Once Upon a List (12 page)

 

17.

“H
ang in there
. Just a couple more minutes and then we are done!” Nurse Pam announced, examining the needle stuck in Clara's arm.

“A couple more
minutes
?” Clara gasped, her jaw clenched. “Are—Are you sure it hasn't been long enough?”

The jovial nurse let out a little chuckle. “Positive, honey. And, I must say, you are doing an
excellent
job donating blood. If I didn't know this was your first time, I'd think you were a pro.”

“You're just saying that to be nice.” Clara bit down hard on her lip. “I'm sorry to be a wimp, but I don't know how much more of this I can take.”

“Yeah, that's what I told my husband last night a few hours after he polished off a giant bean burrito,” joked Nurse Pam in an obvious attempt at distraction. “Lord have mercy, I had to open up all the dang windows in my house! Now why don't you just try to relax and tell me more about this fellow you're meeting after this . . . Lincoln, I think you said his name was? That right? I used to drive a Lincoln. Sweet car.”

Swallowing hard, Clara commanded herself to nod. “Is it normal for my arm to be tingling?”

“Common reaction. Nothing to fret about.” Nurse Pam squeezed her shoulder affectionately, coaxing, “So
Mr. Lincoln . . .
Is he a friend of yours? Boyfriend? Give me some scoop.”

“Um. He's . . . he's just an old friend who I haven't seen in forever. We actually grew up together.” Digging deep, Clara inhaled a strained breath. “There was a time when we were very close.”

“Do I detect a hint of romance in the air?”

“Oh gosh, no.” Clara wondered how it was possible “a couple more minutes” hadn't passed yet.

“You sure about that?”

“I'm sure,” she grunted awkwardly, struggling to focus on the conversation at hand and ignore the fact that her body felt as if it were being drained of all life fluid. “Been there, done that.”

“Ahhh
. . . So you used to date, then?” Nurse Pam, an obvious pro, egged her queasy patient on.

“Well, we tried it once, very briefly in high school. But I'd hardly call it serious. We just didn't click on that level. To put it mildly.” Wiggling her fingers a tiny fraction, Clara winced as she recalled Lincoln's and her ill-fated—albeit comical—stab at romance. Nothing about it had worked. As in,
nothing.
Which is why she'd quickly put the big kibosh on it in order to salvage their friendship before it was too late. “Glad we got that out of the way!” She'd grinned upon breaking the news to a rather somber-looking Lincoln over unlimited salad and breadsticks at the Olive Garden. Rolling her eyes, she'd breathed a sigh of relief. “Now we can go back to being real friends again. Pass the parmesan cheese, please!”

“
Voila!
That wasn't so bad now, was it?” Nurse Pam adhered a Band-Aid on top of a cotton ball to Clara's arm.

“What?” Clara jumped. “That's—That's it? I'm finished?
Really?”

“Really and truly. You can even open your eyes now if you want.”

“Is my blood still hanging in that bag thing next to me? 'Cause I don't think I can look at that.” Clara's eyes remained tightly shut.

“Gee, what a surprise. Just give me a few more seconds here . . .” Moving quickly, Nurse Pam removed Clara's bag of blood from the IV stand and handed it to an orderly, telling him it was O positive. “All right, love, the evidence has been erased. Why don't you go ahead and slowly sit up for me? Take your time now. No rush. Easy does it.”

“It's gone?” Clara confirmed.

“Like my girlhood waistline!” Nurse Pam let out an uproarious laugh, slapping her plump thigh. “You hear that one, Marge?” She winked at a fellow nurse, who in turn gave her a high-five. “I'm on fire today!”

Clara opened her eyes and tentatively resumed an upright position.

“Can I get you some orange juice or a cookie? We got chocolate peanut butter chip,” offered Nurse Pam.

