by Cat Clarke
A creepy-looking old guy tries to put his arm around Laurel, and she jumps as if shocked. This whole thing was clearly a huge mistake. I quickly maneuver myself between Laurel and the old guy and steer her away from him. Michel looks as freaked out as I feel. “I think we should get you home, Laurel. What do you think?”
Laurel nods mutely, and I tell him I’ll look after the stall. I hear someone shouting a question at Laurel: “Laurel! Aren’t you afraid he’s still out there somewhere?”
Someone else—an older woman, it sounds like—says, “Oh my goodness, she’s right. He could be watching right now!” It’s as if some kind of madness has crept over these people. Maybe when they left their houses this morning they were normal, reasonable people who had an idea of the kinds of things that are appropriate to say, but now they’re rude and obnoxious and have no qualms about scaring a girl they don’t know.
People are still taking photos when I open the car door and practically push her inside. No doubt they’ll be posting them on Twitter and Instagram in a matter of minutes. Michel asks if I’m going to be okay and promises he’ll be back as soon as he can. It takes him forever to reverse the car through the crowds, because more and more people stop to see what’s going on.
As soon as they’re gone, the crowd starts to dissipate. A too-tanned woman in her twenties approaches the front of the stall and asks if she can ask me a question. “I’m not talking about Laurel, so you can just get lost, okay?”
But it turns out she only wanted to ask if I’d recommend the salted caramel over the chocolate and passion fruit. I apologize profusely and end up giving her one of each so she can choose.
Maureen brings me a cup of tea and says she’ll watch the stall for a few minutes if I want to get away for a bit. She’s a nice person, really. There’s just something about Laurel—about her story—that seems to turn people into idiots. I shouldn’t blame them; it’s not their fault.
I go and sit on the steps in front of the church, sipping my tea even though it’s still far too hot. I hope Laurel’s okay. My heart is still thumping from the stress of it all.
—
Dad’s furious when he finds out. Laurel cries because she thinks she’s done something wrong, so Dad has to reassure her that it’s other people he’s angry with, not her. He calls them parasites.
Laurel feels bad about how things turned out.
“It’s not your fault,” Michel and I say at the same time.
Laurel looks down at her lap; her hair falls in front of her face. “It is, though, isn’t it? If it wasn’t for me, none of that would have happened. I should have…I don’t know. I should have told them to go away instead of posing for pictures.”
I kneel down in front of her, trying to get her to look at me. “Hey…listen to me. You did the right thing. You have to be nice to them. I can just see the headlines if you weren’t—‘Laurel Logan Swore at My Mom!’ ” Laurel’s mouth twitches into a smile. “But you know what’s really cool? I don’t have to be nice to them. I can say whatever the hell I want because no one’s ever going to write a headline about me. So if that kind of thing happens again, I’ll handle it, okay?”
Laurel looks up. “It was scary…all those people. That man…”
“How dare they? How dare they?” Dad goes off again, ranting about invasion of privacy. Michel ushers him over to the kitchen, suggesting a cup of tea might be a good idea.
I get up from the floor and sit next to Laurel on the sofa. She thanks me.
“You’re going to have to stop thanking me, you know.”
“Why?” She looks worried, as if she’s just committed some sort of dreadful faux pas.
I smile to let her know that there’s nothing to worry about. “You don’t have to thank me for every little thing. We’re family. We look out for each other.”
“That sounds good to me.” She bites her lip and tucks a few strands of hair behind her ear. I’m slowly—too slowly—starting to learn some of the signs. Some of the little tics that belong to her. The lip-biting and hair-tucking mean she’s unsure about something. (Or maybe they just mean she’s got chapped lips and is fed up with her hair falling in front of her face.) She looks to check that Dad and Michel aren’t listening, then whispers, “I’m sorry I haven’t been here to look out for you.” A knotty lump sprouts in my throat. “That’s what big sisters are supposed to do, isn’t it? They’re supposed to be there. And I wasn’t.”
