The Fall in Love Checklist

by Sarah Ready

  “Bull.”

  She lies back on the hospital bed and turns on her side away from me.

  “Got any water?” the man asks.

  I get up and pour him a cup.

  “Thanks, sonny,” he says.

  “Anyone here with you?” I ask.

  “Nah. Better on my own. You get it. I can tell, you’re a lone ranger at heart. Like me.”

  I study him, a man nearing his eighties, all alone. He has no one to love and no one to lose.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  I go back to Sissy’s bedside and think about the day we first met. It was six months ago.

  It took me about three seconds to realize I’d do anything for her. She stepped out of Dad’s rusted Bronco with a scuffed Jansport backpack. It was filled with all her possessions in the world. In her arms was a ratty stuffed elephant with one eye missing and its trunk half fallen off. I watched as she nervously tugged on its trunk.

  She and Dad had been living in the back of his SUV. For years. Her nose was crooked and broken in three places. Her left eye was black and blue. “She’s been getting in fights on the road. I’ve got a new opportunity in Mexico. Can’t have her around. You gotta take her, son. She’s your half-sister, don’t you know?”

  I hadn’t known. Fury swept through me. She was fifteen and I’d never heard of her existence. What had her life been like, travelling the country with my scheming drifter dad?

  This was only the third time in my life that I’d seen him. I’d never come away with a good impression. His eyes were constantly shifting and he could never look me straight on.

  “I told you, pops. I’ll be good on my own,” she’d said. Her chin tilted up and she looked at me with haughty pride. But there was uncertainty there, and a challenge. She was challenging me to care. I recognized the look because I’d given it to my dad, once, long ago. He’d not risen to the occasion.

  I sighed and she unconsciously hugged her stuffed elephant against her chest.

  Dang.

  That was it. I was sunk. Hard and fast.

  “Take your bag inside,” I’d said.

  She did. Then I gave my dad the five thousand dollars he hinted at and requested that he not stay the night but leave for Mexico right away. And never come back.

  That protectiveness I feel for Sissy, the sibling love, I’ll do anything for her.

  Even send her away. Because if she gets hurt because of my bad luck, I’ll never forgive myself.

  I let out a long, heavy sigh.

  A nurse in thick-heeled white shoes hustles into the room. She stops at Sissy’s bedside. “Ready for discharge?”

  Sissy looks up. “Seriously ready,” she says.

  An hour later we’re in the driveway at home.

  “I’ll be back after my meeting. You’ll be okay?”

  “You worry too much,” says Sissy. She starts to smile, then stops. She reaches up and touches the bandages. “Hurts to smile.”

  I frown.

  “Take the painkillers they gave you. Have a nap.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says.

  She looks out the truck window at the dusting of early spring snow. Then, she blows on the glass and traces a smiley face in the fog.

  “Anyway, I can’t. I’ve got two papers due and an exam on Monday. Plus, I’m running for student body president. Big campaign to plan.”

  “You’re taking over the world,” I say. She’s gone from a jumpy scrapper to a driven young woman intent on ruling the world. Sissy is as subtle as a bull and has the drive of a runaway train.

  “Out with the old, in with the new me,” she says. It was her New Year’s resolution. She wanted to shed the last of her old life, and that included fixing the visible breaks and scars on her nose.

  “Text me if you need anything,” I say. I chuck her on the arm.

  She holds back a smile. “Good luck at your meeting. If they don’t approve your project I could dig up some dirt and blackmail them, or pull a con that involves—”

  “Hey, I got this. Where’s the faith?” I hold up my hands. She probably would find a way to blackmail the committee. She learned quite a few questionable practices from our dad.

  “Yeah, yeah,” she says again. “Still. Offer’s open.”

  “Go on. Get out of here.”

  “K. But don’t forget, I’m going to look up that cute girl from the hospital. The tragic pretty princess that got dumped by the dick. She loooves you. Jack and Pretty Princess sitting in a tree.”

