How to Be Lost (17 page)

M
ADELINE CAME HOME
after a few days, but baby Isabelle had to stay in the hospital. They fed her Madeline’s breastmilk through a tube.

I loved my niece fiercely. She had little control of her limbs, which thrashed in all directions. Every rise and fall of her chest filled me with wonder. We started calling her “Bella” or “the Bean.” I slept on Ron and Madeline’s couch, and spent my mornings at the hospital. In the afternoons, I walked around New York City, smoking cigarettes and letting the live-wire energy of the city into my skin.

One morning, the nurse told us we could bathe Isabelle if we wanted to. Madeline looked at me. “Why not?” I said.

“Right,” she said. “Why not?” She looked exhausted to the bone. Ron stepped back from the incubator. He was scared, too.

The nurse, a tan woman named Renée, moistened a square of gauze and pinned it between two Q-tips, giving it to Madeline. “Reach in through the portholes,” said Renée. Madeline reached toward her daughter, who was asleep in the incubator. “Just hold the gauze square with the Q-tips, run it over Isabelle,” said Renée.

“What if I hurt her?” said Madeline.

I put my hand on Madeline’s shoulder. “You’re her mom,” I said. This seemed to calm Maddy. She took a breath, and touched the gauze to Isabelle’s skin. “It’s hot in there,” she said.

The nurse didn’t say anything.

Madeline ran the gauze all over Isabelle, cleaning her. She was whispering something, a lullaby.

The nurse asked if Ron would like a turn. He was breathing hard, and then he said, “You know, I think I’ll sit this one out.”

When Madeline had cleaned every inch, the nurse moved in. “I’m going to turn her over now,” she said. “But first, I’m going to unhook her ventilator.”

When the ventilator was disengaged, Isabelle’s oxygen saturation dropped quickly, and the oximeter alarm sounded. “Don’t worry,” said the nurse. She reached into the incubator and picked up Isabelle, who was so limp it seemed her parts were not connected. She turned her over, re-attaching the ventilator. The alarm stopped, and Isabelle’s oxygen saturation climbed. Madeline was looking at me.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll just watch.” But Madeline did not make a move. The nurse held out the Q-tips.

I was frozen. I didn’t want to reach inside the incubator. “I…,” I said.

“Please,” said Madeline. I stood there, in front of my sister. She had never asked anything of me, not really. Isabelle was on her back now, her head so big, her body so fragile. She was looking at me, too, but I couldn’t do it.

“Why don’t I finish up,” said the nurse, finally. Madeline turned to Ron, and he took her in his arms. I could see from the way her shoulders moved that she was crying without sound. I tried to catch Ron’s eye, but he was looking down, and stroking my sister’s hair.

That afternoon, I walked by the entrance to a Steinway dealer. It was a huge hall, imposing, but I paused for only a moment before going in. A woman with her hair in a bun sat at a desk, reading through small glasses. She pulled the glasses off and looked up in an elegant motion. “May I help you?” she said, smiling.

“Oh,” I said, “I just wandered in.”

“Feel free to play,” she said, and then she put her glasses back on and continued reading. I loved that she left me alone. In the back room, where all the pianos gleamed, I sat down at a mahogany baby grand that had been lovingly restored, touching the keys lightly with my fingertips. I thought of the names of songs—Rhapsody in Blue, Moonlight Sonata, Für Elise—but there were no notes in my head. The information was there, but not the music. I had lost it, somewhere between Montana and New York.

“Do you play?” The woman was standing next to me, one foot crossed over the other. Her glasses hung around her neck on a gold chain. She wore a blue-green dress made of a soft-looking fabric. It fell around her in waves.

“No,” I said, “not really. Not anymore.”

“Would you like to hear it?” she said, gesturing to the piano.

“Yes,” I said. I stood, and she took my place. She pulled her hands into fists, let them go, and began to play Satie’s Gymnopédie #1. The song filled the room. I closed my eyes.

She finished, and it was a moment before I opened my eyes. The woman was looking at me with concern. “Are you all right?” she said.

“I’m fine,” I said brusquely. I walked quickly out of the showroom. Back on the street, I lit a cigarette. I was in the mood to drink, to meet someone strange and hot and spend the afternoon tangled up in the wrong thing. I couldn’t stop seeing Isabelle’s face looking out at me from her glass cage.