“No, thank you. I don't think I can eat anything right now.” Clara tried her best to ignore all of the other brave people donating blood at the clinic. One woman was actually crocheting with her free hand, and a man was reading a paperback crime novel and sipping iced tea as if he were lounging on a tropical beach. “But can you please do me a favor and hand me my purse? It's right next to the bed.”

Nurse Pam passed Clara her handbag. “I'm gonna go take care of some paperwork. When you feel ready, you're free to be on your way, but I'd like you to at least stop by the snack station for some juice before you go. Your blood sugar level is low from the blood loss and you do look a bit pale.”

“Okay. I will,” promised Clara. She removed her time capsule list and trusty red pen from her purse. “Nurse Pam?”

“Yeah, sugar-pie?”

“Thank you again for your patience with me. I know I acted like a big baby.”

“Believe you me, honey, I've seen
much
worse. Clearly you don't know my husband!
Oooooooh weeee!”
she cackled, bending over and slapping her leg again. “I'm telling you, Marge!”

“You're like Eddie Murphy,” Marge said, laughing.

Touching Clara's foot, Nurse Pam sparkled. “You did a good thing today, and I know how scared you were. You should be proud of yourself.”

Truth be told, Clara was proud of herself. When she'd first spotted the clinic's main entrance, which she equated to Dracula's lair, panic consumed her and she almost turned around and fled. There was a reason she had never done this in the past. But, touching her time capsule list in her pocketbook, she summoned her courage and forced herself to march through that door, knowing full well if she didn't, her mission in Chicago would be good as over, and her final hope would be gone. This grim thought was far more frightening than a blood-sucking man-bat. “Thank you.” Clara smiled at Nurse Pam, giving her a little wave goodbye.

“Come back soon. I want to hear all about your reunion with Lincoln!” Collecting a clipboard off a nearby counter, Nurse Pam sauntered off.

What a sweet, warmhearted woman, Clara thought to herself, crossing a triumphant line through
Donate blood
on her list.

K
eeping a close look out for Lincoln Foster, Clara strolled through Grant Park, one of the city's loveliest and most prominent public spaces, proudly referred to as Chicago's “front yard.” With breathtaking lakefront views, numerous jogging and bike paths, and several notable monuments, it was also the site of three world-class museums, including the Field Museum of Natural History, where Lincoln, a paleontologist, had recently started working. As he explained to Clara during their brief telephone conversation the previous week, he had relocated from Sarasota to the Windy City in September upon being offered a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to study “Sue,” the world's largest, most complete, and best preserved
Tyrannosaurus rex
fossil yet discovered, and an unparalleled international draw. Other than the fact that he would be wearing a gray wool coat and gloves, Lincoln hadn't revealed much else.

Calculating that it had been nineteen years since she last saw her old neighbor and friend, Clara wondered if she'd even be able to recognize him after all this time. True, he'd described his outer garments, and she, in turn, had mentioned that her shoulder-length hair was light brown, and she'd be dressed in a tan coat and pale pink scarf, but still, Lincoln hadn't offered any other physical descriptors to work with, and she couldn't help but worry that identifying him would be a struggle. Last they met—the day before he moved to Sarasota—he'd been covered in acne and wearing a Michael Jackson
Thriller
t-shirt, and Drakkar Noir aftershave, which he'd stolen from his older brother Duncan, despite the fact that he'd yet to sprout legitimate facial hair. Though Libby had maintained some contact with Lincoln's mother over the years, telephoning each other on occasion and exchanging the rare e-mail, Lincoln's name had never been mentioned to Clara. She couldn't even imagine what kind of person he'd turned out to be, though walking through the park toward its main attraction, Buckingham Fountain, where they'd agreed to meet, Clara knew she would soon find out.

