Lost

She had long been accustomed to carrying one of their little dogs in an off-the-shoulder carrying bag. So it did not exactly surprise her that in this instance she was carrying a similar bag, but within it was a child. A child she felt extremely close to, protective of, and personally responsible for.

The child was fast asleep in the bag that was slung over her right shoulder. And she was walking with some haste down a street not far from where she lived. Heading with great determination to a destination not all that far away, but constituting a good vigorous walk if she meant to arrive there within three-quarters of an hour.

In her other hand she held two large white squares. It was those items she was intent on installing at her destination. She wasn’t quite clear what they represented, but she harboured a deep conviction that it was her responsibility to take charge in this manner. That the welfare and pleasure of neighbourhood children would be enhanced when she arrived at her destination, installed those white squares held firmly in her left hand, gently whacking against her left leg, as she walked along.

She felt a palpable sense of renewed vigour, not that she ever lacked energy at any time. Except for those times, of course, when running upstairs might suddenly result in being aware that her physical strength had suddenly plummeted, she felt faint, she had to stop and regroup, wait briefly for the spell, whatever it was, to pass. Those events in fact occurred fairly regularly. And then they would not return for months at a time. And then return again, to puzzle and assail her sense of personal inviolability.

Age, it was obviously age that was responsible. Age, that horrible bugbear. Age meant little to her, other than that she always mentioned her age to people. This had become a puzzling habit. She was unable to stop herself. She might meet someone by chance and through the course of a conversation, casually mention her age. Repeatedly telling herself afterward that she shouldn’t do that, it was no one’s business. And most people sought to hide their age from others’ knowledge. It was a private thing, like one’s income level, or how one voted, or whether one was religious or secular; no one else’s business.

She knew, even while berating herself, why she was always so eager to impart to others how old she was. Pride, that was her downfall. Because, despite her age, she was healthy, had no chronic ailments, seldom fell ill, and was infused with enthusiasm for life, interested in everything around her, and with stamina to spare. Add to that the fact that her physical dimensions were not all that different than when she was young, and she was now anything but young; far, far removed from youth. True, her hair was completely grey, but with an ameliorating silver overtone. Her face relatively unwrinkled, her skin smooth. Discounting those aggravatingly-puckered areas under her upper arms, presenting themselves on her upper thighs, of her otherwise-slender and well proportioned legs. She had read somewhere that a woman’s legs were the last remaining vestiges of youth.

There was nothing unusual about the fact that she had mounted this mission, actually. She was always engaged with something, even in her solitary way. She was not gregarious, although she could enjoy being in the company of others. What irritated her and made her assent to being in the company of others (for blessedly short periods of time) was the triteness of their concerns, the bland façade of their interests, the brevity of their acquaintance with the deeper values of life, and their manifested disinterest in world affairs.

So on she plodded. No, plodding is definitely not the right word. She strode purposefully, all the while aware of the infant sleeping peacefully in its carrying bag slung over her right arm. And the two white squares of paper flapping gently against her as she proceeded vigorously toward her destination. What did puzzle her, however, was that despite her swiftly moving progress she appeared not to be making any real progress. She was moving with alacrity, purposefully speeding her legs along, feeling nicely exercised in the process and comfortable with her exertions, but the landscape barely changed.

So that when a man whose large florid face she did not recognize stopped his van on the street, asking quietly if he could offer her a ride somewhere, she hesitated. Not, it seemed, for too long, seeing the two young boys in the seat behind the driver, behaving as young boys always do, obstreperously, and happily, obviously in the presence of their father. Or guardian. Might have been an uncle. She hadn’t bothered to closely scrutinize the boys to determine whether a family resemblance presented itself.

It was unlike her to accept a drive from anyone, let alone a stranger. Yet there she was, sitting beside the driver of the van. Which was moving along smoothly, speedily, the man making small talk. The streetscape changed swiftly and she responded to the man’s remarks about the fairness of the day and how pleasant it was to drive in the neighbourhood. Which was indeed a very pleasant neighbourhood.

She knew most of the people on her own street. Some by sight, many more on a personal level, having lived there for over two decades. She had never seen him or the boys before. But this did not perturb her; it seemed the most natural thing in the world for her to be driving along in some stranger’s vehicle, heading to her destination.

And then she realized that if she said nothing the driver would be bypassing the area she had asked him to let her off at. The greensward of the area park moved so swiftly into her view it took her completely by surprise.

“Please!”, she said breathlessly, “can you let me out here?”

