Lost: Do we ever really lose the people we love?

Image from Unsplash by Partha Narasimhan

I didn’t just walk these city streets in the summer of 1963. When I was twenty and in love, I owned them. We’d go dancing with the gang at Monaco-a-go-go. Johnny and the Mojos. Hang on Snoopy; or was it Sloopy? Anyway, Maurie used to toss me over his head and drop me between his legs as if I weighed no more than a feather. He’d spin me dizzy and then we’d do the Watusi. Other dancers pulled back in a circle to watch and clap for us like we were the at the very center of something that really mattered.

That was before his back went out.

Now, when I pull out my compact to check my lipstick, a plastic bag brushes past my shoulder and flutters above the traffic like a drunken seagull.

The Monoco’s long gone, and here’s this skyscraper hotel with no character, no charm, not even a doorman to welcome a person in. On my way out, I hold the door open for a woman, heavily pregnant with swollen ankles. The poor thing is carrying her own suitcase. She gives me a tired smile along with her sincere thanks before disappearing into that cavern they call a lobby.

Maurie would never have let me carry a suitcase when I was pregnant. That man didn’t let me carry anything bigger than a bread box. He hauled the groceries, the cleaning, trays of food, even our heavy old vacuum up and down the stairs.

When the nurse finally laid our baby in his arms, the man cried elephant tears. He pretended he was just glad he didn’t have to carry everything anymore, but she and I knew better. My husband carried that little boy everywhere he went. Ian was his pride and joy until — oh, well.

Ian is over fifty now and we all three just spent the night in this fancy hotel. On him. Our boy must be rolling in money. This morning, he gave me directions to the café where he and Mark plan to have breakfast. They want to tell me some news before we catch the ferry to the island.

Good news, I hope.

“Just head towards the ferry building, Mom. Try to stay in the shade cuz it’s going to be a scorcher. Then when you get to the building make a left. Remember, it’s the new ferry building, not the old one. They tore that down ten years ago.”

The old ferry building. Georgian architecture in red brick three stories high with a clock tower on top. Too bad it didn’t have a bell. I would have rung it so loud the day Maurie finally proposed, his green eyes shining behind those thick wire-rimmed glasses. Marry me. Lizzie. Make me the happiest man in the world. Right there in the ferry building.

Everyone applauded when I said, “Of course I will.”

Now, I make my rickety way through clouds of dust, past flimsy orange plastic fences, trying not to trip over these poor souls asleep on the sidewalk. I’m almost overcome by the smells of sweat and waste and the roar of a cement pounder. What do they call those darn things?

A cyclone fence blocks my way and a dark man with a hard-hat yells, “Sidewalk’s closed, lady.” He gestures with his leather glove towards an arrow pointing across the street.

Am I supposed to cross in the middle of the block? All these cars and no crosswalk. No. I’ll go back to the light and start over.

Wait. What street am I on? There’s no sign. How can there be no sign? I’m just supposed to know?

Go on to the next one. Be good to get away from that awful noise.

A lady bumps into me when I stop to look around, squinting in the bright sun.

“Sorry, love.” She steadies me with a warm hand and I stand in her shadow.

Such a nice smile. Such a tall woman. She walks away so fast.

Which way is the water? So many buildings. I can’t see the water. Should have asked her. My knee aches.

Better sit down.

Ah. So much better. I’ll hang my cane on the back of the bench. Is there a name on it? Sometimes they put names on the backrest with sad messages. There it is. “In memory of our daughter Anna.” Maurie used to read those messages.

He’d drone, Into every life a little rain must fall. But thank goodness for Anna or we wouldn’t have this nice spot to sit.

Thank goodness. It’s a nice bench but there’s no shade.

Come on, old girl. Time to get a move on before you get burnt to a crisp.

“Don’t call me that, Maurie.” I get up anyway.

A young Asian couple in the window of the coffee shop are putting up a butcher-paper sign, “Fresh hot fair-trade coffee.” They look like a Hallmark card, framed in the window like that. Coffee would be nice.

“Good idea, that sign.” I say to the young woman perched with a furrowed brow behind the counter.

“Can I help you ma’am?”

I try again. “It was smart of you to put up that sign. I saw you and your . . . partner? Putting it up.”

Her eyes squint as if she’s trying to remember. Or maybe she’s someone else. A man behind me clears his throat.

You’re in his way, dear.

“Sorry. I’m in your way. I’ll have a small flat white please.” Oh, wait, they have mochaccinos. I would love some chocolate.

“Wait.” I call a little too loud to the young woman who has already started fumbling with the machine. She expels a burst of air.

You don’t need the sugar.

“Oh, never mind. I don’t need the sugar.” What with the man waiting behind me and all. The young woman gives me a strange look and hands over the steaming cup.

“So…do you want sugar?”

No.

“No. Thank you.” I sidle past crowded tables towards a seat at the window.

The coffee smells delicious but the first sip burns my tongue.

Maurie laughs. Slow down old girl. There’s plenty of time.

“There’s never enough time.” I tell him.

Ian’s voice squawks from my phone. “Mom? Where are you?” He sounds frightened.

I dig through my purse. That phone always sinks to the bottom. “I’m here. It’s OK. I’m here, Ian.”

“Where, Mom?”

“At the coffee shop.”

“What coffee shop?” Why does he sound so stressed?

“Oh, I don’t know honey. It’s got a sign in the window about fair trade coffee.”

Mark says something in the background that I can’t hear.

Ian heaves a sigh. “Mom, we’ve finished eating and we’re heading back to the hotel to pack. Can you meet us there? We don’t want to miss the ferry.”

He hangs up and the screen goes blank.

