Lost

By Larry Mustain

I stop on the walkway, in my yard, as I’m leaving for work. I just stand there, I don’t know why I stop. Where was I going again? That’s right, to work. People are in their yards with their smiling faces, getting into their cars going to their various destinations, and I just stand there. They seem very happy as they pick up their newspapers and yell to each other across their manicured lawns, morning Joe, morning Fred, see the game last night? Where am I going again? That’s right, to work, but I just stand there trapped in this moment, unable to move.

There in the driveway is my car—all I need to do is just take a step, a simple movement of my legs, just a step to get this body moving. Looking down at my legs I see that my shoes lack polish, and I think these pants have seen better days. Better call work and let them know that I will be a little late.

"Hello Berry, I won’t be in today. Nothing, I’m fine, just won’t be in."

I turn the phone off, and as I slip it into my pocket, I start to remember something about a phone, and a pain runs through my brain so severe I cringe. My legs start to shake; it feels as if they might give out from under me. Dropping my briefcase, I close my eyes and put my hands against the sides of my temples. Stop thinking about the phone, just stop it! The pain and the shaking subside.

My body feels numb all over, and I need a drink. I turn and start for the house, but once again I just stand there looking at the front door not wanting to go inside, and for the longest time I stare at this hinged barrier that keeps me from the emptiness that exists on the other side. I notice how much the door needs painting. The little cracks in the paint are starting to chip and the bottom part is faded more than the top, and I can’t help wondering why it is that this doesn’t seem to matter.

I start thinking about the lake. The lake is beautiful this time of year—the changing color of the trees, the campfires with the aroma from the burning wood. A shiver runs up my spine as I remember Dad calling across the camp, “Want to go fishing, son?” As I feel a lump forming in my throat I know I need to go to the lake, I have to go to the lake.

After picking up my briefcase, I not only find myself able to move, it is as if I’m being pulled to the car. Throwing the briefcase and my suit coat in the back seat, I’m just a little lighter, yet this large hot lump in the pit of my stomach starts to form. It will be okay when I get to the lake. A four-hour trip and I need gas.

The gas station seems empty and this small piece of paper is being pushed by a light breeze across the pavement. As the attendant wearing a tattered t-shirt and old stained coveralls shuffles up to the car, I think What a lucky guy, young and without care. “Fill it up?”

“Yes please, I have a long way to go.”

It starts to rain. I turn the windshield wipers on low. Each time the blade passes my face, I feel a calmness taking over. Each movement feels like it has a meaning, but I have no idea what it is, yet it soothes me for some reason. The tires are louder in the rain. Funny how I have never noticed that before. Dad says—“Pull the line up a bit son there’s no fish on the bottom.” God, I love the rain, but how unusual. I don’t remember it raining any other time we had gone to the lake.

I remember the time at the lake my little sister Jenny was trying to learn how to swim, and she got really sunburned because she wouldn’t stop trying. She said “Go away stupid, I’m swimming, leave me alone,” then splashed the water without putting her head under it. She was always such a stubborn girl. I kept telling her that she was going to be sorry, but she wouldn’t listen.

Only two more hours I’m guessing. Thank God the rain finally decided to stop. Those trees seem to be so much larger than I remember, it has been a while. When was the last time I was up here? Not important, just keep driving, I’ll be there soon.

Jenny had become a doctor, a surgeon helping kids get better. I guess in some ways that tenacity of hers paid off. Funny how she never had children of her own. Jenny was always the smart one. Dad always told her to keep her eye on the ball and everything will turn out fine. He was always the happy optimist.

All of a sudden, I’m feeling sick to my stomach and think I might just have to throw up. I pull the car over to the side of the road, I’ll just sit here for a while. As I stare straight ahead, I begin to question my actions about the lake, and I just sit here for the longest time listening to the car run. But I know I have to keep going. I will be okay when I get to the lake.

I press on the gas pedal and as the car begins to move, I feel that burning lump in the pit of my stomach once again. And now I miss the rain. It seems the rain can be pretty good company when you’re driving all alone. Dad says—“Put plenty of water on that fire, boy. It’s important that the coals are completely extinguished.”

I’m getting close now, better stop and rest; it can be dangerous driving without stopping. But I just drive right past the rest area. I’m thinking it must be about another hour away now.

Life can be so strange. You learn all these things—how to walk, talk, and make campfires, and then the next thing you know you’re taking philosophy for a major and you’re married with two children; how does that happen? How does one go from making campfires to trying to figure the philosophical characteristics of the world? Why can’t just making campfires be good enough? There’s a lot to be learned sitting around campfires, and who cares about the story of some damn thoughts that stream together with no end to them, why the hell do we just keep going in some direction that has no reason to it? It just keeps going and going!

