The Unexpected List (The List Trilogy) (2 page)

“I peed my pants.”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Nope, peed all over the fucking floor.  You know how it is when you’re this far along.”

“Oh my God!  Did he notice?”

“No.  I pretended to spill my water and asked him to hurry and find some towels.  When he was gone I made a run for it.”

After a laugh so intense that no sound emits from either of our bodies, I catch my breath and say, “I feel bad though.”

“About?”

“Bailing on him.”  She’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.  “I know, I know…I’m married and…” pointing at my gut, “I have this.  But still, it seemed like he was relieved to meet me.  Like I made him feel something he never felt before.  Like I saved him. I dunno…I wish…”

“You wish what, Chrissy?”

Catching myself before I say something Kelly can’t even comprehend, “I wish that damn waiter would bring the bill.  I gotta get home and catch up on my sleep while Kurt’s gone.  It’s like the only time I can get a solid ten hours.”

Standing up to flag down the waiter, my pregnant belly bashes into the table, spilling our drinks everywhere.

The commotion jolts me out of my sleep and straight up in bed.  My head darts all around to try and figure out what the hell is going on.  My hands clutch my stomach and relief washes over me.  Flat as a board.

“Thank you, Lord Jesus, who I’m still kinda struggling to believe in.”

I’m thankful only until I remember that Kelly’s dead and Leo’s long gone.

Wounded

September 11, 2002

I have dreams like that all of the time, and everything about them is so real. 
Kelly’s so real
.  Her frank assessment of whatever Chrissygan…Oh wait, must pause to explain what a Chrissygan is.

Over the past three years, my name and the word shenanigan have become so synonymous that my friends have made a word out of it, Chrissygan. Anyway, whatever Chrissygan I’m talking to Kelly about in my dreams, she gives me her tell-it-like-it-is take on the matter.  It’s very comforting.  But with Kelly’s comfort comes a lot of weird stuff, like being pregnant, and it makes me crazy.

While I’m in the shower trying to make sense out of my latest dream, I do my usual morning drill: pick up the shampoo that Leo left behind, squirt one teeny tiny dot of it into the middle of my shampoo, mix them together, rub until my scalp hurts, and numbly stare at the drain as it sucks down the suds.

His razor is still here, but it’s so dull it cuts me whenever I use it.  For a moment, it made me consider being an actual cutter.  Gross, right?  Well, hear me out.  I read somewhere (probably in one of those useless self-help books that I picked up back in 1998) that cutting helps freaks relieve the intense emotional pain they’re feeling internally.  Yep, cutters feel so dead inside that seeing their own blood actually helps them to feel alive.  And, well…after Leo was gone, feeling alive was something I really struggled with.  I was willing to try anything.  One day, I picked up the damn razor and thought,
“What if?”
  Who was I kidding though?  I’m way too vain to scar up my body.  Besides, the last time I felt dead inside, yoga (sprinkled with precisely the right amount of alcohol) worked just fine as my emotional pain crutch.  Plus, there’s no place in my life for masochistic thoughts like cutting.  And, the plastic bin of toys suctioned to the side of my bathtub is one more reminder of why that is.

As I exit the shower, I knock over the garbage can next to the toilet and stare for an eternity at the waste that’s now scattered all over the floor.  My mind flashes back to the day I picked Leo’s phone number out of my garbage can. Even though it was only four years ago, it seems like a lifetime away.  I woke up that January morning stunned that I had spent so much time talking to him at Buckley’s, bewildered that we continued our conversation in my car after the bar closed, and mortified that I had broken my vows as a wife and kissed him like I had never even kissed my own husband.  He gave me his phone number and made me promise to call him. It seemed unbelievable…
I was six years older than him.
  God, I was so scared to make that call, but what my heart needed at the time crushed all trepidation, and so I picked his phone number out of the trash and dialed.  Who knew that phone call would change the course of my life and lead to so many firsts…and so many lies.

