The Lost

Chapter Twenty-Five

He chooses a Greek restaurant, which is fine with me. He says he didn’t want to choose Italian because it screams “first date” and “trying too hard.”

“Anything that isn’t a diner,” I tell him. I don’t explain why.

He drives carefully. He’s a safe driver, another reason for my mother to like him. I picture Peter riding the top of the train, wind flapping through his coat, and suddenly I miss him so much that it shocks the breath out of me. Mom is right that a date with William is a good idea. I need to reconnect with reality.

Inside, the restaurant is nice. Very Greece-centric. It’s decorated with murals of pastoral Greek isles on the walls and a stone tile floor with a flower mosaic. The hostess leads us to a table against the wall, near a vase that overflows with lilies. I think the lilies are real. I touch one of the petals to check. Yes, real. The waitress hands us menus. William’s menu has a photo of a Greek island with white plaster houses and brilliant teal-blue water. Mine has a crescent moon. I open it and see the eclipse éclair, the solar flare flounder, the meteor meatloaf...

The waitress plucks the menu out of my hands. “Not sure where that came from.” She tucks it under her elbow, and she hands me a fresh menu with a photo of Greece on the front. “Sorry about that.”

“Wait,” I say. “What was...”

But the waitress whisks away and is at another table across the restaurant, pad and pen in hand. The menu with the moon, if that was indeed what I saw, is tucked between other menus.

William is talking. “...falafel is surprisingly spicy, but their lamb is excellent.” He waves to one of the cooks through a window to the kitchen. “I come here a lot. I’m a lousy cook.”

I watch the waitress stuff the menus under the hostess station, and then I force myself to smile at William. “I would have thought you’d be good at it with the perfectionism and the control thing. It’s usually us artsy types that burn everything in sight.”

The waitress pours water. She sloshes some on my place mat. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Slouching with one hip jutting out, she retrieves a pen from the nest of hair tied behind her head. She’s staring at William as if he’s tasty.

It couldn’t have been the Moonlight Diner menu, I tell myself. I need to stop thinking about it.

William uses his napkin to dab the water spill on my place mat. “Glass of Chardonnay for me. What would you like, Lauren?”

“Iced tea?” Then I remember I promised my mother I’d drink wine. “Scratch that. I’ll have a Chardonnay, too.” I think of Mom and wonder if any of the nurses made her eat dinner. I should be there with her, never mind that she told me to come.

As if he can read my thoughts, he says gently, “She needs time to herself, too. I don’t think this is entirely about matchmaking.”

I nod. That makes sense. She probably does need a break from me. To rest. To collect her thoughts. To... I don’t know. Prepare herself. I swallow hard and look down at the place mat. Its woven fibers, like strips of bamboo. I pick at it, and then I stop myself and take the napkin and lay it on my lap. The waitress delivers a dish of hummus with a wrinkled olive in the middle. She puts a wire bowl of pita bread next to it.

“So...youngest of four,” I prompt.

“They liked to see what they could get me to do.” He dips a pita bread in the hummus, swirls it with a practiced twist, and then curves it up so none drips off. “Once, they convinced me that my Halloween costume granted actual flying powers. My father caught me leaping off the roof of the garage. Another time, they used me as a human basketball. They rationalized that they’d placed pillows underneath the net so it was all safe and good. Plus I’d agreed since it was the only way they’d play with me. I had one brother who was seven years older than me and two that were five years older. I learned to walk at a very young age so that I could flee when necessary. Kind of survival of the fittest at my house.”

“I’m an only child. Always wanted a little sister.” Like Claire.

I shake my head to clear my thoughts away. William wouldn’t want to be on a date with me if he knew how mentally unhinged I am, dwelling on people that my subconscious summoned up while I was in a coma.

The waitress smiles at William as she takes our order, and then she swishes across the restaurant. My eyes drift to the hostess station, where the diner menu may or may not be.

“How was Mom while I was in that coma?” I am derailing whatever it is he’s talking about—Greece, I think. He’d been there. I review the piece of the conversation that my brain must have been listening to. He likes to travel, but he doesn’t have much time for it. “I like to travel, too. But I haven’t done it much. That is, I think I’d like to travel, if I did it.”

