My Lost and Found Life (18 page)

So I lied. I made up answers to the most persistent questions, while trying to stick as close to the truth as possible.

I told everyone that my father died when I was young, and my mother died a few months ago in a car accident (Lie Number One). I claimed to live with my elderly aunt in her house in Burlingame (Lie Number Two). I also said that she was very religious and wouldn't allow me to invite friends over or even take phone calls there (Lie Number Three). Finally, I confided that I had a serious boyfriend named Webb who was away at college (Lie Number Four). In a year or so, when I had saved enough money, I planned to join Webb in San Diego (Lie Number Five).

Now all I had to do was keep all my lies straight.

• • •

Tattie came back from rehab at the beginning of October. She called several times and tried to persuade me to go out with her, but I put her off. I told her about my job at the Madhouse and said I was working a lot of hours—which was true, but not
the reason I was avoiding her. If she found out where I was living, the news would be all over Burlingame. Tattie wasn't a gossip, exactly. She just didn't watch her tongue and would disclose the most embarrassing information about herself or anyone else without a second thought. If you complained, she would just shrug and say, “What's the big deal?”

I should have realized that Tattie wouldn't be easily discouraged. A few days after I blew off her last call, I looked up to see her strolling through the entrance of the Madhouse.

“Hey, girl, what's up?” she yelled from the doorway. She was wearing cowboy boots and a cropped leather jacket over an orange minidress that hugged every curve of her amazing figure. Every male in the place whirled around to stare at her.

“Tattie! What are you doing in this neighborhood?”

“I came to see what's keeping you so busy. So this is the place.” She walked around the Madhouse, seemingly unconscious of all the eyeballs fastened on her. “Kind of a dump, isn't it?”

“It's all right.” I shot her a warning look, but as usual, Tattie was oblivious to the hint. “You look great. Rehab must have agreed with you.”

She had grown out her hair to chin-length and it was all one color, plus her eyebrow ring had vanished.

“Don't mention that shithole to me,” she protested in a loud voice. “I just survived the longest thirty days of my life. Bor-ring with a capital
B.
No fun, no sex, just meetings and talk, talk, talk. What a drag. Watching TV was all the entertainment there was. The whole time I was there, the only date I had was with my finger.”

She now had the undivided attention of every person, male and female, in the place. I was glad that Malcolm wasn't there because he would have rushed over to be introduced. Tattie was definitely Grade-A gossip material.

“It doesn't seem to have hurt you any. You look fantastic,” I murmured, hoping she'd get the idea and lower hers.

“Thanks. Don't you love this dress?” She preened, twirling around for me and slipping off her jacket. “I'm going for a sophisticated look these days. Chic-
k.
” She drew out the word and made a funny face as she said it. “They want me to look glam at the club.”

“What club? Do you have a job?”

“Yep, I'm a working girl now. I've just started a great job. It's easy money, five hundred bucks a night, sometimes more.”

“You're kidding,” I said. “What kind of job pays that? It must be illegal.”

She laughed and did a little mock shimmy. The bald man standing behind her looked like he might go into cardiac arrest.

“No, it's strictly legal. I'm a dancer—an exotic dancer actually. Isn't that a hoot?”

“Oh. My. God.” I stared at her with my mouth open. “No way!”

“Way! I'm working on Broadway at the Toys for Boys Club. I dance topless and shake my tits for all the drooling businessmen. If they're extra nice and stuff lots of bills in my G-string, I do a special dance for them, up close and personal. I love it. I feel like a celebrity.”

“You must be insane! Tattie, tell me you're joking.”

“It is sooooo easy,” she burbled on. “I can't believe how
lucky I am. I'm going to buy a new car, a convertible, as soon as I get my license back. And I'm getting an apartment.”

“I can't believe this. Your mother must be having fits.”

“Nope, she's down with it. She wants to get her hands on some of the money, but no way that's happening. That's why I'm moving into my own place.”

