Shadows Gray Page 5

  “Didn’t it occur to you that she would be Lost, too?”

  “But she didn’t come with us that night.”

  “What if she’s only a half sister?” Emme asks, lightly.

  “Why?” Then it dawns on me. “If she wasn’t full blooded Lost she could be traveling less frequently? I suppose only my mother would know and she isn’t exactly here to ask, is she?” It’s not the first time I’ve been bitter about that. More often than not I simply miss my mother, miss the long talks we should have had, miss the hair-braiding, and the arguments, and the lessons, and the companionship. But occasionally, like now, I am simply angry with her. Angry that she left me, intentionally, to fend for myself and to never know her the way a daughter should. “But I’ve never doubted Dad is Rose’s dad too. I mean, I guess I haven’t thought about it, but he has never alluded to any -,” I pause, feeling awkward, “Unfaithfulness on my mother’s part.”

  “She doesn’t look like your dad at all, but I suppose that’s hardly proof. I don’t look like my dad, the bloomin’ sod, thank my lucky stars.” She winks at me. Emme’s dad was some sort of con man from what I can gather. He wandered off after Joe was born and apparently no one looked very hard to find him. “Anyway, anything else you remember?”

  “Not really,” I frown. “Everything is fuzzy, I was only four. The next thing I knew I was in Italy two hundred years earlier. Mother killed herself and Dad started drinking. Not exactly the best part of my life.”

  “Well, it’s probably good you don’t remember,” Emme says, kindly. “I bet your dad remembers enough for both of you. No wonder he stays drunk.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Talk to him? If it is Rose, he should be told. Might sober him up.”

  Trust Emme to find the bright side of things.

  ********************

  Dad lounges at his usual spot, in his nylon lawn chair he brings to set up next to Prue’s food cart. By the time I arrive, it’s lunch hour for the business men from down the street and I warily keep an eye on Prue’s behavior as she dishes out buttery rolls stuffed with savory meat and onions.

  “You know what this needs?” Asks a portly gentleman in a suit that looks entirely too hot for the weather.

  Prue narrows her eyes. Dear man, please shut up, I think to myself.

  “A side of potatoes!” He looks for the entire world as if is pleased with his insightfulness and looks to Prue for her approval. Instead, he gets a sharp whack with the silver tongs she has in her hands and a glare that could melt a glacier.

  “Potatoes?” she barks, “You ever hear of a little sumpin’ called The Potato Famine, you ignorant child? Why would I want to even look at a potato again, never mind cook ‘em up for the likes of you? You get out o’ here, you windbag! And give me back that roll, you don’t deserve it.” She snatches the roll out of his chubby hands and in spite of it having a large bite taken out of it, plops it unceremoniously into the next customer’s fingers. The portly man turns purple and stalks away, while the young woman who has suddenly gotten custody of a meat and onion lunch opens her mouth, closes it, and orders a soda with a squeaky voice. Prue smacks a can of cola on the cart and demands five dollars. She has raised her prices by two dollars just in the three minutes I’ve been standing here.

  “Dad? Come for a walk with me?” I whisper conspiratorially.

  He smiles as much as I’ve ever seen him, which is to say, briefly and with only the smallest bit of mirth, and nods. He unfolds his long, gangly legs out of his chair and together we leave Prue’s little lunch area, heading for the small sidewalk that follows along the river. Dad hunches when he walks, the way he always does, and our long strides match each other’s perfectly. We eat up the sidewalk.

  “What is it, dear?” He asks, but I know it’s only a formal request, not a burning desire to know what is actually going on with me. I don’t believe it’s that he doesn’t want to know, he simply hasn’t thought enough about it to develop any curiosity about me or my life. I wonder if I ever cross his mind in more than a vague, forgetful way.

  There is no way to gently break what I’m going to say to him and so I dive right in to the heart of the matter.

  “I think Rose may be Lost. I think she is traveling and she’s here. Now.” Here means nothing to the Lost; now means everything. It’s the place in time we pay attention to, not the location.

