The Someday Jar Read online

That’s when I almost die.

  Midslurp, the coiled lemon rind shoots down my throat as if sprung from a slingshot and lodges in my esophagus.

  I drop my martini and glass shatters as I thump my chest. Oh, God. I’m choking. Choking! My throat burns and my lungs cramp as if a boa constrictor has wrapped around my ribs.

  Jesus. This is it. This is my end. These are the last moments of my life.

  With horror, my mind flashes to an image of my body lying on a cold, stainless-steel bed at the morgue. Oh, fuck. I think there’s a hole in my underwear.

  From the corner of my bulging eye, I see the man jump from his seat. He slides his arms around my waist and lifts me off the ground. His fingers brush under my breasts as he squeezes me against him—I was right about the stone-hard abs—and thrusts his entwined fists into me.

  Nothing happens. I’m still choking. My fingers and lips tingle numb.

  Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.

  Moments of my adult life flicker through my mind. Sorting stacks of documents. Oil changes. Scrubbing clean the condo’s baseboards. Sunscreen. Diligence. Order. Routine.

  Then, thank everything holy, with one more heave, the man launches the lemon rind free. It flies from my mouth, the slimy fruit smacking the bartender on his forehead.

  “Thank you.” I wheeze and cough, drying the tears that drip from the corners of my eyes. I collapse onto the stool. “I don’t know what happened. One minute I was fine and the next minute, I couldn’t breathe.”

  The man returns to his seat. Beads of sweat have formed above his lip, and he wipes them away with the back of his hand.

  Awareness swarms through my body as the color presumably returns to my cheeks. I stare at the man with a serious face. “What if I choked on that lemon peel and died? What if that was my last breath?”

  “Maybe a glass of water?” he asks the bartender, who dabs at his forehead with a napkin.

  “I could’ve died. My obituary will read, Lanie Howard dead. That’s it. Nothing else. No lifetime accomplishments. No list of accolades. Just white space.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t that bad.”

  “Yes, it is. My bobblehead collection is the most exciting thing I’ve done in just about forever.”

  “Bobbleheads?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who do you have?”

  “Yoda, Statue of Liberty, Martin Luther King, Robin—”

  “Robin? As in Batman and Robin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not Batman?”

  “Because Robin does all the legwork and gets none of the credit. Sidekicks are underrated.” I shift my feet. “Look, it doesn’t matter. You’re missing the point.”

  “What exactly is your point?”

  What is my point? All at once I get it. All at once I understand what my dad meant, what he wanted for my life. Color outside the lines. I pound my fist on the bar. “My Someday Jar.”

  “Your what?”

  “My jar of aspirations.”

  “Like a bucket list?”

  “Yeah, exactly. I’m gonna uncork it.”

  “You should.”

  “You’re right, because you know what else my dad said?”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “‘Follow your dreams, unless it’s the one where you’re running naked through church.’ So that’s what I’m going to do.”

  “Run naked through church?” He arcs his left eyebrow.

  “No.” I press my lips together to quell my smile. “But I will not stand and watch life pass me by a moment longer. I can balance a bit of adventure with responsibility.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Sure I can. I will open the jar. I will accomplish my goals. For me. Before I become Mrs. Evan Carter. Just like I promised Dad.” Even if he isn’t around to see it.

  “Good for you.” He thanks the bartender for the water and, before sliding it toward me, plucks out the lemon wedge. “Just in case.”

  “Ha-ha.” I chug the water, the cool liquid soothing my aching throat.

  The bartender comes around and sweeps up the broken glass.

  I offer an apologetic smile, then return to the man beside me. “Look, it’s nice meeting you, but I have to go.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Totally fine, thanks.”

  “What about the guy you were supposed to pick up?”

  “Oh, damn.” I text Evan, but he still doesn’t answer. Maybe that’s a good thing because I’m pretty sure I misspelled every word. There are two e’s in airport, right? “I don’t know. It’s so late, I’m sure whoever he is, he found his own way to the hotel by now.” I dig into my wallet, which apparently is made of the slickest leather in the Western Hemisphere. A couple twenty-dollar bills, three quarters, ChapStick, a worn credit card, and my driver’s license scatter under the bar stool.