“You should try traveling, and your mother was worried, of course. She hated that she couldn’t be with you to talk to you. She wanted you to hear the sound of a familiar voice.” He pauses, looks uncomfortable. He’s wearing a button-down shirt, and it looks stiff after the scrubs. I guess that he’s most comfortable in scrubs with a clipboard in his hand. His pager sounds. He glances at it and then puts it back at his waist. “I talked to you sometimes between shifts.”

I stare at him. “You did?”

“Creepy or nice?” he asks.

I think of the man hunting for pennies in the gutter and the woman planting dead flowers in front of the post office. I’ve seen my fair share of creepy, albeit only in my own imagination. “Nice,” I say firmly.

He relaxes. “Good. You know, you aren’t exactly what I expected.”

I know I haven’t been a spectacular date. I haven’t wowed him with either my intellect or charm. In fact, I’ve been rather distracted. “Is that good or bad?”

“It’s... You’re slightly easier to talk to when you’re in a coma.” He winces again. “And that completely didn’t come out right. I mean, I can’t tell what you’re thinking, what you think of me. Usually I can tell, especially with women. And that sounded obnoxious, too. I’m blowing this.”

I can’t help but smile. “You’re not. I think you’re charming.”

He wipes his forehead in exaggerated relief. “This is harder than I thought it would be.”

“Entirely my fault. My mind is elsewhere.” I’m the one botching this date, which is not going to make my mother happy. She’ll want a full report.

“Completely understandable.” He takes a deep breath. “I know you need a friend now more than you need further complications, even if they come with parental approval.”

He intends me to smile at that, and I do. He is charming. He’s...safe. He won’t leap up on top of the table or take me running over rooftops or talk in cryptic riddles. And that’s a good thing. I need safe and stable and good. Also, he seems to inexplicably like me, as distracted and moody as I’ve been. He’s perfect. Almost too perfect. He could be the fantasy man in a coma-induced world, and Peter could be real and waiting for me to wake up in Lost...except that Mom is here.

I do my best to hold up my end of the conversation for the rest of the dinner. The falafel is spicy, but I choke it down with lots of water. I stick to only the one glass of Chardonnay.

He pays, and I don’t object. I have no idea if I’m still employed, and he is. Plus this was his idea. His and my mother’s, oddly.

I stand and pick up my purse. It isn’t truly mine. I found it in the hospital’s lost-and-found. Mine was lost in the car wreck. I’m also wearing clothes from the lost-and-found. “About the second part of the date...the apartment is bound to be a disaster zone. You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”

“I have experience transforming disasters. As I told you, I’m excellent at alphabetizing. Probably should have been a librarian. I’m told the hours are much better.” He folds his used napkin as he stands and tucks it under the rim of his plate.

“I think you’re exactly where you should be. You seem good at it.”

“I am.” He opens the door to the restaurant for me, and the bell above it rings as we exit. “I don’t mean that as conceited as it sounds. Part of why I chose medicine is that I am good at it. Trust me, I’m terrible at lots of things.”

“Like what? Tell me one of your flaws. So far, I don’t think you have any.”

William smiles. “In that case, I don’t want to shatter your illusions of me.”

“Given that you are so perfect, why aren’t you dating anyone?” I imagine my mother concocting him in her kitchen, adding all the ingredients to make the perfect man. Even his imperfections are perfect. He should be able to erase Peter from my mind.

“You seriously want my dating history this early into knowing me?”

“Or your flaws. Your choice.”

He heaves an exaggerated sigh as he unlocks his car door and ushers me inside. “You’re not asking the easy questions. How about where I come from or which sports team I like? Can’t we start there?” He gets in and starts the car.

I laugh. “Okay. Fine.”

I guide him to our apartment, obscurely relieved that he doesn’t know where it is. At least he doesn’t know everything about me already.

As he parks in front of the building, I look up at the darkened windows. Mom was right. I don’t want to do this myself. The falafel rolls inside my stomach, and I wish I hadn’t eaten it. I want to ask him to take me back to the hospital to be with Mom. Instead, I step out of the car. So does William.

“Do you want me to go first?” he asks.

I shake my head and walk toward the apartment building. I stop. Turning, I hold out my hand toward him. “Can we go in at the same time?” I know I sound like a child, but I feel like a child, as if I’m returning home with a bad report card.

