My Lost and Found Life

by Melodie Bowsher

  I had developed a daily routine. Each morning I crawled out of my nest, tossed some clothes into my duffle bag, and steered my car to the gym for a thirty-minute workout.

  Afterward, I would leap into a steaming-hot shower to enjoy the water as it cascaded over my body. I had never appreciated showers so much. By seven I was dressed and fighting the early-bird workout fanatics for mirror space so I could blow-dry my hair and put on makeup.

  After a while, I began to recognize familiar faces among the morning crowd, but I was the only one who showed up seven days a week without fail. I was careful not to get too friendly or make myself conspicuous. But someone did notice. One morning as I wobbled sleepily past the front desk, I was shocked into consciousness by Patti, the girl who checked everyone in.

  “Hey, how are ya! You’re a little later than usual, aren’t you?” she chirruped.

  I jerked my head up from my usual stupor and stared at her like a thief caught with the swag falling out of her handbag.

  “I couldn’t help noticing that you work out every single day,” she said.

  “Yeah?” I said, my heart pounding, even though there was no way she could guess why I came every day.

  She leaned over the counter. “I just wanted to tell you that I admire your dedication. I wish I had your discipline. I’ve seen you in the workout room, and you’ve developed great definition in your calves and arms.”

  I exhaled in relief. “Thanks, I’m very happy with the results I’m getting.”

  Thinking fast, I confided, “You know, I had a weight problem, so I try very hard to stick to this routine. I’m always afraid if I miss a day, I’ll start putting the pounds back on.”

  “Wow, I’d never guess you were ever overweight,” Patti exclaimed, obviously buying the whole bogus story. “What a success story! Maybe we could write about you in our club newsletter.”

  “Oh, no!” I said hastily. “Thanks, anyway.”

  “Come on, you’d be an inspiration to our other members.”

  “No, sorry. I’m very private,” I called as I fled toward the women’s locker room. For weeks after that, I sped by the front desk as if rapacious timber wolves were after me, but Patti didn’t mention it again.

  The daily procession of coffeehouse customers began each morning at six thirty. Louis opened, and I joined him at eight. After a week on the job, I was at home standing behind the coffeehouse counter asking, “Single or double latte?”

  Malcolm was right—it wasn’t brain surgery. I became proud of my new skill at creating mounds of frothy white foam to crown the top of my perfectly prepared coffee drinks.

  Louis and I worked together until three thirty, when he was replaced by either Dee or her twin sister, Cassie. Separately or together, the twins worked the late shift six days a week. I left at four thirty, unless it was really busy. At ten o’clock (midnight on Fridays and Saturdays), the doors closed for the night. On Sundays Mal himself opened the place at eight, then I took over at eleven and worked until six o’clock closing.

  Saturday was my only day off but I didn’t mind. I needed to work a lot of hours so I could earn as much money as possible. I quickly learned that you don’t accumulate a lot of cash when you get paid only $8.50 an hour. When I opened my first pay envelope, I went into shock at how much money had been deducted for taxes and stuff. I had to radically revise my earnings and savings estimates. Fortunately, I ate and drank for free at the Madhouse. I’ve never been a big eater anyway, so a slice of pizza or soup and an apple would do for dinner. I paid for everyday stuff with my tips and plunked my paycheck money into my savings “bank” (a drawer in the back of the armoire inside Gloria’s garage).

  Malcolm was in and out all day. When he wasn’t gabbing with customers, he often went upstairs to work on his novel. Apparently he’d been at it for years, although none of the Madhouse inmates had read any of it. Except Patrick.

  Mal and Patrick belonged to the same writing group. The two of them talked about books and writing all the time. I tried to eavesdrop on their conversations whenever possible. I discovered that not only did Patrick have a great smile, he was smart, too. We flirted but he never took it any further.

  When the Madhouse was busy, the day would rush by in a blur of coffee and food and boisterous voices. During slow periods, I would check my e-mail on one of the computers. Occasionally, I received one from Nicole. Of course she loved college. I also passed time by reading the newspapers the customers left behind.

