Chapter 13
The next couple of days are hot, the oppressive kind of hot that smacks you in the face when you walk out the door.
So I mostly stay in, other than tending my flowers and morning walks to the winery with only a quick wave to Conrad in the grapevines.
I’m grateful to have the lost and found to continue digging through.
As I handle each piece, I marvel over the fact that I’m holding part of someone’s history in my hands.
They were givers of gifts and people who received them; they were makers of crafts and people who used them.
They were thinkers who spent the time to write poetry inside book covers; they were people who loved their families and recorded their births and their deaths in Bibles. Each item feels ... loved to me.
And sure, I get it—maybe some of these things aren’t lost. Maybe they were thrown away by someone who no longer cared about them or never did.
And yet I can’t believe that. My late Aunt Lana was a New Age gal who once told me things were filled with energy, the energy of the people and experiences they came into contact with.
I had no idea what on earth she was talking about when I was twelve and she imparted this wisdom to me one day over milkshakes at Burger King.
But now I do. Because I can suddenly feel that energy—in all these things.
And as woo-woo as it sounds, I have to believe that if so many strangers went to the trouble of packing these things up and mailing them in desperation to a random Kentucky town, they had to be giving off an energy of being lost, and being loved .
Or perhaps I’ve just spent too much time alone with boxes of old things.
Or ... maybe the spirit of Mabel is getting inside me, making me see them the way she did. But that’s pretty woo-woo, too.
I begin to snap pictures of a few items, thinking I’ll text them to Sydney and Kevin from the Piggly Wiggly, only the ones I think they might each find interesting. Another way of honoring Mabel’s wishes.
And on a day when the humidity seems a little less intense, I decide to venture to town.
It’s wise, I realize immediately as I begin the drive. As bad as I was at being isolated when I first got here, now I’m so good at it that maybe I forget what it’s like to be outside. Or ... maybe I’m just noticing things I haven’t in a long time.
An almost periwinkle-blue sky is sprinkled with watercolor-white clouds, softer than the ones on Mabel’s ceiling and walls, but like a bucolic painting I want to step inside.
Sunbeams turn thick, billowy trees a hundred vibrant shades of green.
Has it always been this way? Or is it only here in Lost Valley?
Or are these things I couldn’t see for the fog of cancer?
Or for the fog of loss, and life, and busyness, and stress?
As I continue toward Lost and Found, I take in all the scenery more than usual.
You’d think I’ve been quarantined inside a bunker for a month rather than willfully staying in at Mabel’s cottage for a couple of days, but maybe the close scrutiny I’ve been giving the lost items has me somehow . .. more aware.
I pass a picturesque, weatherworn barn with a stone foundation and an antique tractor sitting out front.
I notice orange lilies growing wild in clumps alongside the road.
A glance to the right as I cross a bridge I’ve crossed many times before suddenly reveals a small waterfall emptying over a rocky embankment into a stream below.
Once in town, I stop at Mr. Freeman’s for bread and soft drinks—and of course one of his beautiful tomatoes—and before I drive away, I look around at the sloping mountainsides above me and feel pleasantly cradled there.
Turning back onto Main, I find that, today, through these new eyes of mine, the town actually looks more rustic and old-fashioned than run-down and forgotten. Instead of heading straight to the Piggly Wiggly, I pull over into a parking spot in front of the long-abandoned storefronts.
The peeling paint around plate glass windows and doors comes in a variety of colors: gray, teal, dark red, harvest gold.
I get out and peer inside some of them to see old countertops, worn hardwood, and pressed tin ceilings from a hundred years ago.
And just like when I’m examining the lost items, I find myself wondering about the people who once cared about these places, who worked and shopped here, made their lives here.
Who wore the grooves into the hardwood floor?
Who stood behind the counter handing out whatever was sold here?
I’m suddenly sad I didn’t get to see the town in its heyday, when every shop was filled, and I wish I had a time machine to go back and look.
Reaching the Piggly Wiggly a few minutes later, I locate my signal and text my friends.
I send Kevin a shot of a hand-hewn wooden box, the inside of the lid inscribed with a line from Shakespeare: To thine own self be true. Kevin admires wooden pieces and would probably dabble in woodworking if he had the time—plus he’s a fan of the bard.
