Chapter 2
Tabitha Malcor

On Fridays she made her regret list. It was nothing fancy; it didn’t even have its own notebook. She certainly didn’t want to save her regrets to reread later. Who wants to see that?

She simply pulled a sheet off a legal pad or her grocery list pad or a piece of copy paper from the printer. She grabbed a pen or a pencil or, when the kids were younger, a crayon. Whatever was handy, whatever was quick. The activity was not one she relished, and it was definitely not something she’d shared with anyone. It was just something she’d been doing since a particular Friday a long time ago, never intending to keep doing it, yet somehow doing it still.

Sometimes the regrets came to her immediately, as if they’d been waiting in line in her head all week. Other times she had to cast about to find some. Over the years she had formulated some rules for the list: regrets could come only from days that had elapsed since the last list—only the most current regrets were allowed. Some regrets showed up faithfully: impatience with a loved one, needless sarcasm when a gentler response would’ve been kinder, laziness in regard to exercise. If the regret list was meant to spur change, it hadn’t worked. And yet, for reasons she could not explain, she returned to the practice every Friday.

This morning she paused over her list, reviewing the past seven days in her mind. Over the years she’d been tempted to keep notes throughout the week in order to expedite the list-making process—a regret cheat sheet, if you will. But she decided that slowing down to recall the week, to replay the moments of regret in her mind, was part of her process. Her own kind of penance. She supposed it was akin to a Catholic confession. Marie, her best friend / next-door neighbor, was Catholic, but Tabitha wasn’t sure she went to confession anymore. Tabitha wasn’t sure she ever had.

Thinking of Marie brought to mind one regret from the past seven days. She wrote it down:

  1. When Larkin arrived home, I did not take anything over there. I should have taken cookies or dinner or something for the little girl—a toy maybe or a coloring book. I regret that Marie’s sadness has caused me to avoid her. I regret that I haven’t been a good neighbor. Or friend.

Tabitha paused, thinking this over. (Sometimes the regret list took a long time to make because a lot of thinking was involved. For this reason she tried to start first thing in the morning so it didn’t hang over her head all day.) Sadness still clung to Marie months after losing her husband, Jim. The real reason she had not gone over to welcome home Marie’s daughter, Larkin, when she arrived was because Tabitha had been avoiding Marie.

She didn’t want to see her friend’s downturned mouth, her stooped shoulders. Though Marie was one of her dearest and oldest friends in the world, she struggled with being supportive and understanding about Marie’s recent loss when she had lost her own husband long ago. Not to death, mind you, but to divorce. Tabitha had faced many losses, it seemed, while Marie had only the one.

At the thought of her ex-husband, other regrets, numerous ones, popped into her mind, erratic memories exploding like popcorn in her brain. She reminded herself of the rules: nothing beyond this one week. She banished thoughts of Daniel and continued her task.

When she was finished, her list was as follows:

  1. I did not go for a walk except for twice, even though the weather was good every day this week. I regret not taking better care of my body.
  2. I did not get on the scale this week because I was afraid. I regret that I’ve put myself in the position of being afraid of what the scale says. It looms in the corner of the bathroom like a beacon of my failures, flashing numbers I do not like. (See also #2.)
  3. I was short with both of the kids on the phone this week. Thaddeus has just gotten so self-involved since his book became a bestseller. Talking to him has become insufferable. And Kristyn—well, it’s not her fault, but one kid was singing loudly and one kid was crying as we tried to have a conversation. I know I’ve been there and should be more understanding, but I just couldn’t handle the noise. I don’t think she could really hear me anyway, so I ended the call more quickly than I should have. I regret not being the mother I should be to the children I have left.

Tabitha paused after she penned the last words. Was this venturing into past regret territory? Should she leave it? That was the problem when you made up the rules; you were always free to break them. But how to know when it was ok to do so?

She decided to leave it. Because Davy still counted. His lingering presence was current, not past. Davy was in every week, in every moment since the night he went missing.

Satisfied with her list, she nodded to herself and then she finished as she always did, writing the words JE NE REGRETTE RIEN!!! at the bottom of the page with a flourish. She let herself stare at the phrase for a long time, wishing this was the week that statement would become true—that she would truly regret nothing. That all her regrets—past and present—would release their hold on her and she would be free.

She relished tearing up the list into tiny bits as she always did, then dumped the bits into the bin, slamming the lid with a bit more emphasis than was necessary before she turned away to face the day.