Sarah Durst - The Lost

“Surgery works for many, many people,” she said after she told me. Her voice was so bright that it was brittle. I’d been eating a crab rangoon, and I bolted to the bathroom and threw up. I didn’t come out until much later to find that Mom had transferred all of the food into plastic containers and stored them labeled in the refrigerator. She was sitting in front of the TV. The TV wasn’t on, but the remote was clutched in her hand. She smiled brightly when I came into the room.

“You’re going to be strong for me, aren’t you?” I said as I flopped onto the couch next to her.

“One of us has to be.” She pointed to my nose. “You’re a terrible crier. Makes you look all splotchy.”

“Your genes.”

“Sorry about that. And sorry if you inherit this.”

“Mom!”

“At least I won’t have to see you die first. Unless you’re hit by a bus. Please don’t get hit by a bus.”

“I can’t believe you’re talking like this.”

“It’s called gallows humor. Standard coping mechanism. Frankly, I’m suspicious of anyone who doesn’t find humor in death.”

“Stop talking about death!” I threw a pillow at her. Not sure why. Because it was childish, and I felt like a child in that moment, the moment everything suddenly spiraled out of control. How dare she turn my life inside out, my carefully constructed illusion of happiness? How dare she rip it apart with this messiness? I knew it was an ugly thought the instant I had it, and I buried it as fast and hard as I could. But there it was. I’d been so happy when I’d graduated because it felt as if I was being handed the reins to my life, and Mom had ripped those reins away, drenched them with acid, and let them dissolve at my feet. “So what do I do?” I asked, though I knew it was about her, all about her, but still, I couldn’t help but ask. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do or say, what she expected, what she needed...what I was supposed to do. But I knew it was a selfish question so I changed it. “What do you need me to do?”

“Duck,” she said. And she threw the pillow back at me.

That was the last time we talked about it for three months. She had her surgery, she started chemo, and I helped her with the day-to-day stuff, but we didn’t talk about it.

One day at the café with my artist friends...I simply couldn’t be there anymore, knowing Mom’s medical bills were piling up. I went home and typed up my résumé. It was pitifully short, but I was creative. I didn’t lie, but I embellished with the most forceful verbs I could think of. I bought a pencil skirt and a blouse with buttons, and I bought a pair of sensible black heels, if heels could ever be considered sensible. I tried not to feel like a tightrope walker as I walked in them and missed my flip-flops, my standard footwear. I didn’t tell my mom until after I’d gotten my first job offer, three more months later. By then, the bills were more than Mom could pay, even with her insurance. I quietly started to pay them, and that was that. That was how my world changed. One conversation. And everything that followed.

The boy waiting for me in the living room had traced his moment to one day, too.

I think again about what he told me about his one conversation.

And that’s when I see the photograph. It’s in a Popsicle-stick frame, the kind you make in elementary school. Dried glue is clumped all over it, and stray bits of construction paper and googly eyes are covering it. It’s a picture of two boys, one of them clearly Colin, the other a younger version of him with ears that stick out like Dumbo. “Thanks,” I say out loud. The dust swallows my words. I feel giddy as I hug the photo.

I turn around and walk—though I don’t know why I bother since every direction looks the same, but it feels right so I do it. It’s faster to reach the edge of the void than it should have been, and I walk out into the desert. I’m not far from my ocean.

I walk to the nearest junk pile. It has all the usual lost clothes: kids’ sweatshirts, a few coats, umbrella, newspapers, hats, mittens. I select a raincoat. It’s the lightest of the choices, and I throw it over my bathing-suited self. I then trudge back to the yellow house.

Lounging on the junk pile and draped over the porch, the people are still there. Waiting for me. Waiting for a miracle. I clutch the Popsicle-stick photo to my chest and try not to make eye contact as I walk past the junk piles and up the steps to the porch. Claire flings open the door as I arrive. She sees I’m holding something. I hear whispers behind me; they’ve seen, too.

In the living room, Colin slowly rises from the couch. His hand is shaking as I hand him the photograph. He looks at it and frowns. “That’s my brother.” He looks at me. “I don’t understand. I mean, yes, I lost this years ago. We’d made it together for Mother’s Day. One of those stupid crafts projects, you know?” He sits down heavily with the photo in his hands. “You couldn’t find her? ’Course not. She’s dead.”

Claire is close to my elbow. “He’s not glowing,” she whispers.

He lifts his head. He’s heard her. “This isn’t what I need.”

“Then why did I find it?” I ask.

He doesn’t have an answer to that.

“Maybe it isn’t what you need. Maybe it’s someone who needs you.” I feel proud of myself for saying that. I sound wise. I have no clue if it’s true.

His eyes bug and I see him look at the photo fresh.

“There,” Claire says, satisfaction filling her voice.

Squinting at him, I see what she sees: a soft glow that surrounds him, a match to Claire’s own glow.

“You did it!” Claire throws her arms around my neck and hugs me hard. I hug her back, elated. I really did it! Twice! Three times, if you count the ring, but I don’t know if that counts since I had to be rescued then.

Happily, Claire ushers him out of the room, and I scoot into the bedroom to change out of my swimsuit into the dress Claire chose for me. It occurs to me that if this continues, I’ll have to change right back into it. All those people would expect me to go into the void for them and come back with some item that would make them magically see the light.

I wonder if I can do it.

I wonder why I can do it.

I tug my dress into place and tie my wet hair back with a ribbon. I listen as Claire guides the next “visitor” into our living room. When I hear the squeak of the couch, I walk out of the bedroom. A woman in sequins and diamonds is seated on the couch. She turns as I enter, and I plaster a smile on my face. “Do you know what you’ve lost?” I ask.

Things I found:

shoes

a fake Rolex

a dead cat named Treacle, stuffed in a shoe box

two tickets to a Red Sox game

an apology note, never sent

greasepaint for a circus clown

a microphone

a report card, not mine, 3 F’s

a few memories I didn’t want

a few memories I did

leg warmers

a baby blanket, pink

my purpose, maybe

I have lost track of time. It’s been several weeks, or months, since I first arrived in Lost, and while I appreciate the appropriateness of my inability to calculate the amount of time (given where I am), it also scares me. I wish I’d marked days on the wall of the kitchen, but I didn’t think I would be here so long.

I stare out the window of our house and watch the dying sun play over the variations in the land, the brambles and the cacti. It then catches the curve of the waves in the ocean, a mile away today. Low tide, in its own peculiar way. I don’t see the dolphin.