Sydney gets a picture of what I believe to be an antique music box with some hand-painted details. It has a German vibe and is inscribed To Anna, from Dad on the bottom. Syd has a thing for music boxes, so she’ll appreciate it.
Though they’re both probably going to wonder who kidnapped their friend and replaced her with this sentimental softy.
Next, a social media update. I carefully select a few pictures: the mountain view behind the market, the mimosa tree at the winery in full puffy, pink bloom, another sunset over the lake. I type a caption, waxing poetic about the quiet beauty here.
But as I’m going on about it, I realize ... I’m not being entirely honest.
In the couple of posts I’ve done since my arrival, I’ve made it appear I’m here by choice, on some idyllic getaway.
It hits me now that I was lying, even if just by omission.
And maybe it doesn’t matter—maybe my followers would be happy believing that even on the heels of cancer, I’m living the beautiful life.
But something makes me want to hit the backspace key and attempt to be more . .. real.
The truth is ... I didn’t like it here at first. It’s very isolated with none of the conveniences of the city, and no internet but for a small signal on the edge of town between two mountains.
I felt like I’d been cut off from the world at a time when I least wanted that.
My body has recovered from my treatments, but I’m just now accepting that maybe my mind is still healing, and as much as I rebelled against it a few weeks ago, I’m suddenly understanding that some peace and quiet isn’t so bad, after all.
When I first arrived, someone told me the place would grow on me.
And to my surprise, I’m starting to think he was right.
I tap the button to post it.
It’s the first time I’ve let myself think about Matt Cordray today. It comes with an odd little warmth I’d rather not feel, since indeed he suddenly seems like a complication in this simpler existence I thought I’d finally started to figure out. I push it away.
As for the post, I feel ... if nothing else, authentic.
It’s not that I’ve ever been fake, but I’ve also never been one to post my woes.
People like happy better than sad. And even when I shared my cancer journey, I was always upbeat—and there were days that having to be upbeat helped me hold my head a little higher than I would have otherwise.
But maybe now I’m just ... tired. Of the Jessica Fox show.
Maybe, right now, in this moment, I simply wish I were Jessie again. Jessie, a name I told Matt Cordray I’d never been called. Because it was easier than explaining the truth.
Next up, I decide to again treat myself to lunch at the Last Chance, though “treat” feels like an inaccurate word when it comes to having to order my food from Joy Lynn.
But I try the egg salad, and despite her usual brash demeanor, I decide it’s deliciously worth what I have to put up with to get it.
As she slaps my bill face down on the table, she says, “Thanks for playing that song I like the last time you were here.”
Whoa. What just happened?
It’s hard for her to thank me—I feel that. But she did it anyway.
And such a small thing. Playing a song for someone on a jukebox.
Maybe no one ever does nice things for Joy Lynn. Maybe she doesn’t make them want to.
“You’re welcome,” I tell her.
After paying, I go to the jukebox again and peer down at it in all its old-time glory. “Hey, Joy Lynn,” I call to where she’s refilling ketchup bottles behind the counter, “any other requests?”
She almost smiles at me, but not quite. She thinks a second, then says, “J23.” I type it in.
“Only You” by the Platters. She likes soulful ballads, the kinds of songs that dig into your heart a little.
It’s the best thing I know about Joy Lynn so far.
I walk out thinking: Please don’t have romantic ties to Matt, please don’t have romantic ties to Matt.
And then I catch myself, having the thought. Which means apparently I care about that.
Ugh.
Well, I’m sure it only matters to me because my world has gotten very small here, so what else do I have to focus on? If I am a little attracted to him, so what—I’ll be leaving soon enough.
In the meantime, I won’t go back to being rude to him—that’s just silly. But no more backyard dinners that almost felt like a date, and no more deep, intimate conversations. Only madness that way lies.
As I’m getting out of the car at home, I hear a voice call, “Jessica dear! Jessica!”
I look over to see Grace waving a cane at me from her front porch, so I leave my things and walk to the bottom of her front steps, smiling up at her. “Hi, Grace.”
