How To Be Lost Read online

  Bernard arrived with his hair still wet, his cheeks red from a day spent fishing. Isabelle held the portrait as she watched Bernard give her mother a bunch of irises. He wore a pale pink shirt and pressed khaki shorts. His eyes sparkled with mischief. Ever since childhood, he had been up to something. Isabelle remembered the time he hid a frog in her bed, and the time he pretended she had a twig in her hair and leaned in close, surprising her with a kiss. When she looked at him—the confident way he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, listening to Isabelle’s father—she could see the boy inside him.

  The moon rose, round and light. Glass and silverware and jewelry flashed in the candlelight. The heat did not thin, and perspiration made Isabelle’s family’s faces shine at the edges. Her mother lifted her hair to reveal damp skin underneath, and her father rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, shaking his head at the heat, the one situation he could not fix. Bernard brought the electric fan out, pulling it as far as its cord would stretch, and everyone turned toward its breeze in mid-sentence as it passed over them.

  “We can move inside,” said Isabelle’s mother, more than once, but no one could bear to leave the moonlight and the clicking of crickets. The river ran nearby, its currents catching the light like a mirror.

  Bernard poured from his flask into Isabelle’s lemonade, and the edges of her vision grew slippery. Bernard’s lips were warm on her shoulder blades and her neck. Isabelle’s mother put out the crab, baskets full, and the lemons and butter. They cracked the salty bodies and left the empty shells in large clay bowls. “There will be no ceremony here!” said Isabelle’s father, and he set the precedent of ignoring the tiny forks and silver crackers. He sucked the meat from his crabs, and the butter ran down his wrists and made his lips shine.

  Isabelle ate five crabs, and six buttered slices of corn bread. She filled a bowl with grapes, and sat on the Lovers’ Swing. Next to her, Bernard fed her grapes, the cool juice mixing with the salty crab on his fingertips. “Do you love me?” she asked Bernard, and he said, “Of course, darlin’. What’s not to love?”

  It was late when Bernard asked Isabelle to walk down by the dock. They spent evenings there, on a blanket they kept folded on the crabbing boat. Every week, Isabelle tried to wash the blanket with the hose behind the house, rubbing soap into it and hanging it to dry in the sun. It had grown brittle and rough, and it smelled faintly of fish, marshy water, and soap. Isabelle hated the smell. She wished they could lie in a featherbed, with clean, soft sheets. They spread the blanket on the dock, and the waves rocked them and they talked and did not have sex. Bernard had stopped asking, but his kisses were probing. Isabelle could feel the wooden boards underneath her hipbones when she lay on her side to look up at Bernard, and she could hear the splashes of fish and bugs nearing the surface of the river.

  Most everyone had gone home. This time of the night—too late for adults—belonged to Isabelle and Bernard. They lay on the lawn and planned their life. Bernard wanted five children to fill his family’s brownstone in Savannah. He talked about coming home from work and taking his family for evening strolls around the city to look at the azaleas. “We’ll get you help with the cooking,” he told Isabelle, “but you’re going to have to mix my drinks.”

  The story of their future pleased Bernard, and he twirled Isabelle’s hair around his finger as he talked. But increasingly, Isabelle had begun to wonder about other lives she could lead: painting landscapes in Paris, or being a fashion model in New York City. She felt panicked at the thought of staying in Savannah forever, and becoming a woman just like her mother.

  Isabelle told Bernard to wait a minute, and she fetched the portrait. She went into the bathroom to put a drop of perfume behind each ear: a surprise for Bernard when he kissed her there. She looked into the mirror and saw that her cheeks were flushed. She did not want to leave the bathroom.

  Isabelle looked at her portrait. This girl hasn’t even lived, she thought. She doesn’t know a thing.

  Isabelle’s mother always talked about the same memories, as if only a few instants burned themselves into her mind. Isabelle didn’t know it, but this would be one of the moments she would come back to again and again when she tried to make sense of her life. The portrait would always remind her of a night full of moonlight and Bernard’s mouth and the smell of the river. The night when she decided to run away to New York, thinking she deserved better than what she had.

