Six Degrees of Lost

by Linda Benson

  My mom fans herself with a floppy hat she’s wearing. “It’s nice,” is all she says.

  A man with khaki shorts and a flowered shirt piles our luggage high on a cart, escorts us to an elevator, and shows us to our room. My mom seems totally wiped out, and collapses on the bed as soon as we get there.

  I open the sliding glass door onto the balcony. Twelve stories below me is a long stretch of white sand and calm water. “Wow, can we go swimming now?”

  I glance into the large master bedroom where my parents will be staying. Mom flops her hand in the air like a floundering fish. “You guys go,” she says.

  Dad rolls his eyes. “I guess it’s just you and me,” he says. “Let’s find our snorkel gear and see if there’s any fish out there.”

  At least that’s a halfway friendly sentence. “You’re on,” I say, and dive into my suitcase to find my swim trunks and fins.

  So basically our entire vacation goes pretty much the same way. Mom manages to make it down to the resort swimming pool once in a while, where she reads a book all afternoon. Dad seems kind of upset she doesn’t want to do anything.

  But at least he doesn’t seem to be mad at me anymore. Since he doesn’t have anyone else to hang out with, Dad books a few excursions for just the two of us.

  We board a catamaran early one morning and sail to a sunken coral reef where we snorkel and swim and see sharks and tons of colorful fish. We drive a long winding road to a town called Hana. My mother never has liked to snorkel, and she says the road to Hana would make her sick.

  “Mom was right,” I say, as Dad corners the narrow hairpin turns and my stomach does loop-de-loops. “She might have lost her cookies on this road.”

  “She hasn’t wanted to do anything on this entire vacation,” he says. “I’ve even asked her for suggestions, and she says she just wants to hang out, relax, and do nothing.”

  Should I tell him that’s pretty much what Mom does all day around the house while he’s at work? That she just lies around on the big white couch and watches television all day long?

  “Do you think we should try ziplining tomorrow?” asks Dad. He’s acting so normal, it’s almost like he’s forgotten about the whole incident with the fire chief and the contract we made with Swede.

  “Could we?” I say.

  “I picked up a brochure down at the desk,” he says. “There’s a big course up in the hills above Lahaina. You take a jeep ride to get there, and it’s pretty hairy I guess, out across the canyons. Think you’re up for it?”

  “Definitely,” I say. Now this vacation is picking up.

  “I’m pretty sure your mother won’t want to go,” he says. “But I’ll ask her.”

  Dad stops on the way back to the condo and calls Mom. “She doesn’t want to go ziplining. In fact, she never even went outside all day,” he says, hanging up and shaking his head. “Not even down to the pool.”

  “I’m worried about your mom.” My dad is earnest now, like he’s looking to me for answers. “I thought maybe this vacation would perk her up, snap her out of her moods. I just don’t understand what’s going on with her.”

  “She has been different,” I venture.

  “You’ve noticed it too?” he says.

  I’m surprised that he even asks for my opinion. “When Lincoln left,” I offer, “it was all rah, rah, he’s in the Navy. But since Grant went away too, she seems sad all the time, and can’t quite snap out of it.” And it’s like she’s totally forgotten about me, I think, but I don’t say that.

  My dad pulls into a small teriyaki restaurant. “Let’s order take-out,” he suggests. “That way your mom won’t have to go out if she doesn’t want to.”

  I browse through the rack of postcards by the front door, with a sign that says four-for-a-dollar. I find ones with waterfalls, beach scenes, the reef at Molokini, and whales. Should I get one for Sherman or James? Nah, I’d just as soon not think about them right now.

  But which one would Olive like? When I think about that girl, I smile inside. I wonder if she’s been riding Paintball any more. Maybe she’ll get the hang of it if she keeps practicing. There’s a postcard of horseback riding on a ranch in the hills, but I’m looking for a really cool one. Maybe one with olives on it.

  “Dad, do they grow olives in Hawaii?”

  “I don’t know, son,” he says, reaching into his wallet and handing over a few bills to pay for the food.

