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Copyright © 2010 Andrea Langworthy
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Entertainment writers have given a lot of space to the final episode of Lost, an ABC series ending after six seasons. I never watched the show. Just the sound of it — being lost — conjures up a memory I’d like to forget. One that is crystal-clear almost four decades after it happened. The day my daughter was lost.
She was four. My son, two. Early that morning, I loaded the double stroller into the back of the station wagon and went back inside the house for my children. They were waiting in new Florence Eismann outfits, gifts from their grandmother. A navy blue jumper appliquéd with a yellow duck and a white Peter Pan collared blouse for her. A matching romper and shirt for him. Their father had polished their white and brown saddle shoes for the occasion, Saturday brunch at Dayton’s with the Easter bunny. “Give Daddy a good-bye kiss,” I said before snapping them into their car seats. Then, we were off to Brookdale Center to meet a friend and her little girl for scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Orange juice, too. After breakfast and pictures with the Easter bunny, we walked to the center of the mall where a farm had been set up with baby animals. Piglets, lambs, goats, and chicks.
The other mother hadn’t brought a carriage for her four-year-old, so my daughter wanted to walk, too. She wrapped her little fist around the side of the buggy’s handle and promised to hold on. The farm area was crowded with parents and children. I kept one eye on my little girl as she petted the furry critters and the other on my son who’d fallen asleep. As we walked towards another corral, I looked down to ask my little girl something. She wasn’t there. I looked to my friend, turned in a circle, and let out a cry. There were no cell phones back then so I screamed for someone to get a security guard and for my friend to find a telephone and call the police.
“What does she look like?” the guard asked when he arrived. “She’s adorable,” I answered and pointed to my son. “She’s wearing an outfit that matches his.” I told the man how cute she looked with a dark blue bow in her hair; that someone must have just snatched her away. All the while, I walked in circles hoping to spot her even though I feared the worst. The guard asked if she knew her phone number and insisted I call my husband to see if she’d called. “You lost her?” her dad asked. “How?” I had no answer.
A few minutes later, she was found. She’d walked into a store and told a clerk she was lost. The woman sat her on top of the counter near the front door in case I walked by. Another salesperson went to the candy section and brought back chocolates. And that’s how I found her — eating bonbons on top of a glass-topped cosmetics case, surrounded by four female store employees who cooed about how cute she was. As if I didn’t know. Even today, my heart races as I picture it. And whenever I hear the word lost.