Shadows Gray

Chapter Seven



The next morning, I work the a.m. shift at the coffee shop. I have a love/hate relationship with the morning shift: on the one hand I earn better tips for some reason, on the other there’s no singing or guitar picking. In fact, Micki gets to pick the music selection that runs on our compact disc player and it is, in a word, boring. I want to add extra shots of espresso to everyone’s drinks as an apology and in the hopes that they won’t fall asleep and drool on my counter.

Today Penny works with me because mornings are always busy and sure enough there is a lovely selection of elevator music playing softly. Our customers approach the counter like zombies.

“May I recommend the triple shot Irish Cream mocha with whip and sprinkles?” I chirp to the man next in line, who appears as though he may slip into a coma at any time.

He takes a deep breath and to my great disappointment, orders a non-fat, decaf, sugar-free vanilla latte, not too hot.

“One cup of ‘why-bother,’” I tell Penny, who is making the drinks that I place orders for.

The next lady wants a skinny mocha, the next a half dozen muffins and cappuccinos for her co-workers. Three hours go by like that, with nary an interesting customer, until finally someone familiar darkens my cash register.

“Coffee. Black,” says Luke. He looks as usual, like he just rolled out of bed, forgetting to shave. On him, it seems to work.

“Can’t interest you in a toffee cream breve? My specialty?” I cajole.

“Are you kidding? This some sort of entrapment? You know darn well a troop of well organized macho men would jump me and demand my Man Card if I ordered something like that. Coffee . Black.”

“Well, you don’t have to order it like you’re 007,” I retort, feeling proud of myself for knowing a pop culture reference from his own time. “Tall coffee,” I tell Penny. She smiles at Luke and suddenly I wish I’d done something prettier with my hair, or worn something other than my tie-dye long sleeve t-shirt. Penny is so pretty and so … perky. I should be perky, but frankly the energy it would take to keep up that kind of perkiness would take more than a toffee cream breve.

“Take a break?” Luke asks in a whisper as Penny hands him his coffee. He is whispering to me though and I feel a delicious sense of importance. (Could it even be perkiness?)

I take off my apron and leave it behind the counter as Luke fixes his mug of coffee beside me.

“Umm, pretty sure the macho men you fear so will take just as much offense to you pouring on the white chocolate sprinkles and the twelve packs of raw sugar,” I point out.

“No way. Even 007 drinks his black coffee with white chocolate sprinkles and nutmeg and a little sugar. You’re out of 2% by the way.”

“I wasn’t before you dumped out half your coffee and used it all.”

“I was topping it off,” he feigned hurt. “Your customer service needs work.”

“Fill out a comment card. Now what do you want? Or did you just come in to annoy me?”

“I mostly came in to annoy you. But also I wanted to talk to you.”

“There’s no way on God’s green earth I can get Prue to pose for a picture.”

“Pose?” he looks truly horrified. “I don’t pose. Geez, it’s not like I work for some kiddy photo shop, you know. I’m a professional. Candid shots. Un-posed shots. Those are my specialty. Just like your frou-frou espresso drinks, I have specialties too, only mine cost slightly more. Slightly.” He frowns at his cup.

I remember his hole-in-the-wall studio. ‘Slightly’ was an overstatement. “Alright. Shall we sit?”

He chuckles and it takes me a moment to realize he’s chuckling at me. “Yes, we shall, madam. Did you major in old English or British Literature or just been watching too many Jane Austen movies lately?”

Major? Oh, college. Maybe I am closer to twenty years of age if he places me as a college graduate. I probably shouldn’t tell him the last school I attended was in a Portugal commune, founded by a Baptist missionary. My graduating class was myself, the missionary’s daughter, Molly, and a Portuguese boy named Henrique.

“Umm, too many Austens. You got me. What do you want to talk about?” I purposely steer us away from the leather chair that I had seen my sister sitting in the other night, and instead lead us toward the same table that Luke and I had sat at the last time we spoke here.

Luke settles in his chair – he is too large for these tiny bistro style chairs– and leans his elbows on the table, cupping his face in his big hands. He holds my eyes with his for a moment before he speaks.

“How long have you been here?” It’s the way he says it, not the question that throws me. Instinctively I know what he really means. There is no unspoken law against telling a normal person about living as a Lost, but it’s hardly ever to anyone’s benefit. The odds of anyone believing you are slim to none, and if they did believe it, they are probably some sort of wacky conspiracy theorist - someone who spends their free time spotting aliens and building traps for Bigfoot, or wants help for the time machine he’s building in his mom’s basement. Those types. Luke doesn’t look like one of those types, but isn’t that what everyone says about their serial killer neighbor? He was so quiet, kept to himself mostly…I just can’t believe he builds time machines in his mom’s basement…

“What do you mean?” I ask anyway, treading carefully.

