Once Upon a List (15 page)

“Ouch.” Lincoln's eyes were filled with understanding. “I felt the same way about being around other people after Jessica died. It was just . . . too hard.” He poured himself some more tea. “Life for them was business as usual. But my world was shattered. Totally unrecognizable. I couldn't deal.”

“Exactly. I was so out of my damn mind that I wasn't even aware I was shutting people out. Although Tabitha did try to let me know. I can see that now.”

“Well, isn't that a step in the right direction?” encouraged Lincoln.

“She was my maid of honor, for Christ's sake! I completely turned my back on her.” Ashamed, Clara decided not to share how Tabitha had blown her off for coffee just before she returned to Chicago in December. Clara had hoped to conduct some damage control prior to leaving town and was looking forward to attempting to begin to mend their fractured friendship, but an hour before they were supposed to meet at the coffee shop Tabitha called and claimed that a “last-minute” work meeting had “just popped up,” and she was sorry to have to cancel their plans. “Wish I had time to chat. Have a good trip and send me an e-mail or call me sometime from Chicago. If you feel like it,” Tabitha had muttered before quickly hanging up the phone.

“It
is
hard not to take that kind of rejection personally,” Lincoln conceded. “And let's face it, grief is pretty damn hard to understand and relate to until you've been there yourself. I get that. But I also think you need to cut yourself a break and remember that you were
—
and still are
—
dealing with an inconceivable tragedy the best way you know how. We're both aware that nothing, I mean
nothing,
prepares you for handling death. Unfortunately, you don't just wake up one day and say,
Okay, I'm done with mourning, and now it's time to go right back to the normal life I had.
We do the best we can, C.J.”

“Yes, but at this point I don't even know what's happening in Tabitha's life. I've missed out on practically a whole
year.
For all I know she's moved to Guam!”

Surprise washed over Lincoln's face. “Really? Tabitha was considering moving to Guam?”

“No.”
Clara sighed. “I was just proving my point.” She shook her head in disgust. “I don't blame her at all for resenting me. I'm a selfish, terrible person. Oh, GREAT!” She threw her arms in the air. “And the snap on my pants just popped open!”

Lincoln gave the man at the next table overtly staring at them a little wave. “All right, A) you're gonna have to stop being so damn hard on yourself, and B) I didn't say anything before, but I undid my top button after the pu-pu platter.”

Clara couldn't help but let out a little chuckle.

“Let me ask you this: have you told Tabitha everything you just told me?”

She shook her head. “I tried to, but . . .” Shrugging in defeat, Clara didn't bother finishing the sentence.

“Well”—Lincoln folded his arms across his chest—“what are you waiting for?”

 

March

 

21.

I
t was an unusually balmy afternoon shortly after the first anniversary of Sebastian's death. The sun peeked behind a passing cloud, and the scent of fresh-cut grass and sweet primrose laced the gentle breeze, which carried with it the hopeful promise of spring. Clara, squatting on her hands and knees in Libby's backyard, gripping a pointed, scoop-shaped, silver garden trowel used for breaking earth, dug a fresh hole where she'd remembered burying Leo's recorder when she was a young child.

“I swear this is where I hid it,” she said yet again to Libby, who was towering nearby, between the large weeping willow tree and Maple Manor, with both hands on her hips and her eyebrows furrowed. “I'm sorry. I was wrong about the other eight holes I dug.” Clara flinched, trying to downplay the fact that she was slowly but surely transforming her mother's meticulously maintained backyard into a crater-cramped zone that resembled a life-size version of Whac-A-Mole, the popular carnival redemption game. “But I have a good feeling about this one.”

“Mm-hmm. How much deeper do you plan on digging?” Libby tapped her foot against the soft grass.

“Not much.” Clara wiped a thin sheen of perspiration from her brow, fearing her mother was moments away from foaming at the mouth. “It was late at night when I buried the recorder, so it was dark outside, but I don't remember it taking me too long to form the hole. So if I'm not mistaken, it should surface any time now.”