Snapping out of my funk, I scoop up the garbage and tediously wash my hands.  Almost everything I do these days is tedious.  I gently push Leo’s towel over on the bar, careful not to disturb it.  It’s still hanging in the same spot and still hardened from the water he quickly dried off of his body the last time he used it.  I shiver at the memory of watching him do it, wishing I had savored the moment…but knowing it would’ve been inappropriate given all that was going on at the time.

I prepare to leave my cozy cottage with the same feelings I’ve had for way too many days in a row now; glad I have somewhere to go, but pissed that I can’t just stay locked in my bathroom with what’s left of Leo’s belongings.

Oh crap, eight-fifteen, already!  I better get moving.  So much to do today. 

I toss my super special crochet yoga bag and the rest of my crap into the empty leopard print toddler seat that’s tethered to the backseat, throw the car in reverse and head out.

I’m tuned into KKSF, which is jazz I barely like.  It’s all I allow myself to listen to anymore though, no words to drag my mind into the past.  Although…today of all days, it’s impossible not to think about the past. Reminders are tied in yellow bows on every overpass on my drive down Highway 680.

It’s a typically beautiful late summer morning in Lafayette, California.  The sky is robin’s egg blue and sprinkled with clouds so perfect they look manmade.  The store owners are out watering their hanging flower baskets and sweeping their store fronts.  Starbucks is bustling with over-anxious patrons, and the smell of over-priced coffee is oozing out of the front door and into my car.  I almost want to stop to grab a cup, but can’t. 
Too much to do…too much to do.

Entering the on-ramp to the freeway, I pass hundreds of American flag-waving patriots dedicated to honoring our country and the victims of 9/11.  I want to stop my car and hug every woman and man I see in camouflage and thank them for the sacrifice they’ll most likely be called to make on my behalf. But I don’t, because I’ll just cry. Nearly every car, including my own, is proudly displaying some red, white and blue.  One minute it fills me with an overwhelming sense of pride, the next it makes me mad as all hell that it took the deaths of nearly three thousand of us to make it happen.  I turn the shitty jazz music a little louder to drown out my thoughts of that horrific day, and the consequences of it that changed the course of my life just as much as that day in January, 1998 when I picked Leo’s phone number out of my garbage can.

I finally arrive at one of  my yoga studios where my rag tag team of yoga bitches is waiting for me to start our weekly meeting. They were absolute life savers after the confusion of 9/11 when I disappeared for a while.  When I finally came back, I returned to two very packed studios, both with waiting lists and lines out the door.  Sure enough, in a gross twist of fate, the tragedy of 9/11 made people crave the peaceful healing powers of yoga and meditation, and it prompted the need to open a third Forever Young Yoga Studio.  Just as my girls have done every single day since the bottom fell out of my world, they spring into comforting action as I enter the room.

“Hey doll!  I’m
loving
how that tie-dye tunic exposes your matching tankini!  And turn around so I can get a look at your ass in those cute little reverse-seam leggings!”

Oh, how I love my Slutty Co-worker.  Sure, she’s still a big fat whore and I have a hard time wrapping my head around the amount of men she dates/fucks/accepts expensive gifts from, but the woman supports the hell out of me, so I continue to ignore the parts of her sex life that I find disturbing.  Why do I love her so much you ask?  Well, for starters, she didn’t bat an eye when I asked to use her apartment to rendezvous with Leo; she knew I needed time to sort out my feelings for him.  And, she was the one with the great idea to track him down at the Red Devil Lounge so that I could win him back; she knew it was a mistake to break up with him. She even dragged me to his hang out, P.J. Clark’s, in New York after he moved there to show me all I was missing out on.  And then she gave me her shoulder to cry on when I saw it all with my own eyes.  Slutty Co-worker has always been there for me and not just personally, but professionally.   I never could’ve made Forever Young, Inc. the success it is had it not been for her passion, dedication, and willingness to expose more of her ass than necessary to attract a larger than normal male crowd.

Trying to put on a brave face, I smile over at my little worker bee, Megan.

“Well, I have you to thank for my outfit. There’s nothing you can’t make look good, girl.”

