The Lost

Chapter Twenty-Six

Alone in the apartment, I don’t sleep well. But somehow I drift off by dawn and then sleep through my alarm. I lurch out of bed when my eyes do at last open. William is due in ten minutes. When he left last night, he offered to come back and drive me to the hospital today. I hurry to my dresser to pick out clothes, and I freeze.

Perched on top of my jewelry box is a stuffed puffer fish.

I don’t breathe. I feel as though the world shuts off around me.

When I suck in air again, the spell breaks. I hear cars outside the window. I smell the cleaning supplies that we doused the apartment in last night. And I see the fish, fragile and brittle and old and beautiful.

Trembling, I reach out and touch a spine. It’s pliable under my finger and very real. I draw my hand back. I stare at it, at its puckered lips and unblinking eyes.

Maybe my mother put it here. There were several weeks between when I fell into the coma and when she checked into the hospital. She could have found this somewhere, a yard sale, a store that sells oddities, eBay, and placed it here for me to find when I woke up. It would be like her to leave me a present. She likes to surprise me with things she thinks I’ll like. One morning, when I was around fifteen, I woke up to discover an entire bag of sea glass on my plate for breakfast, in lieu of toast. I used it to make a mosaic mirror frame. It hangs in Mom’s bedroom. I could bring the mirror to the hospital, I think, except I don’t think she’d like to look in the mirror right now. It’ll stay here.

I’m aware that my thoughts are spinning, spiraling. I can’t stop them.

I need to get to the hospital, to ask Mom about the puffer fish. She must have put it here, but how would it enter my dream if she bought it after the car accident? Maybe it was here before, and the accident had wiped the memory away. It had wiped away the memory of the crash itself. Who knows what else I’ve forgotten?

I comb through the apartment, looking for other differences. I find minute ones: different books on Mom’s bedside table, a beige sweater I’ve never seen, new magazines...all things easily explained by the weeks I was in the coma. I return to the puffer fish.

There’s a knock on my door.

William.

Grabbing a blanket off my bed, I wrap it around me and waddle to the door. I open it, but I can’t make myself smile. “Hi.”

“Are you all right?” He looks perfect, impeccable in his scrubs.

“Just...didn’t sleep well,” I tell him. “Worried about my mother. Overslept. I’m not dressed yet. Sorry.”

“Sure. I understand.” But he looks worried now. I wish I could explain. I definitely cannot explain. He comes inside, and I shut the door behind him.

I want to be with Mom now. I have to know if... Stop, I tell myself. The fish had to be from Mom. I was in a coma. Of course I was. Every doctor in the hospital thinks so. There are X-rays and photos and hospital records. Plus William talked to me while I was in my coma. I’d momentarily forgotten that. “What did you talk to me about? When I was in a coma. What did you say?”

“Described things in the hospital. Read to you sometimes. Just a visit or two a day, so you’d know someone was out here. You had friends that stopped by, too. Coworkers. Especially in the beginning.” He pauses. “Do you want coffee? I was going to grab some coffee. There’s a Peet’s Coffee on the corner of Hempsted and Latoya.”

“Okay. Yes. Thanks.”

He leans forward as if to kiss me, but I feel as if my brain is mired in sludge and I don’t react fast enough. His lips brush my cheek. He withdraws. We look at each other for a moment. My smile is strained, and I’m certain he can tell, though that doesn’t register in his face. The silence grows awkward.

“I’ll fetch the coffee,” he says.

“I’ll shower,” I say simultaneously.

I shower in record time and am dressed and staring again at the puffer fish by the time he returns. He rings the doorbell, and I let him in again. “Can we drink it in the car?” I ask.

“Of course.”

I’m silent on the drive, pretending that sipping the coffee takes all my concentration. My heart, though, is beating fast as a hummingbird’s wings. At every stop sign and traffic light, William shoots glances at me. His forehead wrinkles as he looks at me, and several times he seems on the verge of speaking but stops himself. I feel vaguely guilty for making the drive so uncomfortable, but all I can think about is Lost.

One very important facet of Lost.

No one leaves Lost. Not without the Missing Man. Even the dead don’t leave.

If it’s real... The hope hurts so much that I don’t complete the thought.

At the hospital, I sign in at the front desk, and then I ride the elevator up with William. He pushes the button for seven—he has lockers there with spare scrubs for days when he’s in the hospital twenty-four hours. “Lauren...” he begins. He sounds unhappy.

“I’m only worried about my mother,” I lie. “Really. I slept terribly.”

He believes me. The circles under my eyes must be even darker than I thought they were. The elevator doors open, and I manage to smile at him as he exits. The instant the doors shut, I drop the smile, and I pace. The elevator rises. I know I’m clinging to an impossible hope. I’m supposed to be reconciled to my mom’s fate. I thought I had come to terms with it. But here I am, hoping for the impossible. It is far, far more likely that I simply forgot the puffer fish and it entered my subconscious and joined my coma dream.

