Twenty-Eight and a Half Wishes(9)

 

I felt very wicked. This was how the road to ruin started. One minute you’re exasperating your Momma by not turning off your alarm, the next you’re plotting the damnation of your soul. But then again, according to Momma, my soul was already damned. Number two stayed.

 

New rule: once the item got on the list, the only way it could be marked off was if I’d done it.

 

After number two, the list poured out. Get cable TV. Get my own place. Buy some makeup. Visit a beauty salon. Get a pedicure. Ride in a convertible. Drink a glass of wine. Drink a beer. Go to a bar. Dance. Get a boyfriend. Kiss a man. Do more with a man. (That was all I could bring myself to say.) Get a dog. Dress like a princess.

 

I continued to write, my words getting smaller as I got closer to the bottom of the receipt. Wear high heels. Wear a lacy bra and panties. Eat Chinese food. Go to Italy. Learn to knit. Ride a motorcycle. Fly in an airplane. Jump on a trampoline. Fly a kite. Have a picnic in the park. Play in the rain.

 

I had twenty-eight items when I realized there was room for only one more at the bottom. I stared at it, unsure what to put, yet afraid to fill in the spot. What if there was something I hadn’t thought of yet? In the end, I wrote the number twenty-nine and left it empty. There were too many possibilities to limit myself to only one more.

 

I read the list with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. Proud of myself for finally deciding to embrace life. Embarrassed I wrote it. How many other people needed a list to make them do the things they set out to do?

 

The sun lowered in the trees and even though I didn't want to go home, I also didn’t want to walk in the dark. Henryetta was a fairly safe town, and while I was trying to shed my conservative past, I wasn’t quite ready to risk my life just yet, especially with my new list. I carefully folded the receipt, tucked it into my wallet, and walked to the entrance of the park.

 

Streetlights blinked on in the dusk, pools of light dotting the street. My gait alternated between a brisk pace and a reluctant stroll as I made my way home. Soon Momma’s house wouldn’t be home. Like a can of ice cold Coke just poured in a glass, giddiness bubbled up and filled my heart with fizzy joy. I had to stop myself from skipping. Maybe I should search for my own place tomorrow, too.

 

Our house came into view and I found the porch light off, the windows dark. Momma was frugal, but she would have turned on the living room lamp by nine o’clock and she wouldn’t have gone to bed already.

 

I walked up to the side of the house, preparing for a verbal barrage, but stopped short when I found the door slightly ajar. It creaked as I pushed it open in slow motion.

 

“Momma?” I called into the dark kitchen. The ticking of the Dollar General rooster clock bounced around the blackness and filled me with a heavy dread. My eyes adjusted to the dark and I made out the outlines of the furniture. The kitchen table and chairs, all in their places. The old children’s song with the line all in their places with bright shiny faces started to play in my head, an odd thought to have when you knew deep in your gut something bad was about to reveal itself.

 

I stepped through the door, unsure how to proceed. I decided to just move forward. “Momma?”

 

I reached for the light switch, but nothing happened. My heart thumped wildly as though it were a rabbit trying to escape from my chest. “Momma?” my voice grew more insistent and frantic. I shuffled to the doorway of the living room. The streetlight poured in through the open window and I saw her upright on the sofa.

 

“Momma?” I gasped, somehow knowing she wouldn’t answer.

 

I inched closer and wrapped my arms around myself as I tried to keep my wits about me. The outside light illuminated the side of Momma’s face, casting long shadows from her sharp profile. Her eyes were open, as well as her mouth, which sagged as though she was getting ready to utter another complaint. Perhaps she was, before she acquired the three-inch hole in the side of her head.

 

I stood in horror, unable to move, mesmerized and terrorized by the sight. Time stood still, the tick of the clock in the kitchen couldn’t keep up with the metronome of my racing heart. Finally, I turned my head from her gaze, realizing fully for the first time that it was the stare of a dead woman.

 

I walked into the kitchen and picked up the phone in a daze. It shouldn’t have surprised me to hear no dial tone, but I stared at the receiver, puzzled. Huh? Maybe I should have got that cell phone before I came home.

 

Later I would think these strange thoughts to run through my mind, but in the moment they didn't seem so odd. I replaced the phone in its cradle, unsure what to do next. I needed to call someone. Who? Oh, the police.