How To Be Lost

by Amnda Eyre Ward

“I think you look great, sweetie,” said my mother. “No matter what anyone says about your pants being tight.”

  “Who said anything about my pants being tight?”

  “Nobody, honey!” said my mother. “Little Miss Sensitive,” she said to Madeline. I wanted to scream, but did not. Finally, we turned into the condo complex. Ron honked the horn, waking Mitchell.

  “Merry Christmas, Mitchell,” said Ron.

  “Well,” said Mitchell, “and the same to you.”

  Ron waited patiently for a minute, and then said, “Could you open the gate for us, Mitchell?”

  “Oh, my, yes, of course.” Mitchell hit the button, and we drove inside.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have given him twenty dollars for Christmas,” said my mother thoughtfully.

  I was in the bedroom, trying to get a look at my bottom in the mirror, when Madeline came rushing in. “Have I gained weight?” I said. “Are my pants tight?”

  “Jesus!” said Madeline. She went into the bathroom and closed the door, turning on the faucet.

  “Girls! Time for ornaments!” called my mother from downstairs.

  Madeline came out of the bathroom, her lips pressed together. “This is excruciating,” I said. “I can’t bear it. I want to go home.”

  “Oh, Caroline,” said Madeline, “your life is not that bad. Open the ornament, how hard is that?”

  “For your information, I have friends in New Orleans who are missing me,” I said.

  “I’m sure you do,” said Madeline.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” I said.

  “Anyone who hangs out in a bar,” said Madeline, “will have friends eventually.”

  I sat still on the bed.

  “I’m sorry,” said Madeline.

  “No,” I said, “it’s OK.”

  “It isn’t,” said Madeline. She sat down next to me. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said.

  “You’re pregnant, seems to me,” I said.

  Madeline smiled wanly. “Due in April.”

  “That’s so wonderful,” I said.

  “But there’s something else. Ron’s probably going to lose his job.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “It’s not his fault.”

  “Madeline, of course not.”

  “I don’t know what we’re going to do.” She sighed. “So you see, sometimes I wish I worked in a bar,” said Madeline. “I wish…lots of things.”

  I didn’t say anything. As usual, my sister wanted something from me that I did not know how to give. My mother kept calling from downstairs.

  “Why are you pushing this thing with Ken Dowland?” I said.

  Madeline looked at her hands. Her fingernails, once her pride and joy, were bitten to the quick. “There are only so many questions one person can have in their life,” she said.

  “Are you sure, though?”

  “Oh, Care,” said my sister, “come on. We both know she’s dead.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “There’s some part of me that feels her alive. I hear her voice.”

  “That’s hope, not Ellie,” said Madeline. “Go to therapy, they’ll explain it to you.”

  “But what if it is Ellie?”

  Madeline turned to me, her tired eyes, her cheekbones, her smell. “If it were Ellie,” said Madeline, “if she were alive, why wouldn’t I hear her, too? Because I don’t hear her. I don’t hear anything.”

  “There you are,” said my mother, holding a spritzer. “Ron and I have been waiting by the Christmas tree!”

  We went downstairs then, my sister and I, and we opened our ornaments. Mine was a seahorse made of blown glass, and Madeline had an angel with wild blond curls. Ron’s ornament was a snowman wearing a top hat. We hung them on the tree, and then Madeline and I opened our holly-strewn nightgowns and Ron exclaimed over his pajamas, which were printed with tiny gifts and the words check out my package! Later, after a few whiskeys, Ron said, “Do you think your mother has any idea what package means?” I looked at my mother, sipping wine and gaily turning the pages of an old baby album.

  “I hope not,” I said.

  That night, as I lay in bed, I heard Madeline crying quietly. Instead of going to her, I pretended to be asleep. I promised myself, for the hundredth time, that this was without a shadow of a doubt my very last Christmas at home.

  NINE

  from the desk of

  AGNES FOWLER

  Dear Thomas,

  What a thrill to meet your lovely family this weekend at the farmers’ market. Your baby is just so cute, and your wife was very kind to mention the cookies I left for you at the front desk of Superman Plumbing. I do hope you were able to use all those beets she bought. What a hilarious story about losing your wedding ring down the Stenmeyers’ drain! It still makes me chuckle. Enclosed please find the payment for the work on my gas line. (Still enjoying my hot water!)