She giggled again. “My stage name is Precious. I strut around in this Catholic schoolgirl uniform with knee socks and everything, then I strip down to a G-string. The guys all have their tongues hanging out by the time I'm finished.”

“That's disgusting. What's wrong with you?” The words rushed out of me. “You can't do this.”

“The hell I can't,” she said, starting to look annoyed. “Why are you being so negative? I'll bet I make ten times what you earn in this dump.”

“Hey, can I get a double cappuccino?” The bald guy had come out of his Tattie-induced trance to interrupt us.

“Wait your turn,” I said. “Or go to Starbucks. Tattie, do you have any idea of the horrible people you'll be dealing with?”

She snorted. “What are you talking about? These people are no different from the hypocrites in Burlingame. I'm taking advantage of my natural assets to make some money. You're just jealous.”

“Jealous,” I repeated, in true amazement.

“You don't have to be, Ashley,” she said coaxingly. “You'd be great at this. I could fix it up for you, and you'd be raking in money too.”

“Never,” I snapped. “No way. How did you ever get mixed up in this?”

“I was just walking by one of those clubs on Broadway late one night, and one of the barkers—you know those guys who stand out front and try to coax guys inside—well, he said, ‘Hey, baby. Wanna job? I'd like to see you dance.' I just laughed, but the next day, I got to thinking about it. So I called up the club and the guy told me to come try out on amateur night. I did and they liked me. Now I'm a star.”

“So you dance around nearly naked for a bunch of disgusting old men? What's next? Become a hooker?” I scolded her. “Good luck, Miss Tatiana, because you're going to need it.”

Tattie narrowed her eyes angrily. “Who do you think you are?” She spat the words out. “I don't need you judging me. I'm doing great.”

We stared at each other for a moment in silence. Then she spat, “Fuck you!” and stalked out, leaving the whole coffeehouse staring after her.

I stood there dazed both by what she'd told me and by my fierce reaction to the news. Maybe I had overreacted. Tattie and I had always gotten along because I never judged her. When had I turned into a goodie-goodie? But a stripper! What was the future in that? She was making a big mistake, and someone had to bring her to her senses. That's what friends are supposed to do, isn't it?

“I think you're absolutely right,” said the bald man.

“Keep your opinions to yourself.” I growled. “Go sit down and I'll bring you a cappuccino.”

I felt disoriented, as if I were a movie heroine watching everyone around me turn into zombies. Maybe someone had put chemicals into the water system, because first my mother
and now Tattie had completely lost their marbles. Here I was, lying to everyone and hiding out so I could keep up the appearance of being a normal person while everyone else was flipping out.

As October plodded along, I continued looking for some scrap of news about my mother. Nothing ever appeared. Don't ever let anyone try to tell you that no news is good news.

While the newspaper didn't reveal anything about Diane, I felt overwhelmed by the amount of bizarre or lurid or just plain bad news that appeared on a daily basis. Two teenagers were killed in a high-speed car chase. A young boy disappeared on his way home from school. A pedestrian was struck down in the crosswalk on a busy street.

There seemed to be no end to the tragedies that could befall you. Without warning you could be struck by lightning or shot by a madman. Or you could throw your suitcase in your car, drive away, and never be heard from again. Could I, too, disappear beneath dark water without creating so much as a ripple.

At the Madhouse I went through the motions, working and talking to the customers, even laughing and flirting with Patrick. But keeping secrets is hard work. I could never completely relax
or let down my guard. I felt as if there were a glass wall separating me from everyone else. On my side of the wall I could observe everyone and everything that went on around me, but I could never break through the glass and be truly part of things.

Earl was the only person I could really talk to. He worked the night shift at the gas station so I couldn't hide my predicament from him even if I tried. Each night, he sat in the station's tiny “office” with a hissing space heater at his feet and collected cash from customers who didn't use credit cards.

When I first moved into the camper, all I knew about him was that he had worked there for a couple of years. I had a vague impression of a stumpy old man who wore a dark cap and a puffy brown jacket. At first I just waved to him each night as I pulled my car behind the station. As I crawled into bed, it was nice knowing that
someone
was out there, at least part of the night.

