Lost and Found

by Ginny L. Yttrup

  But now, here, I'm spent.

  I lift my head and stare at nothing. My heart feels like a rock and each breath a chore. But there's something more. Something's different. Is it just that Gerard is gone? I look around the room and notice the . . .

  Silence.

  All is still.

  Like death itself.

  I shiver. Then I look at the vanity and notice the hand mirror. I let my mind wander back. Gerard had brought me home from the hospital after the second surgery—the surgery to clean out the infection in my jawbone—the surgery that left me with the angry scar across my chin and jawline.

  I walked into the house with my head hung low and my hair hanging forward, covering part of my face. I looked at no one. I was still weak, still sick. I made my way to the elevator and up to our suite without encountering Brigitte, for which I was grateful. But when I entered our bedroom, she was there, waiting for me.

  "Ma chérie, you're home."

  Startled, I looked up. I watched her expression change, saw the disgust written across her features. She chose me for my beauty. To produce perfect Bouvier heirs, or something. I never understood her reasoning. Yet, my beauty wasn't enough. And as I stood there, watching her, I knew even that was lost.

  Had she forgotten the surgery was her suggestion?

  "What have you done to yourself?" Her words were measured and weighted. "You're ruined."

  Her words, machete-like, shredded me.

  "You're worthless."

  Fighting tears, I made my way past her, made my way to the vanity, where I reached for the stool. I didn't have the strength to take another step. I dropped onto the stool and felt her eyes still on me.

  She swung the machete a final time. "How could you be so stupid?" She turned and left.

  The word stupid echoed in the empty room just as it would echo in my soul for months and months afterward.

  I picked up the hand mirror sitting on the vanity and lifted it to my face. The jagged red scar accused. How could you be so stupid? How could you be so stupid? How could you . . .

  I stood, the mirror still in my hand. I walked toward the door that Brigitte had closed behind her, anger roiling inside me. I lifted the mirror and I hurled it at the door. At Brigitte, who was, of course, long gone.

  The mirror crashed against the door and dropped to the floor. But in my weakened state, there wasn't much power in my throw and the only damage were the cracks in the mirror itself. I picked the mirror up, walked back, and dropped it in the wastebasket next to the vanity. I knew one of the maids would empty the trash the next morning.

  But then, a few days later, the mirror reappeared.

  I found it sitting, face-up, on the vanity, the cracked glass incriminating me. So, I threw it away again. But this time, I took the elevator downstairs, walked through the kitchen, and dumped the mirror in the outdoor garbage can.

  That would be that.

  But no.

  That evening, as I lay in bed resting, Brigitte walked into the room. She didn't knock. She walked past me to the vanity, something in her hand. When she reached the vanity, she turned toward me and held up the mirror.

  "I believe this belongs to you." She set it on the vanity. "You must keep it, chérie, as a reminder of what you've done to yourself. See that it stays here."

  Now, sitting at the vanity, I pick up the hand mirror, walk into the bathroom, and close the door. I lift the mirror in my hand above the granite countertop and I bring it down hard against the edge of the granite. I hear the mirror splinter in hundreds of satisfying pieces. I lift the mirror again and smash it down. Again and again, I pound the mirror on the granite. Until both the mirror and the outside casing are destroyed.

  Breathless, I lean against the counter. Then I use a damp cloth to wipe up the shards of glass and metal from the countertop and the floor, being careful not to cut myself, and put them into a trash bag along with the now-broken handle of the mirror. I take the trash bag and stuff it in a drawer to dispose of later.

  The oppression lifts just a bit.

  I go in search of Brigitte. I let the anger of the memory invoked propel me. I find her in her sitting room, dozing on her sofa, a stack of papers on her lap. "Brigitte?"

  She startles and looks at me dazed. "Oh . . ."

  "I'm back. We need to talk through a few things."

  She sits up straighter, shuffles the papers on her lap, and then stands. "Such as?"

  I've caught her off guard and can see the anger now flashing in her eyes. Her lips are pursed tight as she waits for my response.

  I take a deep breath. "Such as what to do with Gerard's things—his clothes, and"—I wave my hand in the air—"other things. We also need to talk about his trust. And . . . the future." I feel myself cowering under her stare.

  "Yes, we will talk. But for now, leave Gerard's things alone. I have, as I'm sure you can imagine, many things to take care of with the business since Gerard . . ." She sniffs. "Then, we will discuss the future. In the meantime, I don't expect that anything should change, n'est-ce pas? We'll go along as we always have." She walks past me to her desk and lays the file folder down. Then she turns back. "Was that all?"

  I hesitate. "Um . . . yes, I guess so."

  "Good." She looks at her watch. "We'll have dinner in the dining room this evening. I'll see you at 6:00."

  I nod, duly dismissed. "Fine." I turn to go, but guilt turns me back. "Are you . . . are you okay? You look tired."

  "Tired? Well, yes, I suppose I am a bit tired. But is it any surprise? While you were off vacationing in the valley, someone had to take care of things."

  I start to protest, to remind her that it was her idea. But it's pointless.