  “I got it.” He stops me, putting his hand on mine.

  His hands are scarred and weathered from hard work in the sun. Determined. Dependable. Capable hands.

  Not that it matters, of course.

  He gathers my things and stares at my driver’s license for a moment longer than I think he should. What’s he doing? At least the picture’s not half bad, but I don’t want him criticizing me for not being an organ donor. I snatch the license and hold my purse open for him to dump in everything else.

  “Well, thank you again for saving my life.”

  I ask the bartender for my bill and slide off the stool, but my legs buckle and I’m forced to hold on to the counter for support.

  “Listen.” The guy tosses a hundred-dollar bill on the bar and thanks the bartender. “I’m leaving, too. I’ll walk you to a cab.”

  “I can pay for my drinks.”

  “So can I. Let’s go.”

  My disappointed mother shouting “stranger danger” screams through my mind. “No, really, I’m fine.” I take a couple of wobbly steps toward the exit, but the doors are all squiggly. What do they put in those lemon-drop martinis anyway? Jet fuel? Maybe I do need a little help. And really, he’s not a total stranger. We’ve talked for hours. Plus, he has nice teeth. White and strong. That has to count for something, right? Serial killers don’t have good teeth, do they?

  He moves beside me.

  “Um, okay. I guess walking me to a cab might be a good idea.” I lick my lips, which seem to have thickened into two gelatinous blobs.

  We walk in silence and I’m painfully humiliated. I got drunk at an airport bar, choked on a lemon rind, and now need an escort to a cab. Tomorrow, I’ll be some hilarious story this guy tells all his buddies. I’d hate him for that if I didn’t need his forearm to lean on.

  He motions toward the open door of a taxi.

  “Listen, thanks again,” I say, climbing inside, guilty that I can’t remember his name.

  “No problem.” With slightly parted lips, he folds a stick of gum onto his tongue. His jaw flexes with each chew.

  My God, his eyes are piercing.

  “Um, right.” I clear my throat. “Anyway, I really appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure.” He steps inside and slams the door behind him.

  three

  “Lanie, now!” My dad calls from the driveway below the balcony where I stand. His elbow is wrapped with gauze from a recent snowboarding accident—or was it ice sailing this time?—and his perpetually tan face broadens with laughter.

  From the bucket near my feet, I grab a red water balloon. It wobbles like Jell-O in my cupped hand.

  “Do it.” He laughs. “Do it now.”

  Hard as I can, I chuck the balloon. Splat. The latex bursts the instant it smacks against his well-used golf cart. Water shoots out in all directions and splatters the concrete.

  “A direct hit.” He cheers. “Again
, again.”

  I reach for another balloon, a blue one, and whip it at the tire. Spoosh.

  Dad dances as water splashes his shins, and I break into a belly laugh. My face hurts from smiling. My fingers are ice cold from the water, and any minute now, Mom will order us to stop, but I don’t care. This is how we wash the golf cart.

  “Hurry, Lanie,” he yells. “Throw another one. Get the backseat.”

  Before I do, someone taps on my arm. Tap-tap-tap.

  I brush it off and grab another balloon.

  “Lanie,” says a man’s voice, sounding far away. At the same time, the balloon shrinks into nothing and Dad disappears from my view, fading into black.

  “Wait,” I cry out.

  “Lanie,” the man calls again, closer now.

  After a deep breath, I realize I was dreaming. My head pounds and the hint of lemon sours my mouth. I’m too exhausted to open my eyes. It can’t be morning yet. Please, don’t let it be morning yet. I’m too tired for morning.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Go away.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Ugh. How annoying is this? Why can’t I sleep? I just need a few more minutes, a little more time with Dad and . . . tap-tap-tap.

  “Lanie. Get up.”

  Reluctantly, I lift my head and check the alarm clock.