“You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.” This is a lie. It all matters—every little bit of it. But the truth is there’s nothing we can do to change the past. I surprise myself by making a silent vow to be the best sister possible—to do everything in my power to make up for those lost years. It’s the least that I can do, really.
Silent vows are ridiculous. You shouldn’t have to keep a promise you only made inside your head. It shouldn’t count if you didn’t actually say it out loud. But for some reason I feel like I have to keep my promise to Laurel, which is why I find myself in a TV studio, in front of an audience of giddy middle-aged women, sitting on an overstuffed sofa next to Mom and Dad. Laurel gets her own chair, right next to Cynthia Day. It is my worst nightmare, fully realized.
Dad didn’t want to do it, either, even though he and Mom had appeared on The Cynthia Day Show twelve years ago to try to drum up publicity for Laurel’s case, which was waning as the first anniversary approached.
We’re doing this for Laurel. I just have to keep reminding myself of that, with every banal, pointless question Cynthia asks, trying to extract tears from us. That’s her specialty: making people cry, then showing how much she empathizes with them by crying, too. For some bizarre reason (and completely unbeknownst to me, otherwise I’d have done something about it), Laurel has been watching The Cynthia Day Show religiously for the past month or so. A producer got in touch with Mom right after Laurel came home, asking if Laurel would go on the show. She said no, but she must have told Laurel about it, which was probably why Laurel started watching. When the producer got in touch a month later, offering an obscene amount of money for the whole family to appear on the show, Laurel really, really wanted to do it. So we sat down as a family to discuss the pros and cons, which was a waste of time, as the only thing that really mattered to any of us was what Laurel wanted. Her eyes were bright and brimming with excitement as she talked about wanting to see a real, live TV studio, and wanting to meet Cynthia (She’s so nice!). The decision was made. The money would go straight into a bank account for Laurel.
Thomas was appalled. He couldn’t fathom why I would agree to be a part of something like this. He only stopped going on about it when I snapped at him, telling him he had no idea what I was going through. He clammed up, barely spoke for the rest of the day. Martha was more supportive, which was reassuring because I feel like I’ve barely seen her recently. We’ve still been hanging out together at school, but I’ve been spending so much time with Laurel that Martha’s fallen by the wayside a bit. I haven’t been to her house since Laurel came back, and she’s invited me at least four times. Martha understands, though—she gets it. I’ve still replied to most of her texts. And she’s been to our house a couple of times, so it’s not like I’ve been neglecting her.
It’s too hot under these lights. I’m sweating. No one else seems bothered by the heat. Mom and Dad have been on TV loads of times, so this is nothing new to them. They didn’t even seem nervous. And Laurel was just excited to be here. When we came on set earlier, she pointed out a picture that had been drawn by a kid the week before. Laurel told me all about it.
“It was amazing! You should have seen it, Faith. He was only little—maybe five or six. And he sat on the floor and drew a portrait of Cynthia while she interviewed his parents. It only took him a few minutes, and then Cynthia cried when she saw it and said she would treasure it forever, and the little boy just shrugged and said she should probably sell it. Oh my goodness, it was so funny. The people in the audience were going crazy!” La
urel realized I wasn’t reacting to this story with as much enthusiasm as she was expecting and asked me if I was okay. I told her I was nervous. When Mom and Dad had asked, I said I was fine. For some reason I don’t mind admitting weakness to Laurel. She put her arm around me and said there was no need to be nervous. “Cynthia is so nice. There was this woman on the show yesterday, and she’d started this charity that…” I tuned out.
The wardrobe woman tutted when she saw me. “No, no, no, that won’t do at all.” The clothes that Mom and Dad and Laurel were wearing were all fine, apparently, but mine were not. I’d wanted to be comfortable, so I’d opted for one of my favorite sweaters—a black V-neck. There’s nothing wrong with the sweater, but the wardrobe woman said it “wouldn’t do me any favors on camera.” I asked what she meant, but she wouldn’t elaborate. That’s how I’ve ended up wearing an orange top with purple stripes on the sleeves. When Laurel saw me in it, she said I looked nice, so I didn’t kick up a fuss.
