Lost (33 page)

  Over a few months, I slowly became content again with my simple life. 

  I worked all week and I made everything I could with clay.  I perfected beautiful bowls and I experimented with glazing techniques quite successfully.  I made cute sets of 4 colored mugs with little spoons inverted into the handles to sell at the cafe in the village, and my beautiful bowls were sold at Pandora’s, in the Pottery studio, and at a store near my parents’ house.
  My set of 4 brightly colored mugs with spoons sold every single weekend, and I was behind a set always, which was kind of stressful, but awesome at the same time. 

  I loved that my stuff was so well received, and by November, the cafe actually placed an official order for 10 sets, which I couldn't possibly have ready before their Christmas rush, but I tried hard to fill the order. 
  I worked 2 full Saturday and Sunday weekends straight in the studio and I ended up at my parents almost every night after work firing and glazing the mugs for 3 weeks straight which I
knew
was killing their electricity, but they didn't seem to mind.  My mom even offered to help remove the molds and finished mugs after each firing, and she set the kiln an hour before I showed up for more firing so it was ready when I got there. 

  My mom took no credit when I offered it, but she quickly became my pottery savior.  She was the absolute backbone of my little pottery adventure, and I thanked her profusely.
 

  In November, after accepting the contract from Java Bean I had to make forty mugs in one month, which doesn't sound so bad, but in reality was difficult because of waiting times for the clay to harden, and because I was a little obsessed with absolute perfection. 
  Once, I even lost a set of 4 mugs because I tried to fire them early knowing they still held too much moisture, but wanting to hurry.  And when I opened the kiln to 3 cracked mugs, warped and destroyed, I was pissed at myself for my impatience. 

  The fourth mug survived though, albeit misshapen and lonely, but I loved it.  That single mug became my favorite, and I used it always.  One single surviving mug became the tragic symbol of my life. 

  I too was alone, less than perfect, but still functioning and good enough to be loved.
  I was a mug, which was just about the funniest, saddest thing my mom had ever heard.  But as we both laughed at my declaration, she told me it was her favorite mug, as well.
  So on December 1st, 8 and a half months after Peter left me, I walked into the cafe with Steven and my parents carrying boxes of my mugs.  I had succeeded in making 9 sets, 36 mugs, and 2 Christmassy colored bowls, and the manager was excited. 

  Actually, she was so excited she snatched up 3 sets immediately as her own, and 2 employees grabbed a set each, which suddenly brought me to only 4 sets to sell, which seemed sad somehow after all my hard work.  Yet as my dad pointed out it didn't matter who bought them as long as they were being bought, and word of mouth from two coffee baristas in the village could only help me, so I smiled at his logic and moved on.

  Therefore, even though I only had 4 sets and 2 bowls to sell in the cafe, on my very own little shelf with my name on a cute little plaque, ‘Sophie Morley- Handmade designs by local artist' which sounded way cooler than I felt, I still made a little money, but more importantly, I could breathe because the contract was finished.

  But 2 days later I received a phone call from the cafe that changed my life again.
  Reaching for my cell in the pottery studio Friday night, I was told by the manager Cori everything had sold that day.  I was told my bowls and the 4 sets of mugs were purchased and then I was asked if it was possible to make any more quickly before Christmas, which honestly stressed me right out again.  I was shocked and excited that everything went so well though, until she told me it was one man who had bought everything I made.  And I knew.
  Swallowing my mouth full of bile, I asked the unbelievable.  “Who was he?”
  “I don't know.  Some military guy.  He said he just returned and he had to have all your pottery.  He was a little intense, but I guess that’s normal for them,” she laughed.
  Cori hadn't been around the café back then so she didn't know about me and Peter, but I knew. Snapping out of my shock, I asked all I could as I tried to just breathe. “Did he leave his name?”
  “No, why?  He paid in cash and left with a box of your mugs and one bowl.  He bought everything that was left because I'd already sold a set of mugs and one bowl earlier,” she answered calm to my anything but. 
  “What did he look like?” I choked.
  “I don't know... Long hair, muscly, a banged up eye and cheek.  I don't know.  Why?  Do you have a stalker?” She laughed.
  “What color hair?”
  “Brown, I think.”
  “Eyes?” I begged.
  “I couldn't tell.  I don't remember.  Why?” She asked again instead of talking.
  “I'm just curious.  Did he say anything about me?”
  “Not at all.  Why?  What's going on, Sophie?”
  I was totally losing my mind with Cori's lack of information, so I tried harder to keep it together. 