  “It’s only forty-nine fifty,” I snap. “See, it’s early. Let me sleep.” My head settles back against the most comfy pillow ever. But there’s a buzz in my brain. A nagging bouncing around in my head like a fly trapped in a windowsill and at last I realize. What kind of time is that? I lift my head again and rub my eyes.

  Within seconds, I gain my bearings and discover we’ve stopped in front of Evan’s condo. The guy from the airport is beside me. Apparently I fell asleep. In his lap. Is that drool?

  Wiping my mouth, I quickly grab my purse and reach for the door handle. With a swift move, I hop out, slam the cab door, and run toward Evan’s condo like a track star. Never in my life have I made such a fool of myself. Accidentally farting near the microphone during my fourth-grade choir concert was nothing compared to this humiliation. Nothing!

  As I cross the street, the crisp nighttime air sobers me. Oh, Lord, this is bad. Very, very bad. This man knows where I live.

  I unlock the door and quickly close it behind me. Through the frosted window of our front door, I watch the cab’s taillights disappear down the street. Thank God.

  “Hi, love.”

  I spin around and find Evan standing beside the kitchen sink, an empty water glass in his hand. He sets the drink down, loosens his tie, and unfastens the top two buttons on his shirt. “I just got home myself and noticed you called earlier. Everything okay? Did you find Weston?”

  “Funny thing.” I sway slightly and grab the dining room table for balance.

  Evan frowns and steps close. “Have you been drinking?” He picks at my bangs and scrunches his eyebrows together. He’s due for a wax, but there are better times to mention that. “Is that sugar in your hair?”

  “Probably.”

  “You and Weston got drunk?”

  “No. Just me.” Which sounds even more pitiful out loud.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

  No, not really, thank you very much. I can think of a thousand other things I’d rather do. A colonoscopy, for one.

  “Where’s Weston?”

  “I’m not quite sure. His flight was delayed and well, the game was on and—”

  “Lanie, this was important to me.” He pulls out his phone and dials. “Weston, it’s Evan. Sorry for the mix-up at the airport. Give me a call; let me know you made it to the hotel.” Evan drops his phone into his pocket, slips his tie from his neck, and lines up the ends. He folds the silk tie precisely in half, then half again. Without looking at me he says, “It’s late.” Before I can utter a word, he pounds up the stairs.

  I’m such an idiot. What was I thinking? Sure, I’ll have another martini. Sure, I’ll blab to a stranger. Sure, I’ll drool in his lap. Jesus, Lanie.

  After gulping two glasses of water and eating several slices of bread—I once read that wheat soaks up alcohol, and for half a second I contemplate swallowing spoonfuls of flour—I trace the walls and crawl up the carpeted stairs toward the bedroom. Quietly, I tiptoe inside the bathroom, close the door, and turn on the light.

  Though I’ll regret it tomorrow, washing my face or brushing my teeth now seems more challenging than climbing Mt. Everest with a broken leg. Screw it. I’ll scrub extra in the morning.

  I strip out of my clothes, drop my purse beside Evan’s row of neatly aligned shoes, and turn off the light. My face smacks into the closet door, because apparently it has to be open to walk through it. With a whimper from my pain and behavior, I slide into bed, thankful that Evan’s asleep, snoring. I don’t have the energy to explain this evening. All I want now is sleep. And the room to stop spinning.

  four

  Evan’s text screams at me the following morning. It takes longer than I like before my head clears and I am able to focus on the words. Call me. By the way, it’s airport, not aeeport.

  It wasn’t a bad dream.

  After a long shower and countless vows to the water spray that I’ll never, never, never drink again, I gag down a dose of Green Power—Evan’s favorite vegetable drink that looks and smells like baby poop (especially when hungover). Thankfully, my symptoms subside. All that’s left is a sledgehammer pounding my head every three seconds. Given how I let Evan and Weston down, I deserve the pain.

  It isn’t until I reach inside my purse and keys jingle in my hand that I remember my car is parked at the airport.