The weather forecast had called for sunshine and unseasonably warm temperatures that day, which is why Lincoln had suggested they take an afternoon walk. Of course, Chicago was known for its unpredictable shifts in climate, as made evident by the murky, overcast January sky and arctic breeze rolling off Lake Michigan. Shivering, Clara tightened her scarf around her neck and sank her hands deep into her coat pockets. It looked as if it was about to snow. She hoped Lincoln wouldn't want to stay outside for very long, especially since her toes had started to go numb and she was sure her nose resembled Rudolph's. Plodding her way through the crisp, frost-covered grass, Clara thought she saw Lincoln standing next to Buckingham Fountain where he said he'd be. She squinted just to make sure. But suddenly, the man ripped off his gray coat to reveal a red sweat suit with a neon lightning bolt across the chest, shot both arms straight in the air, somersaulted to the ground, and started breakdancing. Clara watched as a small group of people clapping their hands to the beat encircled him.

Looking around, she spotted another man wearing sunglasses, a gray coat, and gloves, who was about the same height as she recalled Lincoln to be, assuming he hadn't experienced a growth spurt since age fifteen. It was hard to tell because of his shades, but he seemed to be staring directly at her. And then he waved hello. Smiling and waving back, Clara continued toward him with visible pep in her step. That is, until a woman clad in white fur leaped into his arms and began kissing him passionately.
Or not,
Clara thought to herself, averting her eyes from the steamy, semi-pornographic make-out session.

Just then a tall man with dark brown hair sitting on a park bench called her name. “Clara?” he repeated, standing up, brushing a few snow flurries off his gray coat.

She recognized him in a heartbeat.

“Lincoln.” She grinned.

“I thought that was you!” he said, smiling back as he approached her.

“Wow. It's really you,” Clara marveled, taking him in. How could she have ever believed that she wouldn't instantly recognize her old friend? On second thought, she would have known his familiar face in a sea of a thousand others. In fact, seeing him was like a bizarre déjà vu.

“It's really
you,
” echoed Lincoln, staring at her. “Only, all grown up . . .”

“I know.”
Clara ogled back, thinking the same exact thing about him. A passerby unaware of the particulars of their reunion might have looked upon them gawking at each other with blatant wonder and guessed that they were on LSD, about to become enthralled by the mesmerizing sight of their own hands, or lick a tree. “We got old! This is
crazy
. . . I mean, seeing you now,” she clarified. How strange and surreal it was to be in Lincoln Foster's presence after all these years. Gone was the gangly young boy she had once played “Olympics” with and given thirteen Snickers candy bars to on his thirteenth birthday. “There's nothing more delicious in the whole wide world,” he used to say. The man standing before Clara, with a faint peppering of gray in his hair, new creases in his forehead, and a general thickening of his once-lanky kid frame, was a grown adult—as Clara had expected, but was still somehow surprised to see nonetheless. It was enough to make her head spin. Actually, her head was spinning. A touch dizzy, she glanced down at her feet to make sure she was standing on level lawn.

“What am I thinking?” asked Lincoln. “What kind of greeting is that after all this time?” Hesitating for a split-second, he appeared unsure whether to shake Clara's hand or embrace her.

Clara wasn't certain how to receive him either.

Shifting positions on his feet, Lincoln extended his hand at the precise moment that Clara decided she had better lean in for a hug.

An awkward dance ensued as he modified his salutation into a tentative embrace.

Emitting a shaky chuckle, Clara clumsily arched a little bit closer to him. And then, in the blink of an eye, her head plopped forward and her body fell totally limp, like a rag doll.

“Clara?” Lincoln's arms immediately tightened around her small waist, catching her just before she collapsed to the ground.
“Hello?”

There was no response.

Alarmed, he repeated her name, giving her dangling, lifeless form a gentle shake. “Can you hear me?” His voice, drenched with panic, grew louder. “
Clara?!”
Supporting her full weight in his left arm and deftly sliding his right hand beneath her knees, he lifted her up into his arms so that her body was facing him. “
Oh God
,” he desperately cried, observing that her eyes were closed and her breathing seemed shallow. “Clara! Come on, C.J.!”

Slowly, her eyes fluttered open.