Wow! Where did that come from? I have always loved learning; I must be getting tired. I’ll be there soon—the road is getting curvy. Jenny hated this part of the trip; car sickness must have been a miserable thing for her. No wonder she always insisted on driving.

Must be getting close to noon now. My hands seem to be very sore for some reason, and that lump in my stomach has become very large—it’s no wonder I’m not hungry. No sign of clouds now; they must have traveled north. Jenny always loved looking at clouds. “Can you see the dog?” she would say, or “That one looks like a mountain.” She would go on for what seemed ages talking about what she saw in those clouds. Funny thinking back to those times when I loved my little sister so very much, and before I became so very angry with her.

There’s that viewing point that we always liked to stop at to gaze out across the valley. I wonder just how many times we had stopped over the years, just to look out over where it was we had just came from. But I just drive by. I remember the last time I stopped—well, no reason to go there, besides you can’t really go back, now can you? What was the promise that I made to her there? That’s right, I’ll never stop loving her.

The sun hurts my eyes as I drive on, and as I look towards the mountains, it makes the emptiness inside me more intense and that missing something more real. Just keep going—I’ll be okay when I reach the lake.

There’s that spot where Dad pulled over and Mom was so frantic in the front seat of their car. By the time I got there he was gone—heart attack, they said. As I drive past I can almost feel his presence; and I miss him all the more. Mom never really recovered from that day and was never the same. But I couldn’t have been more proud of Dad for stopping that car before he passed away—and saving Mom’s life because of it.

Wow, is this a tear? I haven’t cried since—well you know damn good and well since when—and that was five years to this day. Funny this crying thing, and how someone can just stop. But sometimes you just have to end some things before they get out of hand. People make too much of things—It’s not healthy—they would say, you have to let things go, let them out, let them breathe. What do they know? Would you let a tiger out of its cage, and let it go?

My hands start to shake as I make that last long turn around the steep part of the mountainside—just before you see the lake. A memory starts to form and that pain in my brain returns and I just want to scream. "Stop it, stop it!" I say, as I press against my temples and close my eyes. The pain subsides and I feel so very weak. I open my eyes and see that I am stopped in the middle of the road. The car still running reminds me that I need to keep going. I roll the window down to get some fresh air—that’s all, just a little fresh air and I’ll be alright. There, that’s better. Almost there, no turning back now.

There it is. Man, it seems so much smaller than I remember. What’s this? The park is closed for the season? What the hell do they mean closed for the season? What’s wrong with these people? I pull my car over to where the No Parking sign stands just before the gate, get out, and decide I will hike the rest of the way.

As I walk, it seems as if the lake is growing larger with each step, and I keep thinking I’ve forgotten something. I turn and see that I have left the car door open, I know there’s no going back; I just haven’t the energy.

When I arrive, there is so much missing—the sound of children playing, the aroma of the campfires, and people sitting around talking and playing games. Where are the families and barking dogs? Where are the young lovers that hold each other’s hands as they stroll along the paths? I look out over the lake and I’m drawn to the reflection of the mountain peaks that ripple gently across the water. Like the movement of the water, I see the memories moving across time with visions of warm campfires and loving moments with my wife and children. I find it hard to breathe and as the tears run down my face I feel the missing parts that had made my life so wonderful.

How could Jenny have been so foolish? I told her it was just one more day: work had been so busy and I just needed one more day to finish up. She said, “Why don’t you come on up to the lake after you finish? We have two weeks and you can take your time with work. Besides, your wife and children are chomping at the bit. Especially Athea, she wants me to teach her how to swim. I will let them know that you will meet them there after you’re finished.”

“Please just wait,” I said. “You just finished working a double and are in no condition to drive.”

“Nonsense,” she said, “you always worry too much; we’ll be just fine.”

It was midnight when I got that call—"Yes, this is he..."<\i>And then I just listened as this man took from me all that was important in my life, leaving me with that strange little ring tone in place of the family that I loved so dearly.

As I stand here looking out over the lake, I feel my wife’s hand in mine, I hear my son asking, “Dad, are we going fishing later?” I see the look of my daughter’s bright green eyes while we roast marshmallows over the fire. I want to walk to where we used to camp, but I just stand here. I want to hold my family one last time, but I just stand here. I want to tell my wife that I will always love her, but I can’t.

I just stand here.

©Circa 2000--2021 Larry Mustain