of my eye, I watched Ned walk to my desk, open up the bottom drawer, and filter through the papers. He stuck two manila folders into his messenger bag and paused for a minute to read over a memo, which he then crumpled up into a ball and tossed in the trash can that sat at the foot of the desk. Then he kept digging.
“Do you need this?” He held up a business card. I squinted to make out the writing, so he flipped it over to read it himself. His voice grew soft. “It’s for a wigmaker, Adina Seidel.”
After I got home from my first appointment with Dr. Chin, I’d tossed it in my “junk” drawer. Surely, I’d thought, it will never come to that. Resorting to a wig was like relying on a wheelchair: It was a crutch, and I didn’t need anyone—or anything—to hold me up. My mother’s voice echoed through my mind. “There’s no
‘we’ in Natalie,” she used to say with an overemphasis on the last The Department of Lost & Found
53
syllable. “ Just an ‘I’ and almost a ‘me.’ ” She’d made up that little rhyme back when I was eight.
It was my first day at my new private school, and when she dropped me off at my homeroom, running late and jotting down to-dos on her notepad, I knew she had to leave. I knew that she wanted to leave, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t try to stop her.
So I clung to her side until her suit jacket became so twisted that the buttons faced the wrong way, and I sobbed hard enough that snot ran clear down to my neck. My mortified mother, my mother who labored with me for a mere thirty-five minutes and (she’d like you to note) drug-free, apologized to the teacher and walked me out of the room. I thought I’d been granted a reprieve, freedom from my new, marbled-hall school, but instead, she firmly grabbed me by the elbow and said with a just-kind-enough smile, “There’s no ‘we’ in Natalie. Just an ‘I’ and almost a ‘me.’ ”
I blinked at her, uncomprehending. So she sighed and said,
“Natalie, I can’t be here for you all of the time. You’re a big girl now, and big girls do things on their own. I expect you to be a big girl. You need to rely on yourself now.” I started to protest, but she cut me off, spun me around, and after planting a kiss on my head, left me to wipe the mucus off my own face and in the care of my new homeroom teacher.
“There’s no ‘we’ in Natalie.” And from the age of eight on, indeed, there hadn’t been.
I glanced at the wigmaker’s card, and unconsciously, I ran my fingers through my thinning hair. “Just put it on my keyboard,” I said to Ned, and turned my attention back to AMC before my voice could break and belie the loneliness behind it. I heard him start to say something more, but he thought better of whatever it was and kept sorting through his files.
“Oh my God,” he said, which I could make out over the an-54
a l l i s o n w i n n s c o t c h
nouncer on the Swiffer commercial. “I totally forgot about this.” I didn’t turn to look, so he stood up and came over to the couch. He held out his hand, but I tucked mine farther into my armpits. In exasperation, he grabbed my arm. “I bought this for you,” he said.
“The day after we got back from the Vineyard.”
I didn’t bother looking at the baby blue Tiffany box he’d placed in my palm. “Why don’t you give it to Agnes ?” I spit out her name as if it were chewing tobacco. I’d tried it once in college and found the two things—Agnes and Skoal—equally revolting.
“Because it isn’t for Agnes. It was for you.” He shook his head.
“I was so inspired when we got home from the trip. And I saw it in the window . . .” He paused, and I almost thought he was going to cry. “And so I bought it. Because it reminded me of us.” He sighed.
“It reminded me of what I hoped we would become as a couple.”
He shrugged. “But then I didn’t see you for a week straight, and so I stuck it in the bottom drawer where you wouldn’t
“Do you need this?” He held up a business card. I squinted to make out the writing, so he flipped it over to read it himself. His voice grew soft. “It’s for a wigmaker, Adina Seidel.”
After I got home from my first appointment with Dr. Chin, I’d tossed it in my “junk” drawer. Surely, I’d thought, it will never come to that. Resorting to a wig was like relying on a wheelchair: It was a crutch, and I didn’t need anyone—or anything—to hold me up. My mother’s voice echoed through my mind. “There’s no
‘we’ in Natalie,” she used to say with an overemphasis on the last The Department of Lost & Found
53
syllable. “ Just an ‘I’ and almost a ‘me.’ ” She’d made up that little rhyme back when I was eight.
It was my first day at my new private school, and when she dropped me off at my homeroom, running late and jotting down to-dos on her notepad, I knew she had to leave. I knew that she wanted to leave, but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t try to stop her.
So I clung to her side until her suit jacket became so twisted that the buttons faced the wrong way, and I sobbed hard enough that snot ran clear down to my neck. My mortified mother, my mother who labored with me for a mere thirty-five minutes and (she’d like you to note) drug-free, apologized to the teacher and walked me out of the room. I thought I’d been granted a reprieve, freedom from my new, marbled-hall school, but instead, she firmly grabbed me by the elbow and said with a just-kind-enough smile, “There’s no ‘we’ in Natalie. Just an ‘I’ and almost a ‘me.’ ”
I blinked at her, uncomprehending. So she sighed and said,
“Natalie, I can’t be here for you all of the time. You’re a big girl now, and big girls do things on their own. I expect you to be a big girl. You need to rely on yourself now.” I started to protest, but she cut me off, spun me around, and after planting a kiss on my head, left me to wipe the mucus off my own face and in the care of my new homeroom teacher.
“There’s no ‘we’ in Natalie.” And from the age of eight on, indeed, there hadn’t been.
I glanced at the wigmaker’s card, and unconsciously, I ran my fingers through my thinning hair. “Just put it on my keyboard,” I said to Ned, and turned my attention back to AMC before my voice could break and belie the loneliness behind it. I heard him start to say something more, but he thought better of whatever it was and kept sorting through his files.
“Oh my God,” he said, which I could make out over the an-54
a l l i s o n w i n n s c o t c h
nouncer on the Swiffer commercial. “I totally forgot about this.” I didn’t turn to look, so he stood up and came over to the couch. He held out his hand, but I tucked mine farther into my armpits. In exasperation, he grabbed my arm. “I bought this for you,” he said.
“The day after we got back from the Vineyard.”
I didn’t bother looking at the baby blue Tiffany box he’d placed in my palm. “Why don’t you give it to Agnes ?” I spit out her name as if it were chewing tobacco. I’d tried it once in college and found the two things—Agnes and Skoal—equally revolting.
“Because it isn’t for Agnes. It was for you.” He shook his head.
“I was so inspired when we got home from the trip. And I saw it in the window . . .” He paused, and I almost thought he was going to cry. “And so I bought it. Because it reminded me of us.” He sighed.
“It reminded me of what I hoped we would become as a couple.”
He shrugged. “But then I didn’t see you for a week straight, and so I stuck it in the bottom drawer where you wouldn’t
Similar Books