The ferry. The news. Oh no. We can’t miss it. What time is it? Where’s my watch? Did it fall off my wrist? Oh no. Wait. The phone keeps track. I had it just a second ago. Where did I put it? In my purse. I can’t feel it. Did I drop it? Something important. . . Can’t miss the ferry.

Breathe. Don’t panic. Just take the large bits out and put them on the counter.

Alright, here’s my pocketbook, lipstick and brush. Oh look, here’s the little compact Ian gave me when he was thirteen. These lovely daisies etched into the silver plate. Remember? The powder’s all gone but the mirror comes in handy. My face looks blurry. Doesn’t even look like me. I need lipstick. Mmm. That’s better. Now I can see myself. The phone is definitely not. . . oh. Wait. There it is. In my pocket. I tap the screen but it stays black as pitch. Oh no. The battery’s dead. My breath comes in gasps.

You don’t need that thing, old girl. You lived decades without a cell phone and you got along just fine.

“But now I don’t even know where the water is and besides that, you’re dead.”

I most certainly am not.

“Okay, okay — you live on in our children. Katy certainly has your stubborn disposition.”

And. . .

“And what? I hate that guessing game. Just tell me dammit.”

Leaving the café, the sun blinds me and I trip on the step. Where’s my cane? It’s not in the café. It’s . . .

It’s okay. It’s on the bench.

But where’s the bench?

It’s not that far away.

Right or left? My knee was aching so I had a nice sit-down at the bench.

Yes. Keep going to the bench.

Ah. There it is. It wasn’t as far as I thought. Nice bench with no name on it. And no . . . wait. My cane isn’t here and it’s too hot. I feel dizzy.

Put your head between your knees.

“Mom. Are you OK, Mom?

“Katy.” But when I turn around the sweet face that greets me isn’t my Katy.

Round cheeks and the clearest blue eyes I’ve ever seen. I can feel my lips pulling into a smile. “You aren’t my Katy. I thought you were saying Mom but you meant ma’am didn’t you? Funny that. Love the accent.”

“Ma’am are you alright?” She holds my wrists, staring at me with those astonishing eyes.

“Me? Oh. Yes. I was just looking for my cane. I’m fine now. Just a little shaky. Say, can you tell me what direction is the water?”

“The what?”

“The water. The bay. The.. the… the ferry building. I need to meet my son at the ferry building. I’m going to the island for a holiday with my son and his husband.”

“Oh. I see. How lovely.” She lets go of my wrists and checks her phone.

“Yes, it’s their anniversary and I think they’re going to tell me something. Maybe they’re moving overseas or getting a divorce. Or maybe it’s good news. Mark really does deserve a promotion. He works so hard. Yes, I bet that’s it. A promotion.”

You need to find the new ferry building.

“But I really have to fi — ”

She interrupts, “The ferry building is just a half kilometer down that way.” She points towards a sign that says “Chase.” But that’s a bank.

“Do you want me to take you there?” Again, checking her phone. Some kind of signal. Leave me alone, maybe.

“Oh no no no. I’m fine. Just a little warm. Thanks though.”

“You sure?”

“Oh yes yes yes. I’m sure. Please don’t bother. You have . . . ” I’m talking to her back as she hurries away.

Listen, old girl. It’s getting late. You need help. We don’t want to miss the ferry, do we? Go find someone in a shop or a hotel to give Ian a call.

Yes, mister know-it-all. But how do I get Ian’s number? My darn phone is dead. Now, you decide to tell me what to do. Surprise, surprise.

I keep walking — chased by memories of a tense old man who took me for granted; who couldn’t do anything after his back went out; who nearly skipped his only son’s wedding; who was certainly not the man I married. A familiar wave of bitterness passes through, leaving my mouth full of ashes.

That’s when I fall.

It’s like someone pushed me hard from behind, only no one would do such a thing. For a second, I can balance but my legs collapse, my knees crash to the pavement and my wrists crack on the curb. Pain like lightening. My purse flies open. Pocketbook, change, pens, lipstick, packs of gum, hair clips all scattered while I lie prone on the hot sidewalk.

A circle of faces. How embarrassing. All my things. But where’s my compact? I need my compact.

“What happened?”

“Ma’am. Are you hurt?”

“Poor old lady.”

“Somebody call 9–1–1.”

“Back up, let her breathe for Christ’s sake.”

A man is gathering my things. All those coins don’t matter. And the chewing gum. Disgusting habit.

“My compact,” I wheeze but he doesn’t hear me. Why can’t I talk?

There it is. In the gutter. The mirror is cracked. Oh, no.

Stuffing everything back in but missing my compact, the man sets the purse on my chest like he’s embarrassed to touch it.

“She’s losing consciousness.”

My compact.

“Stay awake, ma’am.” Someone shakes my shoulder.

“Don’t move her. Something might be broken.”

The mirror is broken. Oh no. Maurie. Where are you when I need you?

A siren close by. So loud and then it stops.

I’m fine. It’s just that I need my compact. Please. My son gave it to me.

Someone puts a plastic mask on my face.

“We need an IV here. Ma’am. Ma’am. Can you hear me?”

I hear you. Would you please please get my compact out of the damn gutter?

“Ma’am.”

“Jackhammer. That’s the word. It’s a . . .”

He digs at the back of my hand with a needle.

“Ma’am. Stay with us Ma’am.”

All these hands pulling and pushing me. Ouch.

“We’re losing her.”

Why is it so quiet?

I’m floating up. No. They’re lifting me. Wait. Maurie. Where are you? I need to tell you something.

I can see the red brick of the ferry building. The bell in the clock tower rings and the ferry is waiting. Time to go, but where’s Maurie?

There you are and you found my compact. Ian gave it to me, remember? I just love these little daisies, oh, and you fixed the mirror. Oh dear, looks like I could use a little lipstick.