  I am surprised when he doesn’t break stride and when his face shows no emotion. I suspected shock, disbelief, a roll of his eyes, or an unbelieving laugh, but not this. No reaction at all.

  “Did you hear me, Dad? I’ve seen Rose.”

  “Where?” He asks, and it sounds as though he is choosing his words carefully. His voice remains neutral.

  “At the coffee shop. And she was at the fair last week; I have pictures of her to prove it.” I pull them out of my cover-all pocket where I had folded them and placed them. There’s a crease through her pretty red dress where I’ve folded it. I hand the photos to my dad.

  He finally stops walking and looks, but he doesn’t move to take them out of my hands. He swallows hard and I watch as his eyes well up.

  “Yes, yes, that certainly does look how I imagine your sister would look at your age. She looks like your mother, looks like Carolina.” He begins walking again, his hands in his jacket pocket, his back hunched over.

  I stand there for a second, put the photos back in my pocket, and then run to catch up to him.

  “Dad?” I am torn between impatience at his reaction and empathy for his response. I love my dad, but he is a mystery to me and at the moment I have other mysteries that are more pressing. “Sit down and talk to me, Dad!” I pull on his sleeve and pull him down with me on the giant root of a tree. We both unfold our legs and lean against the tree, him pensively and me gingerly. I am on pins and needles.

  “Tell me about Rose. Did you know that she could be Lost? What are you thinking, Dad?” I am practically begging and I am beginning to be angry at him for forcing me to be.

  He pinches the bridge of his nose as he does when he encounters something unpleasant, such as see the bottom of his whiskey bottle or have a heart-to heart with his daughter. Then he rubs the back of his neck and opens his mouth. Just like the poor accosted woman who suddenly had a meat roll in her hand, he closes it again. Open. Almost gets a word out. Closed.

  “Oh forget it!” I snap, standing again and brushing off the pine needles from my legs. “I’ll get Prue to talk to me if I’m such a bother to you.”

  I feel his hand in mine as I start to stalk off, feeling righteously upset. He pulls me back down.

  “You’re not a bother, Sonny,” he says. Only my father calls me that and I can’t help that it softens up my hard heart considerably. “I’m just not prepared…not prepared for...Rose.” He shakes his head. “Your mother loved her so.”

  More than me, the one she chose to leave? The one who wasn’t enough for her after she lost Rose? I don’t want to think about that.

  “I’m sure Old Babba found her real quick,” Dad whispers, his eyes filling up again. One fat tear rolls down his unshaven face and gets lost in his mustache. He pats my hand consolingly.

  At that, I know the conversation is over. I sit for a moment, hoping I am wrong, but Dad just stares into space, rolling his short beard whiskers between his fingers. He doesn’t even seem to notice that they are wet.

  Chapter Six

  I leave Dad where he sits, perched uncomfortably on the tree root. I leave quietly, but I feel like stomping off like a small child. I feel like screaming, running, beating my fists against a wall. Why is it so hard to get through to him? He must care. I know he does. Then the realization dawns on me, like sunlight breaking through thunder clouds; he cares more than I know. And that is precisely why it frustrates me.

  What exactly don’t I know?

  Prue is packing up her cart when I return, hot and sweaty from my little river walk. It’s a humid day and my feet are hot and sticky in my shoes.
I plop down dramatically on the stone wall behind the food cart and sigh loudly. It gets no response. This childishness of mine needs to stop; I am eighteen years old. I think.

  Prue gives me no reaction other than to demand I move and count her tips - a large mason jar with a few meager handfuls of change. As cranky and ornery as I am feeling, I am certainly not in the mood to take my life in my hands, so I obey.

  “Nearly eight dollars,” I tell her, handing her the money. “Not bad for a couple hours work.” It isn’t good either – I make more than that in a busy morning shift at the coffee shop in less than half an hour - but I certainly won’t tell Prue that.

  Prue shoves it in her apron pocket and scowls. “Lazy rich people,” she snorts. “Can’t leave more than a measly quarter each. Ought a smack some sense into ‘em, since the good Lord knows their mamas never did. Where you been, girly? Where’s Noah?”

