How To Be Lost

by Amnda Eyre Ward

  *

  He felt a tug on his pole, but handed it to her, watching as she reeled the fish in. She planted her sneakers and pulled, her muscles taut with effort. She wore one of his baseball caps, and her hair was bound by a rubber band. Her ears stuck out just the tiniest bit.

  “I’m losing it!” she cried, looking at him with an exaggerated grimace.

  “You can do it,” he said. He did not move to take over, but he watched her carefully.

  “Ah!” she cried, reeling quickly, but the fish was too strong. She pulled a broken line from the water. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she brushed them away with the top of her fist. “Dammit!” she said.

  “Hey,” said Bernard, “there’s always another chance.” He took her shoulders in his hands, and looked into her eyes. She flinched, but just a little. “Agnes,” he said. “There’s always another chance to take what you deserve.”

  EIGHTEEN

  I CAN COOK three things: chocolate chip cookies, Kraft macaroni and cheese, and gumbo. I learned to make gumbo when Winnie won a free cooking class at the New Orleans Culinary Academy and offered to bring me along. We took the day off, met for Bloody Marys at The Columns, and attended the class in fine form. The teacher was named Slim, and as he mixed up a big pot of gumbo, we sipped Dixies and flirted outrageously. After eating, we took Slim over to Bobby’s Bar, where he learned a thing or two about fried catfish from Carole and her Wednesday Fish Fry.

  In my mother’s kitchen, I called Winnie. “I’m making gumbo for the Italian,” I said.

  “Damn, girl!” she said. “Where’s Slim now, do you think?”

  “No clue. Listen, I need you to read me the recipe.”

  “You think I still have that handout?” she said.

  “Can you look?”

  Winnie sighed dramatically. “I’ll call you back in ten,” she said. I made coffee and waited for the phone to ring, twisting the cord around my finger. I added a spoonful of sugar from my mother’s bowl.

  As she had predicted, Winnie no longer had the recipe. “But I do have Slim’s digits,” she crowed. “They were still in my wallet. I called him and got you the gumbo info.”

  I wrote it all down, and then Winnie told me about her new job at a snooty restaurant in the Marigny called Blue. “They’ve got blue martinis, blue beer,” she said, “Now I’m all about ingenuity, but blue beer ain’t right.” She gave me the update on Peggy, who was still trying to break into modeling, but in the meantime worked at a lingerie shop called Nipple News. “She sells panties to her gal pals,” said Winnie.

  “The supermodels?”

  “You got it.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Have you been to Nipple News?”

  “Hell, yeah,” said Winnie. “Got a purple thong.”

  I shook my head. “Do you think Blue needs a piano player?” I asked.

  “Are you coming home?” said Winnie. “It’s about time.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and I filled her in on baby Isabelle and Anthony.

  “Sounds like you’d better stick around for a while,” said Winnie. “Family’s family.”

  “I guess,” I said.

  “And loving is loving. Damn!”

  “Good point.”

  “Maybe I’ll come see you,” said Winnie. “Always wanted to take a bite out of the Big Apple.”

  “I’d love it,” I said.

  “Baby,” said Winnie. “Have you given up on that sister of yours?”

  I sighed. “She’s either dead or she doesn’t want to be found,” I said. “And it’s the same thing, really. I mean, it’s not for me to save her, you know?”

  “Yeah,” said Winnie. “You have to take care of your own self.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Have some of that gumbo for me,” said Winnie.

  “I will,” I said, and when I hung up the phone I felt lonely, as if something was over.

  I rode my mother’s bicycle to the A&P and bought everything on Winnie’s list. They only had frozen okra and canned Ro-Tel tomatoes. I slipped a package of condoms into the basket.

  I put on some show tunes and began cooking. I shelled shrimp, chopped chicken, sliced sausage, onion, and pepper. I put garlic through the garlic press. Before long, the kitchen smelled wonderful. As I cooked, notes came into my head, and when the gumbo was simmering, I sat down at the piano.

  Over the years, my mother had gradually turned the piano into a glorified table, covered with framed photographs of us as children. After Ellie disappeared, nobody took pictures for years, as if snapshots would only capture the empty space between us, where Ellie should have been.

  I lifted the keyboard cover and ran my fingertips over the keys. Finally, I played, the song in my head spilling out. It was a sad song, and it needed work, but I resolved to get some composition paper in the morning. When I stopped, I was dizzy, and I realized I had been holding my breath.

  I took a shower, toweled off, then used my mother’s hair dryer and brush, her lipstick. In her mirror, I looked happy. She would have been proud of me, or at least my hair.