  When Isabelle handed him the photo, Bernard took each of her hands and kissed them. He pulled the picture out and took a long look. “Oh my,” he said. He pulled Isabelle close and kissed her hair. “My beautiful girl,” he said.

  “I’m not a girl, you know,” said Isabelle. Bernard kissed her neck and her collarbones.

  “Be quiet, doll,” he said. And Isabelle was quiet. It was time to leave, to shed the old Isabelle like a cocoon. Bernard put his arms around her. They lay on the blanket and the heat came up in waves from the river.

  When Bernard was asleep, Isabelle stole into the house. She filled her suitcase with clothes. She took all her money and most of her shoes. She did not know that she would meet the wrong man, and marry him. She did not know that she would have three daughters, and lose one. She was filled with hope and purpose. She knew that she had to leave her home to find herself.

  The bus station was two miles away. As she walked, she pretended she was there already, at the top of the Empire State Building, a cigarette in her fingers, the lights of Manhattan spread before her like stars.

  THREE

  WHEN I WOKE, the knowledge fell into my head like a stone. I was going to Montana. Like my mother, I needed to see what the world held in store for me. And if Ellie was alive, I was going to find her.

  I headed into the city to tell my sister. Ron and Madeline lived on East 64th Street. It was still freezing cold in New York. Walking uptown from Grand Central, I bought a Kangol hat for ten bucks, and eyed a faux-alligator purse. “Fifteen dollars,” said a beautiful black man.

  “Fifteen dollars?” I said.

  He gave me a wide smile. “Thirteen dollars?”

  “Deal,” I said. As I rummaged in my pocket, he opened a box.

  “Label?” he asked.

  I deliberated between Gucci and Hermès, but went for Kate Spade. He took out a glue gun and pressed the label on. “Where are you from?” I asked.

  “Ghana.”

  “Wow,” I said, “how’d you get here?”

  “I fly, lady,” said the man, who was clearly finished with me.

  So much for love in the afternoon. I kept walking.

  Ron opened the door to the apartment. “Hey,” he said, “It’s Caroline from the ’hood.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Your hat,” he said. “Kangol, very ghetto.”

  “Oh,” I said, patting my head. “Well, I bought it up here, actually.”

  “They’re the rage with the Spence and Nightingale girls,” said Ron.

  “Anyway,” I said, “can I come in?”

  Ron stepped aside, and I took in the huge living room. High ceilings, pale blue walls, velvet couch big enough to live in. “It’s beautiful,” I said. Madeline had a gorgeous piano, though she didn’t play, and on the piano there were two pictures in silver frames. One was Madeline and Ron on their wedding day. Madeline smiled widely, and Ron looked shell-shocked. The other picture was taken on Christmas, many years ago. Under a big tree, the three Winters girls hugged each other.

  “Maddy’s drying her hair,” said Ron. “You want some green tea?”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. He shrugged, pointed toward the bedroom with his thumb.

  “It’s good for you,” he said.

  “How about a Bloody Mary?”

  “Coming up.”

  Madeline came into the room, her hair swept up and sprayed into place. Her face seemed rounder, and her stomach swelled just the smallest bit. But she looked tired, and her eyes were red, as if she had been up late, or crying. She was affixin
g an enormous diamond to her ear.

  “Hi,” I said, “you look wonderful.” She leaned forward and kissed the air above my head.

  “Hey,” she said, “what do you want?”

  “Wow,” I said.

  “Well, are you here for tea?”

  “I just need some snowpants,” I said.

  “Snowpants?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “May I ask why you’ll need snowpants in New Orleans?”

  I took a breath. “I’m going to Montana,” I said, “actually.”

  “Montana? I’ve always wanted to go there,” said Ron, handing me a drink. “Good for you, Caroline.”

  “Ron, honey?” said Madeline in a steely voice. “Could you excuse us for a moment?”

  “Let her be, Maddy,” said Ron.

  “You have no idea what’s going on here,” said Madeline.

  Ron looked at me, and I nodded. “She’s right,” I said, “you don’t.”

