Lost and Found

A man in a faded NAVY hoodie sat alone at a Starbucks corner table. He was tired and his back hurt after a long day of panhandling. His shoes were shabby. His hands were rough from exposure to cold, sun, and wind. On the floor next to him a sheet of folded cardboard rested against his chair leg.

He was invisible to most of the other patrons. Some didn’t see him; others chose not to. He had grown accustomed to it, and had learned to take comfort in the anonymity. He was nursing a tall coffee, purchased with a gift card someone had passed him from their car window the day before. “God bless you,” he had said, with a practiced, submissive smile. But a voice inside him grumbled, Cash only, please.

He watched sullenly as a smartly dressed woman and her little daughter settled into one of the booths on the far end of the room. He immediately recognized her as a regular at his corner. But despite having driven past him in her Escalade nearly every weekday morning for as long as he could remember, she had never passed a single dollar out her window or so much as made eye contact with him. He felt uncomfortable that she might recognize him in this setting, and lowered his head slightly so his eyes were nearly hidden below the rim of his cap.

She handed the little girl a cake pop, then turned her attention to her cell phone and took a sip of her drink. Immediately her heavily lipsticked smile turned upside down. She held the cup at arm’s length, glared at the order sticker, and sighed dramatically. Then she spoke softly to her daughter and returned to the order counter.

“I asked for a chai latte,” she said loudly. “This is regular.” The barista apologized and scurried off to correct the mistake.

Rich bitch problems, the man thought. While the woman waited at the counter, her daughter sat quietly munching on the cake pop, her legs swinging under the bench. He saw a Band-Aid on the inside of her right arm. At that moment she turned and looked at him. The innocence of her gaze invoked in him an oddly unsettling feeling. But before he could avert his eyes, her face broke into a warm smile. She shrugged her shoulders slightly and gave him a little wave.

Refocusing on her cake pop, she lifted it for another bite, but it hit the bottom of the table instead and fell to the floor in pieces. She wailed, holding up the naked wooden stick as fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Her mother was immediately at her side. “Oh, Abigail! What happened?” She picked up the remnants of the treat and wiped the floor with a paper napkin. “You really need to be more careful,” she chided, which prompted more tears from the girl.

The man looked on, suddenly seeing the scene as one moment in a series of moments that would ultimately make up the whole of their lives together. He wondered if the woman ever stopped to appreciate how precious all of those moments were and are and would be. He had missed fifteen years of such moments with his own long-lost daughter. She would be college aged now, and he wouldn’t know her if he saw her.

~

When his daughter was only three years old the man had suffered a severe back injury while serving as an Electronics Technician aboard a US Navy destroyer. He was deployed with an aircraft carrier battle group in the Persian Gulf in support of Operation Enduring Freedom. While performing electronics maintenance on one of the radar transmitters above the signal bridge his safety harness failed, and he fell sixty feet to the main deck. A medi-vac helicopter immediately transported him off the ship to the carrier. From there he was flown stateside, where he underwent spinal surgery. Ultimately designated physically unfit for active duty, he was separated on a medical disability discharge.

The after-effects of his surgery and recovery would prove challenging and destructive. As fate would have it, this occurred during the height of the opioid addiction crisis. Vicodin was considered a miracle drug for post-operative pain management, but he found he required increasing dosages to maintain efficacy. As his body grew increasingly resistant to the drug, he eventually developed an addiction. The ensuing months for him and his family were fraught with challenging behavior, including irrational anger, spousal abuse issues and ultimately, criminal charges and a restraining order. The marriage ultimately ended in divorce. His ex-wife secured full custody of their daughter and moved away, effectively eliminating him from her life.

He had been clean and sober for nearly fifteen years, after completion of an effective methadone rehabilitative program and ongoing attendance at weekly support group meetings. But, as his ex-wife had cut all ties with him and essentially disappeared, he had no idea where they were. His most recent memory of his daughter was seeing her wave good-bye from the back window of her mother’s car as they drove out of his life. He now lived in a low-rent studio near the VA clinic, supplementing his meager pension with panhandling proceeds from kind-hearted or guilt-ridden drivers passing by his usual corner.

~

A few minutes later the woman and her daughter returned to their booth. Holding Abigail’s hand, she grabbed her drink, phone, bags and keys, and they rushed out the door together. The man’s eyes followed them outside. They were crossing the parking lot toward the Escalade.