  I couldn’t stop myself from opening her desk. The folders of failed searches for Ellie were right where I had left them, in a neat pile. I flipped the top one open. Isabelle Darling, read a letter from my mother’s Aunt Betty, we are all heartbroken about your loss. I cannot believe it has been a year. Please know that if I thought of any lead, I would call you immediately. You don’t need to remind me, dear. Bernard is still traveling in Europe; last I heard he had phoned his cousin from an island in Greece. Kim’s divorce is almost finalized, poor thing. She won’t get to keep the house, and has moved with the boys to an apartment in Thunderbolt. Why don’t you bring your girls down for a visit? You know you are more than welcome at Vernon View—I would appreciate the company.

  I pulled the next letter out: Isabelle, I still think about your missing daughter every day. I pray you will find her, and do know that I will be on the constant lookout. I hope you are enjoying the spring in New York, it is quite hot here. You know that I love you, XXOO. The letter was not signed, though it was clearly from an old friend or relative of my mother.

  My first instinct was to sink to the floor and keep reading. But Anthony, Madeline, and Ron were due to arrive. I had a table to set, and a dinner to finish. I felt that my mother was guiding my hand to do something she was never able to do, during the long nights she spent alone in her condo: I took the folders and threw them in her bedroom trashcan, which was appliquéd with sailboats.

  NINETEEN

  from the desk of

  AGNES FOWLER

  Dear Johan,

  Well, I’m not at the Skagway Airport, but I suppose you’ve noticed that by now. I should have arrived ten minutes ago, and we should have been on our way to your favorite restaurant, the one with the best steak in Alaska. There would be a bottle of wine waiting for us, or some mugs of beer, anyway. Maybe you would be kissing me.

  I hope you will understand that this is not goodbye. I did not change my mind about you, in the Seattle Airport. Let me write it all down, and maybe it will make some sort of sense.

  The flight from Missoula to Seattle was uneventful. My stewardess was snippy, giving me a cup full of ice and only a splash of ginger ale to cover it instead of the whole can. The view from the window was breathtaking as we headed up and out of Missoula, which I’ve always thought of as my home.

  Have you heard the story of Cynthia Ann Parker? We learned about her from a History textbook. Cynthia was the nine-year-old daughter of Texas settlers. She was taken by the Comanche Indians during a raid. They raised her as an Indian, and when her parents finally found her twenty-five years later, she had already married a member of the tribe and had three children. She didn’t want to go back to the white world. When she was forced to, she starved herself. In the book, this was a triumphant tale, a woman who knew where she belonged. It always seemed heartbreaking to me. It was too late, you see, for Cynthia Ann Parker to change her story. Bu
t it’s not too late for me.

  In the Seattle airport, I ordered a complicated coffee drink called a Mocha Frappucino. It was quite delicious. I checked the screen for my flight to Anchorage, and then I saw the flight to nyc/lga.

  It’s easy to find someone, as it turns out. I went to one of the gleaming pay phones, and I called information. I asked for Holt, New York. I asked for “Winters.” I got a phone number and an address, and I wrote them down with this very pen on the back of a receipt from the Orange Street Food Farm. (Thomas Regular Muffin-6 C; 1% Milk Gal; ent Raspberry Danish Twis; Prem Froz OJ; Mozzarella Cheese; Keebler Cinnamon Crisp.)

  There it was. An address, so simple. I figured I could take a cab from the airport to the address, and see what, if anything, was waiting for me.

  Johan, I will come and see you. I just want to know more about where I’ve been, before I start thinking about where I’m going. They’ve dimmed the lights, and the man next to me has nestled into his square airplane blanket. His breathing is slow. Perhaps he’s asleep already. The movie is Just Married, which does not seem to warrant the four dollars they’re charging for headphones. (Criminal, if you ask me!) I ordered a little bottle of white wine, and I’m sipping it and looking out at the sky.

  This feels like the plane I should be on. I think I’m going in the right direction, though I’m scared to death. God knows what I could be getting myself into, flying willy-nilly around the country.

  Johan, I believe that sometimes you have to take a leap of faith. It wasn’t so hard, after all, to approach the airline desk, look the attendant in the eye, and say, “LaGuardia.”

  Agnes

  TWENTY

  AT SEVEN, THE phone rang, and Mitchell from the guardhouse said, “Anthony Sorrento for you, miss.”

  “OK,” I said.

  Anthony held a bouquet of wildflowers and a bottle of wine, and as soon as I took them, he wrapped his arms around me and squeezed.

  “I’m just finishing dinner,” I said, flustered, when he let me go.

  “I’ll help you,” he said. But instead of heading for the kitchen, he pulled me in toward him again. I stayed there, feeling safe, feeling warm.

