Wildly Lost

By B. H. Haass

For Chauncy Wildes, a successful artist, sharing her cottage on the beach with her precious potbellied pig Olive, while clumsily stumbling through life, is the epitome of perfection – until she finds herself caught between a past she can't remember and an uncertain future. Chauncy is tormented by vicious nightmares and is desperate for answers as they slowly begin to come to life. Chauncy realizes that if she does not battle the demons of her past she will never have the future she has always dreamed of.

A familiar stranger’s lifelong obsession with Chauncy causes her to question the reality of her life. Chauncy's strength throughout this journey proves to be miraculous as she awkwardly navigates her way through her past one horrific memory at a time, knowing it would be much easier just to leave them locked in the dark. But with the help of her southern friends and family, she is able to put the sinister puzzle pieces together and finally understand the captivating grandeur of letting go.

• Language: English
• Publisher: B. H. Haass
• Release date: Jun 14, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370649150

B. H. Haass

B.H. Haass grew up in the coastal town of Saint Mary’s Georgia, which provided the location for Wildly Lost, and moved to Connecticut three years ago. She is married to the love of her life and has two sons. Writing always forces her to be brave and live life outside of her comfort zone, where all the fun happens.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Today is the day. Today he gets to see his beloved. He may even be so close he can hear her laugh. Jubilation rises high in his chest and he skips through the house, making the wooden boards sing beneath his feet.

He runs his hand over his scruffy jaw as he thinks of how patient he has been, waiting all these years watching her, learning her every habit. He is confident he knows what she will do before she does in any given situation. The time and place has to be perfect, as they almost are now. He looks into the warped plastic hanging on the wall that he uses for a mirror and swipes his dirty fingers through his greasy blonde hair, and swipes his bangs out of his eyes. He feels a smile creep across his cracked lips knowing that, though he will see her, she won’t see him and the mess he has become in the years since they last met.

Driving into town, he blasts the greatest hits from the 90s and sings along to the Backstreet Boys. He catches a glimpse of himself in the rearview mirror and there it is again, that smile. He quickly looks away, scared it will fade. He rolls down the window and sings even louder, letting his heart smile while he thinks of her. In the truck, he rolls down the window and blasts the music, pounding his dirty palms against the wheel and letting his voice carry. Tell me whyyy! A squirrel darts across the road, daring him. He accelerates, but misses. Doesn’t matter. That familiar smile crawls over his face and he sings even louder. He won’t miss again.

He easily finds the house that sits beside hers and parks the SUV on a side-street. As he turns off the ignition, he feels the familiar tightening of his stomach muscles, the familiarity of losing control. He grabs his bag off the passenger seat and slams the door. Bending down to the side-view mirror, he looks one more time at his reflection. The smile has been replaced by a slit for a mouth and black holes where eyes used to be. He parks on a side street, turns off the engine, and suppresses a giggle. His pulse accelerates with excitement and he looks around. The neighborhood is just as he planned, quiet, unexpecting. A village of idiots. He steps out onto the street, shuts the door, and sees himself in the reflection of the driver’s side mirror. The smile has been replaced by a slit for a mouth and black holes where eyes used to be. It’s go time.

The front door is unlocked.

Idiots, he says under his breath.

He had done his homework, knowing this house is for sale and no one will be looking at it today. He stands up a little straighter, proud of his resourcefulness. What he didn’t expect to find was a pair of teenage lovebirds fucking in the back bedroom.

He stands silent and still in the doorway watching them, his grimy boot covers her pale pink sweater. They are a beautiful tangled mess of everything he will never have. He gets pissed at the thought. He clears his throat to make his presence known. The girl jumps to her feet covering her breasts with her hands while the boy lays there paralyzed and exposed.

You whore. You dirty little whore. A calm, low growl rolls from his throat. And you, he spits, pointing his dirt-stained finger at the young man. You should be ashamed of yourself for taking advantage of a young girl like that. Shame on you, Boy.