“Here,” he gestures widely. “But mostly, now. Where did you come from?”

I don’t reply. I’ll let him dig himself in a little deeper.

“I know what you are, Sonnet. At least I think I do. It won’t hurt to tell me the truth. I know why your speech is old fashioned and why you try to adopt an American accent and why your family put the fun in dysfunctional. You came here from another era, didn’t you?”

“What are you, some kind of intrepid rogue reporter?” I respond, lightly. “Following up on leads and finding clues in dark alleys? A private eye, maybe? Is this your life’s work; undercover for the Lost? This is what we’re called by the way, if you want the technical Latin term.”

“No dark alleys; I’m terrified of rats. And I don’t work as a gumshoe or a reporter. I have been putting together clues for a few years now though. Also, I knew a guy who was Lost and he pretty much told me everything.” Luke winks at me, breaking some of the tension I’m feeling. “He rented a room from me before I moved into the palatial palace you saw in my office. His name was Armando and when I met him he was wearing a ruffled shirt and awfully tight pants. I knew he was strange, I didn’t realize just how strange until later when he started talking to me. He was extremely good natured and polite and it turns out he was so afraid of what I’d think of him if he accidently skipped out without paying his rent that he actually convinced me of what he was: a time traveler.”

I roll my eyes. “I really hate that term.”

“Sorry. Armando traveled alone but he found a few others at the shelter and they kind of collaborated his story. Together with their testimonies I started realizing maybe my own mother wasn’t as colorful a storyteller as I had always thought.” My stare must be blank because he continues on, explaining. “My dad was a no-show by the time I was two. Mom used to try to make excuses for him, at least I thought they were excuses, about how he had to go, how it wasn’t his fault, that he was special, and that he had to move on even if he didn’t want to. I pretty much ignored her excuses, and anyway she married my stepdad when I was just a kid and then we kind of quit talking about my biological dad. My mom has always been a free spirit and believes in all sorts of things that others don’t, unicorns and fairies and peace on earth and things, so I didn’t pay much attention to the things she said. But after meeting Armando and his buddies, I wasn’t so sure. Course, with my luck, it could be my father really is a deadbeat dad, living with a second family somewhere in this century. Who knows? But when I started eating at Prue’s cart and talking a little to your father - plus I met Matthias and Harry there one afternoon and they’re pretty chatty – and then meeting you, well, I put two and two together. Especially after the Rose episode.”

“Rose was left behind when she was three years old,” I explain, finally speaking. “No one knows why and we all just assumed that she lived her life in that one time frame. When I saw the photo, I knew, just knew, that it was her. And I was even more certain when I saw her here.” I rub the spot on the back of my neck that starts to tense up whenever I feel stressed or worried or tired. “So you can see how desperate it is that we find her before one of us travels again? If we don’t travel together, we may never be in the same place at the same time again.”

“Yes, I can see that.” His playful demeanor is serious now. He looks worried on my behalf which strangely, makes that spot on the back of my neck feel better suddenly. “So, what’s your theory? Why is she here? Now?”

“I wish I knew. I don’t know if she’s been one step behind us all these years, or if she’s only come into her abilities as she’s becoming an adult. She’d be about seventeen now, give or take.”

“Ahh, seventeen. I remember it like it was only three years ago…which it was. And I thought my problems were huge at that age.”

“You have no idea. Teenagers these days,” I make a humph-ing sound that to my chagrin sounds exactly like Prue. I am the world’s youngest old woman! I feel myself turn red.

Luke laughs. “You’re alright, Gray. How long do you think you have?”

“Five minutes,” I say, promptly, as I glance at the clock on the wall across the room.

“You’re going to time travel – excuse me, I mean travel through time – in five minutes?” He looks slightly terrified.

“No, I thought you meant until my break was over. As to the other, your guess is as good as mine. The longest I’ve heard of any Lost staying put is about eight years, and that could have been a lie. We could be gone at any time. Every weekend I give Micki notice.”

“Very considerate of you.”

“Yes, but now he ignores me.”

“So how does it work, this time travel stuff? Do you have to step some through a portal, fold a bend in time, open a secret door or wardrobe or something?”

“Nooo. We go to sleep and when we wake up we’re some place different.”

“That’s not nearly as interesting as a portal. And I suppose it doesn’t have to be in the light of the full moon either?”

“No. And no I can’t go back and kill Hitler as a child either.”

“That was not my next question, although it was on the list.”

“There’s a list? Because I’m down to three minutes. And no, I’ve never met myself in the past, and no, I’ve never been further ahead in the future than I am right now. And no, I didn’t get to meet Elvis either.”

“I bet you say that to all your intrepid gumshoe reporters. What I really want to know is, can I come with you?”