  We wrapped hot sourdough bread in a napkin, and put butter on the dish. I set the table with my mother’s silver—even the candelabra, which Anthony showed me was kept in the sideboard. “Your mother had a lot of parties,” he explained, sheepishly. “Sometimes I’d come early and help her set up.”

  The gumbo was ready when Ron and Madeline arrived. Sliding glass doors led from the kitchen onto a balcony overlooking the driveway, and I saw Ron and Madeline’s car pull in; they had negotiated Mitchell and the guardhouse without a phone call.

  I met Madeline at the door. “Hey,” she said, when I hugged her. She accepted the embrace, but reluctantly. “Look who’s glowing,” she said. I gave her a kiss on the cheek, and led her into the dining room.

  Anthony took over in the kitchen, ladling bowls of gumbo and rice. I poured wine and sat down next to Madeline. “Did you make him cook?” she said disapprovingly.

  “He’s just helping. How’s Isabelle?”

  “A little better, maybe,” said Madeline. “I don’t know. She’s stable. She’s growing.”

  “She’s amazing,” I said.

  Madeline’s face lit up. In her eyes, I saw the girl she had been, always seeking my approval. I put my hand on my sister’s. “Listen,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I’ll stay in New York, if you want me,” I said. Madeline focused intently on her napkin. I sipped my wine. I felt irritation rising. Madeline was silent, and I wanted to take the promise back, to tell her I had places to go, anyway, and didn’t need to hang around helping her. With effort, I kept quiet.

  “Caroline,” she said, “I do need you. I will need you. Thanks.”

  I took her hand and kissed it.

  Over dinner, Anthony told us about the liquor store, which wasn’t doing well. “People are buying at Sam’s Club and Costco,” he said. “Mom-and-pop stores are becoming obsolete.” He took a big bite of gumbo. “I have some ideas, but they don’t talk about running your dad’s store in school.”

  “Did you go to business school?” asked Ron.

  Anthony shook his head. “Hotel school,” he said. “I’m hoping to open a restaurant someday.”

  “I wish I knew what I wanted to do,” I said.

  “What about playing?” said Madeline.

  “Playing what?” said Anthony.

  “She used to play piano,” said Madeline. “She was going to go to Juilliard.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Anthony.

  “You were so good,” said Madeline. “I always wanted to be that good. Remember my recorder?”

  I laughed. Madeline had practiced her recorder night and day, but had never been able to master “Frère Jacques.”

  “Our life wasn’t all bad,” said Madeline. “You seem to want to think it was. But there were good times, too.” Madeline was speaking only to me, and Ron and Anthony fidgeted.

  “I’m trying,” I said.

  Madeline smiled. “I know.”

  “I wanted to play the drums,” said Anthony.

  “Violin,” said Ron.

  Madeline laughed. “I never knew that!”

  “I was so bad,” said Ron, “that the teacher asked me not to really touch my bow to the strings during the Christmas concert. I stood there and moved my arm back and forth, but never made a sound. My mother was so excited, and I felt like a total jerk.”

  We ate and talked, and the evening slipped by. Anthony asked to see pictures of little Isabelle, and Madeline pulled out her purse. I went into the kitchen to find the cookies. I touched Anthony’s shoulder when I walked by him, and he brought his hand up to cover mine. I saw Madeline exchange a look with Ron.

  As I arranged cookies on a plate, the phone rang. The clock read ten-thirty. I picked up the phone, and said hello. It was Mitchell. “Woman in a taxi here to see you,” said Mitchell.

  “What?” I said.

  I heard murmuring, and then, “Agnes Fowler here to see you, miss.”

  My mouth was dry. I could feel my tongue in it, a heavy thing. “OK,” I said, hanging up the phone. I unlocked the glass door and walked outside, onto the small, second-story balcony.

  It was dark and hazy, but the porch light illuminated part of the driveway and part of the lawn. A taxi came to a stop in front of the condo.

  A woman stepped from the taxi, then turned her face to me.

  “Someone’s here,” called Madeline, from the dining room. Her voice was suffused with wine and laughter.

  The air smelled salty, and I could hear the lapping of waves. I squinted to see the woman through the fog. Around her neck was a string of pearls. For a moment—but just a moment—I thought she was my mother.

  I stood on the balcony, feeling the breeze against my face. I gripped the railing. “The door’s open,” I said, at last.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you, Kate Cantrill, Emily Hovland, Juli Berwald, Wendy Wrangham, Jill Marquis, Ellen Sussman, Anne Ursu, Michelle Tessler, Pilar Queen, Joe Veltre, Michael Carlisle, Clare Conville, Clare Smith, David Poindexter, Anika Streitfeld, the Meckel family, Laura Barrow, Sarah McKay, Liza Ward, and beloved Tip and Ash, who listened to me read this book all the way from Maine to Georgia.