What Was Lost

1
Summer 2000

Ever since Jan mentioned hearing Mrs. Colgan still lived in her house in Chatham, Marti became a scurrying rat searching for a way out of a maze. All exits led to Connie Colgan. Marti was troubled by the casual way Jan dropped this information, yet how could her sister understand? Jan didn’t know Marti’s secrets. The only one who did was Peter Colgan.
Marti struggled to wedge suitcases into the car trunk, both the trunk and her head were jammed too full—The lights, the garbage, what am I forgetting? The avoidance of the real question—What am I doing?—was causing her head to implode with minutiae. Her nerves were lit matches as she steadied herself against the car contemplating what she needed.
Courage. No wizard selling any.
It was happening so fast that she could scarcely believe she was returning to Chatham, Vermont, the hometown she’d run from almost thirty years ago. She put in for family leave at work, fabricating a dying aunt, undaunted by the paperwork on which she documented details of this nonexistent aunt. For nine years she’d worked at this children’s hospital, passionately throwing herself into the lives of children and families she worked with, rarely absent, never vacationing longer than a week, and yet now, suddenly, she’d be gone for two months. Some of the children would die before she returned. Marisol, her closest work friend, puzzled by the suddenness of this leave, quizzed Marti on the aunt she’d never heard of and Marti spun Marisol tales of Aunt Connie Colgan. This further increased her feelings of isolation on the eve of this journey. It made no sense: this compulsion to see Mrs. Colgan in order to correct past lies, all while creating new falsehoods.
Her dream was, that after confessing all to Mrs. Colgan, time would bend and stretch in a way to let her reestablish the relationship she’d had with Mrs. Colgan—closer than an aunt! The absence of that relationship had left her with a deep gulf, and now as Tess, Marti’s daughter, was entering a more difficult age, Marti needed Mrs. Colgan’s guidance more than ever.
She’d told Tess her job was making her use up old vacation time. “Don’t want to waste it, so we might as well get away for the whole summer, right?” she said, trying to spin it, knowing it was upending her daughter’s eagerly anticipated summer in Brooklyn.
Recently they’d had a blowup after Tess stayed out late and lied about where she’d been. Marti knew Tess thought this was the reason for the trip. Isn’t everything about her? She was glad to get Tess away, yet that wasn’t why they were going, and Marti couldn’t share the reason (she wasn’t clear herself). Her daughter’s fury was a festering undercurrent dragging them both down.
Tess was sitting on the stoop, headphones on, swaying to the music of her CD player. When calling her name produced no response, Marti walked over and shook her shoulder. “Huh?” Tess removed one bud from her ear—just one.
“Did you pack the animals’ bowls?”
Tess shuffled—deliberately slow, Marti suspected—into the house, came out and sat again, the bowls clattering beside her. “In the car, Tess, they belong in the car.” Marti gestured exaggeratedly the motion.
“All right, Your Majesty!” Tess took a bow as she opened the door and threw the bowls onto the seat, pausing to untangle her hair from the headphone wires. They shared the same frizzy thick blonde hair, although, at forty-three, Marti’s was already turning a silver white.
It would have been easier to get the bowls herself, but weren’t parents supposed to instill responsibility in children? Wasn’t that the endless busywork of parenthood? She’d envisioned parenthood to be exploring the universe with them and helping them find their place in it; instead, it was brush your teeth, do your homework.
Well, Marti thought, every job has drudge work; even a midwife has the afterbirth to clean up.
Will I finally clean up the mess I made?
“I’ll get Caliban and Precious, and we’ll be off.”
Tess nodded without removing her headphones.
Marti put a can of tuna fish in the cat carrier to lure the cat; Precious only glared while Caliban poked his big dog head in. Marti yanked him out, tuna oil dribbling from his mouth. He’d be fine for the car ride; Precious, however, would climb and claw if not caged. Tess came inside complaining that Marti was taking too long. Marti pointed, and the two of them chased the cat, trying to corner her. Precious outmaneuvered them at every turn. Eventually, they plopped down on the couch, laughing. “God, she’s psychic,” Marti said. “She can tell which direction we’re going before we’ve even decided.”
“We need something unexpected.” Tess sprang up and swung her arm behind the sofa, scooping the cat high into the air with one hand while Precious raised her orange fur and pedaled her legs, a cartoon character in midair. Tess placed the cat in the cage and snapped it shut. “Easy as pie. See, Mom?” Tess took the carrier outside, placed it in the back seat, and climbed in next to Precious. Marti followed with Caliban.
“The front, Tess.”
“Why?”
Marti sighed her mother sigh.
“I know you’re not a chauffeur, but it’s not like we’ll be talking; I’m gonna have my music on.” Still, Tess changed seats. Precious shrieked as Caliban jumped in. He barked in response.
Marti hesitated while the sullen daughter, excited dog, and caterwauling cat all looked at her expectantly. “Okay, let’s go.” She tried to sound confident. “No time like the present.” If you faked an emotion long enough, didn’t you begin to feel it? She turned the car on, half hoping it wouldn’t start. It was a very reliable car.

