Someone Else's Bucket List

by Amy T. Matthews

Until Bree got sick, Jodie hadn’t realized how painful love was. It stung. Like lemon juice poured on an open wound. But worse. It wasn’t pink and pleasant; it was bloodred and visceral. Fearful.

Grief was like weather: it had seasons and moods, and it could always take a turn for the worse. Today had started with lowering clouds of gloom and the rainy smell of despair; there had been razor-sharp, heart-hurting cold; then a bitter wind had blown in, churning the flat gray sky into a stormy sea of misery; and now there was driving, sheeting, pelleting sleet. The kind that flayed the skin off your bones.

This wasn’t just a list. This was everything. This was everyone’s future: her house, Grandma Gloria’s house, her parents’ retirement . . . Everyone was depending on her.

That was the thing about death, it put someone out of reach forever. You could never, ever ask them a question, ever again.

Because here she was. Bree had not only found a way to make it free of charge, but she’d made an offer Jodie couldn’t refuse. There were no excuses this time.

She’d kept secrets and made plans and found a way to get them out of debt, to boot. So the very least Jodie could do was try and enjoy it. As terrifying as some of these things were

such a simple thing. Time. Cheryl’s time, specifically. And time was so limited, wasn’t it? You ran out of it eventually.

“‘when we add up those inches that’s going to make the fucking difference between winning and losing. Between living and dying.’”

We can climb out of hell, one inch at a time . . . one medical bill at a time. A few minutes of humiliation would knock thousands

The lights of the city were smeared and sad. Funny how you could feel so alone in the middle of millions of people.

She was one of the world’s shiny people. The kind you remember.”

for you this is just a jaunt,” Jodie said tightly, “a sideshow. A chance to get your pretty face on Good Morning America. But for me . . . this is everything. This is my sister’s last goddamn wish. And a chance to get my parents

“I don’t want my grief paraded before a bunch of strangers. I don’t want to be humiliated and embarrassed. I don’t want to be pushed into being someone I’m not.

“I think I’ve wasted my life,” she blurted. God, that was hard to say. Because it was so true. It should have been Jodie. Jodie should have been the one who got sick. No one was going to miss the loser from the car-rental stand. The tears came, and they were burning hot. They stung her eyes. No one would miss her the way they missed Bree .

“It doesn’t say they have to love you back.” Her eyelids were growing heavy. “Because you can’t control that bit. And loving is good. Whether you’re loved back or not.”

item by item, the bucket list had pulled her out of it, had splashed the world with color and light. There had been craziness and music, laughter and vertiginous terror, friendship, and fury, and . . . love.

She kept thinking about her sister and all the videos. About the hours she must have spent setting all of this up. Arranging this flight, filming messages of encouragement. Knowing she was dying. Knowing she would never see the effects of her actions or know if it ever came to fruition.