  My best to your wife and son,

  Agnes Fowler

  TEN

  AS IF RESIGNED to the fact that I would never find a man and settle down, my family gave me wedding gifts for Christmas: a Cuisinart from Madeline and Ron, a blender and a set of knives from my mother. My aunt Rosalie (my father’s sister) sent a gorgeous vase for Madeline and Ron, a box of chocolates for my mother, and a book for me: Cooking for One. I held it up. “This is just mean,” I said, and my mother said, “No, honey! It’s a compliment. Rosalie wishes she could have dinner without Uncle Lou.”

  We always spent Christmas Day with my mother’s sister and her family. Following in my mother’s footsteps, Blanche had married a Yankee and moved to New York. Uncle Wallace was a travel agent of sorts, although he worked only for very wealthy clients and preferred to be called a “consultant.” My mother’s sister hated to travel, and had made remaining a Southern belle her life’s work. Blanche’s accent had grown stronger every year she had lived in New York, and she routinely startled dinner guests with recipes from her Savannah Junior League cookbook: Shrimp Dip Divine; Frog Legs Geechee; Low Country Stuffed Mushrooms. She drank sherry and wore big floppy hats, as if headed to the beach. Her father had met Flannery O’Connor once, and this fact was dropped into many conversations.

  As if to spite their mother, Remshart and Daisy had grown up with Brooklyn accents and fast-paced speech that required careful attention. Remshart was now sixteen, and wore Fubu and Sean John clothing, emulating the other rich white boys at his private school who dressed like rappers. Daisy was a slutty and difficult eighteen-year-old. I couldn’t wait to see them.

  As we were getting ready to head into the city, the phone rang. I answered, and Mitchell at the gate told me there was a delivery. Did Mitchell live in the gatehouse? I told him to send the deliveryman in, and answered the door a moment later. A man in a turtleneck sweater stood on my mother’s welcome mat, holding a bottle wrapped in red paper. “Sign here,” said the man, and I did.

  My mother was fixing her hair. “Look,” I said. She turned off the hair dryer and read the card. “It’s from Anthony at the Liquor Barn,” she said. “How sweet. He’s never sent anything before.” She unwrapped the bottle—it was champagne—and said, “Oh, goody. Put it in the fridge, will you?”

  I brought the bottle downstairs, feeling giddy with pleasure. Ron was reading the paper at the kitchen table. “Look, champagne,” I said.

  “What?”

  “The Liquor Barn sent it,” I said.

  “Wasn’t that nice?” said Ron. He looked at me steadily. I poured another cup of coffee.

  “What?” I said.

  “I saw you flirting with that bartender at the party,” said Ron.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. As I stowed away the bottle, the air from the refrigerator was cool on my face.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” cried Uncle Wallace as he opened his apartment door.

  “Merry Christmas,” I said, offering my cheek for a kiss. Uncle Wallace ignored it, planting a wet one on my mouth and then turning t
o Madeline. I made my way into the apartment, where Remshart, dressed in baggy jeans with a sideways baseball cap and a towel around his shoulders, was talking furtively into a cell phone. “Hi, Remy,” I said, and he put his hand over the phone and said, “Yo, cuz.”

  “Caroline!” It was Aunt Blanche, rushing from the kitchen in a long dress. Her hair was styled carefully into a wave, and her skin was powdered. She pulled me toward her, and I smelled her Chantilly Lace perfume. “My darling girl,” said Blanche, “you are truly more lovely every time I see you.” I had worn a skirt, so that my mother couldn’t make any further comments about tight pants.

  “Thanks, Aunt Blanche,” I said.

  “Would you care for some lemonade?”

  “Sure,” I said, “I’d love some.”

  *

  Daisy arrived about halfway through the shrimp dip. She looked sweaty and thin. “Daisy,” said Aunt Blanche, “will you look who’s here?”

  Daisy slumped against the doorframe, her arms crossed over her peasant blouse. She had circles under her eyes. “Daisy was up late at a gig,” explained Aunt Blanche, using her forefingers to put quotation marks around the word “gig.”