I can’t believe I used to hate the girl I’m staring at right now.  To quote myself, I wanted to “stab her in her childlike eyes.”  Looking back, I don’t think I hated Megan so much because she was in love with Leo.  I think I hated her because she reminds me of me, and we all know what a pain in the ass I am.  Yep, Megan’s a mini-Chrissy.  She’s stubborn, determined, and definitely a lot stronger and smarter than she looks. She’s also incredibly energetic.  Which is a good thing because when it comes to her job as designer of Forever Young yoga wear, she has to handle solo trips to New York to sell the collection, which she does--a lot.  Even after 9/11, she boarded flights without a moment of hesitation or an ounce of fear.  Nothing was going to stop her from following her dream of becoming a respected clothing designer, not even a pack of angry Islamic extremists.  And because of her commitment, she’s definitely becoming known within the industry.  Her one-of-a-kind designs set our yoga collection apart from anything else on the market.  Not many twenty-five-year-olds can handle the kind of pressure Megan does. Yep, when I look at her, it’s like looking in a mirror!

My gaze now shifts to the beautiful woman across the table who speaks to me.

“Wow, and who knew that crochet bag I made for you last week would coordinate so well with that outfit too!”

Never in a million years would I have thought that the woman sitting across from me is the same woman who used to sit next to me in the lobby of my therapist’s office.  Thank God there aren’t any more rope-like strands of grey in her hair.  That stuff was nasty.  Nope, she’s all brunette now and proud of it too!  Her old denim capri pants are now denim cargo shorts, to show off her super toned yoga legs, and her smile is often times the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night.  Sad Frumpy Lady is no more and Barbara Cooper has become a very important person in my life.

Barbara came on board at Forever Young, Inc. shortly after she delivered the first batch of crochet yoga bags I asked her to make on the evening of my last therapy appointment with my beloved Dr. Maria.  Jesus, she looked so scared when I asked her to make them, and I had to hold her hand through the entire process, but it was worth it…for the both of us.  Barbara prefers her self-made title of ‘yoga trinket maker’ and backs it up by managing the production of hundreds of crochet yoga bags, hair ties, and other hand-made accessories to sell in our studios.  And being the granola-eating Berkeley freak that she is, she’s also working on some new kind of biodegradable, PVC-free yoga mat.  I don’t even know what the hell any of that means, but our clients are super excited about it, so that makes me super excited about it too.  If you ask me Barbara’s title though, I’d tell you she’s really the Chief Financial Officer of Forever Young, Inc.  She literally keeps track of every cent that comes and goes from our business. I’ve ceased asking her if she wants to go back to her Professor of Finance days at UC Berkeley, because every time I do she laughs at me. And, I’m glad, because I adore her and trust her with my life.  Actually, I trust all three of these women with my life.  And on days like today, it feels like I have to. Sensing I’m having a rough morning, Barbara walks over and settles in next to me.

“Hanging in there, hunny?”

“Hanging
and
kicking myself in the ass at the same time.”

“I guess you can thank yoga for the ability to do both of those things at once huh, doll?”

I give Slutty Co-worker a fake smile and then suggest we get on with the meeting.  But Barbara knows I need a little more love.

“What happened wasn’t entirely your fault, Chrissy.”

All three of these women know how much Leo loved me. Barbara never got to witness it quite like the other two did, but she definitely heard about it after she came on board.  Oh, the fun we had crammed in my cottage after Leo moved in!  The girls and I would strategize over expanding our current business while he barbequed for us and opened bottle after bottle of wine.  The love he had for me was in plain sight, visible to everyone when he did things like gently rub my back as I studied our second year projections and when he kissed me every time he re-filled my wine glass (which was a lot).  Leo always had to leave for work at 4:15am so he’d be there by the time the morning bell rang on the Stock Exchange.  So by the time I woke up, I’d find my leftover barbeque lunch in a bag on the kitchen counter with a sweet little note attached to it.  He’d regularly show up to the studio with flowers or meet up with us after work for cocktails. No matter where we were or what we were doing, Leo always made sure I was happy and taken care of, and my co-workers always reminded me that I better fucking appreciate it.