Chapter 4: Checklist

I DRIED OFF AFTER an extra long shower and went about my morning preparations. Repeating the mantra that Ruthie made me promise to say every morning since she came back from vacation. Yeah, she probably got it from a fortune cookie, but whatever.

"Whatever the mind conceives and believes, it achieves."

Then I was supposed to imagine the way I wanted my day to go. I closed my eyes tightly and tried to see myself as I wanted to be today.

I got nothing. Honestly, I couldn't imagine what today was going to be like, at least in a positive way. Instead, I thought about the good parts of my life.

Right now, the best thing I had going were my grades. School was easy for me, always had been, and since I didn't goof off in class (unlike my best friend), the teachers liked me. Thank goodness, because after my mom died, I dropped out of sports, clubs, and my social life. The teachers must have felt sorry for me, because I pulled better grades than I deserved. However, that scholarship to Stanford was out of the question now.

Sophomore year was like running through water, and I was exhausted at the end of each day. I think I slept most of it. I got through the worst with the help of my best friend. Everyone else bailed on me, which was probably fair because I bailed on them first when I dropped out of everything, even the conversations.

"Stop that, girlfriend!" I channeled Ruthie and smiled, thinking I got her tone of voice right. I had to think positively.

With my towel wrapped around me, I headed to my room to dress. I ran my hand over the framed picture on my dresser. Mom and I were laughing so hard we were holding each other up. I couldn't remember why we were laughing exactly, just that it was one of those silly giggle episodes that got out of control. I needed some of that silliness now.

A year ago, you couldn't get me to think too deeply about anything. Now I thought too much. It was driving me crazy. Yeah, I know I should see a shrink, but it's so not going to happen.

How utterly surreal to look at that picture and know that vibrant person was dead. I never thought much about death before the accident. I mean, who does, right? I saw death all the time, on TV, in the news, even joked about it. Yet nothing prepared you for the real thing. Would it have been easier if I had just been told she was dead? Perhaps. However, witnessing a death is much more life-changing than I thought it would be. Alive one second and so not the next, at least I thought so. It was still very hazy in my mind. One more reason Dad wanted me to "talk" to someone. He thought I was blocking out the memory, but really, I just didn't remember much of it. I do remember seeing the impact of the car as it ran over Mom. I remember seeing her dead. I'll never forget that horror. And I couldn't let go of the feeling that it was my fault, like I had killed her.

Anyway, I thought I was stronger. You know, the whole lecture about "she'll always be with you," "she would want you to be happy," "you aren't the only one hurting." Yeah, surprise, surprise. Those sentiments don't really make you feel better. I was only sixteen, and the person who helped me get to that pivotal age wouldn't be there to help me through the rest, which would undoubtedly be way more difficult.

I had been a total mess last year.

The school year had almost come to an end before I noticed a change. It was like thawing out after swimming in the freezing Pacific Ocean. Feeling began returning to my lifeless heart and spread to the tips of my fingers and toes, like a transfusion of life, but I don't remember getting hooked up to anything. I'm not sure what triggered it. It just happened. I didn't realize how far I had regressed until I actually felt something again. No, that's not the best description. It was like not using a muscle for such a long time, it atrophied, forgot how to work. That's how my life was, atrophied. Yes, that's a better way to explain it. I resolved to work harder and made a list of things to change about myself.

I ran my finger over my mom's face in the picture frame, whispering, "I'm trying really hard, Mom."

Toward the end of summer, I'd recommitted myself to life. I decided it was time to make a comeback, painful though it might be, which was why I couldn't look like crap on the first day of school.

Staring into my mirrored closet doors, I felt grateful once again to Uncle Ira for getting me the job at the rec center this summer. I still hadn't thanked him because he'd been out of touch most of the break. He did that a lot. We went sometimes months without a word or way to contact him. I didn't mind so much because when he was around, he kind of spooked me. I often caught him watching me, like he was waiting for me to do something. What? I didn't know. But sometimes I wondered if he knew some of my secrets. Why would I think that? I don't know. It was just a feeling. So, I didn't mind that he wasn't around all that much. However, he had been there for me several times over the worst of the past year, that I could remember. Or at least Dad said so. Uncle Ira seemed to really care, so I pushed aside my own odd impressions of him. And I wanted him to see how much better I was, thanks to the job he found me.

I loved working with kids' basketball and lifeguarding. Who knew I would? I'd been reluctant to do it, sure it would end in epic failure and kids scarred for life, but eventually I agreed to try it out.

That I was good at it surprised me as much as my dad. It had helped me get back in shape, physically and emotionally, plus I'd earned a great tan.

So, check "pasty white skin" off my list of things to fix.

And although they say girls don't grow much in high school, I was the exception. I had gone from "sturdy-looking" to long and curvy. Total freaking miracle, or so my best friend would say. My lack of appetite the year before (or maybe the lack of mom's cooking) had a lot to do with it, I'm sure.

Check "nondescript body" off the list.

None of my clothes fit me by the end of summer. Let's just say school shopping was a blast this year. Dad gulped at the receipt each time he left a store. I tried to rationalize that we were simply making up for not buying new clothes for so long. But it didn't seem to help him fork over the money any easier. The only thing that did help was the smile I wore.

Yes, check "catatonic" off the list.

Dad had been so happy about a stupid smile that I began to realize for the first time how worried about me he had been.

When I started going places again (check "introvert" off the list), he practically flipped cartwheels. Then he began to notice the differences in me. I had turned that corner from awkward teen to adult over the summer (better late than never). He suddenly changed his tune and started asking me a million questions every time I left the house. He worried needlessly. I didn't do much besides work because my best friend was gone for the summer, and the rest of my friends had given up on me last year when I stopped responding to them. I'd made a few friends at the rec center, but the most we did together was have lunch or play basketball. Besides, I was content with less. For now, at least. I was easing into this new "me."

Now Ruthie was back. We had hung out every day for the last week, trying to catch up, and we were looking forward to our junior year.

Check off "no friends."

I began to have hope for more. I gave myself one last inspection in the mirror. "It's now or never," I whispered to my reflection. Then I headed out.