  “How do you know he was a military guy or something?!” I asked way too loudly on the phone.
  “Um, his clothes were like cargo pants and a black shirt and he said something about stopping in for a coffee after duty.  I don't remember exactly, but it just made sense or something from his look,” she said sounding irritated with me.
  “With long hair?”  I asked desperately.
  Huffing, Cori replied quickly.  “Look, Sophie, I don't know anything else, okay?  Some guy came in and bought the last 3 sets of your mugs and the last bowl.  He had longish hair and was dressed in black cargo pants and a black shirt.  I think he even had boots on.  He mentioned being off duty, and that's it.  I just wanted to let you know all your stuff sold, and I wanted to ask if you could make anything else quickly, like in the next 2 weeks.  Even if they aren't mugs, I'll take bowls, or anything else you've made.  That's all I was calling for,” she said totally exasperated with me.
  “I'm sorry... I've just been looking for someone and I wanted to know if the guy was him.  Anyway, I have some stuff I can bring over Sunday morning, and I may have a few mugs ready as well.  Thanks for calling and for all the opportunity, Cori.  I really appreciate it,” I tried to soothe the irritation between us.
  “No problem.  When do you think you'll be in Sunday?  I'm working until 2:00, and I'd like to see and price what you bring in.”
  “I'll be there before 2:00.  Thanks, Cori,” I said as we hung up.
  And then I panicked.  Totally, absolutely panicked.  I knew it was Peter- I
knew
it.
  Breathing a
holy shit
to no one in particular in the studio, I just couldn't believe what I totally believed.  Peter was back, or alive, or well enough to buy my stuff.  Peter was still around, and I was spinning. 
  But there was nothing I could do at 8:00 Friday night, other than drive around the village looking for him.  And there was no one I could tell he was around because everyone thought I was all better.  Spinning, I knew I had to think of a way to see if the mystery man I knew was Peter was Peter.
  The following day I went back to the pottery studio as early as it opened.  Grabbing and firing every single decent piece I had ever made in their huge kiln made me feel productive, though I was loopy for sure having only slept for a few minutes here or there while I obsessed about how I would find Peter.
  Once everything was in the kiln, and there was nothing more to do but wait, I left the studio on a mission.  I had to find Peter, and the best I could come up with was Sunshine and Life again.
  So I drove quickly from the studio home to drop off my car, then ran to the health food store where everything began for me.

  Walking in the store I was greeted by Margaret, thank god.  Margaret was there and not the knowing eyes of Terry.  Margaret who had spoken to Peter and knew a little more about all this military or cop crap.
  So reeling in my excitement and delirium I walked up to her with a big smile.  Reaching, I even gave her a hug when she said hi back in the empty store which had just opened.
  “Hey Margaret... How are you?” I feigned interest.
  “Good.  Are you ready for the holidays?” She asked pleasantly.
  “Not completely.  I still have a few gifts to buy, and no idea what to get.”

  “What have you been up to?”

