Chapter 10
To my surprise, I’m actually grateful for all that rain. Oddly enough, it seemed to help me find myself here, figure out how to spend my time. Okay, yes, all the lost stuff did that, too, but without the rain, I might have just kept avoiding the lost and found.
And now that the rain is done, my days take on an even better rhythm.
For the first time in my adulthood, I discover that I’m okay without a schedule.
I mean, a newsperson lives and dies by schedules.
I can’t remember a time when I didn’t have my planner constantly in motion, when there wasn’t always someplace to be.
Some of those places were fun, by choice—but there was always the next broadcast, and the next event, and other aspects of life were just squeezed in around the obligations.
Now my days are filled with activities based largely on the weather or my mood.
I take my walk every day. I usually read awhile. I tend to my flowers. And sometimes I take pictures with my phone. I’ve found a use for it here at last!
I’m not sure why I’m taking them, but perhaps I’m seeing things here I didn’t at first—things I think other people might find interesting.
Maybe it makes me look harder, too. I’ve taken photos of Grace’s wall of signs and Matt’s one-eyed chicken.
I’ve captured sunsets and grapevines. The other day I spotted a praying mantis on a daylily in Matt’s side yard, and what would normally have me saying “Eek!” instead had me reaching for my camera.
Turns out that when you start looking for interesting things, you often find them.
I spend at least a couple of hours a day with the lost and found, usually in the late afternoon, when it’s hottest outside.
Some evenings, I make phone calls to Sydney or Kevin, or I go over to the winery and have a glass or two with Jo and Conrad.
Other nights I just keep to myself, sitting outside watching squirrels play—there are several of them running around Mabel’s yard—or taking in the sunset.
Sydney says I’ve suddenly gotten very Zen when I give her the deets on any average day. Whereas Kevin just sounds happily surprised. I don’t blame him—it’s his fault I’m here, so naturally he feels less guilty if I seem marginally content.
I’m as shocked as anyone that I’m coming to appreciate this level of alone time and adjusting to such an unstructured existence.
Thing being, I couldn’t do this forever.
This is me accepting my situation a little more gracefully.
This is me waiting. This is me doing what Kevin wanted me to do: go away for the summer and heal.
I’m beginning to accept that maybe there was more healing I needed to do.
And I wouldn’t say I’m suddenly enjoying my time here—only that I’m learning how to make peace with it until it’s over.
I’m thinking through all this as I drive into Lost and Found for the first time in a while.
I’ve changed out my usual ball cap or sun hat for the fedora and my usual tank top for a flowy summery top that protects my scars and chest from the sun.
Yeah, some days I’m all Zen and praying mantis pictures and others I’m still concentrating on which hat to wear.
This hat-wearing me, this scar-covering me, this barely-there-hair me—she’s still different than the me I’ve always been.
I know I’m still the same person, of course, but it’s the mirror that continues to trip me up in that way.
This me isn’t a monster or anything, but she’s also not Jessica Fox, WRTB 11.
Some moments, I’m not sure who she is, or what she’s about.
And just like everything else about this summer, even while I’m getting okay with this version of me for the time being, I’m also waiting for the old me to come back.
Still, as I twist and turn my way into town, I consider the story in the newspaper Matt showed me, recognizing that there was a time when I would have wanted to see my name as part of that—if not my face as well, back when I had hair.
There was a time I would have thought it mattered that WRTB anchor Jessica Fox was the one who discovered the lost items at Mabel Callahan’s house.
And yet, right now, I’m actually pleased that all this transpired without any mention of me, or even of some stranger staying at Mabel’s house.
I’m okay without getting that attention.
In fact, the thought reminds me that I’ve practically forgotten all about my social media.
Those acknowledgments—that I matter, that I’m entertaining, that people care about the things I do—used to feed me.
And suddenly, they don’t. Changing one’s activities can change the way one’s mind works, I suppose.
Off the grid or not, though, I should make my way to the Piggly Wiggly while I’m out and let people know I’m still alive. But my first stop in Lost and Found: Freeman’s Market.
“Well, hello there!” Mr. Freeman greets me in a deep baritone. “How’s our summer resident today?”