  I shake my head as I return to my room, the all-too-familiar confusion swirling in my mind. When I walk back into my suite, I notice that one of the household staff has brought my bags up from the car. My laptop sits on my desk, its bag just beneath the desk. My Bible and other books are stacked alongside the laptop.

  But I notice something else . . . again.

  The silence.

  And with it comes a gnawing loneliness.

  I walk to the desk, and rest my hand on the stack of books and look out the window. Fall is loosening its hold and winter, cold and gray, is marching in.

  I wrap my arms around myself and shiver again. Lord, meet me here. Assure me of Your presence.

  I wait.

  Expectant.

  Hopeful.

  But all I hear in response is . . .

  Cold.

  Hard.

  Silence.

  Within yourself there is only darkness, but in God there is only light.

  JEANNE GUYON

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Andee

  RELIGION? LIGHTSEEKER PEGGED that right. Rules, rituals, expectations, and judgment. At least, that's my memory of religion from the church we attended when I was young.

  Sure they talked about Jesus. About love and acceptance and all that grace stuff. But as soon as our lives spiraled southward, as soon as my dad's drinking became evident, my mom got a visit from a few men from the church telling her that my dad was a bad influence. A "stumbling block" they said. I remember, because for months afterward, my mother would cry and mumble the words stumbling block. Of course, she didn't question them. Didn't stand up for herself. For us.

  After that, no one from the church came around again.

  I need some eternal insurance, not religion. But a relationship? Can't I just sign a contract or something? I glance at the clock on the screen of my computer. Time to get ready . . .

  I get up from my desk and cross the living room to my bedroom. I'll change and freshen up for Jason, who's coming for dinner tonight. I've planned an intimate little dinner for two—wel
l, three, if I count Sam. And if I don't count him, there will be no living with him for days. He's taken a liking to Jason.

  I go into my closet and reach for the outfit I've planned to wear—chestnut velvet lounging pants with a matching pullover—all lined in chestnut satin. I slip into brown satin flats and choose simple, large gold hoops for my ears. Casual elegance, of course. Perfect for an evening at home. I go to the bathroom where I brush out my long blond hair until it shines, dab a bit of dark brown shadow on the lids of my brown eyes, and a bit of gloss on my lips.

  I look at my reflection in the mirror and like what I see. "Perfect."

  I go to the kitchen and set the small round table that sits in the corner. The corner is comprised of two floor-to-ceiling windows affording a stunning view. I set candles in the center of the table, use two place settings of china, two settings of sterling, and linen napkins. I include a water and wine glass at each setting for balance, although, tonight, I may tell Jason that I don't actually drink.

  Then I open the fridge and take out the cartons delivered earlier and follow the warming instructions. I called my favorite restaurant and they agreed to deliver . . . but just for me. Smart people. I told them they'd need to include directions. I don't cook. At all.

  Things are going well until I realize I forgot to pick up a bottle of wine. Shoot. Then I remember the stash in the pantry. Perfect. I go to the pantry, take a bottle out of one of the cases, and then shove the cases under the back corner shelf. I remind myself to get rid of the boxes as soon as possible.

  When Jason arrives, the appropriate dishes are on the range and in the oven. When he buzzes from downstairs, I pour him a glass of wine and meet him at the door with it.

  "Hi there . . ." I lean into him, kiss him, and then hand him the glass.

  He takes the glass and then steps back and looks at me. "You are gorgeous," he says.

  I smile. "I know."

  He chuckles.

  "It's good to see you smile. It's been awhile."

  Gerard's death hit him hard. He nods and then takes a sip of his wine. "One of ours?"

  "Of course. I buy the best. C'mon, follow me to the kitchen." When we reach the kitchen, Sam is poised in one of the chairs at the table, claiming his place. He mews in protest when I try to move him. Instead, I scoot another chair up to the table and scoot the chair he's sitting in around the side of the table. "There, satisfied?"

  "So now I see who really rules." Jason goes to scratch behind Sam's ears.

  "Oh no, I still rule. I just let him think he does."

  "Right. Wow, something smells good. You've been holding out on me, I didn't know you could cook."

  "Ha! I can't, I don't, and I won't. And don't you forget it. But I can fake it well. I reach into the trash under the sink and pull out one of the cartons."

  "Ah, takeout."

  "Yes, but not just any takeout. I am not your average consumer, you know."

  "Believe me, I know." He smiles and comes up behind me and puts his arms around me. He kisses my neck and I . . . count to ten. I don't stand still well. But by the time I reach five, I realize I'm counting slower and slower. By seven, I stop and lean back into him. I close my eyes.

  "Andee?" Jason whispers.

  "Hmm . . ."

  "Are you okay?"

  I pull away from him and turn around. "What do you mean?"

  "You're so . . . relaxed."

  I look at him, not sure if I should feel embarrassed or complimented. "Yeah, kinda weird, huh?"

  "Kinda nice." He leans in for a kiss.

  And I let him.

  When dinner is ready, Jason replaces one of the wine glasses on the table with the one I'd handed him at the door. He's taken a few sips. He reaches for the wine bottle on the island. "May I pour you a glass?"

  I hesitate. "Uh, about that . . ."

  He waits, bottle in hand.