“Any time now . . .”
Libby echoed for effect. “Well, let's certainly hope so.”

Ten long minutes of Libby frowning later, Clara was still shoveling at a frantic pace, and her mother was chewing the corner of her bottom lip, watching the unsightly ninth ditch in her treasured garden continue to expand.

“Uh, one more hole and you get a free sandwich?”
Clara attempted to diffuse the increasing tension in the air.

But Libby just stood there with her arms crossed, unamused.

“I—I don't understand.” Clara hurled brown dirt over her shoulder with the trowel. “I could've
sworn
this is where I buried the damn thing!”

“Words every mother longs to hear escape her daughter's mouth.”

“I'm sorry. I really mean it. I assure you, I do
not
want to make a monumental mess back here. But you have to understand,” Clara pleaded, focusing on one thing and one thing only: her time capsule list. “I need to find that recorder!” She paused for a minute to catch her breath. “Is it okay if I try digging about three feet over to the left? Now I'm starting to think I may have made the hole a little bit closer to the house. I'm almost positive that was the area.” She nodded toward the precise location where she wished to break ground for the tenth time.

“Oh, you're
almost
positive?” Libby emphasized her words with raised arms, exasperated. “Fabulous. I feel much better now. Please, go ahead and form yet another ditch! You haven't destroyed my tulip beds yet. And the hollyhock corner over there”—she pointed west—“looks ripe for the taking.”

“I already told you three times that I promise to repair these holes and leave the backyard looking as beautiful as I found it,” Clara reminded her, trying to hold on to her last shred of patience, which she felt slipping away. “I'll fix it all.”

Closing her eyes and collecting her composure with a dramatic, deep breath, Libby continued in a milder voice, “Honey, look . . . I understand that
Dig up Leo's recorder from the backyard & apologize for burying it
is on your time capsule list. You have given it a
valiant effort
, but listen to me. Listen to me!” She crouched down in the arid soil so that she was at eye-level with Clara. “You do not have to prove anything to your brother. He knows how sorry you are for burying his instrument. You've told him many times. He forgives you. This is
alllll
water under the bridge. The
very old
bridge,” she stressed. “Okay? So why don't we just call it a day and go inside. Come on,” she coaxed, patting Clara's shoulder. “What do you say about a nice, cold Fudgsicle?”

Clara tightened her jaw and narrowed her eyes in a similar defiant pose that Libby often struck when she was feeling frustrated. Decades earlier, when Grandma Lottie decided to move to Arizona because Chicago's icy winters were too harsh to bear, Libby had broken the news to Clara and Leo over a delicious, soothing Fudgsicle. When the inebriated mailman accidentally ran over Clara's brand-new bicycle with sparkly handle streamers that she'd just gotten for her seventh birthday, Libby gave her a Fudgsicle before revealing that her beloved bike now resembled a metal pancake with half a banana seat. And when Clara overheard some older kids mention there was no such thing as Santa Claus and asked her mother if it was true, Libby forked over yet another comforting Fudgsicle.

“I say that I am
NOT
ready for a Fudgsicle yet.” Clara glowered at Libby. She shoved her trowel into the ground. “
Please.
I'm telling you, I'm gonna find this fucking recorder!” Violently stabbing the earth, she immediately felt guilty for snapping at her mother like a spoiled little brat who wanted a golden goose for Easter.

“Well, I wish you luck,” Libby returned, seeming to accept that her unwavering daughter was on a hell-bent mission that she did not plan on aborting any time soon. “I hope you find it before my backyard resembles an exploded landmine.”

“Yeah,” Clara-the-recorder-hunter countered, “well,
I
hope I find it before I have to meet Tabitha in Vegas next week.”

“Yes, well
—” Libby stopped in her tracks. “What? Vegas? Wait a minute. You're going to Las Vegas?”

Clara nodded. “With Tabitha.”

“But, I thought you said she was upset with you.”

“She is. See?” Clara smiled up at her mother. “You're in good company.”