She lunges for her sweater and he stabs a small needle filled with a lethal combination of diazepam and heroin into the girl’s neck and she falls to the floor. Romeo tries to jump up but he is restrained by his pants around his ankles. Too bad for him. He grabs a handful of Romeo’s chestnut hair and rolls him like a hog and straddles his back. Yee-haw! he yells into the empty space while he ties Romeo’s hands with a cord from his back pocket and then he binds his ankles just above where his jeans still sit above his feet. He jabs a second needle into the boy’s neck who then falls silent.

You kids ain’t got shit on me; I was a fuckin’ Eagle Scout, he says proudly, broadening his shoulders as he stands up straight, hovering over the two limp bodies. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve before he continues with his mission.

Inside the vacant house he crouches beneath a window in the third bedroom, peering through the blinds like a feral inmate. He has the perfect view of her entire yard. He cracks the window just a little, hoping to hear her voice, but it’s no use. The music and street noise are too loud, but every so often he can hear the beautiful music of her distinctive laugh. It comes from her soul and sings just for him.

Pulling a small satin garment from his pocket, he puts it to his face, breathing in the scent of her. Her panties. She left them lying on her bed just for me. She does things like that sometimes, leaves me little gifts, offerings of her love.

Vibrating with excitement, he chews on the hangnail protruding from his thumb. He knows he can’t touch her, but he will soon enough. His breath catches at the thought and the bulge in his crotch hardens. He watches her slender fingers glide across the top of the plastic bag and notices how delicate her hands are, how feminine her pink fingernails. He watches her drop small, shiny objects into baggies then hang them, one by one, onto umbrella posts.

Frustration pulses through him when she turns away from him, as if she’s doing it on purpose.

Bitch, turn back around, he mutters under his breath.

Immediately, guilt spins in his gut.

I’m sorry, he whispers into the vacant room.

People begin to filter through the yard. With each person who enters, his agitation increases and volatile anger wells high within him. Especially when he watches her caress the back of a guest or kiss the cheek of another. It doesn’t matter to him if they are male or female. It only matters that she is touching, caressing, kissing, someone other than him.

It’s a hot summer afternoon in north Florida and there is no air conditioning to keep him cool. He wipes the sweat from his thick brow with the tattered edge of his favorite Atlanta Braves t-shirt. He doesn’t care. He will sit here all day and all night watching her. Patiently. He knows it will be a while yet before he can have her. He has to do this right. Make no mistakes. He has carefully planned to have her for the past 17 years.

He glances toward the yard to see a short, round woman take a seat at the tiki bar.

Ahh, the only member of your family I like. The incomparable Aunt Birdie. Love the hat, Doll, he says with a grin. She’s the only one of them who tried to protect you, my love. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll let her live.

He laughs maniacally then slaps his hand over his mouth, hearing the boom of his voice vibrate off the empty walls.

Chapter 2

Aha, I found one! I yell to Olive, my pot-bellied pig, as I pull the penny from the bottom of a mason jar filled with buttons, paper clips, and tops to pens that have long been lost. I need four shiny pennies to get rid of flies and sand gnats, or so my Granny had always said. As the story goes, gnats and flies are afraid of their own reflection. It really doesn’t matter if it works or not, because, heaven forbid, if you don’t hang up the baggies everyone is going to ask about them.

My beach cottage is small but it’s mine, I bought it when I sold my first painting to a super-rich widow in Connecticut. I walk out to my small yard with Olive close at my heels and drop one penny in each bag before filling them halfway with water. I hang two baggies on the fence and one on each of the umbrella posts before I light the citronella candles.

I look past my fence to see my neighbors, Mr. Earnest Lawrence and his wife Ruby, struggling down the steps of their front porch.

Ms. Ruby, hold on a second, I shout, fumbling with the lock on the gate.

 As I approach, Mr. Lawrence starts to whistle.

You sure are a sight for sore eyes, Chauncy. We haven’t seen you in a month of Sundays. And speaking of Sundays, why haven’t we seen you in church? Only heaven knows what you need to be saved from.

He throws me a wink as a sly smile crosses his lips. Even in his state, he still has the gift of gab.

I’ve missed you too, Mr. Earnest, I say as I kiss his cheek, feeling a touch of sadness because I just saw him yesterday.

