The Department of Lost & Found Read Free Page A

exaggeration), I caved. I placed the cap on my highlighter and tucked away my list of phone numbers and met Sally, Lila, and a pack of other sorority sisters at a bar in the East Village. I didn’t even bother changing out of my entirely too-geekish suit. I can assure you that I was the only one there in pumps. And hose. And we’ll leave it at that.
    Around 10:00, a band, the Misbees, one that my friends made a point to see every time they played in the city, hit the stage. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe he really was a fucking great singer, but either way, I couldn’t take my eyes off the blond, tousled-hair guy behind the microphone. His voice hummed out low and deep, and when he sang of pain and betrayal and love and lust, I believed him. And I wanted to know more. Our eyes locked toward the end of the set, and I felt my pulse speed up and my stomach tighten.
    When the Misbees finished their set, the singer wandered over 18
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    to the bar directly next to my perch on a stool and ordered a beer, and when he took a step backward, he somehow missed the fact that said leg of the stool was in his way. Which is how he wound up tripping and dumping at least half of his Heineken on the Donna Karan suit my mother had bought me when I accepted the senator’s offer. Maybe that should have been a warning sign—an in-auspicious start—but when he patted me down with a napkin and apologized with his hound-dog eyes, I was hooked. Line and sinker. Sinking fast, actually. . . .
    I heard the microwave timer ding, and shaking off my memory, I placed my feet firmly into the existence that now comprised my reality. I stared at a pin-striped shirt and snorted. Ned . As if he’d ever compare to the great love of my life. As if he were anything more than filler. Maybe I’ l e-mail him again, I thought. Just to let him know . I plodded out of my walk-in closet, dropping Ned’s dry-cleaned Armani on the floor and stepping smack on it. I might have even let my foot swivel a few times before I actually took a step forward.
    I’d programmed the timer to remind me to take my medicines: the antinausea, the anticancer, the pretty much antieverything. It dinged four times a day, subtle reminders of my altered existence just in case I should ever be lulled into a false sense of reality. The antinausea drugs were the worst: so large I didn’t see how it was possible for a gorilla, much less a human, to swallow them. I’d swing back a gulp of water and the prickly pill would hang in the curve of my throat, daring me to dry heave or cough and start all over again. You’d think after three weeks, I’d have mastered this, but there are some things you just never get used to.
    I went back to the closet and picked up Ned’s Armani. My hands dove into the side pockets: I figured that if he had any spare cash, I might as well line my own wallet. I’d already found $31.57, The Department of Lost & Found
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    and I was only half done. I pulled out a receipt from an Italian restaurant in the West Village, dated the night of the day that Ned discovered the lump. Bastard. He told me he was in Chicago . I threw the Armani onto the duffel bag on my bed and kept the receipt.
    Ammunition in case things ever got dirty, I figured. As if they’re not dirty enough, I thought. But I’d learned that on the job: Keep whatever evidence necessary to burn the opponent and shred whatever evidence might be able to be used to bury you.
    I reached up to the top shelf for his T-shirts. His lacrosse shirt from Harvard. I tossed it over my shoulder into a garbage bag. After all, it was his favorite. Not that he actually played on the team, you understand. But he managed them, so I guess he felt entitled to don it regardless. And not that he actually got into Harvard on his own merits. As I’ve already mentioned, he’s one step above a complete twit. But his family practically dates back to the Mayflower, and the admissions committee seems