The List.
Last night, somewhere between exhaustion, low blood sugar, and more emotion than a signed senior yearbook, I started writing a list of all the things I want to do before I officially hang a Do Not Resuscitate sign on my life – well, I started drawing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but that turned into a sketch of Rouen Cathedral, which turned into doodles of hearts, and then thoughts of kissing, and suddenly here it is: the accidental list.
I run my fingers over the lines of ink, feel the barely-there indents the pen pressure has left in the paper. I don’t remember the final draft looking this long.
I’ve only written down ten things, but the actual construction of the list took six pages to get right. Well, this is me. It’s not as simple as writing a letter to Santa. It took a while to prioritize, arrange my to-do items in order of importance. Finally, after the tenth attempt, I had it all figured out. At least, I had the top six figured out. I think.
1. Get my high school diploma
2. Go to France (with Mom?)
3. Smell the roses in our garden
4. Try some cashew nut cream cheese
5. Learn to drive a car
My insides feel like they’re being crammed into a jam jar. Spelling out all the things I can’t do tears my soul to pieces. I knew it would. A tear drips on to my nice, neat, perfectly assembled final draft and smudges the ink of item number 6 into an unreadable blur. The words vanish, but I know exactly what was written.
6. Kiss Luke
It gets to five and I’m watching a woman on television turn a pair of old net curtains into what she says will be a ‘traffic-stopping tunic’. I’m not convinced. I wonder if maybe she’s high on fabric-glue fumes, because she’s smiling a smile that outstretches space. But then, I suppose she exhibits this same level of delirium every week, even the times she’s not in range of superglue. Maybe crafting just makes you happy. Maybe I’ll feel like less of a failure if I can turn wax crayons and rose oil into a bunch of scented candles. Or make costume jewellery out of a bulk-buy of gemstones. A small business venture to give my life purpose. That’s how my gran started. The story of her mixing yogurt and sand to make facial scrub during tough times is legendary.
Meh. My enthusiasm is in broken bits and I can’t even muster the energy to stick that back together, let alone craft a pair of pretty earrings.
I jump when my phone rings, not from fright. It’s excitement. It shoots through my stomach like a falling star, only to burn out when I check the screen and discover it’s not Luke. Not that there’s a reason he would be calling. I guess it was just a thought because it’s Friday night. Or what used to be ice-cream-and-mind-numbing-movie night.
‘Hey, Mom.’
‘Hey, sweetheart. How are you feeling?’ She sounds rushed. I can hear her sifting through sheets of paper.
‘I’m good,’ I lie, pulling the sleeve of my sweater over the new scratch on my arm. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Ugh. You remember me telling you about the new guy, Justin?’
Ah, Justin. The office rookie who can’t decipher his ass from his elbow and smells like weed every time he comes back off his break.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s only gone and mixed up a ton of inventory slips.’
I hiss a painful note through my front teeth, though I don’t really know what this means. I’m just leeching off her tone.
‘Yeah. The guy has placed orders for almost a million dollars’ worth of building material that we don’t need. Ugh.’ Her palm makes a slapping sound as it hits her forehead. ‘My boss is going to kill me if I don’t fix this mess.’
‘Can you fix it?’ I hesitate before I ask. It’s hard to decide how serious she is when I can’t see her face.
‘Norah Dean,’ she tsks. ‘This is me you’re talking to. I can fix anything.’ True. Turns out this morning we didn’t have any eggs to make the pancakes she promised, so she used banana instead. They were actually pretty good.
‘Right.’ I smile. Not serious, just a little stressed.
‘Will you be okay fixing your own dinner?’
‘Absolutely. You want me to make you something?’
‘Don’t worry about me.’ She groans. ‘I’ve got a feeling this is going to take all night. You’ll be all right alone?’
‘Puh-lease,’ I scoff. ‘This is me you’re talking to. One night is practically child’s play these days.’
‘Smart-ass,’ she teases. ‘I’ll be by my phone the entire time. Call me if you need anything, anything at all, okay?’
‘Cross my heart.’ I go through the motion, despite the fact she can’t see it.
‘What’s my extension number?’ Mom asks, testing my memory because she hasn’t been able to leave her usual laundry list of emergency contacts on the fridge.
‘Mom, I know the number. I didn’t forget.’
‘Good. Then you should have no problem reciting it back to me right now.’
I reel off the number. ‘Now, how do I reach 911 again?’
‘Ha ha.’