“Here? Why, I can’t”, he said, “not right here. I’d be interfering with the flow of traffic!”

“Here!” she responded. “I must get out here, please stop and I’ll slip right out!”

It was clear that he felt disgruntled, disinclined to pull over and allow her to exit the vehicle. She became extremely anxious. Prepared herself to do something foolish, something that might result in harm to herself, and most particularly to the infant, whose bag now lay on her lap as she sat in the vehicle.

But then, the moment passed. There was no need to have panicked. To have thought of opening the vehicle door and launching herself, while it was in motion. Suddenly she was out of the vehicle, and it was speedily making distance between its metal body and her vulnerable fleshly carapace, once again striding toward her destination, infant in its bag slung over her shoulder, the white, flashing papers in her left hand.

The park. Where was it? It was there, with all the playground equipment she knew so well. But it was no longer there. In its place a busy intersection, one she did not recognize, one that looked as though it belonged in some central part of the city. And that was quite simply not possible. She lived in the far outskirts of the city. Insufficient time had elapsed between the time she had hauled herself into the vehicle driven by the stranger, and that time when she disembarked from the vehicle, to have driven such a distance as to have been deposited in the city centre. And she had seen with her very own eyes the familiar park, just as she left the vehicle. So where was it?

She wondered frantically what had happened. Where she was. There were people walking about, intent on whatever it was that represented their daily business. She attempted to stop a few women walking together, but they simply swerved around her, bypassing her and her weak-voiced questioning. She wanted to know where she was. She supposed that question unnerved these women; being accosted by a worried-appearing elderly woman with an infant slung over her shoulder, querulously asking where she was. How could she not be aware of where she was? Unless she was demented. Best to ignore and bypass anyone of that sort.

Thinking this, she felt aggrieved. She would never ignore the pleas of someone looking for help. She tried again, and again. Oddly enough all the people she encountered were women, and each and every one averted their faces from her anxious gaze, did their utmost to ignore her, behaved as though she was gabbling away in an exotic language no one could understand.

Suddenly, she found herself in what appeared to be a hotel room. To be precise she was on the bed of a bedroom that most certainly resembled a hotel room. The two young boys, presumably about 8 and 10 were there too. They were watching a television cartoon show. Beside her on the bed was the man she assumed was their father. He was breathing heavily, and his ponderous body moved close to hers. He bent forward to kiss her, and she was repulsed. She pleaded with him to leave her alone.

“Just a little kiss”, he murmured with confidence.

“I’m married!” she wailed.

“That’s all right”, he responded. “I’m married too, what has that to do with anything?”

“I’ve never kissed anyone but my husband!”, she heard herself shrieking. “Go away, leave me alone!”

“Come”, he said with the kindest of voices, as she gasped with incredulity over the insanity of the situation, “be reasonable, what else would two people do, on a bed together?”

She leaped from the bed, grasped the baby-bag, slung it back over her shoulder, with the child still fast asleep, a beatific smile on its tiny face, and ran through the door of the room, into a long corridor. From there she rattled down a flight of stairs and found herself at the door of the building itself. Just as she began to exit, she realized she was no longer in possession of the two white squares of paper. She rushed pell-mell back up the stairs, along the corridor with its mirrored sides, glancing at herself to see reflected back a dishevelled, grey-haired woman whose facial expression would have alarmed an attending physician.

Arriving before the door she hurriedly shoved it open, and gaped at the sight of a woman bustling about with the florid-faced man, packing suitcases, while the two boys argued over the television remote.

Once again, she was in the corridor, white paper squares grasped firmly in her left hand, baby warmly in sleep by her right side. Once again, she encountered strangers on a strange street, desperately enquiring of them where she was, attempting to convey to them her anxiety to make her way back home.

None stopped to courteously hear her out, all rushed onward. No one, she realized, would help facilitate her new need; to find her way back home. Recognition eluded her, she had no memory of ever seeing the place where she now found herself, before. She was surrounded by tall buildings, all close to the sidewalk, no vegetation to break the bleak aspect of the concrete and glass facades.

She tried in vain to control her increasing desperation, even while, attempting to stop people in an effort to transmit to them her dire need for information, she felt herself becoming increasingly distraught, hysterical.

She urgently needed to find her way home. Forgotten her original purposeful destination. She wanted only to arrive home, to reassure her undoubtedly worried husband that everything was all right, she was there now, beside him.

And she was, on awakening, positioned as close as possible, beside the familiar warm, beloved sleeping form of her husband.