Department of Lost and Found

by Allison Winn Scotch

  Jake hadn’t yet arrived when I saw Zach across Lila’s living room. Lila had outdone herself: She’d put sparkling white Christmas lights around the door frame, decked out the windowsills with flowing vases of calla lilies, and even pasted together a collage of pictures from my past. “It’s a tribute to who you are,” Lila said, when I saw it and misted up. I lingered over a picture of Sally and me at our senior year formal and wondered how things could ever have gotten this far.

  Zach’s face glowed under the hue of the lights. I gave him a small wave and a weirdly shy smile, and he moved toward me and leaned down for a kiss. A cheek kiss, that is. Lila was hovering in the kitchen. A buzz-kill at best.

  “So I guess this means that, as your doctor, I should suggest that you kick your pot habit,” he said.

  “So I guess this means that as your patient, I’ll need to seek another doctor.”

  “I was going to suggest that anyway.” He smiled. “I think perhaps we’ve breached some sort of ethics at this point.”

  “Nothing’s happened,” I reminded him. “Separate hotel rooms and all of that.”

  “Oh, but the possibilities.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned. “Maybe if I dress up like an old guy with too much makeup on? I know how you like that look.”

  “Anyway,” I said, looking down at my manicure.

  “Anyway,” he said back.

  At that very moment, Lila rushed over and pulled me into a gaggle of college friends who had taken the train down from Boston to celebrate. As I walked past Zach, I turned and I reached out to grab his hand.

  “It occurs to me,” I said. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for the mint chocolate chip ice cream. You saved my life that day, you know.”

  “I’m pretty sure that you saved it all on your own,” he said, squeezing my fingers until Lila dragged me away, and I was forced to let go.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, after I’d toasted to my newfound health, after I’d kissed my last well-wisher good-bye, and after Jake and I fell onto each other, slightly tipsy on both champagne and life, in the cab ride home, I let him take my hand and lead me into our bedroom. I felt his breath on my neck as he leaned in and unwound my zipper, and I felt the cool rush of air over my nearly naked body as my dress fell to the floor.

  I moved to turn off the lights, but he placed his fingers on my waist and pulled me back toward him.

  “You’re stunning,” he said. “Right now, exactly as you are. You’re stunning.”

  My eyes welled, and rather than answer, I simply smiled and led his hands to my breasts. He kissed my lips, and then he kissed my neck, and then he kissed the part of me that wasn’t even part of me six months earlier: the replacement breasts that I had come to think of as my own. I inhaled when he moved his lips over them, waiting for something to take over me: joy, rage, passion, something, but nothing came. Mostly, I was just lost in my thoughts, in my consciousness, as his fingers next explored my body, as mine then explored his, and finally, when I opened myself up to him, and we made love for the first time in nearly three years.

  When it was over, he pulled the crisp sheets over our bare selves, kissed my forehead, and told me that he loved me. And I told him it back. What I didn’t tell him was that I thought that sex would mystically alter something between us, magnetically pull us back to where we needed to be. And now that it had happened, I knew that sex couldn’t change anything: It never did. Not with anyone before Jake, and not with him now. We were still running on empty. I was still running on empty. The only question that remained was, was I strong enough to find the right fuel to fill me up?

  Dear Diary,

  Well, you’re never going to believe it because I could barely believe it myself, but Ned did indeed get back to me. True, he didn’t call because I think that might have been too hard, but he did e-mail, so I’ll at least give him some credit for having one ball, if not two. It was interesting to read what he wrote, what he had to say. Both for himself and about us.

  Dear Natalie, he wrote.

  I was surprised to hear your voice in my mailbox, but not nearly as surprised as the fact that I’m writing. I didn’t think I would, but it turns out that I have some things to get off my chest. I hope you know that I tried to stay in touch with you when we first broke up. I’d feel terribly embarrassed if you didn’t know that. (Diary—note from me here. How annoying that he’s concerned about saving face! As if walking out on me shouldn’t have been embarrassing enough! But I’ll let him continue.)