The elevator reaches Mom’s floor. I wave to the nurses, who jot down my name on the visitors register. I think that this is the first time they’ve seen me in my own clothes. I speed to Mom’s room. I want to burst in with my question. But I check myself at the door. I tiptoe inside.

She’s asleep.

I shift from foot to foot, waiting. She doesn’t show signs of waking up soon. I can’t wake her, even to ask her this. She needs her sleep. Sighing, I sink into the chair. I fidget, watching her. At last, I grab the paper and pencil, and I begin to sketch Peter.

He takes shape through my fingers. I know every curve of his face. I capture the look in his eyes, the sardonic twist of his lips. I fill out his body in broad strokes, trying to catch the flow of his coat. I draw him in a crouch as if on a rooftop, looking at me, his hand extended, as if he’s waiting for me to join him on the roof. Bending over the paper, I focus on his hands. It takes three tries before I’m satisfied with them. I add the swirl of his tattoos to his chest.

“It’s nice to see you draw again,” Mom says from the bed.

I look up. I don’t know how long she’s been watching me.

“Can I see?”

For an instant, I don’t want to show her. This seems personal. But I’ve already told her everything about my dream. She knows about Peter. I go to her bedside and show her.

“Last night didn’t go well?” she asks.

“Last night was great.”

“That’s not a sketch of William,” she points out.

“Mom, I have to ask you an odd question.” I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to bounce her tubes or wires.

“Yes, William’s father was excellent in bed.”

“Not that question!” I feel my face flame red. I’m positive that uncomfortable questions about last night are coming, and this is far too important to be derailed. “In my room, on my dresser, I found a stuffed puffer fish. Have you seen it before?”

“Stuffed puffer fish? Is this a trick question?”

“I want to know if I’m forgetting things. You know, because of the...” I tap my forehead. “Do you know where it came from?”

“Never seen one.”

“Really? Are you 100 percent certain?”

“Yes. Sounds like a knickknack I’d remember.”

I exhale and then I can’t stop smiling. “How would you like to leave the hospital? Go on a little trip with me?”

She gestures to the IV. “I’m not exactly portable. And, Lauren, no offense, but you don’t know the first thing about nursing. Remember how you fainted when our cat had to get shots?”

“In fairness, that was mostly because of the smell. I swear that vet smelled like formaldehyde.”

“I can’t argue with that. But, Lauren, I told you before, I can’t ask this of you. It’s a lot to take care of me. Too much. You have a life, a job. Have you called them yet? Please tell me you have. Your friends are worried about you.”

“I will, I will,” I lie. I push forward before she can call me on the lie. She can read me better than anyone. “I’ll talk to Dr. Barrett and...”

“Talk to me about what?” asks a familiar, smooth voice from the doorway.

I look up and wish I weren’t holding a sketch of Peter. I quickly put it down. He sees my movement.

“You drew again. Great.” He looks at Mom. “I saw some of your daughter’s artwork last night. You’re right. She has real talent.” He checks the chart that hangs from the foot of Mom’s bed. “How are you feeling today? Can you rate your pain?”

“I continue to think that’s the stupidest question ever,” Mom says. “It’s random. How do I know what a four is? How do you know that my four corresponds to anyone else’s four?”

“Humor me.”

“Four.”

“Great.”

“Or 4.2.”

“Can she be moved?” I ask, cutting into their banter. “Can I...can I take her home?” It isn’t home that I want to take her, but I can’t explain that. Even voicing my fragile belief out loud would, I’m afraid, make it shatter. And make them think I’m crazy. If she can be moved, I’ll drive her out as far as a tank of gas will take us, until we’re lost. And if it fails, we’ll come back home. At the very least, we’d have one more journey together. A road trip, kind of like we took when we moved to Maine. I remember the hours and hours in the car, pointing out license plates from every state, making up stories of the lives of the people in the cars, stopping at every kitschy tourist trap we saw. It took six weeks, and they were six of the best weeks of my childhood. We ate every regional fast food we found, and we slept in several motels that were too dingy for the cockroaches to approve of them. We even tried camping, which was a dismal failure when I insisted on commenting on every little sound I heard. Ended up sleeping inside the car, crammed in with all our stuff.

He’s surprised and then guarded. “It would be...difficult.”

My heart rises. “But not impossible?”

Mom is frowning at me. “You don’t want this, Lauren.”

“Yes. I do. You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here.” I jump out of my chair and pace around the room. “Of course we should make this happen. How do we make this happen? Is there paperwork I have to fill out? How do we move her? Can she come in my car...I mean, her car...if I take the IV and the catheter? I can wheel her in a wheelchair...”