  At first I just looked at my horoscope and Dear Abby, then skimmed the local news to make sure there weren’t any articles about my mother. Little by little, though, I began reading the news articles and the columns. Amazingly, I developed an interest in what teachers refer to as current events. I did it partly to pass the time and partly because I didn’t want to seem totally ignorant to the customers.

  Getting through the hours at work was easy enough—it was tougher finding something to do outside the Madhouse. I couldn’t sit by myself in a dark camper every evening so I had to find places to hang out until ten or eleven o’clock. Staying around the Madhouse was out since it would have looked as if I didn’t have any place to go or friends to hang with. No way I wanted to look that feeble.

  At first, I explored Fillmore Street. Beyond the mansions of Pacific Heights, Fillmore makes a steep descent into the Cow Hollow and Marina districts before dead-ending at the bay.

  When the weather was clear I would walk the street’s entire length until I could see the yachts and motor cruisers docked along the shore and the sailboats drifting in the bay, their big sails billowing as they sliced through the steel blue water. If I felt energetic, I would stroll along the green lawn edging the marina, dodging bikers, joggers, and baby strollers until I reached the beach at Crissy Field.

  I would dig my toes into the sand, inhale the crisp sea air, and listen to the gulls. An endless parade of people and dogs would walk past me while windsurfers in wet suits maneuvered their boards out in the waves. In the distance huge tankers and other ships passed beneath the rust-orange Golden Gate Bridge, and I wondered if my mother was in Hong Kong or Marseilles or some other exotic port where she would watch that same ship arrive.

  As the weather turned chilly, I ventured down Fillmore only as far as Union or Chestnut streets, where I would grab a slice of pizza or see a movie before taking the bus back up the hill to my car.

  Doing laundry became my Monday-night ritual, and sometimes I went to Brainwash, a combination Laundromat and coffeehouse. Afterward, I’d stop by Gloria’s house to give Stella a hug and pick up my mail (mostly bills). There was never anything from my mother.

  On weeknights I could go alone to the movies without being surrounded by couples. It was a great way to use two hours—four if I went to one of the discount theaters with double features. The Clay on Fillmore Street showed foreign and arty independent flicks. Proximity drew me there initially, but I astonished myself by starting to like the oddball films they showed. Once you get used to the subtitles, foreign films can be pretty cool, and they’re a lot more inventive than Hollywood blockbusters.

  I often went to the library where I could read and pretend to be a college student. I had never really appreciated libraries before—you can stay there for hours without anyone wondering who you are or what you’re doing. And no one expects you to buy anything in a library.

  One Thursday night in early October, I discovered a new way to spend my evenings. I was killing time in a bookstore near the Civic Center before catching the seven-thirty showing of a French film. As I was browsing through the new fiction table, I noticed a bunch of chairs arranged meeting-style in the rear section of the store. One of the sales clerks was bustling around, and I asked her what was going on.

  “We’re having a reading tonight,” she enthused. “If you’re interested, she’s starting in a few minutes.”

  Why not? I had heard Malcolm and Patrick talking about “readings,” and here was my chance to find out what it was
all about. So I plunked myself down on a chair in the back. The author reading her book turned out to be surprisingly hip and funny. She was so entertaining that I passed up the movie. I almost bought her book, until I found out it was $26.

  After that, I started looking for more bookstore events. In one week I heard about voodoo witch doctors, the history of perfume, and two cyclists who pedaled seven hundred miles through Tibet. Soon I found my taste in books radically altered. Before my mother’s disappearance, I kept to romances or best sellers about beautiful jet-setters in love and in danger. But life had soured me on fairytale happy endings. Besides, I didn’t want to be caught reading trash. One day in the coffeehouse, Malcolm noticed I was reading something called Forbidden Desire, and I was totally embarrassed to be exposed as some sort of starry-eyed dimwit.

  After that, I picked up a recommended reading list for college freshman at the library and started reading books like All the King’s Men, which was excellent, by the way. I wanted to be like Jack, the book’s narrator, and go to sleep until all my problems went away. One year, two years, it didn’t matter. I would have happily slept until my mother came back, however long it took.