  “Fine,” said Ron. He went down a hallway and I heard a door slam shut.

  Madeline sank into her fabulous couch. “We’re having problems,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll work them out.”

  “Montana, hey?” said Madeline.

  “Yeah.”

  She shook her head. “I know why you’re going,” she said. She looked at me. “You think Mom wasn’t begging me to go?”

  “The picture does look like her, don’t you think?” I sat down next to Madeline. As I expected, the couch was heavenly.

  “It’s a girl. She’s the right age,” said Madeline.

  “The smile, though. Don’t you remember Ellie’s smile?”

  “I think you’re living in a dream world,” said Madeline.

  “It could be her,” I said, “you don’t know.” I sounded petulant.

  “Go the fuck to Montana,” said Madeline. “What do I care? But when you need some help dealing with reality, I might be too damn tired.” She blinked several times. “I guess it’s the hormones,” she said, “but things feel all mixed up.”

  She looked like she was about to cry. I sat there awkwardly. Madeline said, “It’s my fault.”

  “What are you talking about?” I said.

  Madeline sat back and looked me in the eye. “Ellie told me she was afraid,” said Madeline. “She thought something bad was going to happen.”

  “What?”

  “It was the night before we were going to run away. I was asleep. She was shaking me, crying from a nightmare.”

  “Ellie was crying?”

  Madeline took a ragged breath. “She was hysterical. She said…she had dreamed about shadows. About someone….” Madeline shook her head. “I was half asleep. I wasn’t listening to her! It was something about Blind Brook. Shadows in Blind Brook.”

  I sipped my Bloody Mary. I wasn’t sure what to say. We all thought Ellie’s disappearance was our fault, it seemed. My mother’s obsessive search, my New Orleans vigil. And here was Madeline’s private torment: dreams about Blind Brook.

  “Did you tell the police?” I asked, finally.

  “Yes. They said it was nothing.” Madeline gripped my hand. “I rolled over,” she said. “I told her we’d talk about it in the morning. She wanted to sleep with me, but I said no. She said she was scared….”

  “We were kids,” I said. “Kids just say things, Maddy.”

  “But then…,” said Madeline.

  I finished it for her. “Then she was gone,” I said.

  FOUR

  “BE YOUR OWN Private Dick?” yowled Winnie. “Now that’s a book I could use!” She sipped her Budweiser. It was still light outside, yet here we were at Bobby’s Bar. I had flown back to New Orleans to get ready for my trip.

  “It means Private Investigator,” I said.

  “I know,” said Winnie. “I’m just playing you.”

  “Oh,” I said.

  “So you’re going to put all these private investigator books in that beat-up car of yours and drive to Montana?”

  “Basically.”

  Winnie drained the rest of her can. The jukebox was loud: Gonna kiss you where I miss you…. “So what are you going to do when you get there?”

  I shrugged.

  “Good plan,” said Winnie.

  “Well, what are you doing next week?” I said. “Why don’t you come with me?” Winnie ran her palms along the thighs of her red skirt. “You think I’m leaving that man alone?” said Winnie, jerking her thumb at Kit, who appeared to be dancing with a metal chair.

  “Someone would steal him?”

  “You don’t think so?” said Winnie. She sighed. “Well anyway,” she said, “I’m getting my nails rhinestoned.”

  Winnie and I pored over a gas station map, anchoring it on four sides by beer cans. “Texas, New Mexico, Colorado, Wyoming, Montana,” said Winnie incredulously. She took a long swig of her beer. “I’ve never been anywhere,” she said. “Well, Mississippi.”

  Later, we talked about the chances that I’d pick up a hitchhiker like Brad Pitt. “Or maybe you’ll fall in love with a cowboy,” said Winnie.

  “Or a cowpoke,” I said.

  “What’s a cowpoke?” Her voice was blurred from the beer and whiskey.

  “I don’t know,” I said. We dissolved into laughter.

  “Sounds dirty,” said Winnie. “Damn!”

