Lost and Found

Peter stood at the checkout stumbling, frantically searching his pockets, patting his hands rhythmically up, down, and across his chest, then over his bum, flapping the inside of his jacket like a coach on first signaling the batter. Reluctantly he stepped aside so the very old, very stooped Italian woman clad head to toe in black could go ahead. She had a cart full of rapini, 8 potatoes, 5 cans of Italian crushed tomatoes, packages of imported pasta and 3 lemons. Peter wondered if she was eating alone. He was trying not to panic. Not only was his billfold gone but his keys were, too. Think, Peter, think. The cashier, a quiet, comely Irish redhead who married into the Italian grocery family tosses him  a sideways glance, curious irritation in her brow. He's done this before. Last week he left the keys in the car, running, parked on the street during rush hour in a tow away zone with his laptop open on the passenger seat. By the grace of who knows what Peter returned fifteen minutes later with his drycleaning and pulled pork to find everything intact. Anxiety flooded over him as he climbed into the car and locked the doors. His hands shake, gripping the wheel. He's been losing chunks of time, sometimes a few minutes but lately it's been entire hours, parts of days. Forgetting appointments, losing track of objects and people- all of this confounds him, terrorizes him. He's too young, too healthy. Cole is only 6 years old, he can't fail his son, not yet. The old woman ambles to the door, rolling her shopping cart with her. Peter holds it open and follows behind, retracing his steps, trying desperately to remember where he began.