********************

It turns out that I don’t get to answer Luke’s strange question because Penny spills a whole pitcher of boiling hot soy milk all over the place and I rush to help her clean it up and then make an ice pack for her burned hand. I never should have left the frothing job to an amateur. By the time I have convinced Penny I can handle the rest of the shift alone and she goes home, I have a whole new line of customers. I can see Luke still sipping his coffee, but after a while he gets up and leaves, catching my eye long enough to wave. I spend the next three hours making drinks that would offend manly men and when Micki comes in to relieve me, I’m tired and the spot on the back of my neck feels as though it’s been twisted into sailor knots. I sink into the most comfortable chair available and wait for Israel to pick me up. I hope Prue cooked a big dinner and I hope with equal fervor that it doesn’t involve squirrels.





I wait and wait, my eyes as tired as my feet, but Israel never comes. Finally, at half past seven (before her burnt hand, Penny had volunteered to work a double shift – thus, it fell on me), I use the phone in Micki’s office. Seeing as how we don’t have a phone in our little brown house, I have to call our neighbor lady, Gladys.

“Gladys? It’s Sonnet from across the street!” I have to yell into the receiver because Gladys is rather deaf.

“Who? “

“Sonnet Gray! From across the street!”

“Oh, hello, dear. How are you?”

“I’m fine, Gladys. Would you peek outside and see if Israel is home?”

“Who?”

“Israel Rhode!”

“You want to know if he’s home?”

“Yes, please!”

“You say you live in the house across the street?”

“Yes!”

“And is Israel there?”

“I don’t know! That’s what I need you to find out!”

“Well, why don’t you look around, dear? He’s a large man, I’m sure you won’t have to look very hard. Did you check under the beds?”

I sigh. My feet hurt, and Israel had promised me earlier that he would pick me up in his car. Israel is the only one with a car at our house and even though he is a terrible driver, it beats walking. “That’s a good idea, Gladys. I’ll check under the beds. Goodnight!”

“Goodnight, dear! It was lovely talking to you, please call again soon!”

“I will. Goodbye.” I hang up the phone and leave the office. I can’t help but look around the busy shop for a glimpse of someone with yellow blonde hair or a red dress, but my efforts are fruitless. I exit through the doors in the back and start my trek home. It’s nearing autumn and the leaves are turning and falling to the ground, the weather is still a bit humid and warm, but with enough of a breeze, a cold- blooded person would want a jacket. It’s an overcast day, so even though the sun is up, it’s darker than it should be. It feels like a late summer thunder storm is coming. A small pile of leaves swirl in a tiny funnel cloud by my feet as I walk by. I crunch them with my shoes like I used to do as a little girl when I would trail behind Prue when we walked to as she walked to the market each day. One of the reasons Israel comes to get me when I work evening or night shifts is the fact that we don’t live in the best of neighborhoods. You don’t bother picking out your dream home when you know you won’t be there long, and anyway, we can’t afford much rent between my coffee shop tips, Meli’s babysitting, and Prue’s food cart. Will works as a handy man but he doesn’t find much, and what he does he uses to constantly improve Israel’s car, which he loves and covets. Israel works as a medical intern, which is a fancy name for saying he doesn’t get paid period. But maybe by the next time we travel, he’ll know enough to set up his own practice and then we can all live in a house that’s on the right side of the tracks, so to speak. For the time being though I almost love our dilapidated brown house with the sagging porch and peeling paint. Well, as much as I almost love anything; I am like most Lost, distancing myself from attachments to the point of coldness. I put up walls that nothing can scale because I fear the loss that inevitably comes. Even my love for Prue and Dad – while strong and fierce and loyal – has realistic and practical elements to it. I wonder if I will ever love anything or anyone with complete abandon. If I will ever feel safe enough to do so.

The breeze whips itself up into real wind and more leaves are ripped from their branches where they spent the summer growing, rippling down to earth in lovely arcs and patterns. If the sun was shining more, they’d be glinting and I could see their bright colors; as it is, everything seems to be a distinctly different shade of gray. Like a black and white film; like Dorothy when she’s still in Kansas.

I make my legs move faster in spite of being tired. My hunger and my dislike for the dark compel me to get home quickly. I don’t like the way everything is becoming gray and sinister and the way I seem to be only living person in the world right now. Usually this street has someone on it – where is everyone tonight, I wonder uneasily. The wind is really blowing now; most of my hair has come loose from its ponytail and is whipping around my face. The dilapidated street is still empty and void; there are no children out playing softball or kick the can, no cars pass me, and no one waves a friendly hello as they check their mailboxes. All I hear is the wind whistling past and the sound of my own breathing and my footfalls on the pavement. Shhhhhh, says the wind, hush.