  On Saturdays I became a relentless seeker of free or inexpensive activities around the city, including museum shows, gallery openings, church concerts, and street fairs. Going to movies and running around town might sound exciting, but to be honest, there were many times when I longed to go home, put on my bathrobe, and relax in front of the TV set with Stella purring on my lap. That’s what I missed most, the everyday stuff that you can do when you have a real home.

  Each night I delayed it as long as I could, but eventually I had to go back to the camper. I would park my car, make sure no one was watching, and then dart inside. Stealthily I would pull on my sweats and crawl under the bedcovers. Despite my blankets and down comforter, the damp air seemed to seep into my bones. Sleeping in the camper was like sleeping inside a refrigerator, all hard edges and cold air.

  All I could do was lie in the darkness, watching the lights of passing cars move across the walls until sleep came. Reading by flashlight was out because someone might notice the light. I felt like a solitary mouse hiding in her hole and quivering for fear a big, evil cat was waiting outside. Fear was my biggest problem. I was terrified of being discovered there alone in the darkness.

  Finally I bought a switchblade at the hardware store and hid it under my pillow. Each night before going to sleep, I would grope beneath my pillow until I could feel the cold metal and reassure myself the knife was still there.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “They want me to take these babies to a pox party. Can you believe it?” Bella announced as she maneuvered a massive stroller through the Madhouse door. With her booming voice, rosy face, and plus-sized body, Bella always seem to explode into a place, rather than merely enter it.

  As usual, she was herding three-year-old Stephanie ahead of her while pushing seven-month-old Oliver inside what she called the baby barge. Bella was the live-in nanny for a rich Pacific Heights family, and she stopped by almost daily for coffee and conversation.

  “Gracious. What on earth is a pox party?” exclaimed Evelyn. She scurried over to retrieve a drool-covered chew toy that Oliver decided to cast overboard on his voyage to the counter. Along with her nasty little dog, Evelyn doted on babies and children to a degree that I found slightly demented.

  “I want a cookie with icing on it,” Stephanie requested, looking up with her owlish eyes. “You promised, Bella.”

  “I did and you shall have one,” said Bella soothingly, as she bent to unfasten Oliver from the many straps that held him captive. “A pox party is where you expose children to a child who has the chicken pox. You get your kiddies sick on purpose. Can you believe it?”

  “I suppose they want to get it over with.” I reached down to give Stephanie her cookie. “I know it’s better to have chicken pox when you’re young. One of the girls at my high school didn’t get it until she was fifteen, and she was so sick that she ended up with scars.”

  Bella dismissed this notion with an exasperated wave. “No, no, they just want to make sure their travel plans don’t get disrupted this winter. I said, ‘Why not get the shots?’ but they claim they have serious doubts about the safety of chicken-pox vaccinations. I just don’t see the sense of it.”

  She took a deep breath, but before she could get the words out, I said them for her.

  “But what do I know? I’m just the nanny,” I chanted.

  She grinned at me and I grinned back.

  Bella had quickly become one of my favorites among the Madhouse customers. Unfortunately, like most of the coffeehouse regulars, Bella had no sense of style. She could have been a knockout if she lost a few pounds, got a great haircut, and bought some new clothes. The right makeup would do wonders for that ruddy complexion of hers. Instead, she didn’t even wear lipstick, and her hair hung down her back in a braid.

  When I started working at the coffeehouse, I had mentally dismissed Bella and the rest of the crowd as pathetic losers. Bella was frumpy. Evelyn dressed like a gypsy queen. Fireman Tom favored baseball caps and Hawaiian shirts. And nerdy Jerry wore those camouflage pants every day.

  The Madhouse regulars didn’t drive Beamers; they drove old Toyotas or rode the bus. They didn’t shop at Saks Fifth Avenue or Neiman Marcus and probably didn’t know or care who Dolce & Gabbanna were. They didn’t go on Caribbean cruises, or fly to Palm Springs for the weekend. None of them seemed to dream of owning a mansion, much less an American Express card.

