How To Be Lost Page 6

  I looked at my mother, and her face flooded with relief. “It is, isn’t it?” she said. “My baby girl.”

  ELEVEN

  from the desk of

  AGNES FOWLER

  Dear Louise,

  Thank you for your Christmas card. And I hope you have a rockin’ holiday season as well. I don’t know how you know my father, but I suppose I should inform you that he is no longer with us. In other words, he is dead.

  It happened about six months ago, Louise. It was a sunny afternoon, so I was walking home from school. I had just finished my Intro to James Joyce exam, and while I still didn’t think I understood what the hey Finnegans Wake was all about, I had written an OK essay on Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

  The point is, I was feeling relaxed.

  My father and I lived together. I suppose I should have moved out, but I was the light of his life, as he always said. I guess I liked being the light of someone’s life.

  On that June afternoon, I was thinking that maybe I would drag him out to dinner. He had become an inventor after the lumberyard closed, as I’m sure you know, and he spent entirely too much time alone in the basement. I was thinking the Bridge for pizza, or Piñata’s in the mall.

  I don’t know why I remember, but I do: the sun had warmed the stones leading up to the front door. I took off my sandals and stood for a minute, feeling the heat on my toes and heels. I put my shoes back on to walk to the front door. My father did not approve of bare feet.

  Well, there’s no point in going into the depressing details. My father was in the basement. It looked as if he was asleep, his head down on his workbench. From the frame on his desk, my mother’s picture gazed at him. A massive stroke, they told me.

  So, this wasn’t the most rockin’ holiday season, if you really want to know. I was going to get a tree and a turkey, the same as every year, but I just didn’t have it in me. I drank too much wine, watched hours of Christmas-themed television, and went to bed. One good thing about the television is that it doesn’t take a vacation. It doesn’t go to Disney World, like my supervisor Frances, or to Seattle to visit its brother, like Sally Beesley, the Reference Librarian. It stays right where you put it, ready to go.

  Please don’t send any flowers, Louise. I’ve finally gotten rid of all the flowers and the Tupperware containers.

  Best to you,

  Agnes Fowler

  TWELVE

  IT WAS THE day we were leaving for New Orleans. I sat smoking outside the senior hallway, watching the tennis team practice. The tennis team was symbolic of what I hated about Holt: all blond ponytails and earnestness. My mother was obsessed with tennis, and Madeline was on the middle school team. “My serve!” cried Kitty Jacobs, trotting prettily along in her shorts. I was terrible at tennis. I was a cheerleader, which consisted of smoking cigarettes and clapping. When my father deemed the $38 for my cheerleader skirt and sweater excessive, I could have used my own money, but I quit instead.

  “I’ve got it!” cried the British exchange student, her skirt rising up as she reached for the ball.

  I stood, ground out my cigarette with my toe, took a last look around, and left.

  Stealing the Oldsmobile wasn’t hard. When I got home, my mother was in bed, and the keys were in her purse. I stood in her bedroom doorway, watching her sleep. She was my mother, and I loved her, but I loved my sisters more, and I had to choose.

  I drove to school slowly, trying to burn my town into my memory. Madeline was waiting at the middle school. The other girls on the tennis team sat on the large rock outside the school giggling. Madeline stood a few feet from them, looking down, kicking at her racket. When I pulled in, she ran to the car. Nobody said goodbye to her; none of the tennis girls even turned. And wasn’t she just as beautiful? Wasn’t her ponytail perfect, and wasn’t the way she tied her windbreaker around her waist just right? Madeline should have been the center of the circle of giggling girls, and I promised myself that in New Orleans she would be something wonderful.

  “Damn,” I said. “I forgot you had that racket.”

  “Maybe I’ll play tennis in New Orleans,” said Madeline.

  “Maybe you will,” I said.

  Ellie was not waiting in front of Maxwell Elementary. She was supposed to meet us on the grassy strip in front of the parking lot. Usually, parents drove into the circular driveway, but we didn’t want to risk being seen. I pulled to the curb and we waited.

