Page 16 of The Last Days of Lilah Goodluck

“Thank you,” I say, opening the door and climbing out. Which is especially hard to do from a low sports car when you’re clutching a bottle of champagne. But what does dignity matter in the face of imminent death?

“You’re not going to die,” he says.

“We all have to someday.”

He gives me one of those long looks he seems to specialize in. No idea what he’s thinking. The man is a mystery. His blue eyes are subdued in the low lighting, and the sharp angles and planes of his face are cast in shadow. “Take care of yourself, Lilah.”

I nod and close the car door, and that’s that.

5

Sunday

There seem to be several schools of thought regarding how best to deal with death. You have your standard five-step process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Then there’s the more popular boho hippie method: meditation, preparation, forgiveness, and gratitude. I myself have chosen a combination of the two.

Hanging out in the shower with my bottle of champagne until the water went cold covered denial, anger, and depression. I was, however, too tired to meditate last night and too hungover to manage it this morning. Talk about a headache. Though spending over an hour on the phone dealing with the details of the car accident and my insurers could be seen as preparation. Same goes for downloading a do-it-yourself will. I don’t want to die intestate and leave a disaster for someone else to deal with. That would be rude. I seem to have skipped forgiveness and bargaining so far and am still working my way toward gratitude. Because fuck this shit.

But it’s not all doom and gloom. I refuse to spend the next seven days in a downward spiral. Not a chance.

Good Witch Willow made five predictions. My boyfriend was indeed cheating on me, and I did get passed over for promotion. That’s two points. But while I did meet Alistair George Arthur Lennox, we did not instantly fall in love, and I saw no definitive sign that he is my soulmate (not that I would necessarily know what I was looking for). I award this prophecy half a point. As for the lotto, since I could only remember some of the numbers, she misses out on a full point there too. I’ll give her three-quarters of a point. Her total is therefore three and a quarter out of a possible five points. Let’s call it 70 percent. A high enough number to demand action. But low enough to still hold out some hope. (This also counts asacceptance.)

Now to decide how to spend my time.

My inner child immediately takes charge. I need to see the house I grew up in and be with my parents. To smell the faint scent of lemon cleanser and home cooking. It’s a small Spanish-style home in Santa Monica. Three bedrooms and a lovely garden located a good way back from the beach. Dad used to teach at UCLA while Mom managed a local café. But now they’re both retired and doing their own thing.

I have so many memories of this place. It’s always been a safe space for me, and I know I am lucky. As often as my mother and I disagree—which is often—I never doubted that I was loved. My brother moved to Boston years ago for work. We’re not close. But I know if I called, he would answer.

“Hello there.” Mom is packing the dishwasher when I wander into their kitchen in the afternoon. Just being here calms me down some. Coming here was a good choice. I inherited the buxom and blond from Mom. She was born in Denmark; her family moved to America when she was five. Just old enough to remember the harsh winter weather. The worry line instantly appears between her brows at the sight of me. We have that in common. “I didn’t hear your car in the driveway, Lilah.”

I lower the cold brew from my lips. “My car was in a slight accident yesterday.”

“How slight? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.” I press a kiss to her cheek. “You didn’t hear the car because I’m Ubering around at present. The Prius won’t get assessed until Wednesday. But I doubt the news will be good.”

“Honey,” says my dad, coming in from the front room. “I thought I heard your voice.”

“Hey, Dad.”

There didn’t used to be a whole lot of hugging and kissing in my family. Neither of my parents are touchy-feely people. Once my brother and I moved out and got on with our own lives, however, that started to change. It’s funny how family cultures evolve. How certain practices get passed down often without any real thought. None of my grandparents were especially affectionate either. I don’t know if they felt it was awkward or unnecessary or what. But I like that we’ve started being more demonstrative.

“What’s this I hear about a car accident?” he asks.

“It’s a long story, but basically, I was distracted and drove into a concrete bollard. I’m fine, but my car is not.”

While Mom has her worry line, Dad has his sigh. Both are effective in their own ways.

“But wait,” I say. “I have two more announcements to make.”

Dad leans his hip against the kitchen island. “We’re all ears.”

“Josh and I broke up.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look. One of those loaded parental glances. Like there’s a lot they could say on the subject, but they’re debating the wisdom of sharing their true thoughts and feelings.

“He was never good enough for you,” says Dad, making his mind up fast. “You know those people that talk fast but say nothing?”

“Babe,” says Mom in a wary tone.

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