We Find What Is Lost: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 1)

Chapter Seven: Al, Wednesday

Al felt a little guilty walking away from Rachel with the same relief he would have felt breathing clean air after a long stay in a smoke filled room. It had been a shock to run into her like that, completely out of context; it was as if Lauren's earlier call had put her in his thoughts, and his thoughts had summoned her like a ghost at a seance. He hadn't been ready for the sight of her. 

It wasn't just that she was older but still very recognizable as the Rachel he knew, but she also looked... haunted. He'd read about her in her social media feeds, the awful things those people had posted on her wall (he didn't understand why Rachel had replied with the word "flame" after each tweet, and sometimes not even that, just an emoji), and he could tell every one of those hateful words were sitting on her shoulders. This was not the determined and fearless girl he remembered. Life had not been kind to her since she'd moved away, after her mother had come back. Maybe if that hadn't happened, if she'd just continued living with her dad just the two of them, she might have been happier.

He'd sent her a friend request, though, because, like Lauren had said, it really looked like she needed a friend right now. And, unlike face-to-face awkwardness, he could express himself a lot better in writing.

On the Skytrain home, he listened to his audiobook on his iPhone earbuds and tried to ignore the couple arguing in the seats across from him. He looked forward to getting off at Patterson Station and jogging the rest of the way home, partly to stop having to be across from this bickering, which was plainly making all the other riders uncomfortable, but also because it was his normal routine on days with dry weather. He enjoyed exercising after a sedentary day examining library materials and inputting their metadata into the library's automated system. It kept him from gaining weight, and it burned up any nervous energy and head fog he'd developed throughout the day. 

He had a lot to burn today, that was for sure. Sure, he ran in his walking shorts and polo shirt, but they were just as comfortable as sweats and he could throw them right in the laundry hamper when he got home and had a shower. His backpack was a single strap crossover that stayed snug to his body while he ran and didn't bounce and try to fly off like a two-strap. 

It was funny how his choices and routine had developed organically. It had all started because one day he was on a stalled train and couldn't endure being packed like sardines. He'd had his running shoes on because he always wore them to work; they provided more cushioning than dress shoes. So, he'd made the impulse decision to leave the train at the next station, which had happened to be Patterson, and run the rest of the way home. He'd been running home from the same station ever since.

Suddenly his audiobook faded out, and his phone rang. It was Mom.

"Hi, honey," she said.

"Hey, Mom, I'm just on the Skytrain." He never liked being on the phone on the Skytrain; he hated subjecting fellow riders to one-sided conversation because he hated listening to it himself, especially from riders who seemed cheerfully unconcerned that everyone was listening to them, and the louder they were, the more oblivious they were of the effect they had on people. "I'm on the Skytrain!" they would declare at the top of their lungs, before suddenly tearing into the person on the other end of the line, either for some slight they'd caused the day before or for having the audacity to call them in the first place. 

"Can I call you back?" he said sotto voce into the phone, confident the microphone on his earphones would make his voice clear.

"Sure," she said cheerily, before continuing the conversation as if he'd never asked her. "I need you to come by and mow the lawn this weekend."

He sighed inwardly and said, "Sure. Will do." He'd been doing it ever since Dad had gotten sick. It wasn't a big lawn, so it never took long. Then they usually had lunch. It counted as a visit in his mind, good for at least a week, maybe two.

"Also, I wanted to ask if you remembered Martha Anderson from Queensborough."

"Yes. I heard she passed away."

"You did? Who told you?"

"Do you remember Lauren Hasegawa, one of my friends from when we lived on Lawrence Street? She just called me out of the blue today and told me."

"Was she that tomboy who always wore bib overalls?"

He chuckled at her use of the word "tomboy." Such a commonly used word when they were kids, but not very PC nowadays. "That's her. She married my other friend Joe, remember him?"

"Oh, yes, the Italian boy. That family owned a lot of land down there in Queensborough. Hardworking folks."

"Right. They have two kids together."

"Well, I'm happy someone in your circle has had kids," she said, a little too pointedly for his taste; his single, childless status had long been a point of contention between them.

"So, was that all you wanted to tell me?" he asked, hoping to end the call.

"No, Al. I wanted to know if you'd take me to the memorial this Saturday."

"Oh! Actually, I was going anyway, maybe to have a little reunion with Lauren and Joe, maybe Sunny and Rachel, too. I'll book a Modo, then come by, mow your lawn, have a shower and change there, and we'll drive to the memorial after." Al didn't own a car, preferring to be a member of Modo, a car-sharing cooperative operating in the Lower Mainland. 

"Thanks, Al. If I'd learned to drive, I would have never had to depend on your father all the time, and now that he's gone..."

"Yeah. I know." Dad died of cancer ten years ago. He'd had a scare the year before that, but they'd thought some timely surgery had gotten him out of the woods. It hadn't. The cancer had come roaring back, going everywhere. Within two weeks of the fatal diagnosis, he was gone. At least it had been quick, if horrible; he hadn't had to endure months of chemotheraphy that would have reduced him to skin and bones and done no good. Al sometimes wondered if his old man had convinced a good-hearted doctor to slip him a little more morphine than he needed and help him go out on his own terms. He wouldn't have put it past him. The man had a way of getting people to do what he wanted and make them think it was their idea.

"Anyway," she said, in that way she did when she was just about to launch on another subject. "How is work?"

"Fine. Look, Mom, I'm on the Skytrain. Can I call you back?"

"Okay, okay, just make sure you call, I never hear from you." Another point of contention, her only child never calling his widowed mother. It made him feel guilty and irritated at the same time.

"As soon as I'm home," he promised. "But it'll be a while because I'm running today."

"Fine. Bye." And just like that, she hung up.

Al sighed as his audiobook automatically picked up where it left off. Then he looked out the window and suddenly noticed, to his dismay, that he'd missed his stop.

Wasn't it odd that Al never noticed Sam standing behind Rachel when they talked at the library, and yet he saw Sam's twitter responses? Is Sam real or not? You'll need to read further to find out! Just click on the "Continue reading" button below. Don't forget to click the "Vote" button and leave a comment!