  “Where is she?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” said Madeline. She was playing with her tennis racket, sticking her fingers through the holes. She took a breath and said, “I don’t think we should run away.”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  Madeline began to whimper. She told me she and Ellie had had a fight. I told her to be quiet. She kicked the dashboard and turned her face away from me, her arms crossed over her chest. After about a half an hour, every student was gone, and the parking lot was empty. Madeline and I stared at the vacant school. The jungle gym shone, and the swing set was still.

  “What’s going on?” said Madeline.

  “I’m sure she got a ride,” I said, though I wasn’t sure of anything. “I’m sure she got a ride with Mrs. Lake,” I said. I sighed, and started the car.

  “What are we going to do?” said Madeline.

  “I guess we’re going home.”

  I looked for Ellie as I drove. Maybe, I thought, she had missed me, maybe waited in another spot and then walked home. I was annoyed, but not upset, really. All my adrenaline—all the energy that had gone into planning our escape—was deflated, and I felt flat as a pancake, tired.

  I squinted against the late-afternoon sun, and searched for my sister along the dappled sidewalks of Maxwell Avenue. I slowed and peered into the windows of the Seafood Shack, where we went once in a while for fried shrimp.

  Down Sycamore Lane and through Hillside Village, we looked for her. Madeline was silent in the passenger seat. She rolled the window down partway, her fingers curled around the top, and she focused intently, trying to find Ellie. There was a terrible feeling in my stomach. I began to feel as if things had gone very wrong. I just wanted to see Ellie, her toothless smile. I was supposed to be her hero: we should have been flying down I-95 toward bliss.

  I parked the Oldsmobile and walked into the house, Madeline trailing behind me. Our mother was sitting in the kitchen and scribbling into her journal.

  “Where have you been?” she said, fixing us with a bleary stare.

  “Madeline’s tennis,” I said.

  “Oh, no!” said my mother. “Did I miss a tournament?”

  “No,” said Madeline flatly.

  “Did I hear the garage door?” said my mother, glancing at me. I shook my head. “Mrs. Lake just dropped us off,” I said.

  “Where’s Ellie?” said Madeline.

  My mother pursed her lips. I could see her trying to think. “What do you mean?” she said.

  “Where’s Ellie?” I said. “We mean, where’s Ellie?”

  “I thought she was with you girls,” said my mother. “I figured….”

  She didn’t finish her sentence. We stood in the kitchen, immobile. The day’s light was fading, and long shadows came in from the windows and sliding glass door. My mother closed her notebook. “Maybe she’s asleep,” she said, doubtfully.

  We began to call her name. We hunted through the house, in every room. We piled back in the Oldsmobile and drove around the neighborhood, calling for her, as if she were a lost puppy. When we got home, my mother called the police, and I took our pillowcases out of the car and unpacked them, putting the outfit I had imagined I would wear to my New Orleans job back on a hanger, stashing Ellie’s Gummi bears in her sock drawer.

  That night, I woke, and Madeline was standing in my doorway. “I’m scared,” she said, “Can I sleep with you?” I peeled back the covers, and Madeline climbed in. I thought about Ellie, who slept on her side, her knees drawn to her chest, the blanket pulled close to her
face. Madeline and I huddled next to each other, trying to get warm.

  We waited at home. I guess I expected a message from Ellie, a secret sign. Maybe I had screwed up the plan, I thought: had I told her to meet us somewhere else? I had a dream that she was waiting behind the dogwood tree in our yard, but no one was there when I checked in the morning. I sat in my closet with my eyes closed and my fingertips to my temples, thinking so hard I got dizzy. What had I missed? Where had I gone wrong? It was always clear to me that her disappearance was my fault.

  The next morning, we took the police to Maxwell Elementary, watched while they interviewed teachers and kids who might have seen her. Police combed our town. People would answer their doors smiling, and then their hands would go to their mouths or to the wall for support as they heard about Ellie. We stayed home from school and our father stayed home from work, sitting in the den and drinking. My mother snapped out of her lethargy and began a frenzied search that would possess her for the rest of her life. She made photocopies of a picture of Ellie at Pronto Printer in Port Chester and tacked them up all over town. She called every person in the Holt phone book from a neighbor’s house, starting with the “A’s” and moving through the alphabet.