  I got your message about you wanting to talk about our relationship. I didn’t have the energy to call, because I’m worried about what you might say. I first want to tell you, Natalie, that I can’t take you back. (Diary, me again. Can you believe that he has the nerve?) In case that’s why you were calling. I mean, I don’t know if it was, but I thought I should just put that out there. When you get calls from ex-girlfriends saying they want to talk about your relationship, that’s pretty much the logical assumption. If it wasn’t, then I really apologize for making that leap.

  Anyway, having said that, I guess I should clarify why not. Natalie, I’m happy. I mean, really, really happy. I think that maybe I didn’t realize what happiness was until now. And I don’t mean to rub it in your face or anything. Because God knows that you’ve had your share of rough times, but I do hear that you’ve beaten the disease, so I definitely want you to know that I’m thrilled for you. (Diary—how nice of him, no?) But it’s just that my happiness is so plentiful that I can’t even imagine going back to where we once were.

  So where were we, Nat? I don’t know. I suppose that we were in a safe place that hovered somewhere between ambivalence and true fulfillment, and rather than try to make it anything that it wasn’t, we closed our eyes and called it love. I don’t think that you ever knew that I wasn’t happy. At least, not until I made the decision to tell you about Agnes. I admit now, my timing was horrible, and again, I apologize. But in the end, weren’t we both better off?

  Happiness is an amazing thing, Natalie. It keeps my life revved, it keeps me from being lonely. It’s shown me that love is much better than you thought it could be. It’s much better, no, it’s much different, from what we had. What I have now is what it should be.

  I hope this doesn’t sound like I’m gloating. I’m not. I just wanted to express how I feel, in case that’s why you were calling. I have to get back to work, but before I go, I want to say, Nat, that I hope you find this same happiness. That I’m sorry for everything that you’ve gone through. And that if you can find it, this light, this happiness, it’s enough to make you look back and realize what you were missing.

  Please don’t hate me, Natalie. I wish you everything that I have.

  Best,

  Ned

  So that was it, Diary. My first instinct was to call him up and declare that he should in no way flatter himself, that I’d sooner poke skewers through my eyeballs than take him back, but really, I figured, what was the point? He was happy, and I guess, for that, a teeny, tiny, teensy part of me is happy, too. Until he walked out on me, I thought he was a decent guy. So I probably shouldn’t begrudge him much. He was right: I didn’t realize that he was as burned out on us as I was. Funny. Maybe if we’d actually talked about it, something would have changed.

  So anyway, Diary. I’ve tracked them all down. Opened up my past and survived the whirlwind that it brought. It’s almost poetic that Ned wrote me just as I wrapped up chemo. It’s like I can take all of my history, all of the knowledge learned, and toss it aside now. Or put it to use in places it could better be served. Like in restoring my friendship with the one friend who matters. Or forgiving my mother for not always being perfect.

  You know what, Diary? I’m ready to start fresh.

  TWENTY-TWO

  What do you mean, she’s not in the office today?” I barked at Blair, even though I conceivably knew that it wasn’t her fault.

  “Natalie, I’m sorry,” she said, as the blood drained from her face. “She de
cided to take a last-minute trip to D.C.”

  “Shit.” I said. “But I scheduled this meeting with her two weeks ago. I absolutely have to talk to her this week, and I’m out of the office Thursday and Friday. I can’t switch that—I’m in Puerto Rico for a wedding.”

  “Andrews wanted to talk to her in person.” Blair made a face. “You know how it is.”

  “I do indeed know how it is. Christ. Okay, put me down for Wednesday. Any time, I don’t care. But I need thirty minutes. Minimum. If she wants me to get this stem cell bill done, she’s got to give me thirty minutes.” I cleared my throat. “And I have a few other issues to talk to her about.” Namely, Sally’s story.

  Blair tapped her free hand on her desk and clicked onto the senator’s schedule on her computer.

