught. Caught on the stupid coral arch. I yank again, hard, but it won’t come loose. My lungs burn and bright-colored specks dot my vision.

My backup regulator. Of course. I pat around my body, trying
to find the damn thing.
Where is it? Where? Oh, God.
I’m going to drown. Right here and now. I’ve read that most people drown in shallow water, but I didn’t think that was true. I didn’t think anyone could be stupid enough to suffocate in water with air a few feet away. But I’m proof that
I’m
stupid enough. Won’t this make a good obituary for Hollis to read?
Dumb-ass drowns with a full oxygen tank strapped to her back.

Fuck the regulator, I need air. Now! I need to blast up and suck in a lungful of sweet mother-loving oxygen.

I crouch low and with a mighty push, spring toward the surface. After a foot or so, I’m yanked back to the floor as if fixed to a bungee cord pulled taut.

What the . . . ?

I tug and tug but nothing happens. My secondary regulator is nowhere.

I need air.

I try to bolt for the surface one more time.

It’s too late.

Blackness.

“Lanie, wake up.” Evan’s voice registers in my brain. Kneeling beside me, he pats my cheek. “Lanie?”

I open my eyes, inhale, and then cough, sputtering water out of my mouth.

“You okay?” he asks.

I moan as my head swirls. There’s a ringing in my ears. The bodies behind Evan are fuzzy. I blink to clear my vision, but it doesn’t help. I do
not
feel well.

Dave rushes over with an ice pack and places it on my head, though I’m not clear why.

Bile creeps up my throat. “I’m think I’m going to be sick.”

“Let’s sit her up.” The ice bag slides to the ground.

“First kickboxing and now this?” Evan shakes his head.

I’m much dizzier sitting up. Facing Evan, I press a hand to my lips.

“Really, Lanie. Enough. These so-called goals of yours are insane.”

“I
really
don’t feel well.”

“I told you this jar wasn’t a good idea.”

“Evan, I—”

Before I can stop myself, I throw up in his lap.

“Jesus!” He jumps up and stares at his pants in shock. “These are Armani.” With a clenched jaw, Evan marches toward the restroom.

I’m on my knees now—feeling much better, thank you—and realize what I’ve done.
Oops.

Dave crouches beside me and hands me a towel. “You all right?”

“I think so.” I wipe my face. “Just a bit weak.”

“You gave us quite a scare.”

“Yeah, the arch snagged my regulator hose and I couldn’t find my backup. What exactly are your safety measures because I don’t think—”

“You hit your head.”

“What?” There’s a sudden pain on the top of my noggin.

“You were flinging your arms through the arch, doing . . . well, I’m not really sure what you were doing.”

Swimming. Obviously.

“You hit your head on the arch. Sank like an anchor.”

“I did not. Your equipment is faulty and your arch . . . ouch, my head hurts. I did?”

“You did.”

“I remember tugging on my hose and needing air.”

“Lanie, you were in the water for only a few seconds before we pulled you up. You’ve been lying here for a couple minutes and yes, while unconscious, you kept reaching for your regulator. You smacked Tracy in the face with it.”

A baggie of ice is pressed to her cheek.

“You knocked out four of her teeth and dislocated her jaw, too. She’ll likely need surgery.”

“What? Oh my God. I’m so sorry.” I dart apologetic glances between Tracy and Dave. He wiggles his eyebrows.

At once I realize.

Together we say, “Kidding.”

“You should’ve seen yourself.” He mimics my swimming and chuckles. “You were all over the place.”

We laugh for several moments until I notice Evan and the large wet stain in the crotch of his pants.

A disgusted look is plastered on his face.

Oh, please. It was mostly water.

We decide I shouldn’t eat or drive, so Evan takes me home after canceling our lunch reservation and appointment with Stacee. “Lanie’s priorities are a bit jostled at the moment,” I heard him tell Stacee. “She’s very sorry to disrupt your schedule.”

Regardless of the ruined afternoon plans, Evan’s snippy attitude, or the fact that a bag of ice rests on the knot on my forehead, my excitement can’t be bruised, for in my lap is my freshly printed Certificate of Completion signed in Sharpie by Dave. I passed all the requirements before smacking my noggin. So, hooray for me. I’m a certified scuba diver. Technically, I’m only
Discover Scuba
certified, but still.

And I’ve completed another Someday Jar slip.