  Noah Gray. My father. My dear, sweet, unbearable father who I was cruel enough to leave sitting beneath a tree, half inebriated and full of sorrow. I feel like such a heel. It’s as though I have two emotions when it comes to him: impatience or guilt. Neither is something to be proud of.

  “He’s back on the river path. I’ll see he gets home. Prue, can I ask you something?” I begin to pick at my nails in my effort to look casual and to give my hands something to do besides shake. Prying into Prunella o Broin Boulander’s business is like feeding sharks: best left to professionals and those with excellent life insurance policies.

  “If you ask it while you’re pushing my cart, go ahead,” she agrees.

  Obediently I begin to push, my hands clenched tight on the handle of the worn food cart while I form the words that will leave my dysfunctional brain and travel out of my mouth where I will, most likely, instantly regret them. I can still see the original owner’s slogan ‘Vic’s Organic Hotdogs!’ printed but faded on the cart’s handle.

  “I was wondering how many times exactly you’ve traveled? And have you ever heard of a Lost who traveled only occasionally? Like, say a couple times their whole life? And what do you remember of when we left behind Rose? Do you think my mother could have had an affair? And if we meet up with other Lost at least once in a while, do you think there is a reason for it? I mean, what if we are all thrown together for some purpose and we’re missing it? We’re missing the whole point, Prue! Because there has just got to be some reason for why we exist! Some reason why we are chosen. Special. Some reason for the places we go, the times we visit-,” I stop, realize I am babbling, and simultaneously realize I have left Prue behind as I have kept walking and she is several paces behind me, frowning mightily. Hastily I retreat, with the cart.

  She stares at me as though I have three heads. Her arms are crossed against her substantial chest and her feet are planted firmly and widely in the pavement of the sidewalk. Her dark brown eyes are narrowed, almost in suspicion.

  “What you about, girly? Where’s all these fool questions comin’ from? Your daddy been putting ideas in your purty head?”

  Since I’ve never heard Prue call me pretty – or purty – I almost get distracted in a petty way from my diatribe. “No, Dad’s been doing the opposite of talking to me. I just… I don’t know. I want to know why we are the way we are. Don’t you ever wonder?”

  “No, not particularly,” Prue snorts again, but the way she says it, it sounds like ‘purticoolerly.’ Her accent is completely untraceable: unique, bizarre and a melting pot of languages and dialects. All of the Lost speak like that to a certain extent, but the difference is that Prue doesn’t mask hers. “What’s the point of wonderin’, child? We ain’t ever gonna know why we are the way we are. Just accept it. Our kind’s been travelin’ ‘cross time for centuries, we always will. Might as well enjoy the ride, my da’ said. Enjoy it or let it kill you.”

  “How do we even know it’s centuries?” I argue. “No one bothers to keep records, no one passes down their stories to the next generation beyond the good old ‘when I was a boy…blah blah blah,’ no one finds out anything, no one questions anything, Prue! Doesn’t that make you crazy?”

  “Honey child, you have done lost your mind. What do you want us to do, keep diaries? Save the world? Learn how to navigate or somethin’?” She chortles and begins walking again, her short legs making short work of the sidewalk as only Prue can, leaving me behind now. “Hey! Maybe we could go back and invent microwaves the next time we move! Or plastic wrap! That’s stuff’d make us a fortune!” She slaps her knee in mirth in mid-stride.

  “Well, why not?” I ask reasonably. “Why haven’t we done that? Why haven’t we bet on the World Series or killed Hitler as a kid or warned everyone on the Titanic?”

  “Don’t be a fool, Sonnet Gray,” she is stern now, the laughing is over and she is irritated with me. Irritated and hot by the looks of it; she uses her apron to mop her forehead. “No one can change their fate. If those people were meant to drown on the Titanic I guess they went to their holy reward, sure ‘nough. And I don’t reckon I ever heard of a Lost meetin’ Hitler, otherwise I ‘spect they woulda stabbed him through his dark heart. You can be sure I will if we meet sometime. Right through the heart with my best bread knife. That’ll teach the little bugger. Or maybe the apple corin’ one…it’s duller.” She sniffs and picking up stride, fairly sails by me, her head held high and visions of murder on her mind. Once again, I hurry to catch up.