  I considered myself only temporarily poor, while these people didn’t seem to have any ambitions and none of them seemed interested in living the lifestyle I sorely missed.

  Take the soul sisters, as Malcolm teasingly referred to Aphrodite and her twin sister, Cassandra. They were nursing students who lived with their mother and sang in their church choir. While not typically pretty, they had glowing complexions and strong bodies and were always in training for some athletic event or other. I’ll bet the two of them had never read Vogue magazine in all of their twenty-five years.

  Since none of the employees or customers seemed to share my priorities, I thought it wise to keep my mouth shut. The same couldn’t be said for the rest of them. Personal information flowed as freely as espresso at the Madhouse. Male or female, the coffeehouse regulars could outtalk any high school girl or suburban housewife. People shared their life stories even if no one wanted to listen. Coffeehouse seemed to mean “confessional” to them.

  At first I thought the guys who rambled on and on were hitting on me. But it was women, too, and age didn’t seem to be a factor. Young or old, gay or straight, everyone seemed to need someone to unload on.

  I was making a latte for this guy—I’d never even seen him before—when he started telling me all about how his bride-to-be had cheated on him with his stepbrother, and her best friend had blabbed, resulting in an all-around family and nuptial meltdown.

  After he left, I turned to Aphrodite and said, “What is it about me that makes all these sad sacks want to tell me about their romantic failures?”

  Dee giggled and said, “It’s not just you, girlfriend. I’ve heard stories that would curl your hair and make your eyes cross. From women, too, not just guys.”

  Malcolm overheard us and called, “I’m afraid it’s not your obvious charms, girls. It’s the venue. In a city like this, people need a place to spend time and find people who will listen when they talk. In a way we’re like therapists here. Our little coffee clinic provides a spiritual home for those lonely souls who are short on friends and family in this cold and heartless metropolis.”

  I understood exactly what Malcolm was saying. All my human contact these days was with people at the Madhouse.

  William called out, “Awww, you’re making me cry. You wouldn’t by chance be writing one of those sappy romances for women, would you, Mal?”

  “Poor Willy, you don’t have a drop of sentiment
in you, do you?” said Patrick. “’Twas a grand analogy. Where else can you find a kindly listener if not in an asylum? And this is the Madhouse, ain’t it?”

  “The doctor is in,” I quipped. “Ready to dispense coffee and sympathy.”

  “I’ll have some of both,” said Patrick, giving me his crooked smile. I couldn’t stop myself from smiling back.

  But people didn’t just pour their personal sagas into my ear. They also asked loads of personal questions—how old was I? Where did I live? Did I have brothers and sisters? I tried to avoid talking about myself, but the more evasive I was, the more questions were asked—it was just like high school! If you avoid answering questions, people tease you about being stuck-up, and the next thing you know, they’re making stuff up.

  So I lied. I made up answers to the most persistent questions, while trying to stick as close to the truth as possible.

  I told everyone that my father died when I was young, and my mother died a few months ago in a car accident (Lie Number One). I claimed to live with my elderly aunt in her house in Burlingame (Lie Number Two). I also said that she was very religious and wouldn’t allow me to invite friends over or even take phone calls there (Lie Number Three). Finally, I confided that I had a serious boyfriend named Webb who was away at college (Lie Number Four). In a year or so, when I had saved enough money, I planned to join Webb in San Diego (Lie Number Five).

  Now all I had to do was keep all my lies straight.

  • • •

  Tattie came back from rehab at the beginning of October. She called several times and tried to persuade me to go out with her, but I put her off. I told her about my job at the Madhouse and said I was working a lot of hours—which was true, but not the reason I was avoiding her. If she found out where I was living, the news would be all over Burlingame. Tattie wasn’t a gossip, exactly. She just didn’t watch her tongue and would disclose the most embarrassing information about herself or anyone else without a second thought. If you complained, she would just shrug and say, “What’s the big deal?”