We merge into the carpool lane and I settle against the headrest, thinking about the morning. Truly, the whole incident is hilarious.

I hit my head on a makeshift arch.

Knocked myself out.

And threw up on Evan.

But I shouldn’t laugh about that.

The following evening, I slip into my little black dress and slide my feet into matching heels that I bought at Macy’s last fall, marked down from $169 to $79, which makes them all the cuter. A half a size too small and they pinch at the heel, but hey, no one said being adorable was easy. My hair is wrapped into a loose-yet-stylish knot at the nape of my neck, and the sterling silver drop earrings I wore when Evan proposed shimmer in the light. Evan is taking Wes, my mom, and me to dinner at Ivy House, a newly opened Italian restaurant in Mesa.

“Ready, Lanie?” Evan calls from the foot of the stairs.

He’s much cheerier since Hollis confirmed our appointment for Monday and the dry cleaner promised his slacks weren’t permanently stained.

I’m
still
cheery considering all that I’ve accomplished to date. I broke a record—attendance, yes, but a record’s a record—am learning kickboxing, became a certified Discover
Scuba diver, and most importantly, am a day away from securing a co-broker position.
Whoo!
Life is good.

So, when I woke this morning and gazed at Evan’s sleeping face—well, the parts outside his eye mask—I promised myself to be a better fiancée. To regard him with more love and attention. To appreciate all that he is and accept what he isn’t. Try not to make any more waves.

I grab my purse and meet Evan downstairs.

“You look lovely,” he says.

“Thank you.” I receive his kiss.

“Mom is meeting us at the restaurant.”

“Great. Wes is already outside.”

Evan backs out of the driveway. He and Wes start discussing various aspects of Orchid Lane, the drywall texture, the trim height. They lose me at offset toilet flange.

I pull down the visor and check my lip gloss.

In the mirror, Wes catches my eye.

My stomach flutters. The exact sort of thing I’ve promised myself to ignore from here on out. Enough is enough. It’s a silly pre-wedding crush, anyway. Meaningless. He’ll be gone and out of our lives in a couple of weeks. All the same, I stare a moment longer, wondering what he’s thinking. His eyes give nothing away. I flip the visor closed.

Several minutes later, we arrive at the restaurant and find Mom seated at the table in a navy knit dress. A Chianti bottle candleholder with wax dripping along the sides illuminates her smile as she sees us.

“Jane, is that a new dress?”

See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Evan’s adoringly sweet to my mom. How many sons-in-law treat their future
mother-in-law with such kindness? She even lists him as her emergency contact, after me, on her medical questionnaires.

She stands and hugs Evan. “Why, yes, thank you for noticing.” Mom blushes. “Don’t you look handsome as ever.”

“It’s the look of love.” He winks at me.

“Charmer.” She laughs.

“Hi, Mom.” I hand her the napkin I retrieved off the floor.

“Thank you, sweetie. I knew this dress was a steal. You know, I got this and a toaster oven for six dollars at St. Vincent’s yesterday,” she whispers while smoothing out my bangs. “Have you thought about doing something different with your hair? It’s much too long and drapey for someone engaged to Evan.”

“Hello, Jane.” Wes extends his hand. “We met at the Orchid Lane house, remember?”

“Yes, of course. The architect.”

“Looks like you’re my date for tonight.” He slides into the chair beside her.

“I should warn you. I’m a cheap date. One drink and I babble on and on like a schoolgirl.”

“Must run in the family,” he mutters so only I can hear.

After we’re settled, the waiter offers Evan a wine list and he selects a bottle.

“I took the liberty of preordering dinner for us,” Evan says a few moments later as the waiter pours us each a glass.

“How thoughtful.” Mom beams.

We all raise our glasses for Evan’s toast. “To friends and family. A gift greater than life itself.”

“He’s such a sentimental man.” She pats my hand, then sets her glass down, nearly sloshing the wine above the rim, and
grabs my forearm. “Good Lord!” She examines the scabs on my knuckles and Tootsie-roll-sized bruise on the side of my hand. “What happened?”

“That?” I shrug. “It’s nothing.”

“Jane, your daughter is fighting. Didn’t she tell you?”

Mom gasps. “What? Fighting? Who are you fighting?”

“I’m not really
fighting
, Mom.” My eyes briefly flicker toward Evan. “I took a couple of kickboxing lessons and . . .
ouch
!”

She presses her index finger deep into my black-and-yellow bruise. She frowns. “What is kickboxing? It sounds violent.”

