Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2)

by Charlotte Roth

  I looked down at my hand in his. He was real. It was real. As I let go, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of peace. “Eleanor,” I said and winked at the little girl.

  “Yes, I got that much.” He smiled. “I have a radar, too.”

  “Hey, Dad, what is a radar?” little Eleanor asked again, pulling his pants.

  “A radar is an object-detection system that uses electromagnetic waves to detect something. To find something.”

  “Like a detective?” She looked up.

  “Well, you could say that.” He bent down and kissed her on her forehead and then he looked at me. “I have a major in engineering. Guilty as charged.” He raised his right hand and smiled.

  “Did you know that there is this statue somewhere... where is it, Dad?” Young Eleanor looked up and pulled at his pants again.

  “England,” he helped.

  “In England there’s this statue, where a girl’s sitting all by herself, and her name is Eleanor, too.”

  I nodded. “I know, and she’s very lonely,” I explained.

  “I guess my mom’s not the only Beatles fan around here.” Thomas smiled and looked at me from head to toe. “She was the one who picked her name.” He looked down at Eleanor and played with her ponytail. “Well, a fan is maybe not the right word...” He paused and looked up at the gray skies as if searching for the right word.

  “I know, my mom, Abigail or, um, Abby, is, um, how shall I put it in a nice way, perhaps a little...”

  “Obsessed,” we both said at the same time.

  “Exactly,” we both said at the same time again.

  “Okay, this is weird now.” He smiled and looked down at his feet.

  I nodded and looked in the direction of the house. It was weird—weird and wonderful; I felt both weirdly happy and wonderfully nervous. “Yes,” I said, suddenly afraid to look him in the eyes.

  “What is lonely, Dad?” Young Eleanor looked up, twisting her hair.

  “It’s when you feel very much alone and sad.” He looked at me like he was saying, “Help me out here!”

  I nodded and smiled a nervous smile. “I guess,” I said, looking down at Eleanor.

  “Like you, Dad? When Mommy died?” she said very matter of fact.

  For a second a twinge of pain crossed his face. Then he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her all the way up over his head. “Yes, just like me when Mommy died,” he said softly, looking up at her big blue eyes.

  She held his face between her tiny hands and smiled. “But it’s all good now, right, Daddy?”

  He nodded and smiled. He set her down and gave her a big hug and whispered something in her ear.

  “I love you too,” she whispered. She turned and looked down at my pants. “Are those apples or hearts?” she asked, pretending to squint hard at me.

  I looked down at my pants and smiled. I was wearing Mom’s latest find: a pair of black tights with little heart-shaped apples on them. She had been so excited when she’d called from the maternity store. “Apple pants, can you imagine,” she had said, out of breath. Fifteen minutes—and probably a few yellow lights later—she had presented me with the proof. “Apple pants, human size,” she had said proudly. I thanked her, half-heartedly, and looked down at her. She was wearing the exact same pants, except hers had little heart-shaped strawberries on them. The food theme was back with a vengeance! I had looked at Dad and rolled my eyes at him.

  Then she had turned to Dad and said, “And I got these for you.” Mom pulled a six pack of beer from the bag. “Thank God,” Dad had blurted out, so relived not ever to be seen in a ripe banana t-shirt again.

  I looked at young Eleanor and smiled. “It can be both, I guess.”

  “Cool,” she said, taking an extra look, “Well, I have to go now. Nice to meet you, Eleanor. Louise-Monique will be here any minute now, and she and Grandma have promised to make me my favorite cookies before we leave for the show.”

  I sat down on my knees and looked into her big blue yes. “Let me guess: banana oatmeal?”

  “Of course,” she said, running off.

  I got up and watched as she ran across the lawn. As she reached for the door, we could hear her tiny voice yell, “Grandma, did you know there’s another Eleanor out in...” And then she slammed the door hard.

  Thomas turned toward me and rubbed his face. “Huh! Banana oatmeal. Who are you again?”

  “What a pretty, polite little girl you have there.” I nodded in the direction of the house.

  “Well, obviously she takes after her mother.” He smiled and kicked at a little pinecone lying in the grass.

  “Ob-ob-ob-obviously,” I stuttered and kicked myself in the butt for being so ridiculously nervous.