“Clara
,” Lincoln whispered, out of breath, terrorized, a combination of fear and relief dripping from every pore.

“Lincoln?”
She appeared stunned to see him. “I—I didn't drink the orange juice.”

•
Donate blood

 

18.

S
eated at a table for two in the corner of the Mayflower Café, a casual coffee shop which Lincoln stopped by most mornings on his way to work—located just a few blocks away from the Field Museum—Clara finished her apple juice and smiled at him. Though she'd protested, Lincoln had also insisted on buying her an enormous red velvet cupcake, a bottle of water, and, of course, a steaming hot cup of coffee to help warm her up. “Honestly, I feel
much
better now. All I needed was a little sugar,” she said, pressing her hand to her forehead and shaking her head in a gesture of embarrassment. “I feel like such an idiot.”

“There's no need. I'm telling you, I make women faint all the time. Almost daily, in fact,” Lincoln added, clearly trying to set her at ease. “I've been contemplating keeping a tab. I think it may have something to do with the fact that I look like George Clooney.”

Clara let out a little chuckle. Lincoln had always been able to make her laugh. And, now that he mentioned it, he did sort of share a slight resemblance with George Clooney.

“I'm just glad you're okay,” he said in a more serious tone.

“Lesson learned.” She sipped her coffee, keeping her hands wrapped around the oversized mug after she returned it to the table. “Thank you again for being so wonderful about this.”

“Well, now we're even.”

“What are you talking about?” She appeared confused.

“Remember that time when we were—I don't know—probably ten or eleven years old, and I got that horrible leg cramp while we were playing Sharks and Minnows in Veronica Cooper's pool?”

“
Oh yeah . . .
That's right.” Clara nodded, recalling that fateful summer day. She hadn't thought about it in decades, but suddenly it all came rushing back to her in vivid color.

“I was sinking in the deep end like a ton of rocks, and you grabbed me by the bangs and dragged me out of the water.”

“I did.” Clara laughed at the memory. “I'd forgotten about that.”

“You didn't let me drown,” Lincoln stated matter-of-factly, taking a bite of his brownie.

“Nope. I wonder whatever happened to Veronica Cooper.”

After they had completed their stroll down memory lane and gotten all of the standard small talk out of the way, Lincoln mentioned how blown away his mother had been by the vase. She'd phoned him right away to tell him about it, marveling at Clara's “unbelievably thoughtful, yet quite unnecessary” gesture. She'd also given him Libby's contact information, because Clara's letter accompanying the vase mentioned that she was currently staying with her mother. “You really did not have to do that,” Lincoln said again. He peered at her with a curious expression. “I can't resist asking, though . . . What made you decide to replace it now, after all of these years, anyway?”

The only natural place for Clara to begin her explanation was with Sebastian. And so she told Lincoln the entire story. When she arrived at the part about her time capsule and what she was doing with it, Lincoln shared that he too had received his time capsule back from Miss Jordain in July. He'd also completely forgotten about creating it in the first place. Although, he insisted its contents weren't very interesting, claiming his relic was filled mostly with silly “little boy junk,” like miniature cars and baseball cards.

“So, in a
thirty-minute nutshell
,” Clara concluded, “I sent your mom the vase because it was on my list of things to do by the time I'm thirty-five.”

“Your birthday's at the beginning of September, isn't it?”

Clara was both surprised and touched that he remembered. “Yes. September second. Which gives me less than eight months to complete my list.” She couldn't resist dipping her finger in her cupcake's vanilla frosting. “This is delicious. If I remember correctly, your birthday's in December? Is that right?”

“December twenty-seventh,” he confirmed. Then, exhaling, Lincoln gazed down at his empty brownie plate. When he looked at Clara again, his smile had faded, and there was a distinct cast of sadness in his brown eyes. “I wish I'd known about Sebastian.”