“Stop it. You know I love you. Even when you resemble Pig Pen from Charlie Brown.” Libby referred to the smudge of mud on Clara's cheek. “When did this get planned? How come you and Tabitha are meeting in Las Vegas of all places?”

“Because that's where the biggest all-you-can-eat buffet in the country is.” Clara shielded her eyes from the luminous sun. “It's on my list,” she added, “to
Eat at America's largest buffet
. And I really need to clear the air with Tabitha once and for all and let her know how sorry I am about everything.”

“I'm sure she already knows that.”

“I'm not. I'm just thankful she agreed to come along. After the way I've turned my back on her, I was scared she might not even be willing to consider it. And frankly, I wouldn't blame her.”

“So, let me get this straight. You and Tabitha are going to talk and stuff your faces until you're both sick?”

“Yep. That's basically the plan.” Clara scooped a new hole in the ground. “It'll be great.”

At least, that's what Clara kept telling herself.

 

22.

P
acing back and forth in the posh sitting area of her luxurious Las Vegas Hilton hotel suite, which encompassed over one thousand square feet of gilded opulence and boasted a wet bar, outdoor terrace, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dazzling Las Vegas strip, Clara anxiously awaited Tabitha's delayed arrival. Her estranged friend was due at any moment. Tabitha was supposed to have flown into town the previous evening at approximately the same time as Clara, but a violent nor'easter had slammed the Boston area, temporarily shutting down Logan International Airport. “All incoming and outgoing flights were cancelled and I've been rebooked on a Saturday morning flight,” Tabitha had explained over the payphone in the crammed airline terminal, shouting to be heard over a crying child, a bickering couple, and a muffled announcement being made over the loudspeaker. “The battery on my cell phone died and there's a long line of stranded, impatient people waiting to use the phone, so I should go, but I'll hopefully be at the hotel tomorrow around noon if all goes according to plan.” Tabitha's words had seeped with frustration. “Sorry about this delay. See you then,” she'd quickly concluded.

“No, no, no, don't be silly!
I'm
sorry you have to go through this annoying hassle,” Clara had tried to squeeze in, but it was too late. Tabitha had already hung up. “Crap,” she had muttered, snapping shut her cell phone.

The clock hanging on the gray slate wall with the miniature waterfall told her that it was 12:22 p.m.

“Sorry” didn't even begin to describe Clara's feelings of regret. Saddled with guilt over causing their friendship to disintegrate, she'd originally planned on apologizing to Tabitha the previous evening, at the very start of their trip—for which Clara had happily splurged and covered all expenses—so that they could enjoy the rest of their weekend together and catch up on everything they'd missed in each other's lives.
Well, so much for that idea
, Clara had disappointedly thought to herself while struggling to fall asleep in one of the suite's two queen-size beds, trying to ignore her persistent hunger pangs and resist the urge to pop open a small, fifty-dollar can of “fancy” hotel peanuts. Alas, to allow for maximum food intake and enjoyment, she had decided to fast for a day in advance of hitting America's largest buffet.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Clara jumped.

Rushing toward the door, she quickly reminded herself of several points that she wanted to be sure to apologize to Tabitha for. For the past week, Clara had been carefully considering everything that she wished to say to her best friend, rehearsing the chock-full-o'-grovel monologue in her mind so that when the time finally came, and they were sitting face-to-face, she wouldn't blow it. Pardoning herself didn't seem likely, and Clara prayed that Tabitha's proficiency for forgiveness would be greater than her own.

“Welcome to Vegas!” she exclaimed, swinging open the door and greeting Tabitha with an overly enthusiastic smile.

“Hey there.” Tabitha offered a hesitant half-grin in return. Wheeling a small suitcase behind her as she entered the lavish suite, she looked around, seemingly impressed. “Wow”—she marveled at the swanky space—“this had to have cost you a fortune. I can't believe you did this . . .”