He takes my hand. His hand is soft, warm, reassuring. I think of Peter’s hand, rough and hard from climbing and swinging, but also as warm and comforting. I walk up the steps to the apartment, holding William’s hand.

I unlock the door and push it open.

The odor of overripe fruit and rancid milk rolls into the hallway. William takes a step backward. “Coma,” I remind him. “I don’t normally keep the apartment like this.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to faint?” I look at him curiously. I’ve never seen a man faint before. I don’t think I’d be able to catch him effectively if he really swooned. He’s very broad-shouldered, rather muscular. He must work out. Or heft his patients up regularly. For a second, I’m distracted by the image of him bench-pressing patients.

“Just wishing for a hazmat suit. I’ll be fine.”

I switch on the light. It isn’t...terrible. A wave of familiarity sweeps over me, and for an instant, I can’t breathe. Or maybe that’s the stench.

Shutting the door behind me, I walk inside with William. I feel okay. It’s quiet. And it smells. But...I shouldn’t have avoided this. I really am a melodramatic idiot sometimes.

I fetch a few garbage bags from under the sink, and we heave out the fruit that rotted on the counter, three quarters of the contents of the refrigerator, and several desiccated plants. Together, we carry them out to the Dumpster. As William lifts the lid, I automatically glance around for any stray kids or feral dogs. There aren’t any.

Inside again, he fetches cleaning supplies—he must have spotted them under the sink with the trash bags. “You don’t have to do this,” I tell him. “I’m fine now that the initial moment has passed.”

“You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

I don’t argue with him.

Together, we clean the apartment. It isn’t a big apartment: galley kitchen that is (or was) stuffed with plants, living plus dining room that’s stuffed with artwork (mostly old), my bedroom, Mom’s bedroom, and one bathroom. Lots of books overflow the shelves. I wonder if William is itching to alphabetize them. They’re sorted mostly by...well, I don’t think they’re sorted at all. Books I like tend to be on shelves closer to my room, and books Mom likes tend to be closer to hers. Our personal favorites or current reads are piled up or under our bedside tables. As I finish cleaning the bathroom, I find William studying my paintings over the couch.

“These are beautiful,” he says. “Do you still do art?”

“Yes.” None of the art here was done in the past five years. But yes. That’s my answer.

“You asked me for flaws. I don’t have any hobbies outside of work. Zero. Well, I go to the gym, but that’s a side effect of too much medical school. You can’t constantly order patients to stay in shape and constantly see the side effects of not doing it and then not go yourself.”

My art is not a hobby, I want to say. It’s me. But technically, hobby is the right word. I have...or had...a job that had nothing to do with art. I don’t have a gallery. I don’t sell it. Or even show it. Of course it’s a hobby. “I took a break from it for a while. But I’m starting again.”

He nods. “You did the sketches in your mom’s hospital room. They’re interesting.”

I flinch at the word interesting. That was Peter’s word. Goddammit, I have to stop thinking about a man who doesn’t exist and a place that isn’t real!

“I know zero about art, but you’re talented. Your mother used to talk about how you’d given it up... She must be happy you’re drawing again.”

I nod. Do not think about the art barn.

“Are you going to be okay here tonight?” He winces again. He does that expression a lot, I notice. It’s rather adorable for someone so handsome to be so self-conscious. “I know, I have this massive maternal streak.”

“I would have gone with ‘savior complex.’”

He smiles. “Yeah, that sounds much more manly. Anyway, I had a good time tonight.”

“You scrubbed a kitchen floor and threw out plants that had rotted. I’m guessing that’s not quite what you envisioned.”

“I like surprises.”

“Really?”

“No, not at all. But I liked tonight.” He crosses to me and takes my hands. “I know this is a difficult time for you. I know I have terrible timing.” I like the feel of my hands in his.

“It could be worse timing,” I say. “I could still be in a coma.”

He smiles, and I feel warm inside. He’s real, I remind myself. This is real.

I let him kiss me.

After a few seconds, I kiss him back.

Clinging to him, I kiss him as if he could ground me, anchor me, make this all feel real. I want to erase my false memories and start again.

But when I close my eyes, I think of Peter.