Can I Help You Find Something? By Laura J. Oliver

I spent the weekend with my two older sisters and their husbands in what has become a regular sister-gathering now that our parents are dead. 

 As usual, there were some retellings of family tales, some stories that were revelations, and some that were three variations on a theme. There was no right or wrong to them; they were just each of us sharing our differing perspectives—like who was Mom’s favorite, what we inherited from Dad, and how things might have turned out differently. That kind of thing. 

And for the record, I’ll say it again, I was not Mom’s favorite. That distinction varied, the recipient being, in Mom’s words, “Whomever needs me the most.” 

A role to which no one aspired. 

This powwow was in the hills of Western Maryland, where my firstborn sister’s place overlooks a valley of golden fields bisected by a picturesque railroad track. In the morning, fall mist draped the tree line, giving the illusion of mountains and memories far bigger than the hills.

Because looking back often includes a confession of sorts, I shared this one because it involved a talent for which I have always been a bit vain, and which may demonstrate a learned response to those who need me as well. I am, after all, my mother’s (third) daughter.

Don’t judge too harshly. About the only things I was good at were kickball, running, and making eye contact with my teachers. Kickball and running have not turned out to be particularly valuable life skills, but eye contact is probably why I have three kids and own my own home today. 

We were lingering at the dinner table over my brother-in-law’s peach upside-down cake. “I was at the post office,” I said, “and the line was about 12 patrons deep waiting to get up to one of the three service windows. There was an 8-foot-long, narrow table, about 12 inches wide and chest-high, down the center of the room, where we could queue up to await our turn, simultaneously writing last-minute addresses on envelopes without losing our place in line. I set my purse down and started addressing a package while several other customers did the same.”

 As each person finished their business at the windows, our line slid along the table, I explained. A man ahead of me in line was frumping around pretty anxious about how long the whole process was taking, and I sympathized. It was like being on the beltway in a slowdown—where I always remind myself that every car in front of me has the same goal I do–to get to the next exit as quickly as possible. So, I relax about what I can’t control, knowing my anxiety contributes nothing, and that everyone working towards their goal is inadvertently working towards mine.

The man, fastidious in a button-down-collar, blue shirt, rolled up sleeves, and black jeans, was about three customers ahead of me, so we got to our windows simultaneously—he all the way down the row, me at the one nearest the end of the table. But as I turned in my parcel, I noticed he had not left the building but was frantically searching for something on the floor. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw he was now roaming the entire room, looking a tad panicked. Then he bolted out the door. 

I asked when I could expect my package to be delivered, thanked the clerk helping me, and turned to leave when this man burst back in frantically scanning the room again. 

“Did you lose something?” I asked, looking him right in the eye, because what can I say? It’s a gift. And because my only other gift, besides kickball and running fast, is that I am a really good finder. When the kids lost something, or Mr. Oliver could be witnessed searching his car, I’d always ask, “What are you looking for?” then calmly scan my intuition and within a minute or two produce the missing object.

My finder-sense was coming online, my helper-sensibility was on high alert. He had a need, and I was going to help him meet it. It was the role I was born for.

“My keys!” he groaned, panicked. “I can’t find my car keys, and I’ve got to get home. My wife has to get to an appointment and I’m already late.”

I felt into an image of his keys, imagined them in my mind’s eye—scanned my internal vibe-meter for where they might be lying in a corner of the room behind a table leg, or under a one-day delivery envelope left on the counter. I lifted a pile of label debris by the postal packaging display.

Then I began looking with him in earnest, and now his problem felt like my problem, which meant I was kind of in my element. I could almost feel the sense of happy satisfaction the moment I’d be able to say, ‘Are these yours?” 

He left the building again and I continued to search. Finally, I walked out into the wide shallow parking lot where cars were parked like teeth in a comb, in case he had found them and left, but he was out there peering under a Subaru. 

I needed to get home myself, and having completely failed to use my superpower for good, I called out, “I’m so sorry! Hope you find them!” 

I opened my purse for my sunglasses, and to my horror, there sat a clump of keys I had never seen before. 

He was incredulous. To be fair, so was I. “You mean you’ve had my keys all this time?” he asked, eyebrows raised, face flushed, and voice rising.

Sometimes you just can’t do anything but say you’re sorry and know that, for the moment at least, you have legitimately earned the title: Mom’s Favorite Child. 

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Laura J. Oliver is an award-winning developmental book editor and writing coach, who has taught writing at the University of Maryland and St. John’s College. She is the author of The Story Within (Penguin Random House). Co-creator of The Writing Intensive at St. John’s College, she is the recipient of a Maryland State Arts Council Individual Artist Award in Fiction, an Anne Arundel County Arts Council Literary Arts Award winner, a two-time Glimmer Train Short Fiction finalist, and her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Her website can be found here.