But when their dad died, they grew closer, and the age gap mattered less. They called each other a few times a day, whispering their grief and shock, crying with each other. Lauren went to visit all the time, holding Sebastian, laughing at his sweetness, crying because her dad wasn’t there to see it. As time passed and the shock of grief lessened, they just got closer.
Lauren’s relationship with her mother, on the other hand, shriveled. Donna had always been the competent, brisk, all-knowing, all-powerful parent, but when her husband died, she crumbled. It was completely understandable. A love like Donner-n-Dave’s, as Rhode Islanders pronounced it, didn’t happen often. They had been the envy of all who knew them. Donna didn’t seem to notice that her daughters had also lost someone incredibly important. Her focus was on herself, which wasn’t exactly a surprise, as Jen and Lauren discussed. She’d been a good mother, totally solid, but not the kind who paid a lot of attention to her girls. As a teacher, her students ate up a lot of her patience. She wasn’t cruel . . . it was just that the girls (especially Lauren) were something of an afterthought. Husband, job, community, and oh, yeah, two daughters, too!
Lauren had always felt that if she were, say, kidnapped, it would take her mother a week or so to notice she was gone. “Shoot, where’s that Lauren got off to?” she might say, failing to notice the ransom note taped to the door.
But her dad . . . her dad would’ve charged to her rescue.
When he died, the family seemed diminished by a lot more than one-fourth. It was like 90 percent of them were dead, too.
Grief, you see, is lonely for everyone involved. Mom had lost her life partner. Jen didn’t have the luxury of grieving the way Lauren did, not with a baby to care for, and her sorrow had to be dealt with in bits and pieces. And Lauren had to live with the knowledge that Dad wouldn’t see all the important milestones of her adult life—graduation from college, job, first apartment, getting married, having kids. He was just . . . gone.
It was thoughts like those that could bring a person to her knees.
But she was her father’s child, and with the help of a good therapist, her sister’s love, Sarah’s rocklike friendship and the new friends she made in college, she kept on moving forward. She was a weeper, thank God, so there were no repressed emotions.
She wanted to live a life her dad would be proud of. That she would be proud of. Parents die. Disney taught that right from the beginning. When the tears came, sometimes predictably, sometimes taking her by surprise, she gave herself five minutes for a full-on sob, then got back to the stuff at hand. She changed majors. Got a good internship that morphed into a job offer.
And then, that day after graduation, she made her list.
Lists had magical powers, Lauren thought. All that crap about writing down your dreams and checking in? It worked. It had gotten her through college, especially after her dad died, keeping her focused and punctual.
This list would be different. It would be a life list.
She went to her laptop—who was she, Jane Austen?—and dared to dream big. No one else would see it, after all, so why not put it all out there?
When she was done, it felt good. It made her feel oddly safe. Over the next few years, she looked at it periodically. She liked checking back in and crossing things off. She’d add things, too. And somewhere along the line, she started writing to her dad about the things on the list, or just life in general. It never failed to make her heart ache in the most painful and wonderful way, this little communication with her dad in the Great Beyond.
She got three promotions in her first two years at Pearl Churchwell Harris, Architects, putting in long hours, hitting it off with her boss, Bruce Churchwell, the Mighty and Beneficent. With her third raise, she left the apartment she shared with two other women and got a tiny one of her own. She made time for her sister, mom and friends. She dated, though very casually. She volunteered at a community center and rode her bike on the weekends.
And then, life changed with the kind of pulse that makes the world stop for a second, that lets you listen to the breath of stars and ocean. The day you recognize your life will never be the same.
* * *
THAT MOMENT CAME on a Friday in early February, and a snowstorm earlier in the week left Providence looking snug and warm, like a movie set. Walking to the Hope Center, Lauren had delighted in the prettiness of the city; going home, she wasn’t sure she saw a thing.
Oh, no. Her mind was too busy for that, even as her breath fogged in the cold air, and cars drove carefully down the snow-narrowed streets.
She needed to document this night, to talk with someone who would understand that this was it, the day she saw her future. Someone who would cherish her news and not say the wrong thing, but would understand the glow, the ember of something beautiful.
Her dad, obviously.
She came home to her little apartment in the old mill building, flicked on the lights, shrugged out of her raincoat and slipped off her painful, beautiful high heels. Usually, she took a moment to appreciate her home—she was a designer, after all—but tonight, she had things to do.
She wanted to do this properly, because it felt so momentous. Almost as if writing to her dad would make it official. So, not wanting to rush it, she went to the kitchen and took out a bottle, trying to make every movement deliberate, special, memorable. She unscrewed the cap and poured the wine into one of the very cool (and cheap) wineglasses she’d bought from IKEA. Held it up to the light to appreciate the lovely golden color.
She took her wine to the velvet couch her mother had told her not to buy. (“Why would you want a red couch? It looks like it’s drenched in blood.”) Settled herself, took a sip of the wine, set the glass on the coffee table and opened up her laptop with a great sense of anticipation welling in her chest.
Lauren had just come from the opening of the community center where she volunteered. Two years ago, she’d suggested to Asmaa Quayum, the director, that the place needed an overhaul. Four grants later, after countless hours of pro bono design work and sweat equity from dozens of volunteers, the Hope Center had opened its new and beautiful doors to celebrate the transformation.
The event had been packed with donors, community members and the kids who’d helped paint and decorate. All three bosses from Pearl Churchwell Harris were there, smiling approvingly. Jen and Darius had come (her mother had not, but that was probably just as well). The RISD interior design class had come, as well as half a dozen former classmates.
Including one surprise guest.
Lauren took a deep breath, a sip of wine, and opened the list she’d started three years ago now. She’d updated it a dozen or more times, this path for her life, when she had felt a little lost and uncertain, when she wanted to reassure herself, when she felt lonely or unsure . . . or just when she wanted to feel close to her father. Some of the things on the list were to be expected, some were a little silly, and some were completely sincere.