The Someday List (6 page)

A chain reaction of delays and overbooked airline
seats kept Rachelle in the San Diego airport six hours past her
scheduled arrival in Houston. Rachelle boarded her plane in the
wee hours of the morning and slept for the most of the nonstop
flight.

She had to get her bearings when she left the plane and entered the airport terminal just after seven a.m. Usually one of
her friends, or Helen, her part-time housekeeper, swooped in to
pick her up.

But Rachelle had given Helen the week off, since Gabe was
away at his conference and the kids were in Philadelphia. After
the series of unpredictable delays, she was glad she had decided
to drive rather than bother Shelley, Trina, or jade. One of them
would have been happy to pick her up late last night, but those
divas wouldn't be up this time of morning unless it was to go to
and from one of their many exercise classes.

Rachelle retrieved her suitcase from baggage claim and rolled
it out of the airport to the parking deck. The sun was positioning
itself over the city, and she knew that soon, steamy heat would be
rising from the pavement.

She slid her bag onto the backseat, settled behind the wheel,
and fastened her seat belt. She turned the ignition and paused
when Alicia Keys' voice permeated the Lexus with the lyrics to
"Tell You Something:"

Rachelle had been listening to the song frequently in the weeks
leading up to her visit with Jillian and thinking about how accurate those words were-she did feel sorrow, and she wished she
could better articulate to Jillian how much their friendship had
meant. She didn't want it to end this soon, especially since they
had just reconnected.

Rachelle tried to sing along, but her voice faded as the lump
in her throat expanded. Why, of all the songs in her CD rotation,
did she have to start the morning with this one? She rested her
head on the steering wheel and sobbed. Jillian hadn't succumbed
yet, but her frail appearance and the beautiful ceremony over the
weekend left Rachelle with little doubt that it wouldn't be long.

They were the same age. Had similar hopes and dreams. They
were good girls. So why was this happening? Jillian had even
taken it a step further by deciding to live a life of full-fledged
faith. Why was the God that she loved so much snatching her
away so young?

Rachelle turned down the volume of the music and leaned back
into the headrest. She wiped her eyes, reached for her cell phone,
and called her mother. Mom wouldn't have answers to her questions, but because she knew Jillian, maybe she'd understand this
distress. Plus, Rachelle couldn't think of anyone else who would
be up this time of morning.

Rachelle wasn't surprised when her mother answered on the
first ring.

"What's up, dear?"

Rachelle chuckled. "I should be asking you that," she said. "What have you already accomplished this morning? It's just
eight-something in Philly."

"Your dad and I are reading the paper and having breakfast,"
her mother responded. "The question is, what are you doing up
this early?"

Rita Mitchell never ceased to amaze Rachelle. She was always
quick on her feet, with astute questions or ready answers. Her
calm demeanor and solid organizational skills seemed effortless.
Rachelle routinely questioned why she struggled to accomplish
that same level of competency, despite her role model.

"I just needed to hear your voice;' Rachelle said.

"Is everything okay?" Rita asked.

Rachelle heard her children laughing in the background. She
couldn't believe they were up so early. Mom must have enforced
an early bedtime.

"Jillian's dying, Mom."

Her mother gasped.

"I just returned from a farewell gathering she hosted in San
Diego, and I ... I don't know. It's hitting me harder than I expected"

Rachelle waited for the comforting words she needed to hear
right now. She crossed her fingers that Mom would come through
and offer a dose of reassurance that despite Jillian's circumstances,
everything would turn out okay.

"I haven't seen Jillian's mother in a while. I didn't know," Rita
said. "The family must be devastated. What's wrong? What's the
diagnosis?"

Rachelle explained that Jillian had breast cancer and described
the life celebration she had hosted.

"Why didn't you tell me about this? I would have gone with
you, Rachelle. At least to pay my respects:"

Rachelle stiffened. "Mom, this wasn't a funeral. There aren't
respects' to pay-not yet. This was a chance to say goodbye but
also to tell her how much we love her. It was just hard. Besides,
you have Tate and Taryn. You couldn't have accompanied me:'

Rachelle sighed. Why had she thought her mother would understand?

"Well, it is indeed sad;' Rita said. "But get yourself together,
Rachelle. Sounds like Jillian has accepted this. It's good that you
had a chance to say goodbye. You'll be fine.

"What are you doing now, with all of this free time on your
hands? Have you heard from Gabe since he left?"

Rachelle closed her eyes. That was just like her mother, to say
her two cents' worth about an uncomfortable subject, then turn
the discussion elsewhere. Rachelle inhaled and exhaled slowly a
few times to ease her tense muscles. She had seen Gabe advise
many a stressed-out friend or acquaintance to use this technique
to lower their blood pressure or reduce the anxiety that contributed to heart problems. Not that she had either of those health
issues-she had long ago adopted the strategy to keep her cool
in trying situations, and now it was almost a reflex.

"Mom, let me call you and the kids back later, okay? Tell Dad
I said hello"

Rachelle tucked the cell phone into her purse and put the car
in reverse. Before she backed out of the parking space, she pressed
the FM radio control on her steering column.

She didn't listen to the radio often, but today, she felt restless.
She wanted something other than the dozens of songs on her CDs
and iPod that she played so often she could sing them in her sleep.
She surfed stations until the strains of a melody caught her ear:

"Grateful, grateful, grateful; Gratefulness ... is flowing from
my heart. . ."

When the song wound to a close, the DJ piped up. "Good Sunday morning, Houstonians! That was Hezekiah Walker and the
Love Fellowship Choir with the beautiful song, `Grateful. What
are you grateful for this morning?"

