“Why, God,” I said as I slammed my fist into the steering wheel, watching the city bus slowly pull to the curb, blocking me as it let passengers on and off. No cars in the next lane will let me pass, trapping me like a prisoner to the bus driver and his no apparent hurry.
“Sure, because I have nothing better to do than wait,” I say, hitting the steering wheel three more times. My hand throbs. As a lady climbs off, she trips on the last stair and lands in the gutter of gray slush. The other passengers step over her, no one helping.
What jerks. The lady drags herself out of the gutter and crawls onto the sidewalk, dripping wet as the bus pulls away. I can’t in good conscience leave her like that. I power open the passenger window.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere? Get you coffee?”
Why am I wasting my time like this?
She looks up with fear in her eyes. I am a man, so she will probably turn me down, and that is what I secretly want to happen. Then, I can get heavenly credit for offering to help without actually helping. She shakes her soggy papers and says, “Yes, please.”
“I’d get out and help you, but I can’t leave my car parked in the road. Do you think you can make your way over here?”
“Yes.” She stands and sloshes her way to my car. Gray water drips from her pants. As she gets in, a blast of cold air follows her. I am grateful I have a car.
“Can I drive you somewhere?”
She shakes like a wet dog, and water flies off her and asulats me and my car. Grr. I grimace but don’t say anything as I watch the little droplets taint my interior. What was I thinking, offering her a ride? She doesn’t even respect the leather.
“Coffee would be lovely,” she says.
After twenty minutes of lost time to find a joint, we sit in the warm cafe. The warm air blows the scent of coffee and scones at us.
“I am Lola, and my grandma is missing.”
I hadn’t expected that. “Oh, I am sorry. What happened?”
“Grandma comes from Sanderville. In fact, it was named after her in 1972. Used to be Lakeview City. Grandma started a community college in 1981 -Betty Sander Community College. The park on Center and Main are named Sanderville Park. Grandma opened an art school in 1993. Betty’s Beauties.”
Such an information dump. Why had I gotten involved?
“All that is important, and I will tell you why in a second.” Has Lola read my mind? "You see, Grandma meets me for high tea every Thursday at 2:00 p.m. She never misses it. Never." Lola took a napkin and ran it across her wet face. Well, she missed.”
“How old is Grandma?”
“92.”
“I don’t think you should worry. Give her a break. She is old. If she wants to miss a tea, let her.” Lola glares at my comment.
“Well, that isn’t how it works. So I got worried and drove to Grandma’s house, and she didn’t answer the door. So I try to use my key, but the locks are changed.”
She has my interest.
“Finally, the front door flies open, and some Spanish lady is cussing at me for waking her baby. We get into a big fight because, after all, she is in Grandma’s house. So I call the police, and they answer ‘Lakeview City Police.’ And I say, wait, I am looking for Sanderville City Police. So I Google it, and there is no Sanderville City Police. There is no Betty Sander Community College. There is no Sanderville Park or Betty’s Beauties. NONE OF IT EXISTS!”
Lola has hooked me. But is she delusional? This sounds too fantastic of a story.
“Maybe someone just hacked the city’s website, so I drive around, and all the signs are also changed. Nothing in the city reflects Betty Sander and the impact she had made. I have to wonder if I am tripping out. Maybe there was a Mandela effect. I go home, rummage through my things, and find pamphlets about Sander Community College. I have a few ticket stubs from plays at Betty’s Beauties. I have proof that all of this exists. I am not going crazy.
“So I go to city hall, and I research the city records, and there are zero entries on anything that my grandma owned. According to the city, her house had five different owners. How can that be? Grandma had built that home and was the only owner.
“As I went to leave the city offices, I noticed the name of the Mayor. Marc Petechiaen. That is my cousin. We were the sole heirs to Grandma’s estate. But he erased all her bank records, stock holdings, everything."
“Do you think he is behind the fantastical illusion?”
“I know he is. I just don’t understand how he had the power to change the town’s name, the public records, and everything.”
“I’ll be honest; this is the strangest story I’ve ever heard. Like something out of Twilight Zone.”
“Right.”
I notice her rosy cheeks and am glad she has warmed up.
“Well, you are in luck. It so happens to be that my wife is an investigative journalist. If anyone can dig up the truth on this story, she can.”
And my wife did. The story opened a deeply corrupted city.
I feel guilty for cursing God when the bus made me stop the day I met Lola. I now realize God had a divine hand in bringing Lola and me together. After a lengthy investigation uncovering layers of corruption, Lola’s story launched my wife’s career to worldwide fame. Lola eventually found closure with the disappearance of her Grandma.
As for Mayor, whatever that last name was, he and twelve others ended up in jail.
And I learned to find gratitude for minor setbacks.
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Lola's Fantastical Story
by Stephanie Daich
