Lost and Found (30 page)

Well, okay, she sort of does. It's all under a pseudonym. But I'm praying that changes too. That she will claim who she is as God's child.

I slam back the rest of my coffee and then go and pour myself cup number two. I drink it while walking laps around the kitchen and living room. I need to burn some energy. I take my cup, rinse it, and put it in the dishwasher, because I'm nothing if I'm not well trained. Then I peel off the flannel and head for the shower.

WHEN I MAKE MY
way outside, the day is gray and cold. I walk several blocks and then decide it's the perfect day for a game of bus roulette. So I catch the first bus I see. I don't look where it's going. I just hop on for the ride and I'll hop off when something looks good. I've found some cool places this way. All it requires is a spirit of adventure—no problem there—a little time, and a few bucks in my pocket.

The bus winds its way through the city streets until we hit Columbus. I sit through several stops until we come into North Beach.
Good grub in North Beach,
I think. So I get off. As I do, I'm greeted by the scent of garlic and baking bread. "Mamma mia! That smells good!" I say to a passerby. I walk a block before I find what looks like the perfect piece of pizza pie. I pat my stomach as I eat. "What Tess doesn't know . . ." I say with my mouth full.

After the pizza, I hop back on another bus. This one is almost empty. I sit across the aisle from the one guy on the bus. "Hey, how's it going?"

He looks at me, gets up, and moves to another seat.

Okay, I can take a hint.

After awhile, the route the bus takes begins to look familiar as we head toward the Pacific on Lincoln. Soon, I see signs for Golden Gate Park. Cool. I hop off at the stop near the botanical gardens and decide I'll cut through the gardens and head for the Japanese Tea Garden to see if Skye's playing today. If not, some of those little tea cookies will make a decent dessert.

It's turning out to be a multicultural day. Maybe I'll have dinner in Chinatown. "Great idea, buddy." I'd high-five myself if I could. I make my way through the garden, seeing it through different eyes this time—Jenna's eyes. I notice odd little plants and even stop and read a few placards. I look up at the towering trees, the overstory, as she calls them, and see them now as the protectors of the garden.

I walk around the large meadow and exit on the other side of the gardens. I cross the street and round the corner to the tea garden. No Skye. Bummer. Oh well, cookies it is. As I head for the entrance, a cab pulls up to the curb and a woman gets out. A familiar woman. I watch as Jenna stands on the sidewalk and looks up at the trees towering overhead. I see her shoulders rise as she takes a deep breath and then lower as she seems to relax.

"Hey, dude . . ."

She looks toward me and gives me one of those dazzlers of hers and waves. I wait as she makes her way to me. "I should have known I'd run into you here." I come alongside her, put an arm around her shoulders, and give her a quick squeeze.

"What are you doing here?" She looks around. "Is Tess with you?"

"Nah, she's at a fashion thing in New York and I, well, have I ever told you about bus roulette? You'll have to try it sometime."

She shakes her head and laughs. "I can only imagine."

"So may I buy you a cup of tea?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Sure, if I can show you my favorite bench."

"Bench?"

She nods, laughs. "C'mon, I'll show you."

Oh man, it's good to hear her laugh. To sense her joy even in the midst of the pain she's experiencing. It's one of the things I respect most about her. Her joy is in Him, not her circumstances. I feel that familiar soul connect as we head into the garden.

"There it is." She points to a bench facing the pond. "Run, quick, grab it before someone else does! Go!"

She pushes me forward and I jog to the bench and stake our claim. I lean back, stretch my legs out, cross them at the ankle, and rest one arm across the back of the bench. She comes and sits at the other end of the bench and seems to relax. "Cool. Nice view."

"It's the best view."

I nod. "You're the expert." We sit in companionable silence for a couple of minutes. But then, hey, why be silent when you can talk, right? "So what brought you here today?"

She shrugs. "I had the day to myself, which is unusual. I didn't feel too well this morning, so I went back to bed. When I woke, one of the staff . . ."