  "I"—I wipe my palms on a kitchen towel—"It's just that . . ."

  "Andee?"

  I take a deep breath and chide myself for even caring what he thinks. "Listen, I don't drink. Never have. Socially, I'll take a sip if I have to, but otherwise"—I shake my head—"nada. Nothing."

  He cocks his head to one side, looks at me for a minute, and then sets the bottle back on the island. "Okay. But why did you feel like you had to keep that from me?"

  "You're a winemaker. Duh."

  He laughs. "Well, yes, but it's not like you to be someone other than who you are."

  I shrug. "It's not a big deal."

  "Does it bother you that I drink?"

  I shrug again. "You're a winemaker."

  "Does it bother you that I drink?"

  "It's not a big deal."

  He smiles. "I think there's an echo in here."

  "Okay"—I wipe my palms again, this time on my pants—"my dad was an alcoholic. And . . . not the jolly type, if you know what I mean."

  He looks at me and I see compassion in his eyes. "Hey, don't feel sorry for me or anything. I'm just saying . . ."

  He turns back toward the table, reaches for both wine glasses, and takes them to the sink. He empties his, rinses it, and leaves it in the sink. He turns back to me. "I think that's done." He points to the pot boiling over on the gas range.

  "Oh, no!" I run to the range, turn off the gas, and lift the lid and look in the pot. "Uh . . . I think it's okay." I turn back around. "I told you, I don't cook."

  He smiles that charming smile of his and shrugs. "It's not a big deal."

  He mimics me in jest and I feel my heart skip a beat. Get a grip, Andee, this isn't a romantic comedy. Good grief.

  When we sit down to dinner, Jason raises his water glass in a toast. "To water." He smiles.

  I lift my glass and clink his. "I'll drink to that—at least for tonight. But wine is your future, buddy, so don't turn your back on it so fast."

  "Maybe . . ."

  "Maybe? What do you mean, maybe?"

  "I'm not married to the winery, or to anything for that matter. I trust God has a plan for my life—it may or may not include the winery."

  I nod. That's for sure, considering the mess your father's in.

  He takes a bite of his gnocchi with creamed herb sauce, at least that's what the carton said it was.

  "Mmm . . . perfect."

  "If you're good, maybe I'll share my recipe."

  He laughs and then leans back in his chair and looks out the windows. "Wow . . . this view never gets old, does it?"

  "No."

  Then he looks back at me. "So, you've never told me about your childhood. Your dad . . . or anything else."

  "Yeah, well, it wasn't exactly noteworthy."

  "I'd still like to hear about it."

  I shake my head. "Nothing to tell." But as I say it, I know that's not true. "At least nothing interesting."

  "So, bore me."

  "Why?"

  "Because it's part of who you are, who you've become, and I want to know you—all of you."

  Is he just curious, like a bystander at a train wreck? Or does he really care? I think I know the answer, but . . . "Okay, so it wasn't the ideal childhood, but I've used it—let it shape me. I am successful today because of where I came from. It could have gone the other way. I could be a doormat, like my mother, or a drunk like my father, but I made better choices."

  "How did it shape you?"

  "It made me strong. It clarified my goals. It helped me define my life philosophy."

  Jason leans forward, the candles on the table flickering between us, a million city lights twinkling below, and Sam curled on his chair at the table. "Tell me something I don't know."

  I watch him across the table. Do I ruin this perfect moment? Do I tell him? Do I ever tell anyone? Or do I l
eave the past buried, where it belongs? Before I can even make a decision, my eyes fill with tears and I feel them slipping down my cheeks. I look down at the table, but it's too late, Jason's seen the tears.

  "Great," I groan. Then I scoot my chair back, get up, and turn my back to him. I go to the sink in the kitchen and reach for a paper towel to wipe my eyes.

  As I stand there, I feel Jason behind me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me around to face him. He says nothing. He just stands there, hands on my shoulders, and waits. I try to pull away, but his hands are heavy—holding me there.

  Trapped.

  I lift my arms and grab his forearms and fling them off my shoulders. My heart beats like a hammer and I feel a scream rising in my throat. Panic grips me. Words hiss through my clenched teeth. "Get . . . away . . . from . . . me!" Tears blur my vision and I turn to run. I have to get away from him!

  "Andee! Wait."

  He follows me through the kitchen, to the living room, and catches me at the front door. He doesn't touch me this time—instead, he jumps in front of me and puts his back against the front door, blocking my exit. He holds his hands up in the air so I can see them. "I won't touch you. I'm sorry. But I can't let you go . . . not like this."

  I shake my head in frustration and my hair whips my face. I try to push past Jason, to push him away from the door, but he's too big, too strong.

  "Andee . . . please . . ."

  I step back and realize I'm yelling, but I can't help it. "Okay! You want to know? I'll tell you!" I choke back a sob. "He raped me! Okay? There! Now you know. You know it all! Now, get out!" He takes a step toward me and I reach out and shove him hard. "Get out!"

  But he just stands there. "Your father?"

  I shove him again. But still he stands there, between the door and me.

  "Andee . . ."

  His tone is so gentle it hurts. "Just go . . ."

  "Andee, I want to stay. I don't want to leave you alone."