The Lost and the Found

by Cat Clarke

  Michel rolls his eyes. “You always say more salt. It’s not good for you!”

  Dad sticks his tongue out. “But it makes everything taste so delicious. Faith agrees with me, don’t you, Faith?”

  I hold up my hands and back away. “Don’t look at me! I’m not getting involved in your little domestic drama.”

  Dad laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, Mich, you win. Serve your bland, tasteless aioli and be done with it.” Another eye roll from Michel, but he does reach for the salt.

  “Laurel was asking where you’d disappeared to, Faith. I think she could do with some backup. It’s probably all a bit much for her—too many people.”

  I tell Dad that I’d thought it was a terrible idea, having everyone here all at once. Dad shrugs. “I know, love. But once your mom gets an idea in her head, there’s no stopping her. And I suppose at least this way Laurel gets it over with all in one go.”

  Mom sticks her head around the door. “Time for photos!”

  Oh god.

  —

  Laurel poses for pictures with everyone. Almost every single permutation is allowed for—Laurel with Gran, Laurel with Gramps, Laurel with Gran and Gramps. No one stands too close to Laurel, though. Mom had already warned them that she (understandably) gets anxious about being touched by people she doesn’t know—they just need to give her time. Apparently Gran really didn’t get it at first (“But we’re family!”), but Mom did her best to make her understand without going into too much detail.

  The photos take ages. Everyone wants an extra shot taken on their camera or phone. Michel watches from the doorway while everyone takes pictures of Mom, Dad, Laurel, and me. At least Mom and Dad aren’t standing next to each other; Laurel and I form a buffer zone between them.

  Mom insists on having a photo of Laurel and me. We stand in front of the fireplace, a couple of inches apart from each other at first. Mom and Dad both take some pictures; Mom has tears in her eyes. Again.

  I hate having my photo taken—always have, always will. But I understand that my parents need this and that their need is more important than my awkwardness. Everyone’s watching (apart from Eleanor, pouring the last dregs from the last bottle of champagne into her glass).

  I sling my arm over Laurel’s shoulder and gently pull her closer to me. She hesitates before putting her arm around my waist. I smile a real, proper, beaming smile, not even caring about the gap in my teeth.

  Two sisters, reunited at last.

  Laurel turns out to be a natural at making macarons. She really enjoys it, too. I was worried it would spoil things, having someone else there. I’ve always felt like this time with Michel is sort of sacred somehow, but it’s actually nice having her with us. Michel turns up the music on the iPod dock—we always listen to cheesy nineties French pop. I know a lot of the words by heart, even though I don’t necessarily know what they mean. We get a little production line going, with Michel at the end, piping the mixture onto the baking trays.

  Dad was reluctant to go out, which probably should have offended me. He never minded leaving us when it was just Michel and me. But I can’t really blame him, can I? He’s missed out on thirteen years of Laurel’s life; he’s got a lot of catching up to do. It’s natural that he’d want to spend every possible moment with her. Mom’s been the same, even though you can see she’s trying desperately not to smother her. She keeps saying that Laurel needs her space, but it’s as if she’s saying it to remind herself rather than anyone else.

  Laurel’s only been home for three weeks. Four weeks since she came back to us. The time has gone so fast.

  Things have been a bit more normal since the media circus packed up their cameras and microphones and left. There was no reason for them to stay; there were only so many times they could show footage of Laurel leaving the house. Mom hated having them there, practically camped out in our front yard. It didn’t seem to bother Laurel, though. I caught her waving to them from my bedroom window one night. I warned her not to, that it was always best to ignore them. After that, I didn’t catch her at it again, but I know she still did it because I saw some footage on TV one day.

  The police car is still there, parked a few doors down and across the street. The officers inside must be bored out of their minds. They certainly look that way whenever I walk past.