She looks at me and seems to cringe. Embarrassed, I think.

"Hey, I could have staff too, if I wanted. But who wants pesky people around all the time doing your chores for you, right?"

She laughs. "Right. Anyway, Hannah told me that my mother-in-law had decided to go to the valley for a couple of days. So I'm free!"

"Are you usually bound and gagged?"

She smiles at my joke and then shrugs. "It feels that way sometimes."

"Why?"

She looks out across the pond and seems to weigh her words. "My mother-in-law can be . . . challenging, I guess."

"Challenging?"

She is quiet and keeps looking at the pond. Then she turns on the bench so she's facing me and her eyes tell the story. "I don't . . . talk about it . . . much. I mean, just to Skye."

"What does Skye say?"

"Skye says she's . . . abusive . . . emotionally, you know?"

I nod. "What do you say?"

She cocks her head to one side. "Are you playing counselor now?"

I hold up my hands. "Nope. Not me." Then I'm serious. "We're just two friends sitting on a bench having a conversation about life. I don't mean to press you. I just . . . care."

"You're not pressing me." She sighs. "It's just a hard topic. I feel like I betray her when I talk about her."

"Well, maybe instead you just talk about your feelings—how you feel when you're with her."

"I feel"—she looks up at the huge eucalyptus and cypress trees swaying above—"unprotected. Nonexistent. Extinct."

"Dude . . ." I whisper.

She looks at me again and I see the tears swimming in her eyes. "A little crazy, huh?"

I shake my head. "No, not crazy. Intense."

She laughs through her tears. "Maybe I need a counselor."

"Maybe . . . How long have you felt like that?"

She looks back out and I watch her eyes track with the swans on the other side of the pond.

"It feels like forever. Brigitte came into my life when I was just thirteen. She filled a void for me, I think, after my mother died. It's hard because sometimes she seems so loving and thoughtful. She seems to care, but then . . . she changes. She'll say something and then deny it. I don't know. I just feel crazy most of the time."

"Yeah, there's a term for that. It's called crazy-making."

"Really?"

"Yep. You know, I can give you the name of a counselor, a colleague of mine." I hold up my hand. "Not because you're crazy. You're not. But he could help you navigate the relationship. If you're interested . . ."

"Okay, maybe."

As we sit there, a young family walks the path and stops in front of us. The dad bends and takes the hand of his little girl, she's maybe three or four, and she's a looker—all auburn curls, just like Tess. The dad points to something in the water and she squeals and laughs.

I watch the scene and feel the familiar longing . . . then I feel Jenna's eyes on me. I look at her and try to smile but fail.

"You'd make a great dad, Matthew."

"Thanks."

"Do you and Tess plan—" Her eyes go wide. "Wow. Sorry, I know better than to ask that kind of question."

I look at her and reach for her shoulder and give it a squeeze. "Nah, it's fine." I clear my throat. "I'd like to have kids—dreamt of it for years—but it's not Tess's dream." I shrug. "So, whaddya gonna do, right?"

She nods.

"What about you? You and Gerard never . . ."

"No. We spent a lot of years trying. But . . . we couldn't . . . he couldn't. We maybe would have adopted, but then I had the surgery and . . . Anyway, I don't think his mother would have approved. Now, it's too late."

We sit in silence for a few minutes and watch the family in front of us, each feeling our own pain. But there's something comforting about feeling it together.

"Hey, how about that tea?"

She turns and looks at me. "Sounds good."

So God imparts His grace both through believers and between them. Their one common center is God.

JEANNE GUYON

"LISTEN . .
."

"What?"

I lift my finger to my lips, "Shh . . ." I point in the direction of the garden entrance.

Matthew turns his head toward the entrance then turns back to me. "Skye."

We each finish our tea and set our cups down, then Matthew grabs the last almond cookies and puts them in the pocket of his jacket. His third order of cookies, I might add.

"Mmm . . . A little lint with your cookies is always good."