Clara lifted her shoulders to her ears, trying to think of something—anything—positive or light to say. But, when it came to the topic of her fiancé's death, there was no such thing. “It's okay. There's nothing you could have done. There's really nothing anyone can do.”

“I know,” he said. “The thing is”—Lincoln tapped his thumb against the round table—“I'm familiar with what you're going through.”

Clara was surprised to hear this. “You are?”

He nodded, looking down again. “My wife, Jessica, died five years ago from cancer. Multiple Myeloma.”

“Oh, Link,” whispered Clara, feeling her heart sink. “I had no idea. I'm so sorry.” And she meant it, too.

“I feel the same way about Sebastian. I have no doubt that he was an amazing man.”

Again, Clara struggled to find the appropriate response. The last thing she had expected to do was spill her guts to someone she hadn't exchanged a single word with in as long as she could remember. Unloading her problems like this simply wasn't her style, but with shared common ground and a history that spanned decades, it felt natural to let her guard down. “I guess I'm still just trying to find a way to deal with it all and pick up the pieces. I realize it sounds crazy, but I'm hoping maybe my time capsule list might help. I don't really have any other options left.” She sighed with a faraway look.

“Believe me, it doesn't sound crazy at all. Your grief is still raw.”

“Yes, but it still—”

“I was a
Jurassic
wreck for a long time.”

Pausing, Clara gave him a look. “Wait. Was that just a dinosaur joke?”

“Yep,” Lincoln proudly confirmed. “Did you like it?”

“No.”
She couldn't help but laugh in her old friend's face. “That was
bad
!” She covered her mouth with her napkin, trying not to hurt his feelings. Lincoln had never been particularly gifted when it came to delivering jokes.

“What sort of t-shirts do dinosaurs wear?”

“Oh God. I don't even know if I want to hear this.”

“Tricera-
tops
!”

She cringed, giggling again.

“What do you call a Stegosaurus with only one leg?” Lincoln didn't wait for Clara's guess. “Eileen! Get it?
I-lean!”

“Stop!” She leaned forward cracking up. “That's the worst one yet!”

“I know.” He laughed. “I made them up myself.”

“Yeah, I wouldn't brag about that.” Clara wiped her eyes, sure that there was mascara everywhere.

When they had both caught their breath from their necessary emotional release, Lincoln checked his watch and gasped. “We've been here for almost three hours!”

“We have?” Clara was shocked. It certainly didn't feel like they'd been in the café that long. But, sure enough, glancing at the clock behind the bustling bakery counter, she discovered Lincoln was correct. “Oh dear, I have a feeling Milk Dud's probably had an accident in the house by now. Not that there's any furniture or carpet to destroy.”

“And I'm late to an appointment with a paleontology professor from England.” Lincoln stood up, putting on his coat. “I hate to cut our reunion short like this.”

“Short?” Clara wrapped her scarf around her neck.

“Can we get together again soon? I'd love to hear more about your time capsule list—and your family.”

“Of course. And I want to hear more about T-rex Sue.”

“I know it's short notice, but how about dinner tomorrow? I'm usually off work early on Thursdays.” Lincoln began making his way toward the café's exit.

“I'm seeing Leo tomorrow night, but I'm free on Friday if you're available.”

“I have an engagement that evening. Saturday too,” he said regretfully.

“Girlfriend?” Clara inquired before she had a chance to censor herself. It wasn't her nature to pry into one's personal business, but with an old pal like Lincoln, she figured the usual rules needn't apply.

“We recently started dating. Her name is Meg. She manages the gift shop at the museum. I'll introduce you to her. I think you two would get along well.” He opened the door, allowing Clara to exit before him. “How about dinner on Monday?”

“Sounds good.” She put on her pink cashmere mittens. “Thank you again for today. I'm so glad you called me. It really was great seeing you.”

“You too, C.J.” Lincoln smiled, giving her a warm embrace.

To that day, nobody else had ever called Clara James Black by this nickname. Reminding her of a much happier, simpler time, it made her grin.