  “Okay then. We can’t change history; you’ve been through a lot more of it than me so I’ll let you be the judge of that one. Fine. But tell me what you remember from all the places you’ve been? Is there a pattern?”

  “What you mean, like knowing where we’re endin’ up next? Don’t you think if I’da figured that out by now I’da warned ya?” She has gone from irritated to incredulous.

  “But what do you remember from all the places, Prue?” I press.

  Sighing, she stops walking once again and looks me right in the eye. “If you’re gonna do this to an old lady, Sonnet, at least buy her a Coca Cola and get her outta the sun.” She nods her head towards a diner on our right. It’s the “Up All Night Diner” and the only place that stays open the same hours – and longer – than the coffee shop. They are in direct competition with us; they even have a sign advertising the City’s Best Coffee – the cheekiness! But I will buy Prue ten Coca Colas if she will only sit down and talk to me.

  Prue insists on parking the food cart right in front of the picture window so we can keep an eye on it in case a mad, serial cart thief is on the loose and in the neighborhood, and then of course, we have to make sure we bully the waitress to get the table that is directly in front of the same window. I order her the largest Coca Cola with a slice of lemon, just the way Prue likes it, and we settle into the red, vinyl booth.

  “Now why you wantin’ to know all this history that don’t concern you?” Prue begins the conversation, once she drunk half her soda through the straw and burped. “You got sumpin’ you need to be telling me?”

  My mind races frantically. I don’t know whether to tell her of Rose and I don’t know if I’m hesitating because I don’t want her to know or I just don’t want one more person disbelieving me. Finally, after I have torn a napkin to shreds with my fingers, I take the plunge. “I think Rose is here. I saw her. And I don’t know whether it’s by accident or design. I’m afraid this is our only chance to meet up with her if she’s really Lost, and if it is, I’m afraid to travel on until we find her.” There. I’ve said it.

  Prue looks as though she has swallowed her lemon slice whole. Her eyes are narrowed and her forehead has more creases than a pleated skirt. I am even more surprised to see her large, brown hands trembling.

  “You saw Rose? She’s here?” I have never heard Prue whisper in my whole life, yet she is whispering now.

  I nod. “I’m positive it was her, Prue. Do you believe me?”

  Prue doesn’t speak for a minute. She twirls the straw around in her glass absentmindedly. When she speaks again, it is no l
onger in a hushed whisper, but in the regular voice I know: firm and not to be trifled with.

  “I don’t see how it could be, Sonnet. That doesn’t make a lick of sense. If she had the same powers we do, she woulda never been left behind in the first place. Lots of girls have blonde hair and blue eyes. It’s just wishful thinkin.’ That’s all.” She stands and motions for me to do the same. “Come along home, girly. I gotta go shopping today and I gotta get my cart home first.”

  Not as vague as my father’s, but a dismissal just the same. I pay for her drink, since she marches right past the waitress with the cash register without even pausing, and goes back outside.

  “Do you want me to go back and get Dad?” I ask.

  “Nah. He’ll make his way eventually. Now if you do the pushin’, I’ll tell you ‘bout some of those other things you was asking about, alright?”

  Obviously throwing me a bone, I think. It’s not what I want to find out most, but it’s better than nothing. “Alright. Tell me about your first travel, and when you get to here and now, stop.”

  She chortles. “Land sakes, Sonnet, I can’t remember my first travel! My da’ said I was just a babe. I was born in Quebec in 1920, but I don’t remember nothin’ about that. I was only a year old when we traveled from there, I think it was to some God forsakin’ part of Russia. We were there for ‘bout three years. I don’t think the time frame was too much different from 1920 though…my da used to say something ‘bout being stuck at the turn of the century. Next we went to Ireland, 1845. I remember that all right; I was about five or so and we stayed for four years. Never did get outta that dang potato famine.” She scowls. “Wonder I cook Irish food a’tall nowadays. Anyway, where was I?”