  Laurel is gradually learning how the world works. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that she’s not a normal nineteen-year-old girl who’s had a normal, average, boring sort of life. Sometimes she acts exactly like you’d expect a nineteen-year-old girl to act. But then something will happen, or she’ll ask a question or do something weird, and you’ll remember. Like the time she insisted that Barnaby the Bear had a seat at the table for dinner. Mom acted like that was a perfectly normal request. Luckily, Barnaby was clean by that point; Laurel had given him a bath in the sink.

  I’ve been trying to teach her as much as I can, because I hate the idea of her being out there—in the big, wide world—without knowing how to deal with the stuff life throws at you. The counseling sessions are helping her, too. She’s still seeing the psychologist twice a week, and she likes her new counselor, Penny. Penny takes her out on trips; Laurel’s favorite was the zoo. The trip to the movies wasn’t so successful. Laurel had a panic attack ten minutes into the movie. No one knows what triggered it. They weren’t watching some torture-filled horror flick or a psychological thriller or anything like that—the latest Pixar movie had seemed like a safe choice. Laurel wouldn’t talk about it afterward. When she doesn’t want to talk about something, she closes her mouth tight, lips pursed. Her chin dimples up, and she looks like a little girl. Penny told us not to push her. She said there are bound to be lots of things Laurel isn’t able to deal with yet. We have to give her time.

  I don’t think it helps that the police won’t leave us alone. There are always more questions they want to ask or something that needs clarifying. It feels like a setback every time they come around. It’s hard for us to act like a normal family with the constant reminders that we’re not one. Mom completely lost her shit with Sergeant Dawkins and another police officer the other day after they arrived unannounced.

  Sergeant Dawkins said they really had to get the DNA swab out of the way. She reassured Laurel that it wasn’t going to hurt and it would only take a second, but Laurel was having none of it. She backed away from them as if she thought they were going to pounce on her at any second. Mom asked them whether it was really necessary; Sergeant Dawkins said it was necessary. That’s when Laurel started freaking out again—crying and clutching at her hair. “No no no no no,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head the whole time. “Don’t let them touch me!”

  Mom tried to calm her down, to reassure her that everything was okay, but it was no good. Mom told me to take Laurel upstairs. As soon as we got to her room, she crawled under the dressing table. That was the first time I saw the den she’d created. You couldn’t tell when the stool was in front of the table, but there were a couple of cushions and a blanket down there. It was a tiny space, barely big enough for a child, let alone a grown woman.

  Laurel somehow managed to fold her limbs into the space, then she pulled the blanket up to her chin. The blanket was mine; I hadn’t even realized it was missing. I kneeled down in front of Laurel and asked if she was okay. She didn’t answer. No matter what I said, she wouldn’t answer. She stared into space. I crossed my legs and sat right in front of her. “It’s okay, Laurel. There’s nothing to be scared of anymore. You’re safe now. I’m going to stay right here.” I babbled some more, talking about what we were going to have for dinner (baked potatoes), the essay I had to write for English (Twelfth Night), anything I could think of to bring her back. Eventually, her hand snaked out from under the blanket, reaching for mine. “I won’t leave you, Laurel,” I said. She squeezed my hand and looked at me. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  It was the first time Laurel had eaten a baked
potato since she was a little kid. I made sure it was perfect—plenty of salt, plenty of butter, far too much cheese. She loved it. Mom was still ranting about the police (How dare they? Why can’t they leave her alone after all she’s been through? Why don’t they just get on with catching that monster?), but Laurel seemed much better. I’d managed to coax her out from her little den, and she’d folded the blanket and put the stool back in front of the dressing table. She was fine by the time Mom came upstairs to check on her. I haven’t told Mom about the den; it would only upset her.

  —

  Dad comes home just as we’re filling the last couple of macarons. He clearly didn’t want to stay away a minute longer than he had to. Laurel gives him a little plate with three macarons. She says she saved the best ones for him. (This is a lie. She tried to give them to Tonks, and Michel had to explain that Tonks should only eat cat food, because she’s on a special diet for some weird kidney problem.)

  Dad smiles widely and eats the macarons, saying they’re excellent. He winks at me. “Look out, Faith, you’ve got some competition! Macaron mastery must run in the family.” We all laugh. No one says that our cooking skills can’t possibly run in the family, because Laurel was adopted. And Dad keeps quiet about the fact that he hates macarons. He’s never tried any of the ones I’ve made.