I found myself on a train, heading to Holt. I had bought a cold beer for the ride. The towns of my youth sped past: New Rochelle, Mamaroneck, Harrison. I tried not to think, though there was much to think about. What the hell was I doing with my life, for example. I was living with my sister, wearing her clothes. I had no job, a New Orleans apartment that was surely being infested with roaches, and I couldn’t even bathe my tiny niece with a fucking Q-tip.

At the Holt station, I left my empty beer can behind and walked onto the platform. It was a sunny day. Madeline’s jeans were tight on me, but not appalling, and the little Agnès B cardigan was downright cute. I had a cigarette while I walked to the Liquor Barn.

The store smelled the same as I remembered: dust and cardboard. I walked along the rows of stacked boxes, each full of wine. There were handwritten signs: wine spectator top pick: $9.99! bargain bin, all wines $6. I remembered being shorter than the signs, only cardboard-level. I would stand in the back, by the gumball machine, while my father stocked up. He used one of the red plastic baskets, piling in Scotch and wine. Sometimes I checked the liquor cabinets at friends’ houses when I slept over, to see if anyone else’s dad drank a handle of Scotch a night.

I was startled out of my reverie when a short man wearing an argyle vest said, “Can I help you?”

“Oh,” I said, “is Anthony here?”

“No,” said the man.

“Oh, OK.”

“Did you want some….” When I didn’t speak, the man finished, “liquor?”

“Yeah,” I said. “A nice bottle for a romantic dinner.”

“A bottle of liquor?”

“Sure, or wine, maybe.”

“The Ravenswood Merlot is delicious,” said the man.

“OK, I’ll take a bottle.”

“Wonderful.”

And it did seem wonderful. Here I was, a normal gal, buying wine for a romantic dinner. I decided I would bring the bottle to Maddy and Ron’s apartment, and leave it for them to have a little quiet time alone. I could go to a movie, or a museum.

“Did you want to leave a note for Anthony?” the man asked, as he rang up my purchase.

“Oh, should he be back today?”

“Sure. He’s just over at Laura’s,” said the man, sliding my wine into a crisp paper bag. Laura? I decided she was a platonic friend.

“You could leave a note,” he said.

“No, no thanks.”

After an ice cream cone at Baskin-Robbins and two more cigarettes, I walked back to the train station, swinging my bottle of wine and feeling frisky. I peeked back into the Liquor Barn, but Anthony was not in sight. It was time to get back into the city.

As I rounded the corner, I heard a voice say, “Hey!” I turned, and in the alley behind the store was Anthony. “I thought that was you,” he called.

“Oh, hey,” I said.

Anthony walked toward me, wiping his hands on his pants. “What are you doing here?”

“Well,” I said. “It’s a long story.”

“Yeah?” he said. I nodded. Then he nodded. This was going nowhere.

“I’m about to catch a train,” I said, motioning with my wine bottle toward the station.

“What?”

“I’m staying in the city.”

“OK,” he said. He added, wistfully, “Well, it was good to see you.”

“Yup.”

“By the way, I’m so sorry about your mom.”

I sighed. “Yeah,” I said. After a minute, I said, “I keep forgetting. I keep thinking she’s just at home.” My voice broke. “I keep picking up the phone to call her.” We stood there for a minute in the crisp evening. “You want to grab a beer?” I said.

“Well,” he said. “OK, sure.”

We walked to the Holt Grill and Bar. One beer turned into four, and then into dinner. Anthony was easy to talk to, and I told him everything. We talked and drank beer and then we went back to his house, on Mead Place. We drank the Merlot, and then some cognac. We laughed and I hadn’t laughed in so long and he played the guitar and I sang and we fell into bed and tangled the sheets.

from the desk of
AGNES FOWLER

Dear Johan,
What can I say about hearing your voice on the phone? I could have listened to it all night. Your kindness came through loud and clear. I can’t believe your nickname is “Boom Boom.” And OK, I’ll tell you why I chose you from all the other AlaskaHunks. Every one of them had a picture of themselves with a truck or a dog. Only you, my dear Boom Boom, had a picture with a cat.

I’m going to finish this note and then start packing. Now I know you said to pack a fancy dress, and warm boots and coat, and I have my fur hat that I got at the Bon Marché. And a bathing suit, though that seems just ridiculous to me. A bathing suit! In Alaska! This hot tub better be very hot, let me tell you.