  Awesome.

  I call Kit. “Hey, it’s me.” I burp a pungent combination of lemon, vodka, broccoli, and kale into her voice mail. “Call me when you get this.” Before I finish the message, my phone chimes with an incoming call.

  “You’re a lifesaver.” Kit’s voice smiles through the receiver. “I’ve searched for my phone all morning. It just rang inside the Cheerios box.”

  Naturally calm and maternal, Kit juggles her four-year-old son, Dylan, like a pro. She’s happily married to Rob, an insurance adjuster, and they live a few minutes away in a house that is snuggly-warm and slightly disheveled like a page straight from Restoration Hardware. Her kitchen smells of cinnamon and there’s always whipped cream in the fridge.

  “I’m sorry to ask, but can you drive me to the airport? I left my car there last night.”

  Kit pulls the phone away from her mouth. “Honey, the dog doesn’t want Play-Doh in his ears.” To me she says, “Why is your car at the airport? You and Evan elope? I’ll be furious, you know.”

  “No, we didn’t elope. Long story. I’ll explain on the way.”

  “I love long stories. It means it’s gonna be good. Okay, listen, Rob’s home this morning so he can watch Dylan.” Her voice turns sinister. “Let me bust out the finger paints.”

  “You’re awful.”

  “Me? It’s good for Rob. The other day he claimed to have eaten a bad plum and was in bed all afternoon. A bad plum? Give me a break. He spent the day watching Breaking Bad reruns.”

  I giggle, then wince, for every fiber in my head stabs with pain. “I’ll see you soon?”

  “Yep, be there in a couple minutes.”

  We hang up and I fix myself a piece of peanut butter toast. I munch and delicately swallow, for my throat is still tender, and grow irritated with myself, recalling my behavior last night. Blabbing for hours. Flirting with that guy? Yes, okay, in my own defense, I was drunk. Not thinking straight. Nobody should be taken seriously after several martinis.

  And honestly, what was with me spouting off all that crap about my Someday Jar? Sure, it was a big part of my life at one time, but I’ve pushed that keepsake out of my mind for so many years, no sense in th
inking of it now. No sense in uprooting the pain I’ve worked for years to bury.

  Kit honks and I step outside into the blinding light.

  “Hey,” she says as I slide into the passenger seat of her silver Audi. Dressed in worn jeans and a black T-shirt, she wears no makeup, doesn’t need it. Just a bit of gloss shines her lips. It’s times like this, staring at her glowing, wrinkle-free skin, I wonder if she’s right about a diet of grass-fed humanely killed meats and nonprocessed foods.

  She flips her long black ponytail behind her shoulder and, with a frown, grabs my chin. “Honey, you’re pale. You know vampires aren’t popular anymore, right? We’re supposed to have a little color again.”

  “I miss that look. It’s easy to look tired and malnourished.”

  “Me, too.” She releases my chin. “By the look of your swollen eyes, this is going to be a really good story.” Kit steers away from the curb and heads us toward the airport. “So?”

  “I almost died.”

  “Swear?”

  “Swear. I choked on a lemon peel. The guy beside me saved my life. Did the Heimlich thingy.”

  “That works?”

  “Apparently, because here I am.”

  “Thank God you’re all right.” She pats my knee. “Tell me what happened.”

  I tell Kit everything. The delayed flight, the game, the martinis, right down to my flirting and passing out in the guy’s lap. “Who does that?”

  “So, you had a few drinks and some guy saved you. Big deal. It’s about time you had a little fun.”

  I rub my pounding head.

  “Wait a second. Where did you say this guy was flying from?”

  “Los Angeles. The screen said the LAS flight was delayed. Why?”

  “Honey, LAX is the code for Los Angeles. LAS is Las Vegas.”

  “What?” I spring my head up and look at her. “Are you sure?”

  “Do you forget I folded brochures at that travel agency for like nine months my senior year? I’m sure.”

  “That means Weston was there. Waiting for me and I missed him.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  I bury my head in my hands.