Two More

Touch every ocean

The landing gear hit the ground, jerking Lane Bishop awake. Immediately his neck began to ache from his in-flight nap. He considered maybe he should have moved around a bit while in the air for circulation, then dismissed it a moment later with a chuckle, causing the young woman next to him to cast a puzzled side eye glance his way. The irony of trying to prevent death at this point did not fail to amuse him. With the plane approaching the gate, Lane grabbed his carry on from under the seat in front of him and turned his phone back on. As it started up, he pulled out his small black notebook from the front pocket, already opened to the page he needed. He did not need to look at the writing, he had had it memorized for the last two years, but it gave him comfort still.

Seven hours ago, he crossed off yet another item as he stood on Santa Monica beach and stared out into the endless ocean. It gave him a sense of relief to finish another goal, and yet the knot in his stomach pulled a little tighter. Only two more he thought, as the cold water lapped up on his ankles. Two more tasks, both taking him away from the water and waves of LA and bringing him right back to his midwestern hometown.

As he walked through the terminal, the sense of familiarity washed over him. He had been through here thousands of times and had flown out of every gate at one point. That was an odd accomplishment he did not even mean to achieve, and it made him smile every time he flew. Ridiculous, sure, but how many people could say they’ve done the same? Maybe that should have made the list.

Walking out of security, he quickly shot off a text to his sister-in-law, so she knew he was on the ground safely, then began searching for his chauffeur in the line of black suits. Lane greeted the portly woman holding his name and exchanged small talk as they walked out to the sedan. She was exactly his type—short, curvy, with stunning eyes and a laugh that made his heart jump. As easy as it would be to flirt, his brain reminded him why he was here, and reality kept him in line. They rode in silence out of the airport and down the highway. Lane watched the towns pass by with the black notebook in his hands, subconsciously stroking the page with his thumb. Two more.

His phone began to buzz, and Lane glanced at the display. Dr. Anderson. He declined the call, not in the mood for a conversation with his therapist just yet. It rang again and once again he declined the call, this time sending back a text that he was almost to Darcy’s. Anderson quickly replied with just the thumbs up and fingers crossed emojis. Lane sighed, regretting having taught the older woman how to use emojis, but then smiled, remembering that is when he crossed off number 27: Talk to a therapist and see if you really are crazy. She assured him he was only a normal level of crazy, considering the completely messed up cards he had been dealt. He liked her instantly and never missed a virtual session, regardless of where he ended up that week. He made a note in his phone to leave her something in his will, full well knowing he would not remember it later.

The sedan rolled to a stop in front of a modest stone ranch on a suburban street. Lane generously tipped his driver, retrieved his small bag, and stepped out. As the car pulled away, Lane looked at the house and took pause. Even though his memory was not the most reliable these days, he vividly remembered his last time in this house. His brother’s funeral lunch six years ago. His teenaged niece and nephew, grieving their father. His sister-in-law, now a widow, consoling their family and friends as she pushed her pain away for when she was alone. His lone sister, Abilene, the sweetest of them all, inventing an excuse and whisking Darcy away so she did not have to hear another kind yet empty condolence. They all knew that as well meaning as everyone was, no words could help. It did not help at their own father’s funeral when they were the grieving kids, and it would not help now. And the final memory of that day, when Darcy had given him the traditional black notebook, gray journal, and a thick envelope with $20,000. Grant’s way of passing him the torch.

Now that day seemed a lifetime ago, and in a way it was. That night, he had taken the notebook and read all the pages of bucket lists from his family before: Grandpa Ephraim, Uncle Dennis, Uncle Martin, his father Campbell, then his brother Grant. Finally, it was his turn to make his bucket list. As tradition dictated, he began with the only thing left on Grant’s list: Be there for Darcy. Even in death, his older brother attempted to get the final say. However, Darcy told Lane he needed to live what was left of his life and not worry about her and the kids. He insisted on remaining in town, but she wouldn’t hear it. I will kill you myself, Lane. Get out of this place and live. I will need you here one day, so save enough for that trip back. He agreed to call her every Sunday to check in, signed his house over to Abilene, booked a flight to Oslo, and never came back.

Over the last six years, he had explored the world, crossing off nearly every item on his bucket list. He thanked his dead parents every day for having the foresight to insure their own lives, leaving Lane and his siblings a sizable inheritance. Miriam and Ephraim Bishop guaranteed that each of their children could choose the careers they genuinely loved, a privilege very few of their friends were afforded, and Lane was able to travel without the added worry of financing his adventures. In the gray journal, he wrote about his travels and crossing off each item. He had almost filled the entire journal, every line full of locations, shops, meals, and people. Six years of his life written on the pages-- his final chapter. The envelope had been mostly ignored and tossed into his safety deposit box. He did not need the $20,000 his brother had left him to complete the list, but he knew it would be useful later. And that later was finally here.

As he walked up to the door, Lane’s heart started pounding. He had hoped he would not need to come home, that he would not need to be there for Darcy in this way. Once again, their bloodline had the final say and condemned yet another Bishop to a short life. They need you; I cannot do this alone. Darcy had called him last week when she got the test results from both Logan and Maggie. Barely one year apart, the two kids had done everything together growing up. Same grade in school, same friends, same activities—they were truly inseparable. They helped each other through the grief of losing their dad after just 12 short years with him. They helped each other understand the disease that took Grant and the men before him, and that would eventually take Lane. They agreed together that once they graduated high school, they would both get tested to see if either of them had Huntington’s. Neither of them wanted to pass this on, and they needed to be prepared for what was to come. Given the history of their family, Lane assumed when Grant got his diagnosis that Logan would be the one, and Maggie would be the one sitting on the sidelines watching her brother slowly lose his mind, just like Abilene, Darcy, and Miriam did before her. The men in their family could not escape the clutches of this disease. Then Darcy called him sobbing last week, saying the test results came back, and he had to come home. He was the only one who could explain how this disease feels. He was the only one who could truly prepare one of them to die.

So, he caught a flight to St. Louis, and began to cross off the first of the final two items. Be there for Darcy. Grant knew what he was saying when he wrote this, and finally Lane did as well. Grant knew the future one or both of his children were destined to face. Grant knew that Lane alone could help Darcy through this moment. Standing on the threshold, he retrieved from his bag the worn black notebook, a brand-new gray journal, and the thick envelope with the $20,000 from Grant. He took a deep breath, rang the bell, and looked at the final item on his list that would go unfinished for now.

Live the rest of your life without fear, Maggie.