She won’t have that care in Lost, I think. She’ll die sooner without it. But it won’t be a real death. Look at Tiffany. We won’t have to say goodbye.

I listen carefully to every bit of instruction. I am on the phone with the insurance company, and I’m filling out paperwork in stacks to arrange for a nurse to come to our apartment. I’ve also handed over my newly arrived credit card to purchase equipment to care for her. I plan on stocking the car with it and bringing it with me.

I don’t know exactly how I’ll find Lost. By definition, it shouldn’t be a place you intend to find. But I’m hoping that my Missing Man powers will help. After all, the puffer fish and the menu found me here.

It’s a whirlwind, all the preparation, and I’m itching to be on the road, though I’m dreading the moment where I have to tell Mom where we’re driving. I don’t know how she’ll react. Poorly, I imagine. But there’s only one point I need her to understand: in Lost, she won’t be gone when she dies.

I don’t go on any more dates with William. I tell him I’m too distracted; he tells me he understands. He is remarkably understanding and compassionate and helpful in the extreme, and every time I talk to him, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. After all, what I am contemplating is crazy.

But then I talk to Mom again, and I know I am both crazy and right. We could have years together. Countless years. Centuries of years. I think of all the things in Lost I’ll show her. She’ll love the art barn. She’ll like the little yellow house. I’ll bring her to the diner. We’ll find her clothes in the junk pile. New books, countless lost library books. She’ll like pawing through the luggage—I’ll bargain with Tiffany for some. This time around, the townspeople won’t be a problem. I’ll take up the Missing Man’s duties, like Peter wanted me to. And he’ll help me find whatever I need to care for her. Or I’ll find it myself.

She’s scheduled to be released on Tuesday. That morning, I drive her car to the parking lot. I repark the car three times, even though I know I’ll be moving it closer to the door when it’s time to wheel Mom down. The hospice service offered an ambulance as transportation, but I declined. William offered to drive us, too, but I turned him down, as well. I’ve filled the tank with the same amount of gas that I had on the morning that I found Lost. It was near full. I don’t know if that will help. I’ve charged up my cell phone and have William’s number in it in case this is a terrible idea.

I’ve decided to tell Mom before we leave L.A. It’s her life, and it should be her decision. But I’m not telling her in the hospital. I want plenty of time to explain myself as we drive. If she says no, we turn around, and I take care of her in the apartment, like I told the hospital I’d do. I won’t force her. But I hope she says yes.

I’m not planning on telling William at all. His remarkable understanding must have limits, and I’m aware of how crazy my plan sounds. The more days that pass, though, the more convinced I am that I have found the perfect solution.

Inside the hospital, I check in at the front desk. My heart is thumping fast. I press the button in the elevator and ride it up. It seems infinitely slow, as if it’s being pulled inch by inch. I’m ready to claw my way out when the doors slide open with agonizing slowness. I wave at the nurses at the nurses’ station. One of them rushes around the desk to intercept me.

“You can’t go in there right now,” she says.

She isn’t a nurse I know well, but I recognize her. She always wears earrings the size of my palms. Today they’re oak leaves that rival actual leaves in size but are made of tin. “Why not? I’ve seen everything—”

The door to my mother’s room slams open, and she’s wheeled out on a gurney. An oxygen mask is strapped to her face. Her eyes are closed. William is with her, as well as a fleet of nurses.

I try to run to her. But the nurse is surprisingly strong.

“You have to wait, Ms. Chase.” Her voice is kind. “They’ll take good care of her.”

“What happened?” My voice is shrill. “She was leaving today! Why did this happen?”

Oh, God, it’s my fault. I pushed too hard. She wasn’t ready to leave. Her body wasn’t up to the stress. And then another thought: I’m too late. If I’d tried to bring her to Lost earlier, if I’d found a way to leave Lost earlier...

The nurse guides me to a chair. Someone presses a cup of coffee into my hands.

“We’ll let you know as soon as we hear anything.”

Chapter Twenty-Seven

In the waiting room, I draw sketches of her. Her, in the hospital bed. Her, at home with her plants. Her, at the kitchen table. Her, on the beach. Her and me with our toes in the ocean. In Maine. In California. In the woods. At the movies. The nurses keep feeding me paper, and I don’t look up except when I need the next sheet.

One hour passes, two, three.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a doctor enter the waiting room. William. He crosses to the nurses’ station, speaks to them, and then walks toward me.

I shoot to my feet, and the sketches scatter across the floor. I search his face for a hint. His face is kind, sympathetic, and my hands begin to shake. I clasp them together.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “There’s nothing more we can do. She’s not in any pain right now, but all we can do is keep her comfortable. It won’t be much longer.”

It feels as if the earth has quit spinning. Everything feels hushed, as if it’s holding its breath. Or maybe that’s only me. I can’t breathe. I nod as if what he’s saying makes sense, as if it even sounds like words.

“You had better go in now and say goodbye.”

I am still nodding, as if I’m a marionette and my head is on a string. Bending, I scoop up my drawings and clutch them to my chest, and then I feel my feet walking toward her door. I think William is beside me or behind me, but I don’t look. My eyes are only on her door, partially ajar. It feels both infinitely far and much too close. Like the void. It gapes at me. I reach it and push it open, and I walk inside.

Mom lies on the bed. Her eyes are closed. She has an oxygen mask on her face, and it makes her look shrunken around it. I focus on her chest, and I can’t see the rise and fall, but I hear the beep-beep-beep of the heart monitor. Each beep seems to wait a painfully long time until the next one. I drag the chair close to her bed, and I take her hand.

Her eyes flutter open. I see her smile under the oxygen mask as she turns her head and sees me. Her fingers curl around mine, but it seems as if that takes all her strength, because she releases and lets her hand simply rest in mine, limp.

“Hi,” I say.

It’s all I can think of to say. Hi.

“I drew you some pictures.” I fumble for the papers. I’ve been clutching them in my hand, and the edges are rumpled. I smooth them out and hold them up one after another so that she can see. She points to the one of her and me by the beach.

“Yeah, that’s my favorite, too,” I say. “Mom...” There are a million things I want to say, but only one of them is important. “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Lauren.” Her voice is muffled under the mask, but I can hear it fine. She has tears in her red eyes. I stroke her hand and she stares at me as if drinking me in. Softly, slowly, she then says, “If I had any sense of timing, I would have died after saying that.”

I smile because I know she wants me to. I can’t make myself laugh, even for her. I lean forward so only she will hear me, though we are alone. “I wasn’t taking you home. We were going on one last road trip. You were going to come with me to Lost.”

“That would have been nice. Can’t make it right now. Pressing engagement elsewhere. Can I take a rain check?” Her words are staccato and breathy, so soft and light that they float like bubbles in the air.