  I pull at my collar.

  “Get out of here, Sissy. You proved your point.”

  She laughs and I level her with a long look. But I can’t help the edge of my mouth quirking up.

  “Bye, bro.”

  She walks across the driveway and lets herself in the house.

  As I pull out, my thoughts return to the woman in the hospital.

  Daniella.

  I don’t know her last name. I don’t know anything about her. Except that I fell hard. After one look.

  Dang.

  I’m not completely sure why she was in the hospital recovery suite today, or why her creep of a fiancé dumped her, or why she lets her mother railroad her like that. I only know that my instincts are telling me I have to see her again. It’s the same feeling I get when I find a building that I know I have to have. I always get those buildings. And then the renovations are like a relationship. I choose my buildings when something in me recognizes them as a kindred spirit. It’s like that. But not. Maybe because the feeling is a thousand times stronger. I’ve never had that with another person.

  I blow out a long breath as I pull into Stanton City Hall.

  I clear my mind and prepare for my presentation. Winning this project is what’s most important. My entire future hinges on this meeting. Nothing can go wrong.

  5

  Jack

  * * *

  Everything’s gone wrong.

  I worked for more than a decade toward my goal of building an affordable, safe, sought-after housing community in Stanton and I’m about to fail.

  I click through my slide show on the conference room wall. All of my artist representations of Rose Towers Community are on the projection screen. I have the plans completed, the funding set, everything in place, except the approval of the Downtown Development Committee.

  The eight members of the committee sit behind a long table. The chair, Mr. Atler, was my biggest supporter. With his backing, I expected my bid to pass. He leans over and whispers to Ms. Smith. She’s co-chair and in the seat next to him. She scribbles something on her notepad and shows it to him. He scowls and looks at me. The committee member on the end is frowning. Another is staring out the window, not even pretending to pay attention.

  I rally and continue my presentation.

  “As you can see, the community will have a circular walking and jogging path, a playground, an outdoor pool, grills and picnic tables, and a large open grassy area for recreation.” The pictures on the wall give a bird’s eye view. The land is currently overgrown and fallow. The warehouses have been empty for twenty-five years. But the buildings have character and incredible potential. I glance at the faces of the board again to gauge their reaction.

  Only a few of them are paying attention. The second I stepped into this room I knew the attitude toward me had turned. The committee’s no longer supportive. They’re ambivalent at best and antagonistic at worst.

  But why?

  “The buildings will retain their character and historic appeal, but include modern amenities,” I say in a confident voice meant to disguise my confusion.

  I click through lifestyle images showing the kitchen, bath and laundry in the units. The images are polished, appealing—but for some reason that I can’t fathom, I’ve lost the committee.

  The mood in the room isn’t with me.

  I make one last effort to sweep them up in my vision. My passion.

  “For more than a decade, I’ve renovated homes in Stanton. My pass
ion is taking unlivable, discarded spaces and converting them into homes. In renovating the warehouses to residential, the city of Stanton will open up a new market of living space. The city will show that it cares about the quality of life of its people and its families. Right now, there’s a housing shortage for the working class and middle class. It’s reached crisis levels. Throwing up new developments and bare-boned apartment buildings with paper-thin walls isn’t the answer. No matter a person’s income level, they deserve a well-built, solid family home with character, architectural beauty, and a feeling of security, safety and community. By giving a city livable homes, you give it a heart. Which is why I ask that you vote to approve my bid for Rose Tower.”

  I close the presentation. The dimmed lights turn back to brightness. I scrutinize the faces of the board. I lobbied hard before the meeting today to make sure I had enough votes. They denied the other contenders. There are no other open proposals that I know of. This should have been a win.

  This project is more than business for me, it’s the culmination of my life’s passion. I grew up in a housing development, with cold, drafty walls, mold, rot, and petty crime. I want to give kids and families more than what I had.

