The Lost

by Sarah Beth Durst

  He’s grinning at me. “Good, right?”

  Mouth full, I nod.

  He reaches over with a napkin and wipes my upper lip. “Bit of frosting.” For an instant, I freeze. His proximity, the warmth of his eyes... I think of Peter. Not real. Not real! But this man is. And he’s kind and smart. I want to seize him as if he’s an anchor in a storm, but I barely know him. “How did my mom help you? You said that when...” I trail off, not certain how to broach the topic of his father.

  His smile fades, and for an instant, pain crosses his face.

  I wish I hadn’t asked. “I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about it...”

  “No, it’s okay.” The smile is back. He really has the nicest smile I’ve ever seen. I notice that others in the cafeteria, women in particular, are sneaking looks in our direction—at him admiringly and at me curiously. I realize I must be sitting with the catch of the hospital, and I don’t understand why he is being so overly kind to me. With Peter, his motivations were clear... Not real, I tell myself yet again. Dr. Barrett is talking, and I tell myself to listen. “My father’s death was unexpected. Seemed healthy. Went to the gym daily. No trace of heart problems. But he went out for a jog one day and collapsed. The paramedics were unable to revive him. Your mother helped me with the aftermath. My father was a...he would have said ‘collector,’ but he was a hoarder. I wanted to pitch it all immediately. She helped me sort through it. Came daily for about two months.”

  How did I not know this? I was at work. She was partially retired.

  “She talked about you all the time.” He smiles at me in a lopsided way that reminds me so strongly of Peter that my heart does a flip-flop inside my rib cage. “I know several of your embarrassing childhood stories, and you don’t know even one of mine. It’s distinctly unfair. But that’s why the cupcake. I feel like I already know you.” He falls silent, and he’s looking intensely into my eyes, seriously, as if he’s seeing straight to the core of me. I feel as though the world has sucked in to a bubble around us. All other sound fades. I am acutely aware of everything about him, from the way his scrubs hang on his shoulders, to the curve of his cheekbones, to the breath in his throat, to his grip on his coffee cup, but all I think is Peter, Peter, Peter. He runs his fingers through his hair nervously. He is real; Peter is not. “I apologize if all of this comes off as creepy. It’s just...I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time.”

  “I think...I’m flattered?”

  “Good.” He seems relieved. He leans back in his chair, tipping it a few inches backward. “Let me take you to dinner tonight. Someplace not here. Give you a break. Tell you a few of my embarrassing childhood stories.”

  I should say yes. Mom would want me to say yes. It would be healthy. Help me forget about Peter and ground me in reality. But I shake my head. “My mom needs me right now. Probably shouldn’t even be here now.”

  If he’s disappointed, he hides it well. He nods understandingly. “I have lousy timing, don’t I? You need a friend right now, not some guy stalking you in an awkward fashion.” He stands up. “I’ve never been very good with women.”

  I half laugh. “I find that difficult to believe.”

  He shrugs. “I don’t have time for building relationships. I’m married to this hospital. Which is why you’re ideal. I already know you.”

  “Yeah, that does border on a little creepy.”

  “Ask your mother for my embarrassing stories. She knows them.” He winks at me, and then he picks up my tray, as well as his own, and heads for the trash can.

  “Thanks for the cupcake,” I call after him. I then look over at the table next to us. I pick up the small noose and wind it around my fingers as if it’s a talisman.

  I take it with me as I go to visit my mother.

  * * *

  I slip into Mom’s hospital room quietly. She’s asleep. She looks so fragile when she sleeps, as if at any moment, she could be blown apart like dried leaves in autumn. I sink into the chair by the window and look out at the palm trees.

  I twist the noose around my fingers and then untwist it. Twist. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. I think about Dr. Barrett. About Peter. About Mom. About Claire. Real. Not real. Real. Not real.

  “Did you have a nice lunch?” Mom’s voice is soft and wavers. I scoot the chair closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice.

  “Dr. Barrett joined me.”

  She starts to nod and then she coughs. The coughs shudder through her entire body, and I drop the little noose and reach for her. She holds up her hand to stop me. “Fine. I’m fine. William’s a nice boy, isn’t he?”

  “He said you helped him sort through his father’s things.”

  “I did.” A ghost of a smile drifts across her face. “His father and I were close once.”

  “Close close?”

  She tries to cackle, but again she’s caught in a cough. She smiles weakly at me. “You were a teenager. I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain it would last. You were looking so fiercely for a father figure. I didn’t want to disappoint you if the relationship fell apart. And it did fall apart. My fault, mostly. I kept comparing him to my memories of your father. At any rate, there was no reason to tell you. But we remained friends.”

  “You’re certain it was when I was a teenager? I’m not going to discover that his father is my father, and my life is suddenly a British soap opera.”

  “I swear you can date him without any fear of creating three-headed children or violating any laws.” Her eyes gleam. This is the most alert I’ve seen her. “Did he ask you out?”

  I shouldn’t admit it. But I don’t want to lie to her. “Dinner. I said no.”

  “Why?” she screeches. I didn’t know she could still get that kind of volume out of her lungs. I’m impressed. And pleased. She levels a finger at me. “You are to go out to dinner with him tonight. Someplace nice. Order wine. Pinot noir. You’ll like it. Then you are to have him go back with you to the apartment since you’re obviously too scared to go by yourself. Water my plants. Take in whatever fast-food ads have accumulated outside the door. Let air in. And then you can come back. If you choose to sleep with him, just don’t do it in my bed.”

  “Mom!”

  Mom presses the nurse call button. A few minutes later, the nurse appears. Mom smiles at her. “Would you please page Dr. Barrett? Tell him it isn’t an emergency, but when he has a free moment, I’d like to speak with him.”

  “Sure thing.” The nurse checks her IVs, makes sure Mom is comfortable, and waggles her finger over the dinner tray. “You need to eat.” Mom obediently opens the soup and spoons some into her mouth. Her hand shakes, and drops spill on her hospital gown, but a tiny mouthful of broth makes it past her lips. She closes the lid when the nurse leaves.

  “I’ll go if you eat everything on that tray,” I say.

  She pulls the tray closer.

  “And breakfast tomorrow, too,” I quickly add.

  “Done,” she says with satisfaction.

  “Well played, Mom. Well played.” Leaning over, I pick up the noose. It’s just a ratty piece of string. I should toss it in the trash.

  She gestures at me with the fork. “What do you have there?” She points to the noose.

  “Just a thing I found.” Firmly, I put it down. I pick up the pad of paper and pencil that I’d gotten from the nurses’ station. As she eats, I doodle, using the menu as support for the paper. I draw the motel as I remember it with the desiccated saguaro by the sign, and I draw the diner with all the tacky kitsch in the windows. I then sketch in the rest of the street, the post office with the eagle, the darkened alleys. When I finish, I tape it to the wall.

  On a fresh piece of paper, I start to draw Victoria, the harsh lines of her jaw and the severity of her hair. I sketch in her waitress uniform. Taking another sheet, I begin on Tiffany.


  Mom finishes every bite of her food.

  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.