  The man at the cash register laughs and shakes his head. “Pineapples, yes,” he says. “Coffee, yes. Flowers, lots of them. Olives? No, mon.”

  “Oh.” I flip through the postcard rack again and finally find one with a bunch of colorful fish. At least I can tell Olive I saw some fish like this. I scrounge in my pocket for some change and buy just one postcard.

  When we get back to the condo, I write a quick note and jot down Olive’s name and address. Feeling like an idiot, I suddenly realize that I don’t even know her last name, so I just write OLIVE LOUISE in big letters and then 399 Upper Ridge Road and our town name, state and zip code. Then I head down the elevator to the main desk, buy a stamp, and put it in a slot with a sign that reads “Outgoing Mail.” All the way back up the elevator to our rooms, I wonder if I said the right thing at the end. I signed it:

  Miss you, David.

  29-Olive

  I race down the gravel driveway when I see the mail lady’s red car slow down. Aunt Trudy only stayed one day in the hospital, and now she’s in the house, trying to take it easy. It’s hard for her to follow the doctor’s orders, she says, because she’s used to staying busy all the time. But the tests she took showed a “slow heartbeat.” The cardiac physician suggested she get a pacemaker to regulate her heart.

  “Oh fiddlesticks,” she said when she heard that recommendation. “Do I look like an elderly person?”

  Swede tried to talk some sense into her. “It would keep you from having those dizzy spells,” he said.

  But like I said, Aunt Trudy has strong opinions. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “If I go any slower I’m liable to die from boredom.”

  Anyway, things are pretty much the same as before she went into the hospital. Swede got rid of that stupid noisy peacock so it wouldn’t wake Aunt Trudy up at night. I’m doing a few more chores around the place, and Aunt Trudy only works at the animal shelter one day a week now.

  I work all this around in my mind as I slow to a walk on the way to the mailbox. There’s really no reason to run ’cause there’s never anything in there for me. My mother never was much of a letter writer in the first place. When she didn’t call me from the jail, I thought maybe she’d write to me.

  And David said he’d send me a postcard, but that was almost a month ago. I guess there’s still time to get one, but I’m really tired of opening the mailbox and having nothing in there for me. He probably forgot about me, once he got over there with all those fish and hula girls and stuff.

  My birthday’s in November, and I’ll be fourteen. I know my mother will remember that. She might even be out of jail by then.

  “Olive,” Aunt Trudy sticks her head out the front door and hollers after me. “Be careful—the pups!”

  I was in such a hurry, I forgot to close the gate on the puppy pen. Now they’re galloping after me in their funny puppy style, heading straight for the road. I grab the mail out of the mailbox and race back down the driveway to head them off.

  They’re about two months old now, and we have only three pups left. Someone called from the ad I tacked on the bulletin board at the feed store. They liked the chocolate-colored one that I called Chester. We still have the spotted one, a black one, and the yellow one named Goldy.

  I scoop Goldy up in my arms and jog back toward the house. “Come on, come on, puppies,” I chirp to the others, and they follow me. “Come on guys, get in your pen.” I pick each of the three up and kiss it on its nose. “Stay in here where you’re safe,” I say.

  Walking inside, I hand the mail over to Aunt Trudy as she sits at
the kitchen table.

  “Bills,” she says. “Electric bill, telephone bill, insurance pamphlet, two ads for hearing aids and one from a credit card company. Bah.”

  I glance at the mail one more time as she separates it on the kitchen table. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a card or a letter that I missed. “Nothing for me?”

  “Nope,” she says. “Sorry, Olive.”

  My hopes settle to the bottom of my stomach. With nothing else to do, I wander out to the barn to see Paintball and Shakespeare. Maybe someday I’ll get the courage to try to ride them again, but summer’s almost over now. The horses stand in the shade, avoiding the heat and the flies. I wander over by the hay to see how big the barn swallow babies are. They’ve been practicing flying in the eaves of the barn for days now.

  I cannot see a barn swallow anywhere. Did one of the barn cats finally get them? But I can’t find any feathers, either. That’s really weird.