Cynthia Day came into the dressing room half an hour before the show started. The first thing I noticed was the smell that wafted into the room with her—the most cloying perfume you could imagine, heavy and unbearably floral. The second thing I noticed was her gravity-defying hair. Bouffant and then some. It doesn’t move when she moves her head—not even a little bit. Laurel whispered, “Oh my god, it’s really her,” under her breath while Cynthia was saying hello to Mom and Dad. “It’s okay. Remember she’s just a normal person,” I whispered back.
“She’s a famous person.”
“So are you,” I reminded her.
Then Cynthia turned her attention to us, and she clapped her hands together. “Laurel! I can’t tell you what an honor it is that you agreed to come on my little show.” She went to kiss my sister on both cheeks. I thought Laurel might freak out, but she didn’t. She just stiffened slightly, waiting for it to be over. Progress, I guess.
Cynthia turned to me. “And this must be Faith. Thank you so much for being here.” She didn’t kiss me, and I was glad because the choking perfume was even worse close up. Cynthia perched on the edge of a table and told us what to expect. She said there was no need to be nervous, that the questions wouldn’t be anything we hadn’t heard a million times before. “Just tell your story. That’s all my audience wants to hear.” And then she was gone. Unfortunately the stench of her perfume remained.
—
The audience is 95 percent women. They lean forward in their seats, straining to get closer to Laurel. They nod when she speaks and turn to each other and smile in a sad, sympathetic sort of way. Laurel’s doing a fantastic job. She takes her time answering Cynthia’s questions, thinking before she speaks. She looks over at Mom and Dad and me every so often as if to check that she’s doing okay; Mom and Dad nod encouragingly.
Cynthia introduces some footage on the big screen behind her. “As you all know, we are very lucky to have had the Logans on our little show before. I just want to take a moment to remind you of what they’ve been through. Twelve years ago, Olivia and John sat on this very sofa.” She smiles and corrects herself. “Well, not this actual sofa. This sofa is brand-new—I chose it myself….Do you like it?” The audience members clap, showing their approval for Cynthia’s choice of furnishings. “Anyway, where was I?” This is one of Cynthia’s tricks—acting ditzy. I guess she thinks it puts people at ease.
The footage shows Mom and Dad on a sofa very much like the one we’re sitting on now. Cynthia’s interior-decorating tastes clearly haven’t changed in over a decade. I’ve seen this interview before in one of my YouTube missions. I only watched it once, though, because it wasn’t very interesting. My parents looked sad and worn-out. There had been no new developments in the case. They talked about how it felt to have been without Laurel for a whole year. Mom said she couldn’t put it into words, and Cynthia nodded even though you could tell that she really, really wanted Mom to at least try.
The clip finishes with Cynthia talking straight to the camera. “Laurel, if you’re watching this…your parents love you very much, sweetheart.” That was just weird—the idea that Laurel would be watching. I think she probably said that on the spur of the moment, unlike everything else, which seemed to be so carefully orchestrated. It made her look stupid.
The screen goes blank, and Cynthia says nothing for a moment or two, letting everyone stare at my parents and marvel at how different they look today.
“So, Laurel, how does it feel being back with your family?”
Laurel shakes her head, beaming widely. “It feels like a miracle.” The audience loves that. They clap and whoop and cheer. Everybody loves a happy ending.
Cynthia smiles and waits for Laurel to elaborate. Laurel takes a deep breath and looks over at us. “I used to dream about it. About seeing my family again. Those dreams were so real. And then I would wake up in total darkness…in that basement, and it felt like my heart was breaking. It happened all the time at first—the dreams. But over the years, they happened less and less until I just…stopped dreaming.” She bows her head and there’s total silence in the studio, until someone in the audience sneezes and ruins the moment completely. Laurel looks up at Cynthia again. “All I know is that seeing them again, after all this time, well, it’s even better than those dreams I had. Knowing that they never forgot me, knowing that they never gave up hope…it’s”—she shrugs and holds up her hands—“a miracle! Sorry, I’m repeating myself. I’m not so good with words. Sorry.” She might be blushing, but it’s impossible to tell under all the makeup she’s wearing.