  I remember all the pleasantries between us were absolutely killing me.  I wanted to ask her everything so badly, but I didn't even know how to start without sounding rude or desperate.
  “Not much.  Um... Margaret?  Can I ask you a few questions about-”
  “Peter?” She cut me off.
  “Yes...” I gulped my nervousness.
  Smiling at me, Margaret admitted, “Terry told me about your little confrontation a few months ago, and since you haven't been back til now, I thought you probably wanted to know something.  So shoot,” she said almost bracing herself against the counter, even as I found myself leaning into it.
  “Ah... Well, what do you know about Peter?  I don't know if you know but Peter and I dated earlier this year, and then we ended a little abruptly and I've been left with some questions about his-”
  “Job?” She cut me off again as I nodded.  “Okay, well I don't know anything for sure, but I think he's either a police officer or maybe military of some sort.  Peter never actually admitted anything to me, and the few times we'd spoken he was pretty evasive but I picked up on a few things.”
  “Like?” I asked dying.  I was frigging shaking with the need to know.
  “Okay.  Peter mentioned once just getting home from work, but then said after 'duty' he needed to stop to get a coffee, which was weird because no one says duty after steel-mill shift work.  And then he was gone for a while once and mentioned just returning back to the ‘real world’, which was why he didn't reply to our messages.  And when he brought me a coffee once and I told him about being mugged downtown with my husband he acted all weird- like sat up straighter and started asking questions like a police officer would.  You know, approximate height and weight, but then he said, 'Where there any identifying marks, tattoos, or disfigurations' which sounded way too official to me,” she said pausing for effect.
  “What else?  All you've said was words, but nothing really concrete,” I prompted impatiently.
  “Okay.  Physically, I've seen Peter disappear, reappear and act totally exhausted when he returned, almost like weary or something.  I've seen him super slim and sickly, and bulked right up with muscles.  I've seen him with long hair looking rough and beaten, and then I've seen him a few days later clean shaven and dressed normally.  I've seen him physically beat up with tattoos all over his arms, hands and neck, and then a few days later with nothing at all, almost like he was acting a part or something...” 

  Shaking her head sadly she continued after a few seconds.  “Even his demeanor and behavior was all wrong when he was in character, but then when he would pop back in a few days later, he was just Peter again.  A nice, handsome man who made the best hand lotions, soaps and tinctures from his very own herb garden, I'm told.”
  “But why wouldn't he just tell you he was a police officer?  I mean, he doesn't have to say anything too in depth if it’s a secret.  But why not just admit to someone that he's a cop?”
  “Because he can't?” She asked.  “I don't know.  But I'm telling you Sophie, my gut is saying he is way more than he appears.  He's just too different sometimes to not be up to something.  Oh!  And this one time specifically when he was beaten up, I asked what happened and he only smiled and said 'we got the bad guys,' but nothing more even after I tried to push.”
  “'We got the bad guys' or just 'bad guys' like Terry said?”
  “No, I remember clearly, 'we got the bad guys,'” Margaret confirmed as I exhaled deeply.
  “Why do you think he disappears for months at a time?” I asked.
  “Because of his real job, I think.  I don't know, Sophie.  But I swear he's doing something like that.  He is just too hyper-vigilant or something.  He talks about wanting to protect people, and wanting everything to be safe.  He was just so sweet whenever he stopped in, that I felt almost sad for him when he would return looking terrible and exhausted.  He made me feel very badly for him when he was in character or whatever it was he was doing,” she said sadly.
  Looking at Margaret, I'll admit it, I was annoyed by her concern.  I don't think I was jealous, but I hated that she might have known the man I loved better than I did.  So trying to reign in my annoyance I asked, “How often did you guys talk?”
  “Whenever he was in the store, which was maybe once or twice a week for a few months at a time since Terry opened the store 4 years ago.  Then he would disappear for a while, until he came back again.  But he was just so secretive.  He never talked about his past or his family, or anything else.  Peter never said anything specific which seemed so odd that it made me wonder if he
couldn't
tell me anything.  I don't know...”
  “But you think you know.  You're totally sure he’s something like the police, or military, or something like that, right?” I begged trying to understand.
  “Yes... I'm sure,” she nodded again.  And though a couple had walked into the store, neither Margaret nor I acknowledged them in the slightest.
  “And you think he's something undercover?” I asked still horribly skeptical.
  “Absolutely.  His evasiveness seemed designed to let him disappear and reappear after a while.  Like he needed to go undercover for a few months until it was maybe over, or until they had enough information or something, and then he could return.  He was evasive but so warm and kind it seemed to almost tear him up to not be able to talk about anything personal.  But he wanted to, I'm sure of it.  He has too kind a soul to not want to connect with people,” she said so honestly I was jolted into a nostalgic realm of pain.
  To connect.