chapter twenty-six #2
“Can she be moved?” I ask, cutting into their banter.
“Can I . . . can I take her home?” It isn’t home that I want to take her, but I can’t explain that.
Even voicing my fragile belief out loud would, I’m afraid, make it shatter.
And besides, if I told them, they’d never let me take her.
If she can be moved, I’ll drive her out as far as a tank of gas will take us, until we’re lost. And if it fails, we’ll come back home.
At the very least, we’d have one more journey together.
A road trip, kind of like we took when we moved to Maine.
I remember the hours and hours in the car, pointing out license plates from every state, making up stories of the lives of the people in the cars, stopping at every kitschy tourist trap we saw.
It took six weeks, and they were six of the best weeks of my childhood.
We ate every regional fast food we found, and we slept in several motels that were too dingy for the cockroaches to approve of them.
We even tried camping, which was a dismal failure when I insisted on commenting on every little sound I heard.
Ended up sleeping inside the car, crammed in with all our stuff.
He’s surprised and then guarded. “It would be . . . difficult.”
My heart rises. “But not impossible?”
Mom is frowning at me. “You don’t want this, Lauren.”
“Yes. I do. You don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here.” I jump out of my chair and pace around the room. “Of course
we should make this happen. How do we make this happen? Is there paperwork I have to fill out? How do we move her? Can she
come in my car . . . I mean, her car . . . if I take the IV and the catheter? I can wheel her in a wheelchair . . .”
“Lauren. Lauren.” Mom cuts through my babble. “You don’t want this. Listen to me. Lauren, I am going to die. You don’t want
me to die in our home with you as my nursemaid. You’ll blame yourself when it’s only what’s inevitable. It’s best if I’m here.
It’s better now that you’re here with me.”
“You hate it here, Mom,” I say. “At home . . .” I can’t expound on the glories of home. I’m not planning on taking her home.
If Lost exists . . .
It does.
The puffer fish.
The menu.
The little noose that Tiffany made.
With the sketch of Peter in my hand, I can’t look at William. I try to seem as if I’m focusing only on Mom. “Let me try.”
She nods. There are tears caught in her eyelashes.
“I’ll see what I can do,” William says, which sounds like a promise to me.
I am given a lot of pamphlets, and a nurse trains me to change Mom’s IV and catheter.
I help bathe her and shift her position to avoid bedsores.
The training is rudimentary and rushed, and I feel woefully unprepared.
She will have hospice care coming into the apartment, I’m told.
Insurance will cover most of it. This isn’t an uncommon thing. Lots of people go home to die.
She won’t have that care in Lost, I think. She’ll die sooner without it. But it won’t be a real death. Look at Tiffany. We won’t have to say goodbye.
I listen carefully to every bit of instruction. I am on the phone with the insurance company, and I’m filling out paperwork
in stacks to arrange for a nurse to come to our apartment. I’ve also handed over my newly arrived credit card to purchase
equipment to care for her. I plan on stocking the car with it and bringing it with me.
I don’t know exactly how I’ll find Lost. By definition, it shouldn’t be a place you intend to find. But I’m hoping that my
Missing Man powers will help. After all, the puffer fish and the menu found me here.
It’s a whirlwind, all the preparation, and I’m itching to be on the road, though I’m dreading the moment when I have to tell
Mom where we’re driving. I don’t know how she’ll react. Poorly, I imagine. But there’s only one point I need her to understand:
in Lost, she won’t be gone when she dies.
I don’t go on any more dates with William. I tell him I’m too distracted; he tells me he understands. He is remarkably understanding
and compassionate and helpful in the extreme, and every time I talk to him, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. After all,
what I am contemplating is impossible.
But then I talk to Mom again, and I know it’s both impossible and right.
We could have years together. Countless years.
Centuries of years. I think of all the things in Lost I’ll show her.
She’ll love the art barn. She’ll like the little yellow house.
I’ll bring her to the diner. We’ll find her clothes in the junk pile.
New books, countless lost library books.
She’ll like pawing through the luggage—I’ll bargain with Tiffany for some.
This time around, the townspeople won’t be a problem.
I’ll take up the Missing Man’s duties, like Peter wanted me to.
And he’ll help me find whatever I need to care for her. Or I’ll find it myself.
She’s scheduled to be released on Tuesday. That morning, I drive her car to the parking lot. I repark the car three times,
even though I know I’ll be moving it closer to the door when it’s time to wheel Mom down. The hospice service offered an ambulance
as transportation, but I declined. William offered to drive us, too, but I turned him down, as well. I’ve filled the tank
with the same amount of gas that I had on the morning that I found Lost. It was near full. I don’t know if that will help.
I’ve charged up my cell phone and have William’s number in it in case this is a terrible idea.
I’ve decided to tell Mom before we leave L.A. It’s her life, and it should be her decision. But I’m not telling her in the
hospital. I want plenty of time to explain myself as we drive. If she says no, we turn around, and I take care of her in the
apartment, like I told the hospital I’d do. I won’t force her. But I hope she says yes.
I’m not planning on telling William at all. His remarkable understanding must have limits, and I’m aware of how absurd my
plan sounds. The more days that pass, though, the more convinced I am that I have found the perfect solution.
Inside the hospital, I check in at the front desk. My heart is thumping fast. I press the button in the elevator and ride
it up. It seems infinitely slow, as if it’s being pulled inch by inch. I’m ready to claw my way out when the doors slide open
with agonizing slowness. I wave at the nurses at the nurses’ station. One of them rushes around the desk to intercept me.
“You can’t go in there right now,” she says.
She isn’t a nurse I know well, but I recognize her. She always wears earrings the size of my palms. Today they’re oak leaves
that rival actual leaves in size but are made of tin. “Why not? I’ve seen everything—”
The door to my mother’s room slams open, and she’s wheeled out on a gurney. An oxygen mask is strapped to her face. Her eyes are closed. William is with her, as well as a fleet of nurses.
I try to run to her. But the nurse is surprisingly strong.
“You have to wait, Ms. Chase.” Her voice is kind. “They’ll take good care of her.”
“What happened?” My voice is shrill. “She was leaving today! Why did this happen?”
Oh, God, it’s my fault. I pushed too hard. She wasn’t ready to leave. Her body wasn’t up to the stress. And then another thought:
I’m too late. If I’d tried to bring her to Lost earlier, if I’d found a way to leave Lost earlier . . .
The nurse guides me to a chair. Someone presses a cup of coffee into my hands.
“We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”