Everything was lush and green once they crossed the Vermont border, and she was glad the law against billboards still held. Whenever someone learned where Marti was from, they said: What a great place to grow up! You’re lucky!
Marti glanced over at a sleeping Tess. Her cheeks still held a trace of baby fat, while her forehead was dotted with pimples and her facial features were evolving at different rates. Awkward and beautiful in equal measure, it smacked of that teetering bridge between girl and woman. She thought about Lucas, the boy Tess had been spending time with. Was he a boyfriend? Sex at fourteen?
Fourteen.
Beg, Martha, beg.
Winding onto Chatham’s Main Street, she was relieved that it wasn’t quite the same small town, yet inexplicably, she also felt an ache of loss, for even the recognizable seemed out of place, as if what was imprinted on her brain was deceiving her.
Tess awoke. “We’re here? Hey—where’s your house?”
“Not now.”
“Aren’t you curious, Mom?”

The lake cottage they’d rented was stuck in time where even the mildew seemed of another era. The next morning, they went for a swim off their dock and invented a game where they’d create scenarios in which a character was unaware of the dock’s edge. “Mom, look. A woman walks with her friend. ‘Do you see my new dress? Pure silk, the finest in the world!’” Tess pranced about, an exaggeration of a runway model. “You may feel it only if your hands are completely dry—no water can ever touch my precious dress. Oh, oh! Help! My dress!” Tess shouted as she deliberately fell off the dock. Marti applauded.
Marti used Caliban in her routine. “Silly dog, why are you barking? What do you think you see? There’s nothing, I tell you, nothing on that side of the street! I’ll show you!” She stomped across the deck, falling in and shouting, “You dreadful dog! You tricked me!” Caliban was a large brown mutt, with a head that seemed enormous––almost like a cow, one ear perpetually stuck straight up while the other flopped down. Caliban followed her in, his jump anything but graceful, wagging his tail proudly as if aware of his part in the performance.
Returning to the cabin, they rummaged through closets, finding games and toys—Sorry, badminton rackets, and jigsaw puzzles. Tess hadn’t even put her music on since arriving. There was a TV, and Tess agreed Marti could put it away.
As Marti carried the TV to the back of a closet, a scarf fell on her head, battering her senses with a musty familiarity. Scent, that instant transporter, was at work. Unguarded, she couldn’t hold the memory back of another closet; her limp body banging against the closet wall. She yanked the scarf off as she remembered the sound of her whimpers. No, no, no. Had she spoken aloud? Never quite certain, for in those long moments the disembodied feeling was strong . . . If she had no bones, did she have a voice box? The sliding door rattled back and forth as she rested unsteadily against it. Now that she was back in Chatham, would she relive it all? The closet was a terrible kind of home she’d never left.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
Marti picked up the scarf hoping to inhale the smell again, but the scent was gone. Memory and smell, you couldn’t hold them off, both elusive pranksters; they’d reel you in, fill you up, and then leave you nothing to grasp on to.