  Mr. Atler, the Chairman, leans forward. “Mr. Jones. Thank you. While we appreciate your vision, we have reservations.”

  My shoulders tense. As of yesterday, Mr. Atler was my main supporter. Now, his arms are folded over his chest and he’s leaning back in his chair. Classic closed-off posture. Defensive look on his face.

  Something changed in the last twenty-four hours, and it’s not to my benefit.

  I roll my shoulders back. “Let me address those reservations,” I say.

  Ms. Smith, the co-chair and a lawyer at a prominent law firm, speaks. “This committee was formed last year with the directive to act in the best interest of the city of Stanton. The best interest. Am I clear?”

  Her lips are pursed. I scan the faces of the board. All closed off. None friendly.

  “No. I’m not clear. My proposal will do exactly as you say—provide the city with an income for decades, bring life to downtown, increase foot traffic, revenue, revitalize the riverfront. Rose Tower will bring untold benefits to the community. I’m sure Mr. Creston, the donor of the property and a known philanthropist, would agree.”

  A quiet debate begins amongst the committee members. It quickly becomes clear that another party has entered the field and money, a great big sack of money, is at stake. And, the amount apparently, is much more than what my project will bring.

  “I move to deny the Rose Tower bid,” Mr. Atler says.

  “I second the motion,” Ms. Smith says.

  I’m speechless. Completely speechless.

  A vote is called and my vision is unanimously voted down.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jones. Meeting adjourned.”

  And that is how a ten-year dream is crushed in ten minutes.

  The committee files out. I’m left standing at the front of the room. I look at the empty chairs and the vacant table. It’s done. It’s all over.

  Mr. Atler and I are alone in the room. He stands and starts to make his way out. When he looks my way, he shakes his head.

  “Dratted business. You understand. I’ve always been an admirer of your work. What is it fifty, sixty properties rehabbed now?”

  “Sixty-two,” I say. Each one is meaningful.

  “Yes, yes. Charitable of you. Anyway, Jones. We received another bid. Too good to refuse.”

  I step forward. I can’t let this go. I can’t let this be the end. The Creston warehouses are perfect for my project, there’s not another spot within sixty miles that fits as well.

  “What can I do to convince you otherwise. Can I file an appeal? Bring more funding? What do you need from me?”

  He shakes his head. “There’s nothing. We’ll be wrapping this up at the next quarterly meeting.” He looks at his watch. I’m losing my chance.

  “There’s got to be something. Anything. Come on, Rick. You believe in this too.” I put my hand on his arm, trying to recapture our connection.

  He sighs and rubs at his eyes. “I’m retiring next year. Can’t wait to hit the golf course every morning. I’m too old for these political machinations. You hear me?”

  I nod. He’s thawing.

  “Cindy, my wife, she thinks well of you.”

  “She’s a lovely woman.”

  He scrubs his eyes again. “She nearly had my head last night when I told her we’d have to vote you down. Renovation is a pet project of hers. She’s HGTV mad, thinks she’s a fixer-upper diva. Couch pillows, fluffy throws, quartz countertops. Do you hear me, Jones?”

  “Yes?” Honestly, I’m not clear what he’s getting at.

  “Good, good.”

  “I’m to make an appeal?”

  “Criminy, no. You’ll be shut down again. I’ll vote you down myself.”

  I shake my head. Confused.

  “It’s not me who’s blocking you. It’s the Richie Riches of Stanton, the power players. The committee’s in their pocket. They’ve decided the warehouses should go to another party. Line their bank accounts a little more. If you can convince them that you’re the better bet, then you’ll get your project.”

  “The Richie Riches?” Stanton is a small city, with a population of a few hundred thousand.

  Rick shakes his head ruefully. “The Drakes, to start. Get them on your side and the rest will fall in place.”

  My mind works out questions and plans. The name Drake sounds vaguely familiar.

  “Any other advice?”

  He shakes his head and holds out his hand. I take it and give a firm shake.