  Neither of us said a word for what felt like dog years.

  “Have you ever thought about going?” Thomas finally said, looking in the direction of the house.

  “Where?”

  “To that bench.”

  I shrugged and looked down at his hands. They were nice and strong. “I might.”

  “I always wanted to go. Louise-Monique has actually invited us to come along this summer. She’s going to London in May. She’s there for work for about three months, and I figure, why not? Liverpool is not that far from London, you know.” He ran a hand through his hair and smiled.

  “Louise-Monique?” I couldn’t put my finger on it, but somehow that strange-sounding name sounded familiar.

  “My stepsister,” he explained, “Martha took her in just a few years after they adopted me. She’s kinda Eleanor’s second Mom. Besides me.” He laughed. “My sister and her husband sadly never could have any kids, and I guess with my wife gone and everything, well, Eleanor has become her everything. She spoils her rotten,” he said, rolling his eyes at the same time, “but I kinda let her. I guess if you’ve had a childhood like the one Louise-Monique has had, then being spoiled too much would be the least of your problems.” He looked up in the direction of the house with a thoughtful expression.

  Of course, I thought to myself, piecing it together. Louise-Monique was the girl Martha had helped when caught shoplifting. She was the girl who had saved Thomas from being molested at the age of five; she had sacrificed herself instead and had ended up pregnant at the age of fifteen. Martha had never mentioned her again, so we never did find out what had happened with her or the baby.

  But, apparently, she had gotten rid of it, one way or the other. Poor girl! She had been the exact same age as Stella. As I had predicted, I hadn’t heard one single word from Stella since we had left her on the sidewalk in the middle of morning traffic. I hadn’t made any attempt to contact her either, but I had often thought about her, lying in my bed at night, watching the stars. I had even named a star—the one right next to Miss T’s—after her. I simply called it Stella.

  “Hello, planet earth calling!” Thomas suddenly said, pulling me from my thoughts. “I think I lost you there for a moment. Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.” I lied. My back was killing me, and I was happy, hungry, relieved, overwhelmed, thirsty, tired, and a little nauseated. On top of that, Junior was kicking like crazy—almost leaving footprints on my sweater. “It’s just been a very strange, wonderful, and long day altogether,” I said, immediately feeling a painful kick on some unidentifiable inner body part. “Did I mention long?” I smiled.

  “It’s still morning, you know.” He smiled back.

  “Is it?” I gasped, reaching for my belly.

  Thomas looked at me like he was about to say something, but then decided against it. Instead he moved a little closer and looked me straight in the eyes—like he was searching for something in there. “Are you...?” he finally said and made a tiny nod down toward my belly.

  “Yes,” I nodded, blushing. “I am, and the little guy is kicking like crazy right now.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “We have to sit then,” he said, looking around in the yard. For something to sit on, I guess. “There.” He pointed
at a little wooden bench positioned upside down on the small patio. He walked over, turned it right side up, and used his sleeve to wipe it off. “And now,” he said as dragged it all the way to where I was standing, “now you sit, Eleanor Rigby,” he commanded.

  I sat down next to him and looked up at the house. I could see Mom sitting by the table in the kitchen. She was talking to a woman about the same age as her—wearing an apron and a chef’s hat. I figured it had to be Louise-Monique, and I guessed that by now, Mom would also have figured out who she was. Martha was sitting next to Mom with Eleanor on her lap. She had what I believed to be a banana-oatmeal cookie in her hand. They all looked so happy together, laughing, talking, eating cookies straight from the oven. Suddenly, Mom turned in her seat and caught my eye. I think her lips were asking if I was cold. I shook my head and smiled. She smiled back and blew me a kiss, automatically resting the other hand on her belly. I looked at Thomas. He was looking at Mom, too.

  “Maybe we won’t go at all. I mean, this bench looks pretty damn good to me. Besides, who wants to fly over a thousand miles just to hang out with a bunch of lonely people?” He looked at me and smiled.

  And there I was, sitting next to Thomas on a bench in Martha’s temporary yard. And there was no place else I would rather be—least of all sitting on some lonely bench somewhere in dreary Liverpool, next to some old British asshole.

  I nodded. “Yep. It looks pretty good from where I’m sitting, too.”