Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87609 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
It’s possible that I also get the penchant for randomness and drama from my mother. “No, Mom. I can honestly say the thought has never crossed my mind. Though I am taking the week off. I was due a break from work anyway.”
Cue another round of hugging. Then Dad is off to hang out in his office and work on his book about ethical theory, and I am left alone with the family matriarch.
There was always a solid chance I wouldn’t be able to bring myself to tell them about the predictions. For so many reasons. The key one being, my time might be limited, and I’d rather focus on making good memories. But I also want to relive the best bits of my life. The everyday things I took for granted. “Mom, if I make a sad face, will you bake me your chocolate chip cookies?”
“I don’t know.” She gives me a long look. “I just cleaned up. It would need to be truly wretched.”
“I’m talking profoundly pathetic. Like lost Dickensian orphan pressing her nose against your kitchen window on Christmas Eve.”
“Hmm. You’d need to squeeze out a tear or two. Do you think you’re up to it?”
I laugh. And then I stop laughing because this is serious. This might well be the last time I see my parents. I have no idea what the next week will bring. A lump is lodged in my throat, making it impossible to swallow. “I’m sorry I was such a pain in the ass growing up. You know I appreciate you, right?”
Mom cocks her head. “You weren’t a pain in the ass.”
“What about when I was a teenager? All the sneaking off to parties and skipping class?”
“To my knowledge, you snuck off to exactly two parties and skipped class once in a blue moon.” Her gaze is full of confusion. “Lilah, where is all of this coming from?”
“Nowhere. It’s nothing.” I pull up my metaphorical brave big-girl panties and paste on a smile. “You were going to make me cookies.”
For a moment she says nothing. Then she nods. “All right. I’ll make you a batch. But don’t smudge the glass pressing your nose against it. I don’t need a demonstration.”
“I won’t smudge the glass. Thank you, Mom.”
“You’re welcome,” she says in a soft voice. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I’m making a plan for what to do with my free week.”
She turns on the oven and starts assembling the ingredients and utensils. “What have you got in mind?”
“I want to make the most of my time. Do all the experiences and events and whatever that I should have done by now.” I pull out my cell and bring up the note app. “The things I hoped to achieve before thirty but delayed due to time or money or laziness.”
“It’s not like you don’t still have plenty of time. But that could be fun. What have you got so far?”
“Not much. Care to brainstorm with me?”
Mom smiles. We have the same smile too. “I would love that.”
* * *
“Well, well, well,” says Rebecca, dramatically sweeping into my apartment. “If it isn’t the mystery woman herself.”
“What are you talking about, and do you want a glass of wine?”
“Of course I want a glass of wine. What kind of question is that?”
The makings of my bucket list are spread across the small dining table. Mom and I came up with a long list, and there are lots of ideas on the internet. Now I need to eliminate and prioritize. Visiting my parents helped calm me down. But this situation, the whole “Will I or won’t I die?” thing, makes me anxious as heck. I am taking deep breaths and thinking calm thoughts on the regular. It’s almost working. The list could well come in handy for distracting me from my possible imminent death in the days ahead.
“Do you really not know what I’m talking about?” asks Rebecca, dumping her purse on the kitchen island. “Ooh. Cookies.”
“Mom made them. Help yourself. Do I really not know what you’re talking about with regard to what?” I retake my seat at the table. “How did things go with Priya?”
“Really good!” says Rebecca. “We have plans for tonight. I’m cautiously optimistic. She really seems open to the idea of seeing where this thing between us could go this time.”
“That’s great news. What changed?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m just glad it did.”
My best friend works in accounting at one of the big film studios. She makes up for spending her days crunching numbers by wearing the brightest clothes she can find. This evening, she’s sporting a fuchsia pantsuit with gold jewelry. Her dark hair is styled in its usual chin-length bob. The woman is fire.
With a glass of wine in hand and a whole cookie in her mouth, Rebecca thrusts her cell at me and points at the screen.