“Because it
is
violent, Jane,” Evan adds.

“It’s not violent,” I protest, bugged by their alliance. “Kickboxing is fabulous exercise. We do all sorts of core strengthening, push-ups, squats, lunges, and yes, throw punches and kicks into the trainer’s mitts. I’m not hurting people.”
Except Rudy.
“I smacked the bag wrong the other day. That’s how I got the bruise. And the scabs, I have tender knuckles, that’s all.

They aren’t impressed.

“I don’t understand why you’d do this to yourself.” Mom leans toward me and says with a frown, “Kickboxing doesn’t sound very ladylike.”

“My words exactly.” Evan lifts his glass and air-toasts her.

She responds with a confident nod.

“Who cares if it’s ladylike?” I snap. “I’m learning something new and it feels good. Damn good. I like feeling strong. It’s empowering and motivating. What’s wrong with that?”

“I’ve seen these so-called women fighters. They’re thick in the middle and boxy in the shoulders. It’s quite unflattering. Think about how you’ll look in your wedding gown.”

This is infuriating.
“Mom, I—”

“If I may?” Wes jumps in.

“Please,” Mom says, reaching for her wineglass. “Talk some sense into her.”

“For what it’s worth, the idea of Lanie taking a kickboxing class is rather smart.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” Mom says.

“Neither do I.” Evan folds his arms across his chest.

I stare at Wes, curious myself.

“Think of it this way.” He focuses on Mom. “Your daughter is learning how to punch and kick, and yes, potentially hurt someone.”

“Sounds like fighting to me.”

“Fair enough.” Wes nods. “Consider this. She’s gaining strength and confidence along with learning basic self-defense skills. Let’s face it, Phoenix isn’t small-town Mayberry. There are a lot of creeps out there. Lanie’s a beautiful woman. She needs to know how to protect herself. What’s the harm in developing a few skills that one day may save her life?”

I never thought of it that way. Not only am I getting great exercise, but I’m learning how to defend myself, kick the crap out of someone. A mugger or something. Or Paige. I hide my giggle with my napkin, rejuvenated by Wes’s argument that kickboxing is beneficial for me. A life skill. A valuable tool that will prove . . . wait, did he say . . .
beautiful
?

He dips his head and offers a little smile. He thinks I’m beautiful.

I feel myself flush.

“Lanie?” Evan regains my attention.

I jump as if caught with my hand in the cookie jar.
Jesus, Lanie.
“Yes?”

“Tell your mom about the scuba diving accident and how you nearly drowned.”

“For heaven’s sake. What has gotten into you?”

“Nothing has
gotten into me
, Mom. I—”

“Here we are.” Our waiter arrives with our dinner and places a plate of chicken Marsala before each of us. He pours us more wine.

“This looks delicious.” Mom flattens her napkin on her lap.

“Enjoy,” says our waiter.

“Lanie, seriously, why all of this now? What’s made you want to entertain”—she glances at Wes—“practical or not, these activities when you’re a couple of months away from the most important day of your life?”

“Remember, I found the Someday Jar? I decided to accomplish the tasks, before the wedding, finish what I started and prove to myself—”

“Prove nothing. That jar and your father are ancient history. Get rid of it. You have other matters to focus on. Like your dress. Shouldn’t you have one by now?”

“Yes, Lanie. Stacee said you came in the other day but left without one. Said you and Kit hurried out of the shop. Where’d you rush off to?”

A quick glance at Wes reassures me he isn’t going to say anything about the speed dating. “Kit had an appointment. Don’t worry. I’ll find a dress soon.” I force a smile, telling myself to enjoy the dinner and not press on about them bulldozing my ambitions. Stuff my mouth with Marsala and let the conversation go. But I feel a pang of irritation and not just from the bruise. Listening to them ambush my goals, I grow defensive.

I set my fork down. “I’m sorry you two don’t support my Someday Jar, but it’s important to me. That should be enough for you.” I glance at Evan and then Mom. “Yes, I’ve hurt my
hands and made a few mistakes, but who cares? Like it or not, Dad gave me this jar and though he checked out of our lives”—I exhale a long breath—“I think he’d be proud of me.”

“Damn that man,” Mom says. “He filled your mind with unnecessary fantasies, gallivanting across the world. No responsibility. No maturity. No dependability. All these years later, he seems to be doing it again through that silly jar.” She shakes her head. “He lived carelessly, Lanie, and you grasped onto his words as if they were your breath of life, listening to his stories of adventure and recklessness.”

