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“How can you…?” I stare at him silently telling him to ask. “How can you laugh? This isn’t funny.”
“Isn’t it though? I mean, I nursed my mom through this. I watched her slowly die day after day and tried to do anything and everything I could to help her. For a while, I ridiculously thought time, prayers and love combined with her therapy would be enough to save her. Prayers work, they said. Don’t lose hope, they reminded me. Let it all out it’s bad to bottle up your emotions, they advised. Well you know what? None of that helped - none of it. She died anyway. And it was awful, painful, horrible.”
“I know,” Oliver moves to me. “I know, sunshine,” he says calling me by a name I can’t remember him ever not using at times. “But-
“But what?” I raise my voice. “You want me to rant? You want me to cry and scream and yell at God and ask him why me? Why the hell would I? It didn’t work when I did all of that for my own mother. Why would it be any different for me? Why should it? She was a much better person than I am. If she didn’t deserve a miracle, how the hell do I?”
“Remy…”
“No, Oliver. Just stop. Stop trying to tell me it will be different. I won’t hear it. Because the truth is, I won’t do it. I will not die the way she did,” I tell him emphatically.
“What aren’t you saying, Remy? Just say the words and stop hinting at them.” Damn him for being so smart and perceptive. He takes my upper arms in his hands and grips them hard – not enough to hurt – but enough to let me feel the emotion behind the action. His voice is shaking, his eyes fill with unshed tears. He looks devastated and suddenly I hate myself. I hate myself for taking this out on him. He doesn’t deserve it. Like a balloon losing air, all the fight within me dissipates and I sag in defeat, Oliver holding me tight.
“I don’t know, Oliver,” I say softly chickening out of telling him the truth. “I’m still processing all of this and my thoughts and feelings are all over the place. I’d like to be able to lay it all out for you and answer your questions but the truth is, I’ve barely had time to really let this sink in and figure it out for myself.”
“I understand, but time is of the essence. It’s important that you take action sooner than later. Starting with a second opinion.” I sit on the couch and he begins pacing between my desk and the couch and I watch him as he goes back and forth. Suddenly stopping he takes something from my desk and when he turns I see my notebook in his hand. “You have your lists out,” he says looking down at the words ‘My Reasons’ spelled out in glitter on the cover.
“Yeah,” I manage a smile. “I was cleaning out my desk earlier and came across it. I haven’t looked at it in several months and I couldn’t help but pull it out and flip through.”
Moving to the couch he sits beside me. Placing the notebook on his knees gently he runs his fingers over the words like I did earlier. He knows it’s one of my most treasured possessions. He’s seen the notes it contains, knew of my mom’s list affinity and even made a few special lists with her himself.
“Maybe we need to make a list now,” he suggests quietly with a wistful smile. “All the next steps to take in this process. It’s something your mom would have done. Probably did do. Maybe it would help.”
Taking the notebook from him, I turn to the last page and read the last list I made not long ago. An updated reasons list – things I want to do. Reading down the list I smile at some of the ridiculous things I wrote. Do something crazy for once in your life - something like participating in a protest where you get arrested – to – Finally see the ocean and put your toes in the sand. That was something on my mom’s list. Take a walk on the beach and see the vastness of the ocean, she had written. Neither of us ever seeing it before it became a dream. One we never got to realize before she passed away and I’ll regret it until my last breath. My face falls with the memory and I feel a twist in my chest. I miss my mom. Sometimes I miss her so much it makes my whole body ache. How do you get used to the loss of someone that wasn’t just your mother, but your best friend and your confidant?
“What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” I sigh and shake my head. I barely notice when Oliver takes the notebook from my hands again. Standing, I find myself looking out my window – not because I really want to look outside but because I need the movement. I can’t stop thinking about my list again, and my mom’s. With a sigh, I realize that I’m utterly exhausted. I’m certain I wouldn’t have a problem falling asleep now if I tried.
A laugh interrupts my thoughts and I turn away from the window only to jump a little in surprise. Oliver is standing right behind me and I didn’t even hear him move. Taking a moment to admire the view I enjoy how he looks in what clearly started off as a three-piece suit. His suit jacket is missing, but he’s still wearing pin striped black slacks and black shoes. His starched white shirt hiding what I know is a well-defined chest and stomach is unbuttoned at the neck and his silver tie is loosened. His dark hair is disheveled from running his hands through it during our conversation. It’s longer than I’ve seen it in a while and I find that I like it. His chiseled jaw line is ridiculously attractive and his cheekbones should be illegal on a man. “I didn’t know you wanted a tattoo or a piercing. A piercing where, exactly?”
Those eyes of his that I love are twinkling and I want to smile, but instead I smirk and place my hands on my hips, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes, yes I would,” he laughs. “Just promise me I can be there when you get it done. It’s a must.”
“Why’s that?”
“To hold your hand while you scream, of course,” he says with a laugh making me roll my eyes. His laugh falls away and he touches the beauty mark above my lip with his fingertip like he’s done for years. When we were young he thought that I had dirt on my lip and tried to wipe it off. He’s teased me about it ever since which doesn’t make sense really since he’s the one that couldn’t tell a small mole from dirt.
“What were you thinking about when you were at the window? Your face was sad and very serious.”
“I was thinking about those stupid lists,” I almost gasp at my words. They feel like a betrayal to think them and I’ve never dared to say them out loud. I’ve thought them before, sure. I was angry when my mom died, angry that she was robbed of so much time. I think in part I’m afraid she might be able to hear me from heaven. Silly, I know, but even the thought now of hurting her feelings is more than I can handle.
As if he can read my mind Oliver says, “They aren’t stupid.”
“Aren’t they?”
“How can you say that? What you’re going through right now is exactly why this list was created – exactly what you need. To give you a reason when you need one, remember?”
“Of course I remember, but they aren’t realistic. I know that now. It’s just something my dreamer of a mother concocted. It’s sweet and fun and I loved that she loved it, but sometimes I think that instead of a list of reasons it’s a list of potential regrets.”
“No, never regrets. Few people get the opportunity to do everything that they dream about. If we’re lucky we get to catch a few of them, but I think we’re not always supposed to catch them. Sometimes I think the magic with dreams is the journey to getting there and that can be more profound than the dream itself.”
“Wow, Oliver Gentry. My mother would have swooned at those words.”
He smiles, “Maybe. But are you? I think I’d like to make you swoon Remy Sinclair.”
“There may have been a mini-swoon.”
