Lost and ProFound

Lost and ProFound Copyright © 2013 by Summer Felix. All rights reserved under International Copyright Law. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in whole or in part, in any form, whatsoever without express written permission by the publisher. For information address, Sherpa Press, 1621 Central Avenue, Cheyenne, WY 82001.

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Lost and ProFound

By Summer Felix

Edited by Samantha Paquin

First Edition

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

ISBN: 9781939078148

elSBN: 9781939078155

July 15

Okay, so I should have known better. But, today is my birthday, and when I woke up to Leighton and Amelia standing in the doorway, wanting to be entertained or fed or in some way tended to, I buried my head under the pillow and told them that, as a special treat, they could go downstairs and watch a show. The numbers on my bedside alarm clock glowed a malevolent green, informing me it was not even six o'clock yet. I can forego a day at the spa, breakfast in bed, a luxurious foot massage, all I ask for is that, on my birthday, I not have to get out of bed before the sun has even officially risen.

So. Downstairs went the kids, and I slipped back into a semi-conscious slumber, trying to resurrect the slightly scandalous dream I'd been having involving me, Derek, and a lot of balloons and whipped cream. I was vaguely aware of the muted voices coming from the TV and, every once in a while, Amelia would let loose with one of her enthusiastic guffaws, which more and more was starting to resemble the sound of a hyena, but since I didn't smell anything burning or hear any bloodcurdling screams, I figured the fort was being held down more or less, and I stayed in bed until seven.

Everything okay down there? I asked, when I got up.

Yes, Mama! they chirped in unison.

I should've known then. When had Leighton last called me Mama? He'd gone straight from babbling mamamama to Mom, it seemed, virtually overnight. They were oddly quiet, but I figured they must be watching a particularly riveting episode of Yo Gabba Gabba. So, I took my time in the bathroom. I washed my face, which was something I'd decided I would try to do every day. I find my birthday a much better time to make resolutions than at New Year's—while I can see the appeal in everyone turning over a new leaf at the same time, it also means everyone is giving up on their resolutions at the same time, generally the second or third week in January. A few resolute souls might make it into February, but most people have gone back to the cigarettes, drinking, ex-boyfriend, or nightly box of chocolates by then, and, while there is satisfaction in it, there is also that pervasive sense of failure, which, of course, puts you in a bad mood, or, at least, makes you feel a little bad about yourself. A birthday resolution means these failings are staggered, and, in that way, makes the world a slightly less hostile place.

I washed my face with an over-priced organic soap-bark grapefruit-extract concoction I purchased from Tanglewood. It left a mild, pleasant tingling sensation on my skin as I blotted—not wiped—my face dry. I would go downstairs and make chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast. The children would eat this breakfast without throwing food at each other, spilling their drinks, or trying to take their clothes off. Because they would be so angelic, I would not need to yell, or even raise my voice. There would be so little mess to clean up after we finished eating, we'd be able to get out of the house right away and do something wholesome together as a little family of three before I dropped them off at their father's house and then returned home to get ready for my reading tonight at Coastside Books ... which I'm not nervous about at all. Maybe there'd be time for Derek and I to have a glass of wine. Or five.

Neither child looked at me when I went into the living room. Who wants chocolate chip pancakes for breakfast? I asked.

Normally, the mention of chocolate elicits a Pavlovian response, but their eyes remained fixed on the screen. I looked at the TV. It was a commercial for denture cream. No, they were not riveted by the television. They were trying to avoid making eye contact.

Okay, I sighed. What happened?

Leighton's head whipped around, his eyes wide. It wasn't me! He looked truly frightened. I mean, I ... I wasn't the one who ... I love you, Mama.

Now Amelia looked at me. I go potty, Mama! she said. And, then I give bath.

I just wanted to play that new game, Leighton whispered.

Everything suddenly became quite clear. In my mind, I saw exactly what happened, though, as I walked into the downstairs bathroom, I told myself, in calm and rational tones that, no, my son would not just grab my iPhone off my bedside table as I buried my head under the pillows and told them to go downstairs and watch TV, and, no, my daughter would not somehow take the phone from her brother and decide to give it a bath in the potty. ... because my children wouldn't do something like that, and certainly not on my birthday.

I stood in front of the toilet and took a deep breath. I lifted the lid.

There, submerged with what appeared to be several rolls' worth of toilet paper, was my iPhone.

July 16

Sometimes it seems the universe singles you out, lets a shit storm rain down on you and only you. I realize I am as insignificant as a grain of sand on a beach, but, after the day I had yesterday, culminating in the most humiliating night of my life—this coming from someone who had braces and a flat chest until about sophomore year of high school—I really wonder what horrors I must've committed in a past life that I am so obviously paying for now.

