Lost and Found (10 page)

His implication is clear—that I have inside information. I'm walking a fine line here, I know. I feel the rush of potential, the thrill of an impending deal. A substantial deal.

As lunch is served, I breathe in satisfaction. Life continues to unfold just as I've planned.

IT'S ALMOST 10:00 P.M.
when I return home from the studio where I prerecorded several segments of my radio program. Wired and restless, I kick off my heels, feed Sam, and then go through the pile of mail Cassidy left on my desk. Included in the pile is the current issue of
Urbanity
. I take it to the sofa, stretch out, and I thumb through the magazine and read restaurant reviews, and skim articles addressing the arts, city issues, and a feature on the ecosystem of Golden Gate Park. Whatever. Nothing holds my attention for long, until I come to the
Buzz
page where five columns list five reviews each written by an individual reviewer: film, book, blog, album, and exhibit. The critiques are short enough to hold my meandering mind captive for the fifteen seconds it takes to scan each one.

The film is foreign—no thanks, I don't do subtitles.

The book, a memoir on ADHD, doesn't interest me, though, tonight, maybe I should consider reading it.

The exhibit is pretty mainstream for
Urbanity—The Van Gogh, Gaugin, Cezanne and Beyond
exhibit at the DeYoung. Been there, done that.

The album is retro '70s psychedelic folk. Really?

I land on the blog review.

"Illuminate me!" is the cry of this blogger. On a spiritual journey to enlightenment, the city is a-Buzz wondering which local is penning, or keying rather, the anonymous blog www.iluminar.me. Known only as [email protected], the author chronicles her life of privilege—the angst (give us a break), the abuse (really? Do tell), and the spiritual (ho-hum). Here's what we know: She's infected (AIDS?), she's desperate (poor baby), and she's gearing up, we're guessing, for a revolt (yee-haw!). If you can get past the "christianese," this is a blog to watch. Join in the citywide fun and guess the blogger's identity. Will she reveal herself? Go to www.urbanitysf.com/blogger for contest details.

"I hope she has advertisers, cause this chick's blog is going to get some hits this week. Way to make your blog pay off, babe, whoever you are." I look again at the URL and go sit at my desk and key in the address. The blog header is a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge shrouded in fog, and below the picture is the title:
Iluminar
.

Spanish for
illuminate
.

The blog is nondescript otherwise. I scroll down. No advertisers. The reviewer referenced her life of privilege—maybe this blogger thinks she doesn't need the money? Stupid. What a waste. No links. No bio. Nothing. Just entry after entry and icons linking to her social networking pages, which I check. They're also set up under the pseudonym. I check the comments on a few entries. Yep, she has followers. Lot's of them, it looks like. The comments read like an ongoing conversation with [email protected] responding to and reengaging her readers.

"This thing is a moneymaker and she's clueless."

Sam hisses in response.

I hit the archives, find her first entry, and begin reading. The entries are journal-like. Raw. Vulnerable. And yeah, they sort of read like a soap opera. But she writes well. Maybe it's her vulnerability, so rare in this city, that draws the reader in.

Draws
me
in.

I read several more entries. "Christianese? Geez, no kidding." I expect to see judgment in her responses to those who challenge her beliefs, but there is none. She doesn't touch on any of the issues either—she's not using the blog as a platform for the usual fundamentalist stuff. Nor is she defensive about what she believes. Her responses to readers' questions and challenges are straightforward, compassionate even.

"She's hitting a nerve. A felt need of some sort." I think about the blog I write and the many followers who comment and submit questions. In this economy, the advice I offer fills a need. But, I don't receive as many comments as this chick. And why, excuse me, is
Urbanity
featuring her when they could feature a blog like mine? After all, I'm one of their own now. "C'mon, people. Give your own writers a leg up."

I close the window and type in the address for
Urbanity
and find the contest information mentioned in the review. For the best guess, they're giving away an all-expenses paid weekend at
Auberge du Soliel
in Rutherford with spa credits, a bottle of wine, and dinner for two at the resort's famed restaurant. There's $1,000 additional cash prize if the blogger comes forward if she is identified.

I shake my head. "That's a chunk of change you're offering. Ridiculous."

I stare at the screen and think again of the entries I've just read. I can't stand it that, whoever this woman is, she's letting a prime financial opportunity slip through her fingers. So what if she's rich? I don't care if she's Oprah rich, J. K. Rowling rich, or the Queen of flippin' England rich. Why let an opportunity to make money pass you by? Especially one this easy.
Urbanity'
s
set her up. Why miss the opportunity?

I mouse over the history tag and click back to the blog site. I leave a comment for [email protected]:

Let me illuminate you. You're missing a nice financial opportunity with your blog. E-mail me for details at [email protected].

My e-mail address—my name—speaks for itself. I'm known for my financial advice. I'm not scamming her. Though I'd love to be the one to out her. I'm not, as a contributor to
Urbanity
, eligible for the contest, but why not see if I can lure her anyway? "We love a good game of cat and mouse, don't we, Sam?" I turn in my chair and see Sam, curled up in his bed on my office floor, snoring. "Such disdain, Sam."

I close the window on the blog, then get up from my desk, stretch my arms wide, twist my torso, and then bend and reach for my toes. I stand straight again and wander back to the living room. Rain pelts the windows and the lights below are streaked across the cityscape. I listen to the sound of the rain hitting the windows and then reach for the remote on the coffee table and close the blinds against the annoyance.