“So?”

“So, do you know he never had health insurance?”

“There are worse things.”

“Your Someday Jar is full of his irresponsibility.”

Evan offers us more wine, but I lift my hand and refuse.

Mom accepts.

There’s a strange realization coursing through my veins as I watch the Chardonnay gurgle into her glass. An awareness. A truth, perhaps? Dad divorced her, wrote her out of his life, but what about me? Why did he divorce me, too? It’s never made sense. We were so close and then nothing.

“Mom, what happened with Dad? Do you know why he cut me out of his life?” It occurs to me that I’ve never asked her this before.

She pokes her tongue under her cheek. Her signature move when she’s nervous. “Evan this Marsala is lovely.” She takes a bite.

“Mom?”

“Sweetie, what does it matter? You have Evan now and your life is falling into place. All the things I didn’t have.” Mindful of my scabs, she squeezes my fingers. “I didn’t want
you throwing your future away, chasing after daydreams like I did with your father.”

“What exactly are you saying?”

“You were young and impressionable. You idolized your father so very much.”

Tension builds in my shoulders and my tone turns rigid. “Wait a minute. You do know why he stopped calling me, don’t you?”

Wes stands. “Evan, how about I buy you a drink at the bar?”

Evan disregards him. “Lanie, let’s discuss this another time.”

“Why, Mom?”

“It all worked out, anyway.”

A stab of sorrow works its way to my heart. My chest is heavy, weighted by loss. I can barely utter the words. “You told him to stop?”

The look in her eyes confirms my question.

Oh my God.
“How could you?”

“It wasn’t easy for me either,” Mom says. “Thanks to me, you didn’t get muffled up in his irresponsibility. You went to college, got your degree, and now you’ve got yourself a wonderful man. Your future is set. Who knows what would’ve happened if you’d followed your father’s reckless path.”

I can’t believe this. I can’t wrap my head around what she did. She took Dad away. Took him out of my life. How could she? How could she alter the course of my life? How could
he
? And why did Dad give up on me so easily? Why did he cast me aside like a cracked oar from one of his rafting trips? Didn’t he miss me? Even a little?

As if she can read my mind, Mom says, “He did call. Many times. For years, actually. The man wouldn’t give up.” Mom glances at Evan. “I threatened to file a restraining order. It
was too much.” She returns to me and clasps my wrist, but I yank it free. “Honey, please, it’s a little jar full of fanciful notions, all in the past. Really, there’s no point—”

“No point?” I jab at my chest with trembling hands. “
I’m
the point.”

“Calm down, Lanie. You’re causing a scene.” Evan’s voice is pained with embarrassment.

“This broke my heart, Mom. You watched me pace back and forth by the phone and cry myself to sleep when he didn’t call. I hated birthdays, hated Christmas. Cried every Father’s Day. Everything hurt too much without my dad. You never thought about that, did you? You never thought about Dad or me. You thought about yourself, just yourself. How could you be so goddamn self-serving?”

Tears cloud her eyes. “I’m sorry you feel hurt, but you must understand, it was for your own good.”

“No. It was for
your
own good. You were angry with Dad for walking out. Hell, you still are. You figured keeping me from him was the closest you’d get to revenge.”

“How dare you!”

“How dare
you
. You used me as leverage.” I yell back, throwing my napkin on the table and rising from my chair.

“Lanie, sit down.” Evan says.

I remain focused on Mom. “All these years I assumed Dad thought I was a waste of time. That he didn’t care about me. I was wrong. Truth is,
you
didn’t care about me.” I march out the door before anyone can stop me.

“Lanie,” she calls after me. “Wait!”

My mind swirls with rage and disbelief as I distance myself from the entrance, weaving among the cars in the parking lot. I march farther and farther away from the restaurant’s lights,
farther and farther away from that moment of truth, farther and farther away from
her
.

My nails dig into my palms as I pace with clenched fists. I bite my tongue so as not to scream. How could she? And what did Dad think? Did he wonder why I never took his calls? Did he check the mailbox as often as I did? Did he hurt as much as I did?

And yet, as angry as I am with Mom, there’s a voice whispering in my mind, questioning if she’s right. Is the jar pointless? Is it a silly token from my childhood and nothing more? Should I forget about it?