  Daisy stared at her mother.

  “Daisy, sweetie, tell them about your jam band,” said Blanche, crunching her fingers in the air again.

  “Lord help us,” said Uncle Wallace, “Now, Ron, how about a hot stock tip?”

  “Oh, well,” said Ron, “I don’t know, Wallace.”

  “Madeline has news!” screeched my mother.

  “Mom,” said Madeline, holding her hands up, as if she could keep the words inside my mother.

  “Is that right?” said Aunt Blanche, relieved to have the spotlight off Daisy, who wandered off to her room and began to blare “Sugar Magnolia.”

  “Remshart, honey! Get off the phone, you rascal,” said Aunt Blanche. “Come in here for some news.”

  “No,” said Madeline, “Really, there’s no news….” She glared at my mother. “Mom, we agreed,” she said.

  Remshart swaggered into the room, his hands on his hips. “Whassup?” he said.

  “Well?” said my mother, her eyes shining.

  “Take that towel off your shoulders, dear,” said Aunt Blanche.

  “No,” said Remshart.

  “Don’t you speak to your mother that way,” said Uncle Wallace, his face reddening.

  “Chill,” said Remshart.

  “Why you—” said Uncle Wallace.

  “Maddy? Honey?” said my mother.

  “I think they call the towel a do rag,” said Blanche. “The blacks, I mean.”

  Uncle Wallace reached for his son; Daisy, named for the sweet Southern belle of Fitzgerald’s dreams, reached the decision that she would drop out of school to follow Phish; Aunt Blanche reached for her cigarettes; my mother reached the end of her rope. And then he came back from the kitchen, the savior of Christmas, my brother-in-law, Ron.

  “I have an announcement,” he said, holding the bottle of champagne from the Liquor Barn high. “We’re going to have a baby!” he said, and then he popped the cork.

  Over dinner, everyone toasted Madeline’s new baby. Even Remshart seemed excited. Daisy, who ate a few green beans and then went back to her room, suggested Madeline should name her baby Forbin. Madeline smiled politely. She looked relieved to have the news of her pregnancy out in the open, and even had a few sips of wine after both my mother and Blanche assured her they’d drunk heavily throughout all their pregnancies, to no ill end.

  Ron’s color was high, and he seemed to truly enjoy all the stories of Uncle Wallace’s millionaire clients—the Saudi prince who wanted a honeymoon in Vegas and rented the Taj Mahal, the dot-com mogul who dreamed of riding camels through the desert. “I wanted to take Blanche to Italy for Christmas,” said Uncle Wallace contemplatively.

  “But look what I wanted instead,” said Blanche, holding out her arm. On her wrist, a diamond bracelet flashed. I suddenly felt sorry for my mother, who had no one to give her jewels. I had given her a tin of Pat O’Brien’s hurricane drink mix with two souvenir glasses.

  We ate turkey and bread pudding and watched television in a sleepy stupor. When we were finally ready to drive back to Holt, my mother had drunk too many spritzers. She happened upon Remshart eating cookies in the kitchen and screamed, thinking he was a burglar. It was time to leave.

  “I can see why you’d think that, Izzy,” said Blanche as she led us out, “What with his hood over his head and that do rag.”

  The drive home was quiet. Both Madeline and my mother fell asleep, and Ron listened idly to soft rock. “I love Phil Collins,” I said.

  “Ugh,” said Ron.

  At home, after everyone had gone to bed, I sat next to the Christmas tree flipping through one of my mother’s W magazines. I was supposed to fly back to New Orleans the next day. I had promised Jimbo that I would work New Year’s, always a lucrative but bizarre night at The Highball.

  I decided to go for a drive, pulling my mother’s wool coat over my Christmas outfit and sliding my feet into Madeline’s boots. We wore the same size in just about everything but pants, and now her pregnancy would equal out my late-night drinking and love of hot dogs. I stepped outside, and looked up at the dark sky.

  In the garage, the Mercedes was still warm and smelled of my mother’s perfume. I started the car, hoping I wouldn’t wake anyone, and hit the button to open the garage door. I backed out of the driveway and drove by Mitchell, who was fast asleep again inside the guardhouse.