“Doing just fine, thanks,” I say with a smile. I’m pleased he instantly remembers me—but then again, the fedora is probably pretty memorable in this otherwise fedora-free town.
I pick up bread, eggs, and soft drinks, as well as a small head of lettuce—deciding one can’t always buy their salad in a bag, unless they’re willing to drive an hour for it, and I’m not right now.
As I check out, I also take a couple more of his tomatoes, again proudly displayed in a row on his windowsill.
I inform him, “I think I’ve saved the petunias—they’re all looking healthier. ”
“That’s good to hear,” he says with an approving nod.
When he offers to help carry my stuff to the car, I almost decline—because I’m perfectly capable—but the twenty-four pack of pop is heavy, and I don’t want to crush my bread or tomatoes trying to lug it all. So after a slight hesitation, I gratefully accept.
As we’re closing the back hatch of the SUV, I notice some of the same yellow daylilies by the store’s front porch as are planted alongside Mabel’s back one.
Spur of the moment, I say, “Mabel has some of those, but they seem like they’re not doing well.
I’ve been watering them—and of course there was all that rain—but they have hardly any flowers. ”
“Those are Stella d’Oros,” he tells me. “They’ll blossom all summer long, but ya gotta get rid of the spent blooms. Come here and I’ll show ya.”
He leads me to a clump of the bright-yellow flowers and explains how to distinguish between an old bloom and a new one—and they do look similar until you know the difference.
“You snap it off right here, below this little green part—see?” He breaks off a dead bloom while I watch, nod.
“And the blooms only last a day, so it takes some stayin’ on top of it, but each one you remove makes it more likely new ones’ll take its place.
Oh, and ya gotta get rid of them seed pods, too.
” He points out a light-green blob at the top of a stem where you’d normally see a bud.
“That’s the whole thing we’re tryin’ to avoid—lettin’ ’em go to seed.
Keep ’em from goin’ to seed, ya get flowers right up into fall. ”
I thank him for the lesson and hope it’s not already too late.
My next stop was going to be the Piggly Wiggly, but first I decide to step into the Last Chance Café for lunch. For someone who used to eat out almost daily, the least I can do is treat myself to lunch in the only restaurant in town.
Today, two of the six booths are taken, and three counter stools—it’s the lunch rush in Lost and Found, and I’m happy to see there is one, small though it may be.
My fedora and I draw the usual brief stares as I take a booth near the back.
As before, music from a bygone era fills the air—I think it might be Johnny Mathis.
As Joy Lynn approaches, I remember my conversation with Matt. He knew exactly who I meant when I mentioned the waitress, so I’m guessing Joy Lynn is here a lot—maybe she’s the sole waitress the Last Chance requires. “Know what ya want?” she asks without bothering to look at me.
Menu in hand, I order the chicken salad and a sweet tea.
“Be right out,” she says, voice wooden, just before calling to another customer in an entirely different, much nicer tone, “Marv, sweetie, I’ll get ya a refill in a jiff, all righty?”
Okay, I’m not imagining it—she really dislikes me.
Fortunately, the chicken salad is quite good, which helps make up—a little—for the rude service.
By the time I’m done, only two old men remain, drinking coffee at the counter. When Joy Lynn slaps my bill down on the table and starts to walk away, I say, “Wait.”
She turns back with a glare that suggests I’m extremely demanding.
“Could I get an ice cream cone?” I’m not sure why I suddenly do this—my lack of ice cream Fridays with Sydney?
Or am I seeking a way to bring up Matt to her?
Perish the thought. But then I hear myself add, “Matt told me you had good soft serve here.” Okay, apparently he is indeed the reason.
Though why I care what his relationship is with this unpleasant woman, I have no idea.
“ Matt told you that, did he?” She sounds like a mean girl in high school who just found out I’ve been talking to her boyfriend.
“Yes,” I say, still trying to sound pleasant. “He lives next door to me.” By which I mean: Not trying to steal your man, lady—just having neighborly conversation and now trying to get a cone.
“I know that,” she snips.
“Oh?”
“Well, you said you’re stayin’ at Mabel’s house, and I certainly know where Matt lives.”