He reached down to pick up his sign and from that lower angle, his gaze fell on something lying on the floor of the now empty booth. It appeared to be a wallet. The shop was not particularly busy. He looked around, but none of the other patrons or workers seemed to be aware of the deserted item.

Trying not to draw any attention to himself, he rose from his seat, dropped his empty cup in the trash bin near the counter and walked toward the exit. Pausing briefly at the booth, he quickly scanned the room again. No one was watching him, so he bent down, picked up the wallet, and headed for the door.

Exiting the building, he saw the woman buckling Abigail into her seat in the car. He quickly curled around the corner and leaned against the wall. His pulse raced as he thought about what he should do with his find. He peeked around to see that the woman was now in the driver’s seat. If he were going to return it, there was no time to hesitate. But after another moment of reflection, he heard the car start. And he didn’t move. He watched them pull away, then headed for the bus stop.

~~~

That evening, Abigail, her father, and her mother were having dinner at home, discussing the missing wallet. She said Starbucks was the last place she remembered having it. After going through her things and checking the car again, she had called the shop.

“They checked around, but the workers hadn’t found anything. No one had turned anything in.”

“Someone must have picked it up. Did you see anyone suspicious while you were there?”

“Not really."

“You were probably on your phone the whole time.”

“No,” she said, frowning.

Having no luck with the coffee shop, she immediately called their bank about her debit card and notified the credit companies about the others. She had also checked with the DMV about getting her license replaced.

“How much cash were you carrying?”

“About five hundred dollars.”

“Damn it.”

“Daddy. That’s a bad word.”

“You’re right, sweetheart. Sorry.”

“It was the cash we had left when we got home from Disney last week. I was going to put it back in savings, but I didn’t have time to get to the bank today.”

“Wait. Please don’t tell me it was the Luis Vuitton wallet I gave you for Christmas?”

“Yes. It was.”

“Shit!”

“Daddy!”

“That wallet cost me six hundred by itself!”

The woman threw her napkin on the table, picked up her plate and stomped into the kitchen. She dropped the plate in the sink and hurried down the hall. Upstairs their bedroom door slammed a few seconds later.

“Is Mommy sad?”

“I think so, Honey.”

“Because you said bad words?”

“Well, maybe. I think mostly because she feels bad about losing her wallet.”

“Oh.”

After sitting together in awkward silence for a few minutes, Abigail's father cleared the table, washed the dishes, and took her upstairs to bed. When he was helping her get her pajamas on he noticed the Band-Aid on her arm and a spasm of guilt fluttered in his stomach. When he asked her how she was feeling, she said okay. He tucked her in, kissed her good night, and left the door slightly ajar.

Down the hall he tapped on their bedroom door and opened it a crack. His wife sat at her vanity aggressively brushing her hair.

“Is it safe?”

“You’re not funny.”

“Hey, I’ll admit I over-reacted,” he said, slowly entering the room. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m sorry too. I need to be more careful. But that’s not all I’m angry about.”

“What else?”

“You didn’t even ask about Abigail’s treatment today.”

“I know. I remembered when I was tucking her in just now. I’m sorry. Was there any news?”

“Her last round of tests looked good. She’s responding well.”

“Good.” He pulled her close and ventured a kiss. She returned the gesture begrudgingly.

“All right. Now, I’m tired. I’ll look in on Abigail and then turn in."

After saying good night to her daughter, the woman went to bed. Her husband watched a Yankees game downstairs and turned in a little after 11. Their doorbell rang at 1:30.

~~~

That night the man sat in the only chair at his kitchen table. Light from a small overhead fixture weakly illuminated the tabletop, the dated wallpaper, and the wear-worn linoleum floor. The Formica counter between the sink and the refrigerator held a toaster and a small microwave oven. Beyond the sallow kitchen lighting his studio apartment extended into semi-darkness, where a single bed and nightstand kept company with an easy chair.

He removed the contents of the woman’s wallet and spread everything out on the kitchen table. Four hundred ninety dollars in cash was more than an average month’s take at his corner. He didn’t know much about credit cards, but he had heard of a guy who would probably pay him something for them. The driver’s license wasn’t worth anything beyond some personal information – full name, address, birthdate, and a photograph. The wallet looked pretty fancy. He might be able to get something at a pawn shop for it.