  “My wife will be happy if you get your project through. She wanted to pass on some wallpaper suggestions for the entries. A happy wife makes a happy life. I’ll walk you out.”

  We head down the hall to the front door of City Hall.

  At the parking lot Rick gives a last bit of advice. “The final vote for the warehouse bid is at the next quarterly meeting. I’d have made my play before then if I were you.”

  “Thanks.”

  I hold up my hand in farewell.

  Inside, my mind is spinning.

  I failed. Failed miserably. But I have a direction and a glimmer of hope. Find the Drakes and convince them to fall in love with my dream. Heck, I’ll convince them to fall in love with me if I have to. I head off, ready to get in bed with the Drakes and make them fall in love.

  6

  Dany

  * * *

  I’m discharged after three nights in the hospital. My mother holds the wheelchair handles as she confirms the instructions from the nurse.

  “Drakes don’t get cancer,” she says for the seventeenth time this morning, and possibly the nine hundredth since the diagnosis. “We just don’t.”

  She sends me a look. She made it perfectly clear that cancer is beneath the Drakes.

  “I don’t know where Daniella went wrong. Possibly the hamburger phase she had in second grade. I warned her. I told her, Drakes do not eat hamburgers. Or candy bars. There were some candy bars that year too.”

  The nurse hums a non-answer. She’s a no-nonsense black woman in blue scrubs. She points back to the printed pages on wound care. There are instructions on how to remove the bandages and care for the drains—those delightful little tubes that send out all the oozy fluid from the surgical site. The ooze was red at first, then pink, now it’s the color of apple juice. There are instructions for showering, for medication, for activity level. There are pages upon pages of instructions. I nod and try to listen. But I’m distracted. There’s a room with an open door that’s diagonal from the nurses’ station. It has coral-colored trim around the door and light salmon linoleum floors. There are plants, a white and fuchsia orchid and a blooming bird of paradise. A flood of sunlight spills across the floor from the large window. All this color is almost a vulgar contrast to the dull green and blue and gray everywhere else.

/>   I crane my neck and make out a group of women, sitting in plushy lounge chairs. An older woman in a purple track suit is talking and gesticulating widely. The rest of the women are roaring with laughter. I’m stunned. What could be so funny? So wildly amusing? I’ve never heard so much noise, so much laughter in a hospital. Or anywhere really.

  “What is that?” I ask. I point to the room.

  My mother bats at my hand.

  “Don’t point, darling,” she says.

  The nurse looks over. She scratches her chin. “That’s the girls.”

  Another round of laughter erupts. My mother sniffs.

  I don’t know why, but I’m drawn to their laughter. It’s so uninhibited and unapologetic. It reminds me of the first time I saw kids doing somersaults at the park. I stood in awe, then rashly joined them. I rolled down the hill, my stomach flipping in joy as I sped down. I was free. Until my nanny found me and scolded me for the grass stains on my dress. I haven’t felt that joyful rolling since. Except that colorful room reminded me so much of it.

  I shift in the wheelchair and crane my neck to see inside better.

  My mother sends me a pointed stare. I ignore it.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  The nurse doesn’t answer.

  My mother clears her throat. “As I said, thank you for your care. We won’t be back. The cancer is cut out. Gone. Drakes don’t get cancer. As I said.”

  I wonder if my mother remembers that I wasn’t born a Drake. Probably not. I assumed the role so well.

  We receive the final paperwork, my prescriptions, follow-up instructions, when the drains can come out, when the staples can be removed…enough information to direct a military campaign, but finally, finally my mother begins to wheel me out.

  “Someone else can push me,” I say. My mom is five foot two and all of one hundred pounds.

  “Don’t be silly, darling. What would they say?”

  “Of course,” I say. Which is absolutely always the right response.

  The wheels squeak as the wheelchair glides down the hall. I hunch my shoulders down, then adjust my posture as the stitches pinch my skin.