  “Aunt Trudy,” I say, racing back into the house. “Something has happened.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “The swallows aren’t in the barn! No babies in the nest, and no mom or dad swallow either.” When I think about it, I haven’t seen them diving or swooping overhead for a day or so.

  “They’ve probably gone south,” she says.

  “South?”

  “That’s what they do. They come up here every year. Then they fly south again for the winter.”

  “South? You mean like down to California?” My mother is somewhere to the south. In jail. I wish I could just fly down and see where she is. And what’s keeping her from getting ahold of me.

  “No, I think they go farther than that. Maybe all the way to Central America or South America. I don’t know for sure. They fly a long ways, and come back up here to raise their babies.”

  “How could that possibly be?” I say. “They’re so tiny.”

  “I know. A bit of a miracle is what I’d call it. They do it every year. When they get their babies raised up, all of a sudden, one day toward the end of summer, they take off again. I imagine they’re gone until next year.”

  I hunch my head and walk back outside into the swelling afternoon heat. For some reason, the swallows’ absence makes me unbearably sad. It’s finally plenty warm, like summer is supposed to be. But in another week I’m going to start eighth grade at the middle school in town. And I’m going to ride a bus that will come all the way to Upper Ridge to pick me up. A chill goes through my body, even in the heat.

  I will know no one at the school. The baby swallows are grown up and gone. Chester, the brown puppy, is gone, and soon all the other puppies will be gone, too. Then winter will come and it’ll just be me and Rags again.

  I glance up at the deep blue sky. How could that little family of swallows possibly make it all the way south? Maybe it’s a sign. If I could just spread my wings I’d fly away, too. Maybe I could circle over the jail where my mother is. Maybe she’d be out in the yard walking around and I could wave to her. Maybe there’s a way for me to go south, to go down and see her. I know she’d like to see me. There must be some reason why she’s not calling or writing. Maybe they’re keeping her in solitary confinement. Maybe she’s been on good behavior, and she’s working out in the community and will be out of jail soon. Maybe she’s saving money, and she’s planning on coming north to surprise me for my birthday.

  Aunt Trudy calls from the back porch door. “Olive,” she hollers.

  Now what? Is it time to do chores and feed the animals?

  I walk dejectedly toward the house, where Aunt Trudy stands at the back door holding something. “This was stuck in the middle of an insurance brochure. It’s for you.”

  I reach for it. A brightly colored postcard with fish on it. I turn it over quickly and begin reading. A slow flush creeps up my face as I read the last line:

  Miss you, David.

  30-David

  “Why can’t you take me to school?” I ask, my voice accidentally rising into a squeak. “Like you did yesterday.” It’s seven-fifteen a.m. on the second day of school and I’m standing in my parents’ doorway. “I’m a freshman this year. I don’t want to ride the bus with all the elementary kids.”

  My mother is quiet as a stone, but I know she’s not sleeping. Since we’ve been home from Hawaii, she’s been a little more energetic, and when she actually took me to school yesterday, I hoped she was back to her regular self. But now I’m going to be late. My dad left for work an hour ago, so I can’t get a ride with him.

  I set my backpack down with a loud thump in the doorway. “How am I supposed to get to school?”

  She turns over in the king-size bed, but doesn’t say a word.

  “Like, it looks really cool for a freshman to be getting off the bus with all the little kids,” I mutter.

  “I’m sorry, David. You’ll have to catch the bus.” My mom flutters a hand in my direction. “I just don’t think I can get up this morning.” She pulls a fluffy pink blanket around her neck.

  I back away from the door. What the heck is the matter with her these days, anyway? I glance at the clock in the hallway. I have no idea what time the bus goes by out on Upper Ridge. Seven twenty-five a.m.. I’ve ridden the bus for the whole three years we’ve lived out here, but Mom promised she’d take me now that I’m in ninth grade. So much for that.

