met up with your daddy’s parents. Been with Noah ever since. Closest thing to family I ever had, and that’s probably counting my Da. Never saw him again after I married my Heron boy. Didn’t approve.”
I have trouble imagining Prue as a beautiful rebellious daughter who chose love with a Native American warrior over her stern father, but I like the imagery. Separating yourself from family though when you’re Lost is for forever; they’ll be no reaching out after a few years to your estranged parent, asking forgiveness or showing up on their doorstep with a suitcase, ready to apologize. She must have been very angry, or very in love. Knowing Prue, I’d put money on angry with a side of vindictive.
“Well,” I say, in what I hope is a reasonable tone of voice; steady and casual, “If Rose was Lost, and I’m only saying if, what would pull her towards this same century, this same town? Would a bond do that? Have you ever heard of that, the Lost following each other? Remember when Uncle Zed met up with us that time? Kind of like that?”
“Well, I ain’t never met up with anyone from my past. I reckon I’d remember that, even if my memory is a little foggy sometimes. I never did meet my Da again, and we had a bond.”
“A strong one?”
Prue wrinkles her nose. “Well, not that strong…he always drove me a little batty. And I think he was secretly happy to marry me off even if he put up a fight. I ‘spect we was ready to say goodbye,” she sighed. “It was just me and him, you know, but we’d had enough time together for one lifetime. Then I ended up in Belgium. After that I ‘spect you know the rest, girly.”
This whole conversation was interesting, but hardly enlightening. I don’t know what I expected, a pattern, I suppose. Something to go on, some way of reaching out to Rose or to know it’s possible for her to be reaching out to me. Something. Resigned, I reach out and help Prue to her feet.
“Tell me about your marriages, then?” I ask, not letting go of her hand.
Her eyes light up at the thought. “Ahhh, marriage! That was sumpin’ I never could get right, although they were entertaining enough. Well, there was Roger – I met him while I was a maid for that hateful woman. I cain’t recall her name now. Anyhow, he was a real nice bloke. Those were his words: ‘Prue, I’m a real nice bloke, you oughtta marry me!’ And it wasn’t a half bad marriage either. He was my one of my husbands who was Lost, so we got a few years together in Chile before he died of the cholera. Bad luck to travel anywhere that bloody disease was,” (Was it my imagination, or did Prue actually look a little teary?) “But no matter; that was a long time ago. Also married your grandpa’s brother, Jonah, in Belgium. ‘Course he turned out to be shiftless and we parted ways purty early on. He was Lost too, but no matter, cuz we’d said all we needed to say to each other, including goodbye. So when I traveled on with your daddy and Zed and some others in their family, I didn’t mind too much he didn’t tag along. And after that, well, it was just Abe. You remember Abe?”
I do remember Abe because he’s the closest thing to a grandfather I ever had. He had a handlebar mustache and always had candy in his pockets. I was between ten and twelve when he was around. He knew we were Lost and he even believed us but he said he married Prue for whatever he could get out of her, and if what he could get was a couple years of good cooking, he’d take it.
“Abe was a rock star,” I say.
“If that means he could eat like a horse and never pick up after himself, than I reckon he was. Come on, girl, I’m tuckered and I’m missing Jeopardy!”
That may be the longest conversation I’ve ever had with Prue, and I enter our home feeling a little better about the whole world in general.
********************
I am staring at her bony white knuckles, mesmerized. Her fingers are so long and pale and knobby, I can’t look away. I must know I am being rude because I will myself to stop staring, but I cannot. My mother raps my knees under the table