  The streets of Holt were hushed, and I drove by homes with only Christmas lights burning, past Holt High School, the bank, and the library. I headed toward our old neighborhood, where we had lived when my father was alive, and Ellie was with us. I drove by our old house, large and quiet in the snowy night. How unhappy we had been in its high-ceilinged rooms.

  I was wide awake on Christmas, and did not know where to go. There was a bar next to the train station, and I turned left, hoping it would be open. It was.

  The Holt Grill had been fixed up: when I was younger, it had been called Holt Hamburgers. It had the best cheeseburgers in the world—thick, hand-formed patties—and the crispiest mozzarella sticks. I started hanging around bars when Ellie disappeared, and the smoky room in the back of Holt Hamburgers had been a place where I could always find someone to pour me a beer from their plastic pitcher.

  Now, I had to walk through a room of tables with linen cloths to reach the bar, where there wasn’t a pitcher in sight. I ordered a Scotch from the bartender, a teenager who looked Irish, and sat down on a stool. I couldn’t see a jukebox, but Christmas carols played. There were a few small groups of dressed-up people. Did anyone in Holt ever wear sweatpants, I wondered. I always felt underdressed in my hometown, as well as underachieving. I sipped my drink, and then felt a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hey,” said Anthony, “I thought it was you.”

  Blood ran to my face; I could feel it. “Oh,” I said, touching my cheek.

  “I didn’t mean to scare you,” said Anthony, smiling. “Can I buy you a beer?”

  “Scotch,” I said, holding up my glass.

  “Great,” said Anthony. He looked over his shoulder to a group of people: his friends.

  “Thanks for the champagne,” I said.

  “Oh,” he shrugged. “New store policy.”

  “Really?” I stared into my drink.

  “No,” said Anthony. I looked back up, into his eyes. “My family’s headed home,” he said. His voice dropped. “They needed a little extra Christmas cheer,” he whispered, rolling his eyes. I laughed. “Want to…go for a walk tomorrow?”

  “Oh,” I said, “OK.” I thought, a walk?

  “I’ll come by. Around noon?”

  “OK,” I said. I smiled.

  “Great,” said Anthony.

  I drove home slowly, through falling snowflakes. I thought about Anthony, and I felt a slow happiness, even after I had woken poor Mitchell and pulled into
the warm garage.

  My mother was in the living room, asleep on the couch next to the Christmas tree, snug in her quilted robe. On her lap was one of her folders, jammed with papers.

  I took off my coat and smelled the smoke and beer from the bar in the folds of my clothes. I tried to take the boots off quietly. “Caroline?”

  “Hey, Mom,” I said, “I went for a walk.”

  “Come here, honey.” My mother sat up straight, organizing her papers.

  I walked toward her. “Mom, what are you doing in here? You should be in bed.”

  “Caroline, I need to talk to you,” said my mother. She took her reading glasses from the side table and put them on.

  “You sound serious,” I said.

  “I am serious. Sit down.”

  “Mom….”

  “Keep your voice down,” said my mother. I sat next to her, and she opened the folder. “I want you to listen until I’m finished,” she said, “and don’t tell me I’m crazy, OK?”

  “OK, Mom, of course.”

  She took a deep breath. “Last year, I saw this picture in a magazine,” she said. She lifted a brittle piece of paper, moved it under the light.

  “Not another picture,” I said, sighing.

  “Caroline, this is different. Please, look.” I looked. It was a picture of a Native American man in full garb, headdress and all. He was doing some sort of dance. The caption read: dancing at the arlee rodeo.

  “OK,” I said.

  “Do you see her?” said my mother.

  “Her? It’s a guy, a Native American, Mom. What’s the deal?”

  She pointed. “Look behind the Indian. Look at the crowd.”

  I scanned the crowd of people behind the man. They were blurry. I was trying to think of a nice way to tell my mother to let me go to bed when I saw her. Wearing jeans and a sleeveless shirt, the woman stood facing the camera. She wore her brown hair in a ponytail, and her face was lit up with laughter. I couldn’t breathe. It was her grin. It was her.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “People Magazine,” my mother said. “It’s an article about Montana.”

  “It’s her,” I said.