Sarah Durst - The Lost

He shrugs. “I don’t have time for building relationships. I’m married to this hospital. Which is why you’re ideal. I already know you.”

“Yeah, that does border on a little creepy.”

“Ask your mother for my embarrassing stories. She knows them.” He winks at me, and then he picks up my tray, as well as his own, and heads for the trash can.

“Thanks for the cupcake,” I call after him. I then look over at the table next to us. I pick up the small noose and wind it around my fingers as if it’s a talisman.

I take it with me as I go to visit my mother.

I slip into Mom’s hospital room quietly. She’s asleep. She looks so fragile when she sleeps, as if at any moment, she could be blown apart like dried leaves in autumn. I sink into the chair by the window and look out at the palm trees.

I twist the noose around my fingers and then untwist it. Twist. Untwist. Twist. Untwist. I think about Dr. Barrett. About Peter. About Mom. About Claire. Real. Not real. Real. Not real.

“Did you have a nice lunch?” Mom’s voice is soft and wavers. I scoot the chair closer so she doesn’t have to raise her voice.

“Dr. Barrett joined me.”

She starts to nod and then she coughs. The coughs shudder through her entire body, and I drop the little noose and reach for her. She holds up her hand to stop me. “Fine. I’m fine. William’s a nice boy, isn’t he?”

“He said you helped him sort through his father’s things.”

“I did.” A ghost of a smile drifts across her face. “His father and I were close once.”

“Close close?”

She tries to cackle, but again she’s caught in a cough. She smiles weakly at me. “You were a teenager. I didn’t want to tell you until I was certain it would last. You were looking so fiercely for a father figure. I didn’t want to disappoint you if the relationship fell apart. And it did fall apart. My fault, mostly. I kept comparing him to my memories of your father. At any rate, there was no reason to tell you. But we remained friends.”

“You’re certain it was when I was a teenager? I’m not going to discover that his father is my father, and my life is suddenly a British soap opera.”

“I swear you can date him without any fear of creating three-headed children or violating any laws.” Her eyes gleam. This is the most alert I’ve seen her. “Did he ask you out?”

I shouldn’t admit it. But I don’t want to lie to her. “Dinner. I said no.”

“Why?” she screeches. I didn’t know she could still get that kind of volume out of her lungs. I’m impressed. And pleased. She levels a finger at me. “You are to go out to dinner with him tonight. Someplace nice. Order wine. Pinot noir. You’ll like it. Then you are to have him go back with you to the apartment since you’re obviously too scared to go by yourself. Water my plants. Take in whatever fast-food ads have accumulated outside the door. Let air in. And then you can come back. If you choose to sleep with him, just don’t do it in my bed.”

“Mom!”

Mom presses the nurse call button. A few minutes later, the nurse appears. Mom smiles at her. “Would you please page Dr. Barrett? Tell him it isn’t an emergency, but when he has a free moment, I’d like to speak with him.”

“Sure thing.” The nurse checks her IVs, makes sure Mom is comfortable, and waggles her finger over the dinner tray. “You need to eat.” Mom obediently opens the soup and spoons some into her mouth. Her hand shakes, and drops spill on her hospital gown, but a tiny mouthful of broth makes it past her lips. She closes the lid when the nurse leaves.

“I’ll go if you eat everything on that tray,” I say.

She pulls the tray closer.

“And breakfast tomorrow, too,” I quickly add.

“Done,” she says with satisfaction.

“Well played, Mom. Well played.” Leaning over, I pick up the noose. It’s just a ratty piece of string. I should toss it in the trash.

She gestures at me with the fork. “What do you have there?” She points to the noose.

“Just a thing I found.” Firmly, I put it down. I pick up the pad of paper and pencil that I’d gotten from the nurses’ station. As she eats, I doodle, using the menu as support for the paper. I draw the motel as I remember it with the desiccated saguaro by the sign, and I draw the diner with all the tacky kitsch in the windows. I then sketch in the rest of the street, the post office with the eagle, the darkened alleys. When I finish, I tape it to the wall.

On a fresh piece of paper, I start to draw Victoria, the harsh lines of her jaw and the severity of her hair. I sketch in her waitress uniform. Taking another sheet, I begin on Tiffany.

Mom finishes every bite of her food.

He chooses a Greek restaurant, which is fine with me. He says he didn’t want to choose Italian because it screams “first date” and “trying too hard.”

“Anything that isn’t a diner,” I tell him. I don’t explain why.

He drives carefully. He’s a safe driver, another reason for my mother to like him. I picture Peter riding the top of the train, wind flapping through his coat, and suddenly I miss him so much that it shocks the breath out of me. Mom is right that a date with William is a good idea. I need to reconnect with reality.

Inside, the restaurant is nice. Very Greece-centric. It’s decorated with murals of pastoral Greek isles on the walls and a stone tile floor with a flower mosaic. The hostess leads us to a table against the wall, near a vase that overflows with lilies. I think the lilies are real. I touch one of the petals to check. Yes, real. The waitress hands us menus. William’s menu has a photo of a Greek island with white plaster houses and brilliant teal-blue water. Mine has a crescent moon. I open it and see the eclipse éclair, the solar flare flounder, the meteor meatloaf...

The waitress plucks the menu out of my hands. “Not sure where that came from.” She tucks it under her elbow, and she hands me a fresh menu with a photo of Greece on the front. “Sorry about that.”

“Wait,” I say. “What was...”

But the waitress whisks away and is at another table across the restaurant, pad and pen in hand. The menu with the moon, if that was indeed what I saw, is tucked between other menus.

William is talking. “...falafel is surprisingly spicy, but their lamb is excellent.” He waves to one of the cooks through a window to the kitchen. “I come here a lot. I’m a lousy cook.”

I watch the waitress stuff the menus under the hostess station, and then I force myself to smile at William. “I would have thought you’d be good at it with the perfectionism and the control thing. It’s usually us artsy types that burn everything in sight.”

The waitress pours water. She sloshes some on my place mat. “Can I get you anything to drink?” Slouching with one hip jutting out, she retrieves a pen from the nest of hair tied behind her head. She’s staring at William as if he’s tasty.

It couldn’t have been the Moonlight Diner menu, I tell myself. I need to stop thinking about it.

William uses his napkin to dab the water spill on my place mat. “Glass of Chardonnay for me. What would you like, Lauren?”

“Iced tea?” Then I remember I promised my mother I’d drink wine. “Scratch that. I’ll have a Chardonnay, too.” I think of Mom and wonder if any of the nurses made her eat dinner. I should be there with her, never mind that she told me to come.

As if he can read my thoughts, he says gently, “She needs time to herself, too. I don’t think this is entirely about matchmaking.”

I nod. That makes sense. She probably does need a break from me. To rest. To collect her thoughts. To... I don’t know. Prepare herself. I swallow hard and look down at the place mat. Its woven fibers, like strips of bamboo. I pick at it, and then I stop myself and take the napkin and lay it on my lap. The waitress delivers a dish of hummus with a wrinkled olive in the middle. She puts a wire bowl of pita bread next to it.