Noah Gray. My father. My dear, sweet, unbearable father who I was cruel enough to leave sitting beneath a tree, half inebriated and full of sorrow. I feel like such a heel. It’s as though I have two emotions when it comes to him: impatience or guilt. Neither is something to be proud of.
“He’s back on the river path. I’ll see he gets home. Prue, can I ask you something?” I begin to pick at my nails in my effort to look casual and to give my hands something to do besides shake. Prying into Prunella o Broin Boulander’s business is like feeding sharks: best left to professionals and those with excellent life insurance policies.
“If you ask it while you’re pushing my cart, go ahead,” she agrees.
Obediently I begin to push, my hands clenched tight on the handle of the worn food cart while I form the words that will leave my dysfunctional brain and travel out of my mouth where I will, most likely, instantly regret them. I can still see the original owner’s slogan ‘Vic’s Organic Hotdogs!’ printed but faded on the cart’s handle.
“I was wondering how many times exactly you’ve traveled? And have you ever heard of a Lost who traveled only occasionally? Like, say a couple times their whole life? And what do you remember of when we left behind Rose? Do you think my mother could have had an affair? And if we meet up with other Lost at least once in a while, do you think there is a reason for it? I mean, what if we are all thrown together for some purpose and we’re missing it? We’re missing the whole point, Prue! Because there has just got to be some reason for why we exist! Some reason why we are chosen. Special. Some reason for the places we go, the times we visit-,” I stop, realize I am babbling, and simultaneously realize I have left Prue behind as I have kept walking and she is several paces behind me, frowning mightily. Hastily I retreat, with the cart.
She stares at me as though I have three heads. Her arms are crossed against her substantial chest and her feet are planted firmly and widely in the pavement of the sidewalk. Her dark brown eyes are narrowed, almost in suspicion.
“What you about, girly? Where’s all these fool questions comin’ from? Your daddy been putting ideas in your purty head?”
Since I’ve never heard Prue call me pretty – or purty – I almost get distracted in a petty way from my diatribe. “No, Dad’s been doing the opposite of talking to me. I just… I don’t know. I want to know why we are the way we are. Don’t you ever wonder?”
“No, not particularly,” Prue snorts again, but the way she says it, it sounds like ‘purticoolerly.’ Her accent is completely untraceable: unique, bizarre and a melting pot of languages and dialects. All of the Lost speak like that to a certain extent, but the difference is that Prue doesn’t mask hers. “What’s the point of wonderin’, child? We ain’t ever gonna know why we are the way we are. Just accept it. Our kind’s been travelin’ ‘cross time for centuries, we always will. Might as well enjoy the ride, my da’ said. Enjoy it or let it kill you.”
“How do we even know it’s centuries?” I argue. “No one bothers to keep records, no one passes down their stories to the next generation beyond the good old ‘when I was a boy…blah blah blah,’ no one finds out anything, no one questions anything, Prue! Doesn’t that make you crazy?”
“Honey child, you have done lost your mind. What do you want us to do, keep diaries? Save the world? Learn how to navigate or somethin’?” She chortles and begins walking again, her short legs making short work of the sidewalk as only Prue can, leaving me behind now. “Hey! Maybe we could go back and invent microwaves the next time we move! Or plastic wrap! That’s stuff’d make us a fortune!” She slaps her knee in mirth in mid-stride.
“Well, why not?” I ask reasonably. “Why haven’t we done that? Why haven’t we bet on the World Series or killed Hitler as a kid or warned everyone on the Titanic?”
“Don’t be a fool, Sonnet Gray,” she is stern now, the laughing is over and she is irritated with me. Irritated and hot by the looks of it; she uses her apron to