  Laurel and I stay up late talking. She gets the bed, I get the inflatable mattress. We tossed a coin to see who sleeps where. There’s barely enough floor space for the mattress; it fits snugly between the closet and the bed. It was strange at first, sleeping so close to this person I don’t really know that well. When I stay at Martha’s, I always sleep in the spare room, and she’s never slept over at my house. I’m not really sure why.

  Laurel lies on her left side, peeking out from under the duvet. I lie on my right side, trying to pretend the mattress is as comfortable as the bed (my bed). She likes to talk after we’ve turned out the lights. It’s not exactly dark; Dad bought another night-light so Laurel wouldn’t have to bring Egg with her every weekend. Laurel likes me to tell her stories—but they have to be true stories. She never tires of me talking about my childhood or about school or about Thomas.

  She was nervous about meeting him. She didn’t say so, but I could tell. She kept on checking her hair in the mirror and fidgeting. I’d arranged for Thomas and Martha to come over for pizza and a movie. That seemed like the best way of getting the introductions over and done with. I just wanted all the most important people in my life to know each other and to get along. I even persuaded Mom to go out for the evening; she arranged to meet a friend in town for cocktails. She’s never done that before, as far as I know. Maybe this is part of what’s “normal” for her, but if so, it’s a normal that hasn’t existed for the last thirteen years.

  Martha and Thomas arrived at the same time. The introductions were a little awkward, but we all laughed at the strangeness of the situation. Martha was really shy at first, which is not like her at all. Only Thomas seemed to be at ease right away. He was polite and charming and even offered to pay for the pizza. I was about to take him up on the offer when Laurel pulled some money from her pocket. Mom had given her the cash before she left. I ignored the niggling feeling that it was odd that Mom hadn’t given the money to me. Was this how things were going to be from now on? Laurel is the oldest, after all. She insisted on being the one to call for the pizza; she’d never done that before. There was a pause and then she said her name. I winced and looked over at Martha—she knew the score. Thomas was too busy flicking through the channels on the TV to notice. Laurel said yes in answer to a question that was almost definitely something along the lines of “Laurel Logan? The Laurel Logan?” I went to grab the phone from her, but she waved me away. Her face lit up. “Thank you. That’s very kind. Yes…Yes. It’s wonderful to be back. I really appreciate that.” There was another pause as she listened, then she laughed. “Thank you! Have a good evening, Phil. Bye…Yes…I will do. Bye!” She pressed the button to end the call and then turned to us, triumphant. “He said he’d throw in some free garlic bread and a bottle of Sprite.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Laurel shrugged and said, “I don’t know. He saw me on TV. He said I was pretty.”

  I wasn’t about to lecture Laurel about the dubiousness of getting freebies from strangers who’ve seen you on TV and “feel a connection with you.” (That’s what they always say—all the strangers who stop us on the street or who’ve sent cards and letters and presents. They all feel this mysterious “connection.”) Anyway, Thomas was pleased about the Sprite. He raised his glass in Laurel’s direction. “Cheers, Laurel!”

  My sister smiled at him, and I tried to ignore the pointed look that Martha was aiming in my direction. When the pizzas arrived, Laurel insisted on going to the door. I’m not sure “giving money to the pizza-delivery guy” counts as one of the essential life skills her counselor is always going on about.

  There were a couple of awkward moments when we were trying to choose a film to watch. Thomas scrolled through all the options on Netflix, and Laurel kept on suggesting this film or that film, even though she had no idea what they were about. And that was the problem. You’d be surprised by how many films include abduction or a sinister psychopath or sexual abuse or some kind of family trauma. I kept having to say no to Laurel’s suggestions, which made it look like I was being difficult.

