The List

By Jennifer Tremblay

She keeps a tight list and doesn't let anything go unchecked, except for one important misplaced item: a favour to her neighbour. With this broken promise, a series of events unfolds that lead to her friend's death. Was the death preventable had the task been completed? A Governor General's Literary Award–winning play, The List is the riveting story of a woman haunted by internal regret when she fails to critically prioritize her world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Playwrights Canada Press
• Release date: Apr 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781770910829

Jennifer Tremblay

Jennifer Tremblay was born in Forestville on the north shore of the St. Lawrence River. In 2008 she was awarded the Governor General's Literary Award for La Liste.

Book preview

T.

E x h a l a t i o n

Lights up on an immaculate kitchen. A woman enters.

She is in her mid-thirties.

I didn’t lay a finger on her.

I didn’t hire anyone.

To sneak in and murder her.

And yet it’s as if.

I killed her.

Her death is my fault.

I’m not saying if we hadn’t met she wouldn’t be dead.

The point is we met so I could prevent her death.

She’s dead.

I failed in my duty.

You know exactly what I mean.

You’re walking down the street.

A child falls down.

You stop and comfort him.

You take him home.

His mother thanks you.

She’s touched.

How fortunate.

You were there.

You did the right thing.

At exactly the right moment.

You did exactly what was needed.

Good for you.

Her death is my fault.

I wasn’t rigorous enough.

I wasn’t disciplined enough.

There’s a lot to get done in a day.

Wash sheets.

Take out winter coats.

Rake leaves.

I keep a tight list.

Very detailed.

I stick to it.

Even more since she died.

But I’m having trouble.

On top of the list are the unforeseens.

The add-ons.

Food on the floor.

Snow on the car.

The broken toy.

Raphael’s full diaper.

His nose running green.

Julien is a whiner.

Philippe is so good he worries me.

You okay sweetie.

I ask him often.

You okay sweetie.

Felt markers on the floor.

Bits of Play-Doh everywhere.

It dries out if it’s not put away.

Sauce spilled in the fridge.

Rice stuck to the bottom of the pot.

The garbage smells bad.

Take out garbage.

Call garage.

Email photo.

Each action is followed by another.

Each action is necessary.

An upward climb that never ends.

And she’d come knocking at my door.

It’s happened.

Not often, but a few times.

On occasion I pretended no one knocked.

On occasion I chose not to move.

Caroline wasn’t at all unpleasant.

Don’t think I was hiding from a nosy