Then, one Friday night not long after I had gone two rounds with Tattie, Earl knocked on the camper door. I had just stepped inside and knew it must be him, so I opened the door.

“How d'ya do, miss?” he said. “I'm Earl Yankowski.”

Up close, I saw that he had the leathery skin and creased face of someone who had spent years in the sun and wind. His gray hair was cropped close to his head, which made his wiry gray eyebrows more noticeable.

“Hi, Earl,” I said. “I'm Ashley.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said. “I don't mean to bother you, but I saw when you pulled in that your left front tire is real low. You should have Reynaldo fix it tomorrow before you
leave. I'd take care of it for you myself, if it weren't for this bum arm.”

I noticed for the first time that he held his left arm stiffly as if it were injured.

“Thanks for telling me,” I said. “I'll talk to Reynaldo.”

“You might want to think about getting some new tires,” he added. “Your tread is pretty far gone on all of them. I looked.”

“What!” I winced in dismay. “You must be kidding. All of them?”

He nodded confirmation.

“No, I can't be that unlucky. That will cost a fortune.”

“It will set you back about a hundred each, including balancing, but driving on them the way they are is just plain asking for trouble. Buying four tires is still cheaper than a funeral,” he said. “Phil could help you find some cheap.”

I made a face. “I'd really rather not ask him.”

“No?” he said. “Well... tell you what, I'll see what I can do for you.”

When I came home the next night, I found a note from Earl stuck to the camper door. It said:
Go see Chet at Baker's Tires in San Bruno and tell him Earl sent you. He'll give you a good price
.

I did, and his pal Chet sold me four tires for $300, plus tax.

For weeks after that I would occasionally find little “gifts” on my windshield—a coupon for a free coffee at Starbuck's, a toy whistle, a tiny pumpkin, a silly little windup frog someone had probably left in the gas station.

I should have had the good manners to thank Earl right away, but I didn't. I had a bad case of the mean blues or
whatever it's called when you feel like both crying and giving someone a good smacking. Rage and hurt had grown inside me until they were like evil twins, first one and then the other poking at me like a sharp stick. I struggled to keep it bottled up. This wasn't what my life was supposed to be like, and it wasn't fair.

Insomnia began to visit me on a nightly basis. I would toss and turn in my hard, narrow bed for hours. A week of sleepless nights had me lurching around like a zombie. By Friday of that week, I climbed into my nest determined to will myself to sleep, but it just didn't work. After an hour, I gave up. I put on my trench coat over my sweats and went outside.

As I stepped out of the camper and walked around the corner of the building, I saw a full moon suspended in the night sky. It was huge, a moon made for yowling. Maybe that's why I hadn't been able to get to sleep. I needed to yowl.

It was almost midnight. Earl was sitting in his chair reading as I walked in. The nasal twang of Willie Nelson singing “Angel flying too close to the ground” was coming from a small radio on the shelf.

Earl didn't seem greatly surprised to see me. He took off his reading glasses, stood up, and got a chair for me so we both could sit in front of his little space heater.

“I wanted to thank you for the tires and the gifts,” I said awkwardly. “I really appreciate it. I'm sorry I didn't say something before.”

“No problem. Glad to be of help,” he answered. “You didn't have to come out here to tell me that.”

“Really, I should have thanked you before now,” I said, and
then admitted, “Anyway, I'm restless tonight. I haven't been sleeping very well.”

“I know how that feels. That's the reason I took this job in the first place. I've always been a night owl so I thought I might as well get paid for staying up.”

“What are you reading?” I asked, pointing to the book he had put down when I walked in.

“A mystery—that's the kind of book I like best,” he said.

“I don't know why, I never really cared for mysteries.”

“They're my favorites. A mystery is like a puzzle that needs solving.”

“I've got a puzzle you can solve. Figure out where my mother is and why she did this to me,” I blurted out in a bitter voice.