I’m also packing some surprises, and some chocolates. I’m sure you have chocolates there in Skagway, but maybe not Godiva chocolates, which is what they sell at the Bon Marché.

I do have something to confess, Johan. You were right to be jealous of Snappy. I told you on the phone that you were being silly, but I’d like to begin our relationship with the slate wiped clean. And the fact is that after my sexy photo session, Snappy did come by the library, and he did not have a patron request. Au contraire! He wanted me to join him at the Annual Elk’s Club Ball. And though I dearly wanted a reason to wear my mother’s pearls, I said no. Perhaps there is an Annual Explosives Engineers’ Ball?

By the way, Frances took the news of my sudden vacation rather well. I did not mention an Alaskan Hunk. I told her, instead, that I was going to see family. And I hope it won’t scare the bejeezus out of you to hear this, Johan, but I didn’t feel like I was lying. Should I have written that? Maybe not, but then again, what the hell.

I suppose you could say I’m throwing caution to the wind. My father always told me that he and I were alone in the world. When I asked why there were no pictures of other family members—no aunts, no cousins—he told me to shut up, and left me locked in the house. I have never seen a picture of myself as a baby.

When he came back from his fishing trip, he told me there had been a fire. My mother died in a fire, and everything of hers was gone, and there was only him, my father who adored me, and a house on Daly Avenue in Missoula. A closet filled with Salvation Army clothes. I remember the clippers on the back of my neck in the hotel room. I remember being on a plane, and being scared. I did not try to tell my story any differently. He gave me a story and I took it. What choice did I have?

What choice do I have?

I want to make a new story, just start over. The story is: I saw you on
AlaskaHunks.com
, and I wrote to you. The story is: I am a librarian. I shop at the Bon Marché. I am the kind of person who packs a bag full of clothes, lies to her supervisor Frances, and hops on a plane heading north. I take chances. I move forward. Where I came from and whatever snarled stories lie behind me are of no importance. I start over when I need to. I am starting now.

See you tomorrow,
Agnes

O
N
B
ULL
S
TREET
, Bernard bought the perfect watch. It was slim and gold, and the numerals were elongated. It was decades old, the owner of the antique store told Bernard, and yet it worked perfectly. She’d have to wind it every day, and think of him. Perhaps he would wind it for her each morning, while he read the Savannah Morning News and she slept upstairs. They would take the room that had been his parents’. He had lost a good deal of their money, but with Isabelle by his side, he could set things right. He had the watch engraved with the date and a few words.

They were to meet at The Olde Pink House on Abercorn at seven. Bernard arrived early, ordered a martini. He touched the white tablecloth.

He had told her he’d been in New York on business, but he had lied. He didn’t have much business anymore, without his father to hand it to him. He had gone to New York to seduce her again, and he’d been successful. He invited her to dinner, and then to his room at the Algonquin. Her skin was yielding, and she still smelled of caramel.

*

He wasn’t right in the head anymore, said his ex-wife, with her lawyers, her restraining orders. He looked too long at little girls, she said. As if strolling by a schoolyard was a crime!

Isabelle should come back home to Savannah, he told her, imagining the life they should have had, together. He hadn’t thought she’d say yes.

At seven-fifteen, he ordered sautéed shrimp with ham and another drink. The waiter, Henri, was a friend. He brought the plate out steaming, and made to take away the second place setting. Bernard stopped him, holding up his palm. “She’s late,” he said, “but she’ll be here.”

He dipped his fork, bringing a shrimp to his lips. The sauce smelled of butter.

At seven-thirty, he drank another martini, and ordered the grouper stuffed with crabmeat. Isabelle wouldn’t like the Vidalia onion taste in his mouth. She had told him, wrapped in the terry cloth hotel robe, that she was miserable in her life. He was her angel from heaven, she said. She had been given another chance.

At eight, Bernard looked up at the chandeliers. He crossed his arms over his chest. Rage was a new emotion to him, but he was getting used to it. At eight-thirty, he paid the bill, sliding his credit card into the leather folder. He left a good tip: twenty-five percent. On the way out of the restaurant, he lit a cigarette.

A week later, he got the letter. The paper was thick, cream-colored. She wrote only five words: I couldn’t leave my girls.

Bernard took the paper between his fingers and tore it into squares. He ripped it again and again, smaller and smaller until it was nothing but confetti. Then he threw it into the gutter.