After I walk Ms. Ruby and Mr. Earnest to my backyard and get them settled at a table in the shade, I run to the kitchen to bring out the chips and salsa. I dump the chips into a large wooden bowl and turn to grab the salsa, knocking it off the table with my elbow. Red sauce spills all over my legs and the table cloth.

I go inside to clean up to find Aunt Birdie standing in the front doorway, hips hitting each side of the door-jam. She is wearing her big red hat covered with a riot of purple feathers sticking out every which way. The red and purple pattern continues from head to toe.

Aunt Birdie! Did you just come from a Red Hat Ladies meeting?

You know I did Chauncy, every Saturday. Sorry I couldn’t come earlier to help you set up, but I brought some homemade biscuits. We just gotta heat ‘em up.

She walks over the threshold and stumbles over her foot, almost throwing the biscuits across the room.

Woo! Now Merral, don’t you let me fall.

Aunt Birdie has at least 50 pounds on Uncle Merral, yet she always leaves it up to him to catch her when she has had one drink too many. From the looks of her, today is one of those days.

Aunt Birdie, Mr. and Ms. Lawrence are out back and they’re dying to visit with y’all. Go on out and I’ll bring you a beer.

In the bathroom, I spray perfume on my neck and wrists and, as I slide gloss across my lips, the bathroom door flies open and Sara walks in.

I came here straight from the gym and I need perfume, she blurts.

Not the least bit surprised, I point over to the shelves by the sink.

The Coach one called ‘Poppy’ is my favorite. You probably need to wash your feet too, I’m sure they stink.

Oh, stop picking on me, Sara says smiling wide.

She knows damn well how bad her feet stink. I banned her from borrowing my shoes in high school after she ruined my favorite pair of Doc Martens.

You have a good turnout. I’m glad to see the Lawrence’s could make it. Is Mr. Earnest doing any better? By the way, I love Olive’s new rhinestone collar.

Thanks, I couldn’t resist the pink bling, I say, making a last minute inspection of myself in the mirror. I tuck in my tank top and find I have to make an effort to fit my hand between my belly and the waistband. I make a mental note not to eat the chips and salsa. Not really, his mind is failing him more and more every day. Yesterday he was mowing the grass in his boxer shorts. After I saw him out there, I went over to have coffee with Ms. Ruby and she said that it was alright because she took the blade off the mower. She just goes along with it as long as he’s safe. She said Mr. Earnest needs to feel like he’s in control, even if it’s only for a few minutes.

I flip on the water to wash my hands as I talk over my shoulder.

I told her I didn’t have a problem with him driving his ‘race car’ in the yard, as long as he puts his privates back into his underwear when they fall out.

Sara drops a bottle of perfume and it clatters to the floor.

Through laughter she says, You gotta love Mr. Earnest. Hell, you’ve been his on and off girlfriend for how many years now?

She smells the last of the perfume before settling on Poppy.

Before we go back outside, there’s something I have to tell you, I pause to make sure I have her attention before I say, He’s back.

What! Chauncy, what is going on? Sara says.

I’ve seen him around, on and off, for the past few months. At first, I didn’t think it was him and, even now, I’m not one-hundred-percent sure.

Wide-eyed Sara covers her mouth with her hand.

Hell, I may be going crazy and seeing things. He has been gone for so many years, since college. Listen, we’ll talk more about this later. You’ll be here until Monday and there will be plenty of time to fill you in. Don’t say anything to Mama or Scott. They don’t know anything yet. I’m sorry for dumping this on you in the bathroom but I had to tell someone, and I can’t think of a more appropriate place to take a dump than in here, can you? I make this vulgar comment to make her laugh. This all may be absolutely nothing or it could be lethal. I need more information before I tell my family that our nightmare that we thought was over may be only just beginning.

Chauncy! Your bathroom humor . . . Sara hugs me tight and manages a fake laugh and her expression shifts into one of bravery, for my sake, but she’s not fooling me. It’s okay, no worries. Let’s go get a cocktail, we both need one.

She hooks her arm in mine and we head outside.

