Page 83 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“God knows,” I mumbled as I drifted off, “we’ve had plenty of practice.”

FORTY-EIGHT

Friday morning I woke up with a throbbing hangover and an iPhone full of emails, all of which reminded me that I was no longer Madam Mayor. At least temporarily.

It was the weekend of our twenty-fifth high school reunion, and for the next few days, I was once again Madam President.

Our lovable class clown, Duff Logan, was the reunion chairman, and together with his self-anointed Committee of Middle-Aged Dorks, Dweebs, and Misfits they planned three “Spectacular Midlife-Crisis-Defying” events.

Saturday night was theNot-Too-Old-To-Party-But-I-May-Doze-Off-Before-Dessert Dinner Dance. Sunday was theSee-You-In-Another-Twenty-Five-Years-If-I’m-Lucky Farewell Brunch. But the highlight of the weekend promised to be Friday night’sCracking of the Keg—The Great Reveal of the Heartstone High School Class of 1998 Time Capsuleto be held at McCormick’s.

A few months earlier, Duff created a Facebook page dedicated to generating buzz for that long-anticipated event. There was a photo of the keg still gathering dust in the storeroom of our family pub. Below that he had added a caption in big craggy letters right out of a horror movie poster.

What Embarrassing Secrets Lie Within?

He posted a few of his own crazy thoughts, and within days people took it as a challenge and started adding comments that got the group hyped up for that long-awaited Saturday night.

I had been thinking about that night since high school, and I wondered what the forty-three-year-old me would be like. Who would I marry? How many kids would I have? Where would I be in my career?

Little could I ever have imagined that I would wake up that morning in my sister’s bed, after spending the previous night doing her laundry, getting rip-roaring drunk, and playing a spirited round of a game we had dubbedMatchmaker Noir.

I put down my phone, got out of bed, threw on yesterday’s clothes, and followed the smell of fresh-brewed coffee down the stairs.

“Give me five minutes, and I can make you a cup of chai tea,” Lizzie said.

“My central nervous system can’t wait five seconds for caffeine,” I said. “I’ll have whatever brown beverage is in that pot over there.”

“It’s reunion weekend,” Lizzie said, pouring me a steaming mug of coffee. “How are you feeling about that?”

I added a splash of milk to cool the coffee down and took a long, gratifying swallow. “The same way I feel about everything these days,” I said. “Remember what Grandma Caroline used to say?”

“Self-pity is a waste of precious time. Shut up and play the cards you’re dealt.”

“Exactly. I’ve been looking forward to this reunion for a long time. I’m going to dress to kill and have the time of my life.”

“Good for you,” Lizzie said. “By the way, I forgot to tell you. I’ll be there too.”

“The hell you will,” I said. “Since when did the class of ’99 get invited to the class of ’98’s reunion?”

“I’m not a guest. Did you forget that Dad and Grandpa are still in Ireland? Dotty asked if I’d come in and work the bar.”

“That’s ridiculous. You haven’t worked the bar since you went off to med school. Tell Dotty to call someone else.”

“Maggie, the poor woman was stressed out. This is the biggest private party she’s ever had to handle on her own. I’m happy to help. Besides, I’m willing to come out of retirement just to see what’s in that famous time capsule of yours.”

“It could be great, or it could be a dud. Nobody knows,” I said, taking another hit on the coffee. “But, hey, as long as you’re going to be there, do me a favor and make yourself useful.”

“Sure. Name it.”

“There’ll be at least a dozen age-appropriate single women at the reunion tonight. Check them out. My perspective may be a little jaded.”

“Good idea. I’m your wingman,” she said, and quickly turned around to get something out of the refrigerator.

It took a few more seconds before the fog lifted from my booze-addled brain. “You cunning runt,” I said.

She didn’t turn around.

“Mywingman? Bullshit, Lizzie. You played me,” I said.

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