“Well, ain’t that cute.” She’s motioning to my fedora. I guess I’m usually wearing my sun hat or ball cap when I see her, but the fedora has become my “goin’ to town” chapeau. “My Walter had one just like it. Well, minus the pink hatband. His band was black. It was his summer church hat.”
I respond with a simple “Thanks,” though it’s not lost on me that she’s the only person who’s had anything nice to say about the fedora since I got here.
“Ya wanna have supper tomorrow night?” she asks. “I know ya liked my brown beans, so I got some soakin’. They can cook all day tomorrow and be ready come evenin’ time.”
I feel my eyes widen. “Those beans take multiple days to prepare?”
She just shrugs. “Do I got somethin’ better to be doin’?”
I would never cook something that takes days, no matter how tasty, but I’m wildly impressed that Grace will. “I would love to come have brown beans with you,” I tell her.
Having leaned her cane against a porch post, she clasps both hands together in joy. “Well, that’s right nice,” she answers, and I can see how much my acceptance delights her. “I’ll make us up some cornbread in the skillet, too, and I’ll fix us a cheesecake for dessert.”
“Oh wow,” I say, truly taken aback. Given my lack of cooking, this sounds like a feast, and I confess I haven’t had anything particularly exciting since Matt’s corn on the cob. “That sounds amazing.”
“It ain’t really the season for beans—they’re more a winter food that sticks to your ribs when it’s cold out—but since I know we both like ’em, I’m happy to make ’em. And the cheesecake’ll be a nice cool dessert for us.”
“I can’t wait,” I tell her. And as I walk away, I’m aware that I actually mean it.
Note to self: Socialize with Grace more often. Like she said, do I got something better to be doing? I’ve liked Grace from the word go, but now I realize I want to spend time with her.
The groceries take a couple of trips because the case of pop is awkward and the tomato is too delicate to take that kind of chance with. I’m toting my sack with the tomato and loaf of bread when I see a flash of tan and black fur bounding toward me across the yard.
I free up one hand to bend down and nuzzle Goldie as she darts around my feet in wild enthusiasm. “Hewwo dere,” I hear myself say. “Oh my goodness, you is so coot.” Unlike Matt, I don’t do doggy baby talk—except suddenly ... I do.
Of course, where Goldie gallops, Police Chief Cordray is sure to follow—and there he is, sidling over in a Garth Live!
T-shirt, blue jeans, and cowboy boots. He’s also sporting at least a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw.
I like a clean-shaven man, but I suppose I’ve grown used to his more laid-back facial hair when it’s present.
“Afternoon,” he says with his usual easygoing smile. His eyes twinkle in the sun. When did that start? And how have I never noticed how blue they are?
“Hi,” I say casually, still petting the dog and wondering if he heard my baby talk. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about since he does it, too—yet the Jessica Fox, WRTB 11 in me hopes he didn’t.
I imagine he’s going to suggest getting together, for the purpose of looking at lost things or eating something, and I’m going to decline. Because, as I decided, it just seems easier.
Then I notice: “Hey, you’re not wearing that stupid hat.” It’s the first time I’ve seen him out of uniform without it. I can’t help giving him a small smile.
“A deal’s a deal,” he says pleasantly. “And I see you are wearin’ yours.”
I shrug. “I kept my part of the arrangement,” I point out. Even if I don’t especially want to dwell on “the big reveal” of me with baby curls for hair.
“Fair enough,” he replies. And I’m still waiting for him to invite himself over when he says, “Come here, Goldie girl. Time for the groomer. Need to get you a summer cut.”
“You actually have a dog groomer around here?” I ask.
“Nope—gotta drive to Hazard. But has to be done. I’m a lotta things, but a dog groomer ain’t one of ’em.” He’s still flashing that lazy grin, and I’m realizing it’s far too early for dinner and he’s obviously busy right now, but he’s probably about to suggest stopping by later.
“Well, you take care and have a nice afternoon ... Jessica .” He’s smiling, proud at having gotten it right without even a slip-up—then turns to go. Not having suggested anything at all.
Which is fine, of course. It’s what I wanted. It’s totally what I wanted.
“You too,” I say, standing there feeling surprisingly, confusingly forlorn.