Cynthia puts a hand on Laurel’s knee. Her nail polish is burgundy, and she has rings on almost every finger. A huge diamond adorns her ring finger. (She just got engaged to a man half her age; it will be her third marriage.) “I think we can all agree that you’re doing just fine, Laurel.”
Laurel smiles. “Thank you. Can I just say…I’m such a big fan of your show. I watch every day. Sometimes even twice!”
The audience makes an Awwww sound; it’s as if each person has been programmed to react in exactly the same way. “Well, that is very lovely to hear.” Cynthia keeps her hand on Laurel’s knee. “And can I just say…I’m such a big fan of yours!” She laughs and looks at the audience, who is lapping this up.
Cynthia asks some more questions, varying the tone between light and dark. A question about clothes (I love your top. You must be having so much fun, going shopping, doing the usual things girls love to do?) is swiftly followed by one about Laurel’s captor (If you could say something to him right now—anything at all—what would that be?).
I can feel Mom tense up beside me. I don’t think the police would be too happy about it; what if Laurel’s answer provokes him in some way? What if he decides to come back and take her from us again? I’ve been having nightmares about that. I haven’t told anyone. I dream about Laurel and me in the front yard of the Stanley Street house, but this time we’re all grown up. We’re sitting on a polka-dot picnic blanket, eating BLT baguettes. A man opens the front gate, and it creaks on its hinges. He stands over us and holds out his hand to Laurel. She looks up at him, and she’s not scared. I look up at him, too, but for some reason his face is blurred, like Vaseline smeared on glass. Laurel takes his hand, stands up, and walks away. The gate creaks again. I start to cry, but I’m not sure why. I think I’ve lost something. I usually wake up the moment I realize what’s happened—when the horror engulfs me.
Laurel’s answer to Cynthia’s stupid question about Smith isn’t so bad after all. “I have nothing to say to him.” She has a neutral expression on her face, and her voice has a neutral tone. It’s perfectly judged.
Cynthia nods, as if this was the answer she was expecting. “I bet you don’t.” A hush descends on the room, and Cynthia shakes her head slowly, trying to convey sympathy for Laurel and disgust for her captor, all at once. “I just bet you don’t.”
Cynthia turns towards the camera. “Now we’re going to take a short break, but don’t go anywhere. When w
e come back, we’ll be talking to Olivia and John about their ordeal, and let’s not forget Faith, reunited with her big sister at long last. See you in three!”
Cynthia tells us we’re doing great. “This is gold,” she says. I presume someone has switched the microphones off, because Cynthia burps. Not a full-on belch—it’s slightly more ladylike than that. She smiles and apologizes. She leans toward us and confides, “Cauliflower always gives me gas, but do I ever learn? No, I do not!” I find this far too funny, because apparently being on live TV reduces my sense of humor to that of an eight-year-old boy. Cynthia looks at me as if I’m the odd one for laughing so hard.
Dad asks how I’m feeling and I tell him I’m okay. I’m not, of course. I’m unbelievably nervous. Cynthia’s going to talk to me, and I’m going to be expected to say words that make sense, maybe even stitch some of them together into whole sentences. I really, really need the toilet, but there’s not a whole lot I can do about that now.
I keep thinking about Martha, sitting at home watching me humiliate myself. And Thomas, not watching. I can’t believe he said he wasn’t going to watch. Part of me is glad, relieved that he won’t see me wearing this disgusting top and smiling and simpering at Cynthia Day. But I’m also a little bit hurt. He should want to watch; it’s not every day your girlfriend appears on the third-biggest talk show in the country. He should have said he wanted to watch, and I should have told him not to. That’s how it should have worked.
I wonder if Penny’s watching, too. We talked about it at our last family counseling session. She let Laurel go on and on about this stupid show, wasting our time when we should be talking about other things. Anyway, Penny didn’t come right out and say that she thought it was a terrible idea, but I bet she disapproves. She’s just too busy listening and nodding and oozing empathy all over the place to say how she really feels.