  If I hustle, I can probably catch the bus at the end of River Crest as it heads back toward town. Too bad Sherman isn’t sixteen yet. It would be ultra-cool to drive to school with a friend, even if it is against the stupid law.

  I sling my backpack over my shoulder and pull the front door shut behind me, harder than I intend to. It slams and I cuss under my breath as I head toward the main road. I hear the big diesel motor of the bus as it crests the last hill on Upper Ridge and starts down again. I break into a sprint.

  At the intersection, the McDaniel twins stand on the corner waiting for the bus. They’re in what, third grade this year? It’s bad enough I have to ride the bus with all these little kids, but now I have to actually run for it in front of everybody.

  The bus slides to a halt and the doors swing open with a hiss. The twins grab the seat right behind the driver, and I vault up the steps behind them. The bus driver, a heavyset woman with curly hair, isn’t the one I remember from the last couple of years. Must be somebody new.

  “Did you fill out your bus permit for this year?” she asks me.

  “What?” I stare at her blankly. “No. I…I rode it last year, but I didn’t think I was going to need it this year.”

  “Well, I’ll let it slide because school just started. But make sure you bring one back signed by your parents before you board next time.”

  I feel like I’m about six years old. I look around for an empty seat, but don’t see any. I’m not about to sit with the third graders.

  Checking the rear, I notice one whole bench with nobody in it, just one seat from the very back. The bus lurches forward before I even sit down. Off balance, I practically fall against two boys who don’t look much older than first grade.

  “Dude, look out,” one of them says, and they both laugh.

  “Sorry,” I say. I grab hold of the back of their seat, stagger toward the rear, and fling myself into an available spot. I set my backpack down and glance around quickly to see if anyone noticed that I almost fell on top of some little kids.

  On the long bench seat behind me, at the very back of the bus and tucked up against the window, is a freckle-faced girl who looks familiar. Her hair is pulled up in a neat ponytail that has curls at the end of it. She has on a sparkly shirt and dark blue jeans.

  Olive.

  My mind suddenly goes a million directions at once. I haven’t seen her in probably a month. Should I say something? She must be going to the same school as me, the middle school. I guess I wasn’t sure she was going to stay longer than summer.

  I really should turn around and say “Hi.” She probably thinks I’m totally stuck up. But for some reason
I can’t bring myself to look at her. I keep thinking about what I wrote on that postcard I sent from Maui. Miss you, David.

  Why did I write that? I knew it sounded corny the minute I signed it, but after I sent it, I couldn’t really take it back. Did she even get it?

  The bus stops again and five more kids get on. Three from sixth grade parade down the aisle and push into the very back seat. I glance out of the corner of my eye as Olive scoots far into the corner.

  Then an eighth grader shoves into my seat, boxing me against the window. I can barely see Olive now.

  It’s too late to say hi. I just keep facing the front during the whole rest of the bus ride to school. The ride takes forever as the bus follows the old highway into town. We cross the river bridge and get held up at every stoplight. A sleek Greyhound bus pulls in front of us at the last stoplight, turning into the Chevron station and letting off passengers.

  When our school bus finally pulls into the entrance, there’s a mad scramble of kids exiting the bus. The sixth graders in the back grab their stuff and head for the front.

  The kid next to me is rearranging the stuff in his backpack and I’m trapped in my seat. Come on, dude, I think. Hurry up.

  I can sense Olive rise and move toward the aisle. I’m still trapped by this slow-poke eighth grader, but I decide to at least say hello to Olive. She has a blue backpack slung over one shoulder and her blue jeans fit nice. I can tell that she knows I’m here, but she doesn’t turn her head. She just stares straight ahead as she goes by. A waft of scent drifts over from her, like herbal shampoo or soap. She smells good. But she just walks right on by, down the stairs of the bus and into one of the long outside corridors without ever once looking back.

  31-Olive

  So the second day of school is all right, I guess. It would have been better if that boy, David, hadn’t been on the bus. I can’t believe he wouldn’t even say hi to me. What a jerk. My mom always tried to warn me about men. Don’t believe a word they say. Well I won’t, from now on.