  “How about eleven? I can switch out a conference call, and you get in. Will that work?”

  “Blair,” I said. “You’re the greatest. Remind me of that the next time I’m about to have a breakdown.”

  “I will.” She smiled. “You better believe it.”

  I stopped by the watercooler for a glass, trudged back to my cube, and picked up the phone to call Maureen, Senator McIntyre’s assistant, my comrade-in-arms in nailing down the senatorial votes.

  “I’ve locked mine down,” she said. “Texas was wavering, but I pinned them down on Friday. Of course, I had to promise an open-ended favor in return, but it seemed like a fair price. Next time they want to drill for oil in Alaska, the senator might have to agree not to call them fucking short-sighted assholes on live C-SPAN. We can live with that.”

  “I’m one short,” I replied. “Senator Tompkins. But I have a bargaining chip; I just haven’t been able to put it in play yet. Dupris is never here anymore, and with my chemo treatments, I haven’t been able to shadow her on the road.”

  “How are you feeling, by the way?”

  “Better,” I said. “Good, even. It’s amazing how great you can feel when you don’t have thousands of poisonous cells and chemicals chasing through you. In fact, I’m heading to the Caribbean this weekend.”

  “Shut up! Natalie Miller’s taking a vacation?”

  “I swear to tell the truth and nothing but it.” I laughed. “Actually, my best friend’s getting married down there. I figured it was a good excuse and all.” I wondered if it were fair to call Sally my best friend anymore. I’d sent her an e-mail after Lila’s party. A white flag waving in the wind to say that I was sorry, and that even though we stood in separate corners on this issue she was still the truest person I knew. And that I was still honored to stand up with her at her wedding. I hadn’t heard back.

  “I’ve never been so jealous of anyone in my life. I swear, I think the last vacation I took was when Clinton was in office.” Maureen sighed into her phone.

  “We were in college back then, Maureen.” I picked up a pen to start doodling.

  “Exactly. But who’s counting?”

  “THIS DOESN’T HAVE to be our last session, you know,” Janice said, as she tapped a pencil on her desk. “I see plenty of patients long after they go into remission. Many patients discover that a lot has changed for them, and it helps to have someone to talk to.”

  “I know.” I nodded. “I’d like that. To come back. But just not every week. I’d sort of like to see how it feels to be on my own. To muddle through some of this stuff and rely on my own instincts for a while.”

  “Fair enough. Though you’re not on your own. You have a wide net to support you, and of course, you have Sally and Jake.”

  “Sally still isn’t speaking to me,” I said, shaking my head.

  “Isn’t her wedding any day now?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  I nodded. I wasn’t even sure if she wanted me there after the way we’d left things. True, I’d e-mailed to apologize, but as Jake pointed out after he read it, I’d hardly apologized at all. I’d only asked to move on. Never once did I retreat from my corner or tell her that I understood why she had to do what she was doing or that in everything in my life, her friendship was the thing that mattered most.

  “So where do you go from here?” Janice asked me, scribbling a note to herself in my file. “Lose a friend and chalk it up to fate?”

  “I’m not sure that I believe in fate,” I said, fingering my necklace. “Well, it’s not that I don’t believe in fate, but I firmly believe in your opportunity to manipulate fate.”

  “So what does that mean for you, right now?”

  I sighed and stared out her second-floor window, wondering if the early spring sun were strong enough to sink under your skin and warm you from the inside out. “I suppose that it means that for the first time, I have a decent perspective on what matters. And that if I don’t do something about it, it might not by mine for much longer.”

  “Ah.” Janice smiled. “You might have uncovered the secret of life. How does it make you feel?”

  “I think that’s giving me a little bit too much credit.” I grinned. “But how does it make me feel? I suppose it makes me scared because, ultimately, I have no one to blame my failures on but myself.” I watched a pigeon land on her windowsill and wished that I’d could take back everything I’d said to Sally. “But I suppose that it also liberates me. I mean, just like I have to own my failures, I can also own my successes. And at least try to turn my failures around rather than try to outrun them.”