  After two days, the policeman assigned to Ellie’s case seemed nervous. He was a young blond man, with pale skin and blue eyes. When he talked to my mother and she began to cry, it looked like he would cry, too.

  We found out later that after forty-eight hours, the chances of finding someone drop significantly. Ellie’s picture was on the news and in the paper. Reporters surrounded our house. I could hear them late at night, opening beers and laughing on our lawn. In the morning, they drank coffee from paper cups.

  THIRTEEN

  BY THE LIGHT of the Christmas tree, my mother’s face glowed. “Can you find her?” she asked me. “Maybe you could go out there to…,” she looked down at the clipping, “Arlee, Montana. I’ll pay anything.”

  “Mom, it can’t really be her,” I said, though my heart was hammering in my chest.

  “But what if it is?”

  I shook my head, and stared at the picture. The girl looked like me, like Madeline. She looked like my mother, those crinkles around her eyes. And her hair was the same color Ellie’s had been: light brown, with slices of gold. “This was last year?” I said.

  My mother nodded. “Think about it,” she said. “I know it seems crazy. But before we…before we let that lawyer… shouldn’t we be sure?”

  “I can’t just leave,” I said, lamely.

  “I know, honey,” said my mother. “It would be for me,” she added.

  *

  After she went to bed, I stared at the picture for a while. In some ways, I felt like Madeline did: if Ellie were alive, laughing at some fucking rodeo, why wouldn’t she have called us?

  I was exhausted. I did not want to think about Ellie. I went upstairs and changed into my nightgown. I lay in bed for some time before I finally fell asleep.

  Her breath whispered across my face: Caroline. I felt her kiss on my forehead. Goodbye, Caroline. I struggled toward consciousness, swimming upward, opening my eyes.

  “Ellie?” I said.

  Madeline looked startled. “No, it’s me,” she said. She brushed my hair back from my forehead with her fingers. “Just me,” she said. I blinked.

  “Am I awake?” I said.

  “Don’t know,” said Madeline, “but Ron and I are off. Have a safe trip back, Care.”

  I sat up, but did not reach for my sister. There was so much we hadn’t talked about, so much unsaid, but I didn’t stop her as she pressed her lips to my cheek and walked away, leaving a lipstick goodbye.

  When I came downstairs showered and wearing mascara my mother almost dropped the paper. “Sweetie!” she said, “Look at you!”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Well! I was thinking we could hit the day-after-Christmas sales. We can start at the Galleria, and then work our way to Bloomingdale’s and Neiman’s. We can even have lunch…,” her voice trailed off. “Caroline?”

  I looked up. “What?” I said.

  “You look like you’re a million miles away.”

  “Oh,” I blushed, “it’s just that…well, I sort of have…an appointment.”

  My mother narrowed her eyes. “A hair appointment?”

  “No….”

  She raised an eyebrow. “A manicure?” I shook my head. Her face burst open like a flower. “A date?” she screeched.

  “Mom, it’s not really a date.”

  “Hold on!” my mother was practically shaking. She ran to the toaster. “Let me make some English muffins. I want all the details!” She expertly pulled two muffins apart and jammed them in. “Butter? Honey?” she said.

  “Sure, Mom, but there aren’t really any….”

  She held up her hand like a traffic cop. “Wait!” she cried. “Let’s wait until we have muffins and fresh cups of coffee.”

  I began to laugh. After my father’s death, my mother had grown younger, it seemed, becoming more and more like the woman he had met on a blind date, full of the spirit and energy he and Ellie’s disappearance had drained out of her. She waited impatiently for the muffins to toast, and then put them on china plates, spreading thick layers of butter and honey. She refilled her coffee cup and then mine, sitting at the kitchen table and patting the chair next to her. “I’m ready!” she said. I had never told her about a date before. I had never told her much of anything. I smiled.