“I'm an asshole!” Clara declared (not a part of her rehearsed dialogue), throwing her arms around her curly-haired best friend and hugging her close. “An absolute
asshole
! You have
no idea
how much I've missed you or how sorry I am about everything. I disrespected you and our friendship and that is
not
all right and I feel like a selfish jerk and I really don't know how you'll ever forgive me but I hope you will!” She rapidly rushed on, as if she were trying to squeeze in all her words before a ticking time bomb exploded. “Because I love you! And whether you believe it or not, you
are
my best friend and you mean the world to me but I just couldn't even
begin
to cope with my grief and my messed-up life before but I'm trying my best to pull it all back together now and I need you to know that. I blew it! I blew it
big time
—and there aren't words to properly express how truly,
truly
sorry I am.” Clara inhaled an enormous, necessary gasp of oxygen.
“AND I'M AN ASSHOLE!”

“You are not,” Tabitha whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “Stop saying that.”

“Well . . . it's true . . .” Clara insisted softly.

When their embrace finally ended, there were tears in both women's eyes.

“Hey—look at you,” Tabitha said with a sniffle, taking in her friend whom she hadn't seen since October. “You're lookin' good!”

Overcome with relief, Clara couldn't resist hugging her again.

“Y
'all fat, and y'all eat too much!” shouted a belligerent drunk man, covered from head to toe in clam spaghetti, who was being escorted by a bouncer out of America's largest buffet, conveniently located at the Las Vegas Hilton. “Y'all porky piglets!”

“He's not kidding.” Tabitha smirked at Clara, taking a bite of buttermilk-fried chicken and eyeing the twisting, turning, 140-foot-long buffet, complete with extravagant ice sculptures, bubbling décor, effervescent columns, and 515 distinct dishes. Combined, the culinary delights represented more than twelve ethnicities and four courses, including over one hundred different salads, forty-five varieties of hot and cold soup, twenty types of meat, thirty kinds of seafood, seventy-five pasta choices, twelve different pizzas, fifty unique cold items, and 150 different desserts. There were two complimentary wine and beer bars on either end of the premiere ballroom. And, to top it off, there was even an Alka-Seltzer relief station. In short, it was everything Clara had dreamed it would be as a child, and more. Much,
much
more.

Three hours of nonstop conversation into their overindulgent meal, Tabitha had just finished describing the trip she and her fiancé, Max, took to Acapulco, when Clara's cell phone rang. “Shoot. I better grab this. It's Leo. He's taking care of Milk Dud while I'm gone.” She lifted the receiver to her ear.

“Guess who I'm sitting at a table with?” Leo asked her.

“Who?” Clara heard somebody in the noisy background on his end request a “double, low-fat, no-foam, soy vanilla latte.”

“Hang on a second.”

“Hi, C.J.,” greeted another male voice. “How's the food fest going?”

“Link?”
Clara was shocked to hear his voice. “It's—It's going great.” She glanced at the table, which was laden down with too many little plates to count. “What are you doing with my brother? Where are you?”

“We ran into each other waiting in line at the Mayflower Café. Oh, wait. Hold on a moment. I just heard a weird beep.”

Jumping back on the phone, Leo hurriedly explained that he had to take another call coming through. “Lincoln and I are catching a movie after this. I'll give you a buzz later,” he said to Clara before hanging up.

“Oookay.”
She blinked, returning her phone to her purse. “Apparently my brother and Lincoln are having an afternoon play date.”

Tabitha took a large bite of beef Wellington. “I think it's nice that they get along so well. Max thinks my brother's a pompous snob. Of course, I do too,” she acknowledged.

“I just hope Leo doesn't drive Link up a wall with a zillion pesky questions about his job. I'm telling you, he's got serious dinosaur envy.”

“I want to hear more about Lincoln.” Tabitha chewed a large mouthful of Thai noodle salad. “What's he look like?”

“I don't know.” Clara tasted her chimichanga. “Tall. Brown eyes. His hair is starting to turn a little bit gray in areas.”

“Is he cute?”

Clara thought about it for a moment. “I guess. Kind of. I don't really think of him like that. He sort of faintly resembles George Clooney.”