He grins at me. "Exactly."

We stand and he follows me out the exit. Skye sits with her dulcimer under her usual tree. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, with the small crowd that's gathered and listen to her play. I reach for my jacket and pull it close as the gray afternoon threatens rain.

Soon, the first drops fall and the crowd scatters. I reach into my bag and pull out my cell phone and a compact umbrella. I hand the umbrella to Matthew and motion for him to cover Skye and her dulcimer. "I'll call a cab. Want a ride?"

"Sure."

"Ask Skye if she needs a ride. She can join us."

Matthew takes the umbrella and holds it over Skye as she finishes playing her last song. I pull up the hood of my jacket and scroll through the contacts on my phone until I find Ahsan's number.

"Ahsan, it's Jenna Bouvier. Are you anywhere near the park?"

He tells me he just dropped his last fare and can be here in less than ten minutes.

"Perfect. We're at the tea garden. Thanks, Ahsan."

I hang up and join Skye and Matthew under the umbrella. Rain pelts us as we help Skye put her instrument into its case and then we huddle together and wait for Ahsan. Once he arrives, he puts Skye's dulcimer in the trunk, and Skye and I get in the backseat of the cab while Matthew climbs in up front.

I lean forward and put my hand on Ahsan's shoulder. "Skye, Matthew, I'd like you to meet my friend, Ahsan. And Ahsan, these are my friends, Skye and Matthew."

Matthew reaches out his hand and shakes Ahsan's. "Nice to meet you, man."

"Nice to meet both of you." Ahsan turns and reaches for Skye's hand and shakes it too.

Seated behind Ahsan, I can't see his face. But he turns back around and looks at me in the rearview mirror. "Mrs. Bouvier, I am very sorry. I read in the paper of your loss."

"Thank you, Ahsan."

"Where may I take you now?"

"Chinatown!" Matthew says.

"What?"

Skye laughs. "Leave it to Matthew . . ."

"C'mon. You're home alone for the weekend, I'm home alone for the weekend, and Skye, your gig just got rained out. Let's hang together over chow mein."

I look at my watch and am surprised to see how long Matthew and I spent in the tea garden. But he's right, where else do I have to go?

"You treating?" Skye eyes Matthew.

He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and looks inside. "Uh . . ."

I laugh. "It's my treat."

"Then, I'm in." Skye's grin says it all.

"Me, too."

I laugh at them both. "Ahsan, you have to come too!"

"Mrs. Bouvier, your invitation is very kind—"

"Mrs. Bouvier? I bet she'd let you call her Jenna, or you could even call her dude—she answers to both, right?" Matthew turns around, looks at me, and winks.

I laugh again and it feels so good. "I've been telling Ahsan for years to call me Jenna. Ahsan, please join us."

"But Mrs. Jenna, I must work."

"I know. But I'll ask you to wait anyway, and pay for your time, because that's such a help to me, so you might as well wait inside rather than outside. Right?"

His smile is broad and his white teeth flash in the rearview mirror. "Such wisdom you offer."

"Good, it's settled. Hit it, Ahsan, the chow mein is calling!" Matthew reaches for his seat belt and buckles in.

Over our early dinner of chow mein and at least ten other dishes that Matthew ordered, we share life. Ahsan talks of his family in India, and Skye tells us of the friend who's taken her in. And we talk about God. We share a common passion—our love for Jesus unites us. The conversation, the time together around the table, ignites in me a desire for more. When I reach for my wallet to pay our bill, I do so with reluctance.

I hate for the evening to come to an end.

"Is Madame B still doling out an allowance?"

I don't answer Skye. I just take the bills from my wallet and place them with the check.

"Madame B?" Matthew looks at me.

Skye raises one eyebrow. "I'll leave the interpretation to you."

"Ahh . . ."

I look at Skye, embarrassed by her question—embarrassed by the truth she speaks. "Yes, so far, she's still giving me the monthly amount."