  Thomas was getting annoyed. He handed me the remote control. “Why don’t you choose, then?!” So I did. A romantic comedy that none of us had seen. Thomas despises romantic comedies. He despises most films, in fact. Unless they’re four hours long and subtitled. He kept on bitching about the one we watched, which was fine because it was dire. It didn’t matter, though, because Laurel loved it. She cried at the end and then laughed at herself for crying.

  Laurel thanked me when Martha and Thomas had gone home.

  “What for?” I nibbled on a leftover pizza crust.

  She looked so serious. “Letting me into your world.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that. She saw my confusion and started again. “I mean, I really appreciate you letting me spend time with you and your friends. It can’t be easy for you…having a brand-new sister appear out of nowhere, turning your life upside down.” She looked shy all of a sudden, embarrassed by what she was saying.

  I put the pizza crust down and shook my head. “You’ve got it all wrong.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My life was upside down. Before. You’ve…” Was I really going to say this? It was a line so cheesy it wouldn’t have been out of place in the film we’d just watched. I looked at Laurel, and her face was so open and honest and expectant. “You’ve turned my life the right way up again.”

  Laurel’s smile made me glad I’d said it.

  Sometimes it’s okay to be cheesy.

  It starts almost as soon as we arrive at the market. It’s the first time Laurel’s come with us. The last two Sundays she stayed home with Dad. Martha wanted to come along, too, which was weird because she’s never been remotely interested before. Maybe next weekend? I texted her. She didn’t reply.

  Maureen runs the stall next to us, selling fancy vinegars—strawberry balsamic is her latest obsession. She’s really friendly, always cheerful no matter how bad the weather is or how few customers there are.

  “Got another little helper today, Michael?” She never calls him Michel; he never bothers correcting her.

  Michel nods and says good morning. He’s forgotten his beret, so he’s looking slightly less French than usual; his ears are already turning red from the cold. Maureen stops lining up bottles of vinegar and comes over to our stall, where Laurel is busy laying out the plastic tablecloth (red and white checked, of course).

  “Hi! I’m Maureen, but you can call me Mo. Nice to meet…Oh my god!” She turns to look at Michel. “Is this…?” Then she turns back to Laurel. “Are you…?”

  Michel stops unloading the car and walks over to
Maureen. “Yes, but could you keep it to yourself?”

  Maureen snorts. “Keep it to myself? You do know she’s probably one of the most famous people in the whole country right now, don’t you?”

  Laurel is watching this little exchange, yet to say a word. Sometimes I wish I could read her mind.

  Maureen asks if she can give Laurel a hug. Laurel shakes her head and apologizes. “You don’t need to say sorry. You poor, poor girl,” murmurs Maureen, wrapping her arms around herself instead of my sister. I turn away, grabbing my beret from the dashboard.

  It’s a disaster from the start. The first customer recognizes Laurel, even though she’s at the back of the stall wearing my beret, with a scarf covering half of her face. No one knew who we were before. We were just Faith and Michel, purveyors of the finest macarons this side of Paris. I was not Little Laurel Logan’s sister and he was not Little Laurel Logan’s almost-sort-of stepfather. Maureen keeps shaking her head in wonder, even while she’s serving her own customers. She called Michel a dark horse for not telling her about Laurel.

  By half past ten, there’s a crowd of people around our stall; no one is buying macarons. One woman pushes to the front. She wants her daughter to have her photo taken with Laurel. The daughter (maybe ten years old, stuffing her face with Doritos) doesn’t seem bothered either way. Laurel takes her hat off and hands it to me. She goes around to the front of the stall and stands next to the girl. The smile on her face seems to be genuine, but how can it be? The woman doesn’t even thank her.

  More and more people ask to have their picture taken with my sister, as if she’s some contestant from a TV talent show. It doesn’t matter to them that she’s a teenager emerging from an awful ordeal; she’s famous. They’ll be able to go home and tell their families over lunch. They’ll say that she’s thinner than she looks on TV or prettier or taller or nicer. They’ll say that you’d never guess what she’d been through, if you didn’t know. They’ll say her sister wasn’t very friendly, and nowhere near as pretty, and what on earth does she have to be so grumpy about? Shouldn’t she be happy that her sister is back?