“Lauren. Lauren.” Mom cuts through my babble. “You don’t want this. Listen to me. Lauren, I am going to die. You don’t want me to die in our home with you as my nursemaid. You’ll blame yourself when it’s only what’s inevitable. It’s best if I’m here. It’s better now that you’re here with me.”

“You hate it here, Mom,” I say. “At home...” I can’t expound on the glories of home. I’m not planning on taking her home. If Lost exists...

It does.

The puffer fish.

The menu.

The little noose that Tiffany made.

With the sketch of Peter in my hand, I can’t look at William. I try to seem as if I’m focusing only on Mom. “Let me try.”

She nods. There are tears caught in her eyelashes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” William says, which sounds like a promise to me.

I am given a lot of pamphlets, and a nurse trains me to change Mom’s IV and catheter. I help bathe her and shift her position to avoid bedsores. The training is rudimentary and rushed, and I feel woefully unprepared. She will have hospice care coming into the apartment, I’m told. Insurance will cover most of it. This isn’t an uncommon thing. Lots of people go home to die.

She won’t have that care in Lost, I think. She’ll die sooner without it. But it won’t be a real death. Look at Tiffany. We won’t have to say goodbye.

I listen carefully to every bit of instruction. I am on the phone with the insurance company, and I’m filling out paperwork in stacks to arrange for a nurse to come to our apartment. I’ve also handed over my newly arrived credit card to purchase equipment to care for her. I plan on stocking the car with it and bringing it with me.

I don’t know exactly how I’ll find Lost. By definition, it shouldn’t be a place you intend to find. But I’m hoping that my Missing Man powers will help. After all, the puffer fish and the menu found me here.

It’s a whirlwind, all the preparation, and I’m itching to be on the road, though I’m dreading the moment where I have to tell Mom where we’re driving. I don’t know how she’ll react. Poorly, I imagine. But there’s only one point I need her to understand: in Lost, she won’t be gone when she dies.

I don’t go on any more dates with William. I tell him I’m too distracted; he tells me he understands. He is remarkably understanding and compassionate and helpful in the extreme, and every time I talk to him, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. After all, what I am contemplating is crazy.

But then I talk to Mom again, and I know I am both crazy and right. We could have years together. Countless years. Centuries of years. I think of all the things in Lost I’ll show her. She’ll love the art barn. She’ll like the little yellow house. I’ll bring her to the diner. We’ll find her clothes in the junk pile. New books, countless lost library books. She’ll like pawing through the luggage—I’ll bargain with Tiffany for some. This time around, the townspeople won’t be a problem. I’ll take up the Missing Man’s duties, like Peter wanted me to. And he’ll help me find whatever I need to care for her. Or I’ll find it myself.

She’s scheduled to be released on Tuesday. That morning, I drive her car to the parking lot. I repark the car three times, even though I know I’ll be moving it closer to the door when it’s time to wheel Mom down. The hospice service offered an ambulance as transportation, but I declined. William offered to drive us, too, but I turned him down, as well. I’ve filled the tank with the same amount of gas that I had on the morning that I found Lost. It was near full. I don’t know if that will help. I’ve charged up my cell phone and have William’s number in it in case this is a terrible idea.

I’ve decided to tell Mom before we leave L.A. It’s her life, and it should be her decision. But I’m not telling her in the hospital. I want plenty of time to explain myself as we drive. If she says no, we turn around, and I take care of her in the apartment, like I told the hospital I’d do. I won’t force her. But I hope she says yes.

I’m not planning on telling William at all. His remarkable understanding must have limits, and I’m aware of how crazy my plan sounds. The more days that pass, though, the more convinced I am that I have found the perfect solution.

Inside the hospital, I check in at the front desk. My heart is thumping fast. I press the button in the elevator and ride it up. It seems infinitely slow, as if it’s being pulled inch by inch. I’m ready to claw my way out when the doors slide open with agonizing slowness. I wave at the nurses at the nurses’ station. One of them rushes around the desk to intercept me.

“You can’t go in there right now,” she says.

She isn’t a nurse I know well, but I recognize her. She always wears earrings the size of my palms. Today they’re oak leaves that rival actual leaves in size but are made of tin. “Why not? I’ve seen everything—”

The door to my mother’s room slams open, and she’s wheeled out on a gurney. An oxygen mask is strapped to her face. Her eyes are closed. William is with her, as well as a fleet of nurses.

I try to run to her. But the nurse is surprisingly strong.

“You have to wait, Ms. Chase.” Her voice is kind. “They’ll take good care of her.”

“What happened?” My voice is shrill. “She was leaving today! Why did this happen?”

Oh, God, it’s my fault. I pushed too hard. She wasn’t ready to leave. Her body wasn’t up to the stress. And then another thought: I’m too late. If I’d tried to bring her to Lost earlier, if I’d found a way to leave Lost earlier...

The nurse guides me to a chair. Someone presses a cup of coffee into my hands.

“We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”