“Are you kidding me? George Clooney's gorgeous.” Tabitha sliced her Swedish meatball in half. “It sounds like you two have been spending a lot of time together lately.” Shifting her eyes, she hesitated for a moment. “If I may ask . . . is this a strictly platonic relationship?”

“Oh God,
yes
.” Clara stabbed a spinach ravioli with her fork. “Lincoln and I go so far back together he's practically like family.”

“Practically
doesn't count.”

“Trust me. We tried the whole dating thing once a million years ago and it did not take us long to realize we just don't work on that level. It felt like I was dating my own cousin.”

“Yikes.” Tabitha cringed.

“Plus, he has a great girlfriend. Meg. I've had dinner with them a couple times and it's obvious how happy they are together. Besides,” Clara added with her mouth full of quiche Lorraine, “I'm not ready to think about a relationship. You know, it's only been a little over a year since . . .” Her voice trailed off, for there was no need for her to finish that thought out loud.

“I know,” Tabitha said, nodding, munching a miniature falafel. “So Meg doesn't mind that her boyfriend goes for training jogs and out for meals all alone with you?”

“No. It doesn't seem like it. She knows there's no call for concern.” Clara, chomping on a sweet potato French fry, further proved her point by sharing, “We're going to the Wisconsin Dells in June and Meg didn't bat a lash. Of course, I told her that Leo and Ava—who he's been seeing on and off—might join us, and she was more than welcome to come along too, but she said that she can't take time off from work. She runs the gift shop at the museum.”

“What the hell are the
Wisconsin Dells
?” Tabitha popped a spicy California roll into her mouth.

“You're kidding me. You've never heard of the Dells?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” Clara shrugged. “Maybe it's a Midwest thing.”

“Could be. What is it?”

“Oh, it's this corny, but charming, Wisconsin tourist town that's basically a children's paradise—sort of like a colossal Coney Island. It's the land of cotton candy, go-carts, haunted houses—that kind of thing. It's actually known as the ‘Waterpark Capital of the World.' ”

“Sounds great to me.” Tabitha slurped her gazpacho.

“I always dreamed of going there when I was a kid,” Clara confessed. “I was obsessed with it. Every summer I'd beg Libby to take us, but we never got to go. Apparently, neither did Lincoln. When he saw
Visit the Wisconsin Dells
on my time capsule list, he lit up and said it was also one of his unfulfilled childhood wishes to go there.” Pushing her bourbon-glazed ham aside, Clara took a spoonful of banana pudding. “So he's coming too. Trust me, it's not exactly the kind of place that's known to appeal to adults. But, since it's on my list, I'm going.” She tasted her fried rice. “I know it sounds like a silly thing to do.”

“It doesn't,” countered Tabitha, cracking open a crab leg. “I think your time capsule list and what you're doing with it is fucking brilliant. Brilliant.”

“Really?” Clara looked doubtful.

“Yes. Seriously, Clara. Look at how far you've come since Thanksgiving.”

“I guess . . .”

“I
know
. And I, for one, am thankful for that list.”

Clara smiled. She considered how accurate the fortune from her cookie at Syn-Kow had been. Indeed, she thought to herself,
“One old friend is better than two new ones.”
Tabitha was proof of it.

“Thanks, Tab,” she said. “That means more to me than you know.”

“I didn't want to harp on anything negative, but things were so bad before you left town”—a serious expression crossed Tabitha's buffalo-wing-sauce-covered face as she admitted it—“you really gave me a scare.”

“I know,” Clara quietly replied. And she did, too.

“Well,” Tabitha said, grinning, wiping her mouth with a napkin and lifting her complimentary beer in a toast, “to the time capsule!”

“To the time capsule,” Clara echoed, raising her glass and clinking it against her old friend's.

“And
to the blessed Alka-Seltzer station,” groaned Tabitha.

“Amen!” Clara laughed, leaning her head back. “
We all porky piglets!”

•
Eat at America's largest buffet