  “It all began at the Christmas party,” I said.

  *

  By the time Anthony arrived, my mother had convinced me to apply Plum Passion eye shadow and Peachy Keen lipstick. She had done my nails, slid gold studs into my earlobes. Off came my T-shirt and jeans, replaced with a pastel sweater set and corduroy pants. No to the Converse high tops, yes to tasseled loafers. I heard my mother chattering as I descended the stairs. Anthony was sitting on the pink loveseat, a mug of cider in his hand and a plate of ginger cookies on his lap. “Here she is now,” said my mother, standing up, appraising me from top to bottom, and nodding approvingly.

  Anthony was wearing jeans and hiking boots.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hey,” said Anthony. He was looking straight into my eyes, and he couldn’t seem to keep from smiling. He stood, the plate of cookies falling from his lap and shattering on the floor. “Oh, God,” he said.

  “No, no. No problem. Don’t worry!” chirped my mother, running for the broom.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said.

  “It’s OK, really,” I said.

  “Um, you look great,” said Anthony.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. But you might want some galoshes.”

  “Galoshes?” I smiled.

  “I mean, boots. I don’t know. I thought we could take a walk. In the snow.”

  “Would sneakers be OK?”

  “Sure. I just don’t want you to ruin, um, your…penny loafers.”

  I ran into the kitchen to kiss my mom goodbye. “Why are you wearing those hideous shoes?” she whispered fervently.

  “I’ll explain later,” I told her.

  Anthony drove a truck. I climbed in, nearly splitting the seams of my mother’s expensive pants. “Are we going somewhere I can wear cashmere?” I asked. Anthony looked nervous. “Hey,” I said, “I’m kidding. My mother dressed me.”

  He raised his eyebrows and breathed out hard. He shook his head. “Holt girls,” he said.

  “Winters girls,” I said. “Did you know Madeline in high school?”

  Anthony waved to Mitchell and drove past the guardhouse, turning left. “She was a few years younger,” said Anthony, “but I knew who she was.”

  “Because of Ellie,” I said.

  “Well,” said Anthony.

  “And my dad,” I said.

  “It’s a small town,” said Anthony. He put his hand on my knee, and I did not move it. “I heard about you, too,” he said, “the wild Caroline Winters.”
r />   “What?”

  “You left quite an impression when you went away to boarding school,” said Anthony.

  “Come on.”

  He looked at me. “Caroline,” he said, “are you kidding?”

  “Jesus.” I had hardly thought about what had gone on back in Holt after I left.

  “Anyway,” said Anthony, “don’t you want to know the plan?”

  “I fly back to New Orleans tonight,” I said, “so I can’t be gone too long.”

  Anthony nodded. “I’m sorry if I upset you,” he said, gently.

  “No, I’m fine.”

  Anthony didn’t say anything for a while. He drove to the Holt Nature Center and parked the car. “Here we are,” he said. He opened the door and took my hand. As I climbed from the car, he pulled me toward him, folding me in his arms. “I’m sorry,” he said. His arms felt good, but I was stiff. I wanted to be back in New Orleans, talking to Georgette in my apartment on Esplanade. I did not want to be at the Nature Center with some liquor store owner. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how much Anthony must have known about my family: my father bought the bottles that killed him at the Liquor Barn. Anthony went to high school with Madeline, and had probably spent more time with my mother in the past years than I had.

  Anthony let me go. He reached into the bed of the truck and brought out a picnic basket. It was the old-fashioned kind, woven and latched on top. “Come on,” said Anthony, “I won’t talk any more.”

  He walked in front of me, and I followed. Our steps made crunching sounds in the snow. I saw footprints—rabbits? deer?—but since the last snowfall, we were the only people to walk the trail. I hadn’t spent much time at the Nature Center, save an occasional elementary school trip. Moving my legs felt wonderful, my sluggish blood finally circulating.

  After walking for a while, we reached a clearing. “How are you doing in those wet sneakers?” he said.

  “Fine.”

  He stopped next to a bench in a sunny spot. “Is it too cold for you?” he said.