The Meanings of Lost

Chapter 11

Ambrosine:

October 28th, 2017. Diana the Enigma. That's today. Frankly, every time she shows up at my door, ready for the weekend I entitle the day "Diana the Enigma". So far, it's been seven weeks, seven days entitled "Diana the Enigma" and I still haven't figured her out. It gives me a headache. My brain knows something I do not, and thus it hates me. Sometimes I wonder what it's like to have a normal, logical relationship with one's brain and one's senses, but it's one of the few mysteries in this world I'll never know the answer too. 

At least she's very good at pretending to admire me. I've never met anyone as good as her. Being with her makes the gears turn, so it isn't that bad. Though they do get out of control sometimes. Then it starts to smell like peanut butter. And sometimes mangoes. Almost always breakfast. That's when I know that my brain has an answer, because it's done all the calculations, and I just smell the memories. But it happens too much when she's around. I can't focus on the landscapes or what she's saying. Just the nonsense my brain is processing into something sensible. At least I don't have to deal with all the nonsense in the world. I guess I'll call that a win. I do so hate the world at times.

Diana:

Ambrosine never says much in the car. It's when we're at the brunch diner that she talks. When I asked her why, she said that it was because it smelled like breakfast, so she could ignore her brain. 

I pull into the diner and she jumps out of the back seat. I can never get her to leave her bag in the car. It's always slung over her shoulder, giving her a schoolgirl aspect even on the weekend. We sit at our usual table by the window, surrounded by other families, who have been coming here longer than we have. We fit in, just another mother and daughter duo eating lunch like normal, civilized humans.

Today, she was dressed in a quieter outfit. Ambrosine was wearing dark blue jeans and a murky green top with an autumn leaf pattern stitched in the front finished off with her navy blue SYNCHRO sweater. Usually, she likes bright colours, a habit that apparently developed after her mother passed and she wore black until school started up again. I haven't learnt much about it, only that it happened almost a year ago during their Christmas holiday, but after New Year, forever ruining her love of the holidays and the colour black. I don't know why she's not a fan of superheroes either. I know she saw the Wonder Woman movie because her friend paid for everything and she wrote her application paper (apparently Stonewall requires one each year) comparing Doctor Poison with The Phantom of the Opera and did it well enough to get accepted in. I guess I should be proud, about her and the film.

After the rehearsal, I have to take her to the court-mandated therapy session. I don't think it does much good, for she's always worried that whatever she says will be manipulated and used against her dad. Any problems she has can be related to the fact that he raised her for all of her life except part of the past year.

It's easy to see the change from high energy to her more solemn character. She doesn't fidget in her seat, her voice is quiet and flat, almost mournful. It's like two different people.

"There are three more cars than usual," she says as we pull into the parking lot. "I've seen some of them before."

"They're common cars," I say, though it's not entirely true. One is a luxury automotive. 

"I have seen them on the road, yes. But the licence plates also..." she drifts off, the way she often does when she begins to think. Ambrosine blinks slightly more often, her fingers twitching as she does the math. "I know it," she mumbles, frustrated.

We walk into the vicinity.

"Grandmother!" she exclaims in shock. I can't tell if it's the licence plate or the woman standing in front of us. She has straight grey hair and is dressed in a business suit, her hands crossed.