It was a real windfall for him. He tried to rationalize keeping it by telling himself that Abigail’s family would hardly miss it. But tucked inside there was something that gave him pause. A medical report of therapeutic treatment for leukemia and some test results had been folded and slipped inside the fold. The patient’s name was Abigail Stevens.

His memory of the little warm smile from across the room flashed in his mind. The thought of the child battling cancer made his heart ache. Maybe her family was better off financially than he was, but they had enough on their plate already without him doing what he was thinking about doing. Sure, he could use the money. No one would ever know. He was poor. But he wasn’t a monster.

He sat at the kitchen table for a long time perusing the items as he decided what to do. Finally, he replaced the contents of the wallet, holding out a hundred dollars in twenties for himself. Then he wrote a short note, signed it, and tucked it inside. Just after midnight, he put the wallet in his back pocket and headed for the metro bus stop.

~~~

The next morning, as Abigail’s mother drove to work, she thought about the man. He probably didn’t know what a Ring camera doorbell was, let alone recognize the one on their front porch when he had made his delivery in the wee hours of that morning. Minutes after their doorbell rang and they came downstairs to find her missing wallet tucked inside the storm door, she and her husband had viewed the recording.

She instantly recognized the man on the video when she saw the faded NAVY hoodie and his familiar limp. His favorite corner was not far from the accounting office where she worked. Had he been in the Starbucks that day? she wondered. She saw him nearly every morning on her way in, standing at the intersection with his hand lettered cardboard sign: “Disabled Veteran. Please help. Any $$ amount is appreciated. Have a blessed day.”

She felt a pang of guilt and shame when she remembered how many times she had rationalized driving past him as if he were invisible. She cringed to remember some of her most cynical thoughts: What a scam. I’ll bet he’s healthier than I am. Veteran my ass - more like a drunk or a dope addict. He probably has a BMW parked around the corner.

After passing the Starbucks she slowed at the next intersection, and there he was. Just like every other day. The torn jeans, the rough hands, the downcast expression. But this day was different. It would be different. The light turned red and she stopped behind one other car.

He hadn’t seen her yet as he held his sign at waste level and started slow-walking down the line of idling vehicles. As he passed the first car a hand emerged from the driver’s side holding something out for him. He took the gift with a smile and continued on. He was even with Abigail’s mother’s front bumper when they made eye contact for the first time ever. He froze, his eyes wide in surprise or fear or both. She gestured for him to come closer and then rolled down her window. He shuffled toward her like an automaton.

“Hello Randy.”

“Am I in trouble, Mrs. Stevens?”

“Probably not. And please. Call me Evelyn. Can I buy you a coffee?”

“Uh, sure, I guess. Black, please.”

“Oh, no. You have to come with me.”

“Well, this is my prime time, see,” he said, gesturing toward the other cars in the line.

“How about if I buy you a coffee and make you whole for the time you’ll be missing out here?”

“I guess that would work.”

“Come on, then. Please get in,” she said, unlocking the passenger side door.

In Starbucks they had coffee and got to know a little about each other. Randy told Evelyn that he was sorry that he had kept a hundred dollars of the cash, but he really needed it, and he figured they would probably have given him something for returning the wallet anyway and he hoped the amount was fair. She said that it was more than fair and thanked him and handed him another hundred. Then he asked about Abigail and Evelyn told him about her diagnosis and her healing journey. Randy was really happy to hear that she was doing well. He told Evelyn about Abigail’s smile the day before and the little wave and how it had made his whole day. Then Evelyn asked Randy if he had any children, and he explained about his life had gone, but that he was really trying to do better and Evelyn asked if he thought there was any chance he might ever find his daughter and he said maybe, but he really didn’t think so. Evelyn said well, this has been nice, Randy, let’s stay in touch and he said I’d like that.

After she dropped Randy back off at his corner, Evelyn wondered about how she might be able to help him reconnect with his daughter. And as Randy watched her drive away he thought about how you can’t really know someone until you sit down and have a real conversation with them. Before that, you might think you know. But you don't. Just because they drive a certain car or dress a certain way or live in a certain neighborhood you don’t really know anything about them. Until you do.

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