Tess was spending time at the lake beach, having made friends with a girl named Emily whose family was staying in the same cluster of cabins. Marti met Emily’s mother, Linda, who was eager to chat, seemingly bored trailing behind her three-year-old daughter, while her husband and nine-year-old son were fishing. The family was from Connecticut and would also be here all summer. Linda invited them for dinner. “And bring your husband.” At Marti’s explanation of divorce, Linda’s face contorted into surprise. Did she think everyone had a husband off fishing?
Linda opened the door, makeup on, dressed in a colorful sundress. Marti was wearing her frayed shorts, her wet hair an uncombed mess. She feebly handed Linda the obligatory bottle of wine.
“Come around the back deck, Art’s grilling below. Hope you like chicken, although you’d think we’d have fish with all that time fishing.” Linda said this last part loudly in Art’s direction. She led Marti to the deck and poured wine. “Right back.” Marti offered to help, but Linda waved her off so Marti sat, sipping, trying not to gulp, until Linda returned carrying a salad. “Sorry for that mistake about your husband. I didn’t realize—” She patted Marti’s arm, and Marti wanted to swat Linda’s hand away. Maybe I’m glad not to be part of a perfect two-parent family.
She pushed her hair back; it was beginning to dry and curl into its usual wild state, and she hadn’t remembered a clip. “The divorce was a long time ago.”
In her marriage, Marti had felt suffocated. She’d been on her own since age fifteen and still thought of herself as a drifter despite a husband and baby. She resisted buying the house in Brooklyn. Rob pushed the idea and Marti felt like fleeing.
She didn’t flee, at least not physically. Trapped as she felt, it was nothing compared to what came next: Rob was the one who left. Careful what you wish for. The most terrifying part was that Marti wasn’t alone: a small child depended upon her. Rob generously gave Marti the house she’d never wanted, compensation for an uncertain future. Tess grew into a confident teenager, life swirling around an inert Marti.
“Marti, do you work?” Linda asked.
“I’m an art therapist at a children’s hospital.”
“How interesting! I must hear more after I take this platter to Art.” Linda’s heels clattered as she went down the steps.
The girls were whispering in the woods, hiding from Emily’s brother, Matthew. Little Rose ran to her daddy and hugged his legs. Marti stood and called to Linda as she came up the steps, “Don’t you think Rose is too close to the grill?”
“Art’s right there.” Linda topped off Marti’s wine glass while Marti’s eyes remained fixed below. “Relax, Marti.” Linda raised her glass. “To vacations! How did you get so much time off in the summer?” Linda scooped up a pile of silverware and napkins that lay on the table and began setting them. Marti felt foolish for having not noticed and set the table herself. Instead she’d sat waiting uselessly.
“I had vacation owed me.”
“I imagine you need time off from your job. Are the kids very sick?”
“Yes, they—”
“Oh, let’s not talk about that. So depressing.” Linda stood up, studying the table, and when satisfied that everything was in place, she sat back down. “Lovely here, isn’t it? Our first time, and fine with Art, because of the fishing.”
“Don’t talk about my fishing!” Art shouted up from below.
Linda laughed. “Well, where are the fish?”
“Mom, I like fishing,” Matthew said, coming up the deck stairs with the girls following. He grabbed a handful of chips and some fell back into the bowl.
“Matthew, gross. Stop being a pig,” Emily said as they all swarmed around the chip bowl.
“Mommy, Matthew’s taking all the chips,” Rose whined, stuffing a pile into the dip where she left them, chips poking out like shark fins.
“Talk about gross,” Matthew sneered.
“All right, animals—I mean children—back away.” Linda turned to Marti. “How did you find this lake?”
“Mom grew up here,” Tess answered.
“Really? You haven’t mentioned. You must have lots of people to catch up with, and yet you’re here with us. What about family?”
“My parents passed away, and my sister lives in Burlington.”
“Yeah, Mom, when are we going to see Aunt Jan?”
“When Megan’s back from her camp job. My niece,” Marti said, eager to shift the conversation.
“Still,” Linda persisted, “you must have old pals. Hard to keep up with after graduation. It’ll be exciting to see them, won’t it?”
“I left before high school ended.”
“Your family moved?”
“Yes,” Marti answered cautiously. It was hard to be questioned about your history when it didn’t match anyone else’s.
“Mom, there’s that lady you want to see, right? The mother of your old boyfriend?”
She could hear Mrs. Colgan’s voice now, that slight Irish lilt you had to listen carefully for to be sure it was there, and when you heard it, it seemed like a gift just for you. The gift Marti wanted to hear was: A terrible lie you told, I understand, poor child, you were scared. All’s forgiven.
“Ah,” Art said, coming up the stairs, “an old boyfriend! Scouting out the mother first, ingenious plan.”
“Not a boyfriend, just a neighbor.”
“That’s not what Aunt Jan said.” Tess giggled.
Marti drank her wine. Why had she come to this dinner? She’d been using any excuse to avoid the inevitable: Mrs. Colgan, the reason she was here.

The perfect opportunity came a few days later when Tess left at dawn to go rafting with Emily’s family. Marti chose not to go, and yet at this early hour, she felt abandoned. Left out of the living. Caliban was watching her, tentatively thumping his tail, anticipating their morning swim. She grabbed their towels, and he yelped gleefully at the sign. Marti didn’t bother with a suit as the sun was only just beginning to brush the water and there’d be no one to observe her. She dived in; the water felt glorious on her naked skin. Caliban followed, paddling steadily, his long tail swishing back and forth like a sprinkler spraying water. Every few minutes he’d return to shore and shake off, only to swim again, aiming in Marti’s direction. She was his destination, the center of his world, devotion beyond any human one, and it never ceased to move her.
Thoughts of procrastination crept in, but no, today was her chance. The swimming had strengthened her. She put on the skirt she’d bought for this occasion and dabbed powder on her face, a futile attempt to conceal her scars—some things can’t be hidden.
After Marti made it right with Mrs. Colgan, Tess would meet her. She pictured Tess playing with the grandchildren while Mrs. Colgan fussed over them, doling out snacks—especially the jar of M&M’s she always kept close at hand and passed around to defuse any quarrels. Tess would almost be one of those grandchildren.
Could there be a more forgiving woman? Why has it taken me so long?
The grandchildren Marti pictured weren’t Peter’s but rather any of the other seven Colgans’. She didn’t know whether Peter had a family; all she’d heard was that he lived in Boston. Didn’t she need forgiveness from him too?
When she got to Hemlock Street, she parked by her old house, which looked surprisingly cheerful now that the somber blue siding had been painted a bright white. The enormous dark trees in front were gone, replaced by dogwoods still blooming with welcoming white flowers. Peering around the back, she spied a bicycle, asleep on its side. Does a happy family live here?
Her father had taught her to ride a bike just before he suddenly died from a brain aneurysm. Everyone referred to him by his name, Ed Farrell. Daddy was a myth only Marti clung to.
“You didn’t miss much,” was what her mother, Peg, said.
“You were lucky you didn’t know him,” Jan, five years older, hissed.
Apparently, Ed had a drinking problem that led to late night belligerence, although Marti knew nothing of that, having slept through it all. She remembered only his charms—the laughter, jokes, and fun—all the things that went missing afterward.