  By the time I realized I’d spend more than a plane ticket on gas to Montana, I was already committed to the idea of a road trip. I don’t know what I hoped I’d find out there in the mountains, but as I drove drunk home from Bobby’s, almost hitting a woman as I turned into my driveway, I hoped I’d find something more than what I had.

  On my bedside table, I had a pile of books from the library. I sat in bed that night, and read a book about Patty Hearst and the Stockholm Syndrome, which occurred when an abducted person stopped believing he or she was abducted and started believing what their kidnapper told them was true. It was often less painful than understanding the real situation, the book said. If your real story was too terrible, the book said, you made a new one for yourself. Then you willed yourself to believe it.

  I couldn’t sleep, and watched the shadows on my wall as cars drove by. Outside, someone yelled, “You stabbed me! You stabbed me!” I realized that instead of being an out-of-work cocktail waitress with a murdered sister, no parents, and cellulite, I was going to Montana, trying to find a new story of my own.

  FIVE

  from the desk of

  AGNES FOWLER

  Dear Johan,

  I have not heard back from you, but I gather the mail service might be very slow. It’s a clear night here in Montana, but winter is in the air. I suppose I should enclose the AlaskaHunks.com Personality Plus! Profile. OK, I will.

  Looking forward to hearing from you,

  Agnes

  AlaskaHunks.com

  Personality Plus! Profile

  1. Fave color

  Hm. This should be an easy question, shouldn’t it? But I’ve never known what my favorite color was. I used to say “purple,” but I think I was trying to be exciting. I do like the deep green color of my living room. After my father died, I went to Kmart and bought cans of paint. I believe it was the Martha Stewart line. Let me find the color, might as well do this right. Hold on. It’s ivy afternoon. I’ll go with that.

  2. Fave music

  Oh, dear. Where is “fave book,” I’d like to know? (It’s Madame Bovary, by the way.) Don’t Alaskan Hunks care about books? I listen to moody pop music, like Phil Collins on a station called “Kiss 95.” I like songs about love ending, though I hope that doesn’t make me sound morbid. I’m all for show tunes, as well, like Anything Goes.

  3. Fave sport

  Is reading a sport?

  4. Fave hobby

  I wasn’t really allowed to get out very much, so I tended to take up my father’s hobbies, like making flies for fly-fishing. I also enjoy step aerobics and salsa dancing, though it’s tou
gh to find a spicy salsa partner in northwestern Montana.

  5. Fave smell

  What? This is a very strange question. Am I supposed to say I like the smell of new snow? I do. Also: tacos, gasoline, and soap.

  6. Fave food

  I do love food. Besides blueberry pancakes and various penny candy, I love shrimp scampi. Also, Entenmann’s Raspberry Twist coffee cake.

  7. My motto

  “I can help any library patron!”

  8. My worst nightmare

  I’m going to skip this question.

  9. My greatest hope

  Sometimes, I wake before the sun has come up, and I feel that I am all alone in this world. I would like to not feel that way anymore.

  10. My perfect date

  Oh! This is the best question. First of all, I would be just the slightest bit sunburned. I love taking a shower and getting ready when my skin is a little—but not too—pink. I would use expensive shampoo, conditioner, and lotion. I actually have a Burt’s Bees Sampler Pack with all sorts of creams and lotions that I got from my Secret Santa at the library. It’s my perfect date! I’d use them all.

  I would wear a beautiful shimmery skirt and a cream-colored wool sweater. (Or cotton, depending on the weather.) I would wear my mother’s necklace, which would be cool on my sunburned neck.

  Depending on the weather, I would wear sandals or snug boots.

  My date will arrive smelling good, like pine trees. He will bring me flowers or a snack. I put the flowers (or snack) away, and we steal into the night. I roll down the window of his car (or sleigh) and feel cold air on my sunburned cheeks.

  We go to dinner somewhere candle-lit and lovely. Across the table, he gazes at me. We talk about what books we have been reading and about how great we look. We eat lobsters.

  After dinner, we’re in a bed with silk sheets. He has slipped me out of my clothes, and now it’s just me and my expensive lotion. He runs his hands tongue over my breasts and then my inner thighs.