Rachelle focused on the digital radio panel as if the DJ were
speaking specifically to her.

"Let me ask you another question based on a Hezekiah-inspired
song," he said. "Who do you need to survive? Yes family, yes
friends, but have you tried God?"

Normally, this would be the point at which she tuned out or
turned the dial. This morning, however, her heart was tender.

Rachelle pulled out of the parking deck and sat at a traffic
light a block away from the Sam Houston Tollway. She could
take the freeway to her cushy suburb, but why go home? No one
was there.

Her friends would be spending time with their husbands and
kids today. Since she had neither of those to make it a family affair, she'd be a tagalong.

Rachelle glanced at the dashboard clock and noted that it was
just eight a.m. The red-eye flight and multiple cups of coffee over
the last hour had left her wired. Why not hit the road?

She could be at Alanna's place in Dallas before her sister climbed
out of bed, around noon ... or maybe she should drive just over
two hours to jubilant and spend a few days with Aunt Irene and
Uncle Charles. The surprise would make their day, and she realized
in answer to the radio announcer's question, they were among the
people she needed and cherished most, even though she hadn't
regularly expressed her affection over the last dozen years.

Gabe felt threatened by her visits to her college town and to
Aunt Irene and Uncle Charles's home for reasons he had never
fully articulated. The few times he had accompanied her before and after they wed, he hadn't relaxed enough to enjoy himself.
Rachelle soon realized that unless they were unwinding or having
fun in a formal or structured activity that in the long run furthered
Gabe's career goals, her husband didn't care to participate.

This morning she thought about her anorexic list of things
she wanted to accomplish in the coming years. She had dated the
paper, folded it up, and tucked it in her wallet, so that when ideas
came to her, she could readily fill the nine blank slots.

Visiting her extended family didn't necessarily belong on the
list of long-term goals, but it was something she wanted to do,
and for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel the need to
justify her desire. Gabe wasn't here to shift the excitement she was
feeling about her Sunday morning excursion into doubt about
whether her relatives cared to be bothered with her. She knew
differently.

Fresh from her visit with Jillian, now was the perfect time to
immerse herself in Aunt Irene and Uncle Charles's world. They
would accept her as is, even if, in her quest to create a list of tangible goals, she stopped being the Rachelle who lived to please
everybody but herself.

he redbrick church looked smaller each time Rachelle
returned.

Maybe it was because of the volume of megachurches sprouting
up around Houston. Everything looked miniature in comparison
to some of those structures.

The rich harmonies that floated across the summer wind from
the choir loft more than compensated for the building's modest
appearance. Music filled Rachelle's ears as soon as she stepped
out of her sedan. These folks weren't having church, they were
having chuch.

She locked the car door with her key chain control and crossed
the gravel parking lot. The enthusiastic welcome from the salt-andpepper afroed usher who greeted her made the steep climb up the
steps to the St. Peter's Baptist Church sanctuary worthwhile.

Aunt Irene and Uncle Charles must be inside somewhere. She
had stopped by their house when she arrived in jubilant, but
realized when no one answered the door that they were already
at church.

Rachelle glanced at a clock in the foyer while she waited to be
admitted into the worship service. 11:05 a.m. She hadn't missed
much.

She gave herself a once-over. Changing clothes in the bathroom
at the local McDonald's hadn't been ideal, but the lightly wrinkled
black slacks and silver satin top would have to do. In Houston,
dressy casual had become the norm for churchgoers. Smaller
cities didn't always catch on as fast, but she hoped she wouldn't
embarrass her aunt and uncle.

Rachelle peered through the small, rectangular windowpanes
of the doors that led into the sanctuary. An usher stood on each
side, preventing anyone from entering until instructed to do so.
The youth choir sang and swayed to an upbeat version of the
hymn, "Down at the Cross:" Most of the congregation was on its
feet, accompanying them.

Rachelle scanned each row, trying to determine where Aunt
Irene might be sitting. It was hard to pinpoint her in the sea of
bobbing heads and waving hands.

The scene brought back memories from Rachelle's days as a
student at Everson College. Though she had sporadically attended
church growing up, her participation in the Baptist Student Union
Choir at Everson came with mandatory weekly Bible studies and
with numerous engagements in churches throughout jubilant and
surrounding cities. Soon, she and some of her friends from the
choir had begun attending a small church close to campus, whose
members' expressions of faith mirrored these parishioners, from
the closed eyes and movement to the music, to the arms reaching
toward heaven and outbursts of gratitude.

When Pastor Taylor motioned for the congregation to be
seated, an usher allowed her to enter and another beckoned her
forward.

"I'm looking for Irene and Charles Burns;' Rachelle whispered.

The older woman searched faces in each aisle and led Rachelle
to a seat in the third row. Everyone in the pew turned toward her, including Aunt Irene and her youngest daughter, Yasmin. Aunt
Irene's eyes widened.

She almost looks startled, Rachelle thought.

Aunt Irene and Yasmin moved closer together to make room
for Rachelle on the cushioned pew. When she took her seat, she
noticed that Irene's older daughter, Indigo, wasn't with them, and
she didn't see the girl in the choir loft filled with teenagers.

Yasmin hugged Rachelle's waist when Rachelle settled next
to her.

"Where are Taryn and Tate?" the girl whispered.

"In Philadelphia, with their Gram and Poppa;' Rachelle said.

She patted Yasmin's hand when the girl's face fell. At seven she
was a year younger than Taryn, but the girls loved each other dearly.
Though they were cousins, the resemblance between them was
striking. Both had flowing hair like their mothers, brown sugar complexions, and prominent jaw lines. People who saw the girls together
often mistook them for sisters, an error that delighted them.