Lost Amemoir Author:Cathy Ostlere In September 1995, Cathy Ostlere, her husband, and three children are visiting with the family in Calgary to celebrate her younger brother Davids birthday. It had been a family tradition that no matter where in the world David might befrom Australia to India to Englandhe would call on his birthday to reconnect and reminisce. As they wait and won... more »der, a horrifying thought takes shape in Cathys mind: knowing how their parents have worried about David in the past, he has begged Cathy not to tell them about his latest adventuresailing his twenty- eight-foot sailboat 1200 miles from Ireland to the tropical island of Madeira off the coast of Spain with his girlfriend Sarah. The trip should have taken them two weeks. Maybe three. But after two months, she has to break her silence. With each hour that passes and still no word she defensively parries the unacceptable but bleak inevitable: something has happened. David must be dead. Thus begins Lost, Cathy Ostleres remarkable and unforgettable journey in search of closure, and emotional redemption. From Madeirawhere her search for David and Sarah beginsto Ireland and on to the Scottish island of Mull where, months later, Sarahs family has gathered to grieve, Cathy finds herself stirred by snapshot memories of David, of their life growing up together. Of family and what it means. In search of answers she finds instead only new and sometimes more troubling questionsquestions that will come to have profound repercussions in her own life. How do we know our true passions? In a life defined by obligations, what are the risks? And what is the consequence for following our passion? A heartrending story of a womans search for her missing brother, Lost is an extraordinary meditation on the meaning of family and what it is to live an authentic life. Excerpt from Lost: Today is my youngest brothers birthday. September 30, 1995. For the last seven years, David has telephoned from wherever he is in the world. He never forgets and neither do we. He sometimes calls each of usmy parents, a brother and sister in Winnipeg, and me in Calgary. We say Happy Birthday, our voices carried through deep cables across the ocean. In 1988, the year he met an Englishwoman named Sarah, he called from Brisbane, Australia. Weve sold the car and were going to Japan. In 1990, he was in Bangalore, India. I never used to believe in God, but perhaps I was wrong, he said, his voice crumbling into static. This morning, my parents are expecting to hear his voice from a telephone booth in the south of England. But they will be mistaken. I am the only one in the family who knows that my brother and Sarah are headed to the open Atlantic. They plan to sail from Ireland to the Azores Archipelago and then on to the island of Madeira. By the end of today, I wont have to keep their secret any longer. The waiting begins in the morning. Calgary is seven hours behind the U.K., we expect the call no later than noon. We root ourselves to the kitchen table. The Saturday newspaper is divided into sections: Spain is filing a suit against Canada over the turbot fish war, the Blue Bombers beat the Ti-Cats. My husband Sam makes fresh coffee. Cold toast is replaced with warm buttery slices. The sun moves from behind the evergreens into the open sky and heats the kitchen. The air smells of browning apple peels. My three children graze, then spin off, dancing erratic orbits throughout the house. I am silent while staring at the excess of breakfast. At ten, I lift the receiver to check for a dial tone, its comforting assurance of possibility. Who can I speak to? Dont tell anyone where were going, my brother instructed in his last phone call. You know how Mom will be. I remember my own travels. She worried every minute. Happiness is no way to live a life, I answered him jokingly. In a fit of frustration, our mother had once blurted out those words to us. We had laughed. Over the years weve learned that its best not to tell our mother too much. This is how David and I live. Dont tell. Dont give too many details. Write often.« less