  Janice smiled. “Well, no wonder you don’t want to see me each week. If all of my clients were as well adjusted as you, I’d be out of a job.”

  “Trust me, Janice. I might be well adjusted now, but if you’d gotten your hands on me a year ago, I’d probably have provided enough sessions to buy your horses a new barn. Funny how cancer can do that to you—knock off your psychosis when, arguably, it should really make it much worse.”

  “Sometimes it does,” she replied. “It’s all about how you choose to perceive it.”

  When our hour wound down, she came out from behind her desk and gave me a hug. I smelled her perfume and felt the silk scarf that was draped around her neck, and I thanked her for helping me find my way.

  “Good luck,” she said, as I was slinging my bag on my shoulder.

  “It’s not about luck,” I said, as my four-leaf clover poked out of my crewneck sweater. “It’s about making your own good fortune.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  On Wednesday, the day before Jake and I were set to leave for Sally’s wedding, the senator was running late, which threw my schedule even further off-course than it already was. Blair dropped by my desk at 10:00 and said that the senator was in a chopper on the way back from Albany. She’d have to bump our meeting to noon. And would I mind terribly if it were more of a walking lunch? Dupris hadn’t shown her face in New York in three weeks, and Andrews’s public relations advisers wanted her to get out among the people. Hand-shaking, baby-kissing, and all of that.

  Fine, I said. But I need thirty minutes.

  You’ll have it, Blair said. I promise.

  Our noon meeting was pushed to 12:30, then 1:00. Finally, at 1:15, the senator flew through the door with two briefcases on each arm.

  “I’m famished,” she shouted. “Blair, can we get some lunch?”

  “You’re due for a walk-through, Senator,” Blair replied. “Andrews wants you out among the people during lunch hour. It’s prime time for a photo shoot.”

  “Christ, fine,” she said. “And I hear that Natalie needs to talk to me? Tell her to grab her stuff—we’re leaving in five. I’m about to devour my own hand. Make a reservation at The Four Seasons for 1:30.”

  Shit, I thought. I needed thirty minutes, not an entire afternoon. I still had to get Manny to the kennel and stop by the boutique on my corner for some beachy T-shirts and run to the drugstore for enough sun block to deflect even the hint of a ray touching my skin. And, of course, I need to get back to both Maureen at Senator McIntyre’s office and Brian at Senator Tompkins’s. Shit, I said out loud.

  I grabbed my bag and yellow
pad with my list of pro and con names and made a dash for the elevator, where I caught up with the senator just before the door clamped shut.

  “Natalie, how are you feeling?” she said warmly. “I haven’t really had a chance to catch up with you since you went into remission. We’re so, so happy for you.”

  “Thank you, Senator. Actually, I’m feeling great. Maybe even better than before.” I put on a grin to assure her that this was so. “But really, I need to speak with you about a very pressing matter.”

  “Of course,” she said, as the elevator touched the bottom floor and her cell phone rang. She held up her finger to me. “Just give me a second. Walk with me. We’re going to The Four Seasons. I hope you haven’t eaten.”

  I had, in fact, eaten. I’d gone down to Ben and Jerry’s for some mint chocolate chip about an hour before, but it didn’t really matter to the senator. Lunch, it was.

  “Fine, I’ll look out for them,” I heard her say into her phone, as she snapped it shut. “Photographers. Andrews has tipped them off. He wants some shots in tomorrow’s paper. So smooth out that beautiful hair of yours, Natalie. So what were you saying? Oh yes, pressing matter. What is it?”

  Unconsciously, I raised my free hand and ran it over my wig.

  “It’s the stem cell bill. The one you asked me to babysit until we were sure that we had enough signatures to push it through…”

  She and I were now weaving our way through midtown lunch-time pedestrian traffic. A taxi just to our right was leaning on his horn and my voice drifted away under its clamor.

  “I’m sorry, what? I couldn’t hear you.”