I stand in the doorway and look toward the makeshift tiki-bar. Mama is standing behind Aunt Birdie, rubbing her back. She is flanked by my brother Scott, and Uncle Merral, who is fanning Aunt Birdie with the bill of his hat. Aunt Birdie seems oblivious to the attention and continues to sing He Stopped Loving Her Today, her own rendition of an old George Jones song

Oh shit, I mutter under my breath, making a beeline for Aunt Birdie. Mama, is everything okay? Aunt Birdie, are you alright?

My mother turns around to look at me, her expression amused.

Sweetheart, Aunt Birdie is fine. She’s just having a moment. One of her favorite Red Hat ladies is going through a divorce.

Mom brings her hand and extended thumb to her mouth before throwing her head back.

Liza, says Aunt Birdie. Don’t think I missed that hand gesture . . . and yes I will have another margarita, thank you!

Aunt Birdie swings her chair around as I approach and yells, Chauncy! Come here and give me a hug!

I happily comply. She hugs me tight, then pushes me away to arm’s length and cups my face in her hands.

You are such a beautiful woman, you know that. You know that, right Chauncy?

Thank you, Aunt Birdie, I say, trying hard to ignore the purple feather that dangles from the bill of her hat and tickles my nose.

In an instant, her expression softens as her watery eyes search my face.

No girl, you need to know how pretty you are and what a beautiful person you’ve become. You are worth a million dollars, you know that.

She pulls my face down and kisses my cheek, leaving her words behind along with a bright red set of lips. Aunt Birdie has always been my favorite.

Yes ma’am, I say as I look into her dark brown eyes and drink in her sweet smile.

I turn around and survey the yard. As I look at Aunt Birdie and Uncle Merral, the Lawrence’s, Sara, Mama, Scott, Matilda and Jack it hits me that my favorite people are in this yard. This little piece of grass on this vast planet is home. My heart is full and I am grateful.

He wakes up and glances at his watch, it’s 2:30 in the morning. He peers out the window and sees the yard is vacant save for the empty tables. The lights in the house next door are dark. He gets up, stretches the kinked muscles in his legs and back, then takes a hit from the warm whiskey bottle that sits balanced on the window sill. He stumbles back to the room where the naked kids lie crumpled on the floor.

He walks over to the girl and stares down at her. She reminds him of his beloved, her lips are stained pink from the pressure of kissing. He wrinkles his nose, annoyed that the girl’s hair is blonde, not the rich, jewel-toned auburn of hers.

His voice is thick with desire and disgust as he says, I can close my eyes and pretend it’s her.

He closes his eyes and thinks of his beloved, then snaps them opens and looks down at the young girl. It’s no use, he can’t settle for a stand-in.

Under the cover of night, he throws both bodies into the extended cab of his truck and covers them with a dirty quilt. He walks back into the house and moves through the rooms making sure that every trace of him being there is erased. Reluctantly, he drives away from the quaint neighborhood toward his home that is nowhere near as idyllic.

I fall out of bed and hit the floor hard. I stumble to my feet and hurry down the hall, covering my ears, trying to protect them from the scream of the fire alarm. I follow the wisps of smoke through the living room and slide into the kitchen to find Sara standing on the counter in her bra and underwear, waving a dish rag in front of the smoke detector. Her face is bright red and she’s covered in pancake batter. I double over in laughter.

After the alarm is finally silenced, Sara cries from the counter, It’s not funny!

Yes, I choke through belly laughs. Yes it is.

She jumps off the counter.

Ouch, my head, she whines, putting one hand on the top of her head as her feet hit the floor with a thud.

I shout over my shoulder, walking down the hall to the medicine cabinet, That’s what you get for matching margaritas with Aunt Birdie yesterday.

I return to the kitchen with two aspirin.

Here, take these.

Sara and I first met when we were freshmen in high school and we have been soul mates ever since. Like any long-lasting friendship, Sara and I have had our share of triumphs and turmoil through the years. At times, we have fought like we hated each other and said things that were so vile the devil himself would cringe. But, somehow, we’ve always found our way back to one another.

The last time we had a big fight, Sara and I were seniors in college and we didn’t speak for a year. Sadly, it took Sara’s miscarriage and subsequent divorce to bring us back together.