"Enough of this. Time to get back to work, Andee." I go to the kitchen, take a small black ceramic cup from one of the glass-front cabinets, and fill it with fresh espresso from the built-in espresso maker above the granite countertop. I take it black and fully caffeinated, even at this hour of the night. I head back to the office, turn the flat screen to the usual: CNN. The voice of the anchor drones, but it is better than silence.

I need to make up for the time I lost this afternoon and evening.

I sit back at my computer and open the file containing my work in progress. I read through the draft of the chapter I finished earlier today. It's good. The language is fresh. The advice, stellar, of course. I open my outline file and read my notes for the next chapter, but I find my mind wandering back to the blog entries I read.
Who cares. Let it go, Andee. Focus.

I read through my notes again and type and delete at least three beginning sentences of my next chapter. Frustrated, I rewrite the first sentence for a fourth time. It will have to do for now. I pound out a few paragraphs, but all the while the blog plays on my mind. I save my document and return to the blog. I need to put it to rest—to figure out what's bugging me.

I reread the first entries. Then I skip to the most recent entry—one I haven't read yet. It isn't so much the words she writes, but the conviction with which she writes them. Have I ever felt that sort of conviction about anything? I smile. Yes,
money!
But as I try to laugh it off, a gnawing emptiness nags.

"She's just a Jesus freak, Andee." I close the blog, get up, and walk back to the kitchen, where I dump the now-cold espresso down the drain of the sink. I refill the cup with fresh espresso and drink it as I walk back to my desk.
Gnawing emptiness? Get over it.
I look around my office and out to the living area. I have everything I've ever dreamt of and more.

I sit back at my desk and determine to put all thoughts of blogs and emptiness, good grief, aside. Instead, I'll do what I do best.

Work.

His light pursues you, slowly unfolding more and more as you walk more deeply into it.

JEANNE GUYON

I DECIDE TO
walk the blocks home after my meeting with Matthew. The sun is shining against an azure sky, and the walk will give me time to think through the feelings unearthed during my conversation with Matthew. And time to process what I've put off thinking about: my appointment yesterday with Dr. Kim.

His words come back to me. "There are still signs of infection." He glanced at my chart and then looked back at me. "We need to administer another round of intravenous antibiotics—just as we did in the hospital after the last surgery. Only this time we'll arrange for a home health-care provider to insert a port as soon as possible. We'll hit the infection hard. Once the infection clears, we'll look ahead to reconstruction. Understood?"

"Yes." I tried to assimilate the information.

"I'll insert an implant to build up the deteriorated section of your jaw and chin and correct this line." He ran his index finger along my jaw. "And then, for the scarring, we can graft skin. Once it heals, we'll use laser to smooth the skin."

I listened and nodded, but a war raged in my mind.

Dr. Kim stepped back and looked at me. "Mrs. Bouvier, you've been through a lot. The recurring infection and subsequent surgeries were unexpected, but now . . . if . . . when . . . the infection clears completely, we will begin restoring your appearance."

I shook Dr. Kim's hand. "Thank you. I appreciate all you've done."

"Do you have any questions?"

Questions churned in my mind, but I couldn't pin a single thought down. The other voice, the one raging within, distracted.

That voice—the voice of accusation—slithered into my mind during those first years of marriage, when I failed to become pregnant. Failed to produce what was expected of me—what I expected of and longed for myself. Since then, condemnation has been my constant companion, even though our infertility was no fault of my own. The voice strengthened following the first surgery, when the initial rounds of antibiotics, burning as they pumped through the IV and into my bloodstream, failed to eradicate the bacterial infection raging first in the incision beneath my chin and then, later, in my jawbone.

What have you done to yourself?

How could you be so stupid?

Why couldn't you be content?

You don't get anything right!

With each slur cast, my sense of shame deepened. And in the darkest moments, I hurled blame at others. If Brigitte hadn't made those comments about the "strength" of my chin and how "masculine" it looked . . . if she hadn't suggested the surgery in the first place . . . or if Gerard had defended me, for once, against his mother's attacks . . .

But casting blame just shamed me further.

Matthew asked if I blamed God. Absolutely not. I knew from the beginning, and still know, there was no one to blame but myself.

I walk around the tables on the sidewalk of an outdoor café, the aroma of bread baking and coffee brewing waft from the open door. Today, more than a year after the mentoplasty, that first fateful surgery following the choice I made to fix what wasn't perfect in my eyes—the voice still woos me. Now, when I look back at photos of myself before the surgery, I can't see the imperfection that seemed glaring to me before. Like an anorexic seeing fat where there is emaciation, I saw something in the mirror that was never there.

"Therefore there is now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus."
The words play in my mind over and over. I try to rest in their truth. But the insistent accusations are hard to ignore.

Why can't I rest in truth? Rest in my relationship with the One I know loves me most? There are moments of rest. Of joy. A sense of His presence as sure as the scents coming from the café. Like in the solarium the other morning. In those moments, just maybe, I glimpse who I'm meant to be.

No. That's not it.

I glimpse who He is.

All else fades and becomes extraneous.

Why can't I maintain that focus—that frame of mind?

How much time have I wasted over the years first serving my beauty, then lamenting over its loss? How many hours wasted on this obsession with self? It wasn't just the physical beauty—it's what it represented. My beauty, I know, is why Brigitte was drawn to me—why she chose me for Gerard. It is why Gerard acquiesced to his mother's plan. He still jokes about the "arranged marriage" but says, "Who can argue with her choice?" Maintaining my appearance, fixing the flaws I saw there, became imperative—it was necessary, in my mind, to please Brigitte.