I'd been preparing (read: freaking out) for my reading at Coastside ever since Brandon called to ask me if I'd participate. The fact that he even knew about the one short story I have ever published (with my own name on the byline, at least) totally made up for the fact that just that morning I'd nearly doored a cyclist when I was getting out of the car to run back into Leighton's school because I'd sent him to camp in flip-flops when it was field day. The cyclist swerved and shouted a string of expletives at me. Move your fat ass! was the one that stung the most, because, that morning I'd purposefully put on my black maxi skirt, which I (mistakenly?) believed made my ass look svelte. And, it was just one of those mornings when you wanted to have a svelte-looking ass.

When the phone rang as I was pulling back into the driveway, I figured it was probably Amelia's daycare telling me I'd forgotten to pack her lunch or the IRS saying I'd forgotten to pay my taxes, but it was my buddy, Brandon, informing me of Coastside's new reading series they were trying to put together and asking me if I would do a reading.

But, I'm not a published author, I told him.

Rebecca, stop being so humble. You ARE a published author. Ghostwriting counts. They're your words, aren't they?

Yeah, but not under my name.

I could hear him getting flustered, and I smiled at the thought of him pacing behind the counter, his ginger-colored hair mussed, his crooked glasses sliding further down the narrow bridge of his nose.

Well, even if that's true, you're still a published author. You know what I'm talking about.

I do?

'Receding Tide?'

It took a minute. Honest to Christ, it took a full minute before I recognized that god-awful title of that terribly literary short story I had written ... when? In my early 20s? Back when I believed I had a verifiable shot at becoming a writer who actually made money off of books bearing her own name?

But Brandon gushed. Rebecca, I loved it. It was brilliant. Why didn't you tell me? Have you written anything else?

Of course.

What?

You know I can't tell you that.

He gave a ragged sigh. Was it depressing or sort of gratifying that I was having this effect on him? A little of both, I decided.

By the end of the conversation, though, I had agreed to do a reading. I even had a manuscript I'd been lovingly slaving over for the past decade. It was, technically, complete (though, are such things ever really done?), but I'd been polishing and tweaking things here and there, not able to completely commit myself to sending it out to agents. However, I could probably find a suitable excerpt to read.

But, then the reality of what I'd agreed to began to sink in. As Brandon's compliments and flattery vaporized, something akin to a panic attack began to set in. I couldn't get up in front of a crowd and read. ... especially when there would be REAL writers there. AUTHORS. People who wrote and published work UNDER THEIR OWN NAMES.

I would get up there with my coffee-stained, brittle manuscript pages that resembled something I'd recently excavated from the backyard, and the crowd would take one look at me and just laugh me out of the store.

I cried to Derek about this. Things with Derek have been going really well. Excuse me, HAD been going really well. He coached me. He sat on the couch while I stood in front of him and read the 500 words I'd picked out from my manuscript. He offered feedback. He poured me wine. He gave me kisses.

"You'll certainly be the hottest author up there, he said. I was sitting in his lap. He plucked the manuscript pages from my hand and gently placed them on the coffee table. Maybe this will give you the confidence to start sending this baby out. Isn't that what you authors say? That each book is like a baby? Don't you want to show your baby off to the world? You've really got nothing to worry about."

I leaned my forehead against his and he smiled that closed-mouth smile that goes all the way up to his eyes. The one that I feel like I could fall into and spend about an eternity there. I think I'm more nervous about getting up in front of a crowd of people. I could do it if it was going to be like this.

He brought a hand up and rubbed my lower back.

I've always wanted to be a security blanket, he said, with a grin. "But really. It will be. Maybe not exactly like this. But, I'll be there. Right where you can see me. So, if you start to get nervous, all you need to do is look out and there I'll be. You can't miss me. I'll be the one looking like this." He crossed his eyes and let his tongue loll out of his mouth for a second before we both dissolved into laughter. I buried my face into his neck and inhaled the smell of his cedar wood cologne, all the way down to the deepest part of my lungs, as though somehow that would imbue me with the courage not only to be able to do the reading but also to be the person that Derek would decide he would be willing to commit himself to.

And, you know, until last night, I think I believed it. He was going to my reading, after all. He was going to be the anchor I could attach myself to, and I imagined how, as I introduced myself and my little excerpt, I'd throw in a quick thank-you to him, and how he would know that I was talking about more than just coming to the reading, because we were connected like that, there was something special between us. Even if he didn't want to be tied down, even if what he did when he was away from me very well could have included another woman. I had never asked because things were just too good between us when we were together. Going on three months now, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't think this reading might be a catalyst for us to start officially—exclusively—seeing each other.

That all might've worked out, of course, if he'd actually been at the reading.

But, he wasn't.

So, I stood up there in front of a considerable-sized crowd and read exactly 123 words in a shaking voice that sounded as if I was about to burst into tears at any moment. If this were a movie, I would've read that excerpt like no one's ever read 500 words before. I would've gotten a standing ovation. People would've asked me for my autograph. A top New York agent would have just happened to be there and heard me read and signed me