Sara stares at the pills for a beat, then tosses them back and washes them down with tomato juice. I sit across from her, stifling giggles as she swipes at her face with a dishrag. She blows out a loud sigh and her shoulders slump forward.

I woke up early and, even though I feel like shit, I wanted pancakes, she says. This damned gas stove is the issue. I had no idea how different they are from electric, but I’m here to tell ya, they are really, really different. I’ll never buy a gas stove. All I did was put a paper towel beside the burner and the next thing I know, I’ve set your house on fire! When I got up on the counter to turn off the damned alarm, I stepped in the bowl of batter.

Sara sighs and blows her hair out of her face as her animated arms drop into her lap.

All I want are some damn pancakes.

Sara has never been mistaken for a good cook, nor is this the first time she has nearly sent someone’s house up in flames. Being the strong-willed woman that she is, every now and then she’s got to give cooking another try. She honestly believes something may have shifted in the universe and she has miraculously become an award-winning chef. Unfortunately, she is always wrong and the exercise always ends up in disaster.

We find Sara some pancakes at a small diner on Main Street.

These pancakes are the nectar of the gods, Chauncy. There is nothing better than pancakes smothered in syrup, a slab of bacon, and unlimited orange juice.

She leans back in her chair and rubs her belly, obviously feeling much better.

We pay our bill and decide to walk off our breakfast and do some shopping. I look up at seagulls riding the breeze above us and take a deep breath of salty ocean air. Beautiful ancient buildings and cobblestone streets pave the way to quaint boutiques and outdoor restaurants that reside in the downtown district of Fernandina Beach, Florida.

Sara, let’s go in here.

I point to a small boutique. A sea-blue wooden sign with Salty’s engraved on the front hangs over the top of the door.

Everything in here is made by local artists. I even have a piece in here somewhere.

The small shop is bursting at the seams. In some places, we have to walk sideways so we don’t knock anything over. In spite of the confinement, I find a couple of pieces that I can’t live without: a seascape watercolor painting and a pig made out of old tin.

As I gingerly make my way to the register, I notice movement out of the corner of my eye. I glance to the left and there he is. He just stands there, still and silent, staring at me through the large front window.

Squinting against the sun, I make mental notes: tattered blue jeans, long-sleeve flannel shirt on a hot day, Braves baseball cap, no sunglasses. For a brief second, I hold his stare and push down the sudden strange, though oddly familiar, sensation of fear.

I turn to see Sara looking through a rack of handmade purses and as soon as she spots me, she holds up a bright pink bag. She immediately drops her arm when she sees the expression on my face and hurries toward me, tripping over a large wooden giraffe in the process.

What is it, Chauncy?

I point to the window, He was right there, Sara. I swear he was right there.

But, of course, he’s gone now.

Who? Are you sure? I don’t see anyone?

Maybe I am going bat-shit crazy.

I turn and fight my way past the flip-flops and palm tree-covered button-down shirts until I’m outside on the street. I search the faces of the people around me. I search for a flannel shirt, a Braves baseball cap, any sign of proof that he was not a figment of my imagination. Nothing. A wave of nausea surges up inside of me. My knees go weak, it’s hard to breathe as my lungs rebel against me. I need air.

Just breathe, Chauncy, Sara says, putting her hand on my back and leading me to a cafe table in front of an ice cream shop. She shoves me in a chair and pushes my head between my knees, then motions for a waitress and asks her to bring us some sweet tea. Finally, she takes my hand in hers.

Tell me what happened back there. What’s going on?

I was headed to the cashier to pay for my stuff when, I don’t know, something caught my attention. I turned and there he was. Just standing there at the window, staring at me. He had this weird look on his face like he knew me, or missed me? I don’t know, he looked, I wring my hands as I search for the right word to describe this crazy man’s expression. Sad.

Who?

Crazy Man. I told you, Sara, he’s back.

Shit!

Sara pulls a handful of napkins out of the dispenser and digs a pen out of her purse.

Tell me what he was wearing. I want every single detail you remember.

I describe his jeans, his hat,