The Lost and the Found

by Cat Clarke

  —

  We watch the rest of the film. I sit between Laurel and Thomas on the sofa—Laurel insists on it.

  The sofa seems too small.

  It was a blip, that’s all. One bad day. I must have got out of the wrong side of bed or something. Everything is fine at school the next day. Martha, Thomas, and I have lunch together, and Thomas monopolizes the conversation, talking about a Peruvian poet who’s just died. Sometimes I think he scours the Internet searching for the most obscure people he can find to make himself look knowledgeable, but this time Martha’s heard of her, too. I nod along with them, just pleased that things seem to be back to normal and no one’s talking about yesterday’s weirdness.

  I can’t quite rid myself of the nagging idea that Martha and Thomas might have talked to each other last night, comparing notes. If they have, there’s not a lot I can do about it. I should be glad that my boyfriend and my best friend get along so well. I am glad.

  Things can start to get back to normal now that Laurel has settled in. Soon she won’t need me so much, and sometime after that, she won’t need me at all. And that will be a good thing. That’s what we’re all working toward—normality. We’re getting there, slowly but surely. The other night, Laurel and I disagreed about what to watch on TV. It was nothing serious, and I let her have her way in the end, but I noticed Mom watching us closely the whole time. She didn’t look annoyed like you might have expected, and she didn’t tell me to give the remote control to Laurel and be done with it. She was smiling.

  “What are you grinning at?” I snapped at her.

  That only made her smile more. “Nothing.” She tried to wipe the grin from her face and concentrate on the television.

  “Tell us!” said Laurel.

  The two of us stared at our mother until she relented. “It’s just…it makes me so happy to see you two bickering like that. It’s just like me and your auntie Eleanor when we were your age.”

  “So?” I asked.

  The smile slipped from her face. “Well, I never thought this would…I mean, I always hoped…It’s just so nice to see you being sisters. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.” Then she dissolved into tears, but she said it was okay, they were happy tears. Laurel and I looked at each other and smiled. I handed her the remote control, and she turned off the TV. I moved over to the sofa so I was sitting next to Mom, then I hugged her. Laurel hugged her, too. Mom had one arm around Laurel and one arm around me, and we stayed like that for a long time. The sofa felt the right size again.

  —

  I know something is up the second I get home from school. Mom and Dad and Laurel are sitting at the dining table. Dad wasn’t supposed to be arriving until later. Mom invited him and Michel over for dinner (because I nagged her until she agreed to it just to shut me up). As far as I’m concerned, this will be our first real family dinner.

  I look at the faces around the table, searching for clues. Mom and Laurel look fine; Dad doesn’t look too happy. I dump my bag on the sofa, then sit down on the empty chair. We only have four. I’ll have to bring one from the kitchen before Michel arrives.

  I ask what’s going on. Then I get the strangest flashback to the moment when Mom and Dad told me they were splitting up. They sat me down at the same dining table, in a different house, and spoke to me in soft, sympathetic voices. (We still care about each other, very much. And we love you just the same as we always have. There’s really no need for you to worry.)

  Mom tells me that nothing bad has happened, and Dad raises his eyebrows as if he’s not so sure about that. Laurel winks at me, which reassures me more than Mom’s words ever could. I wait for someone to tell me what the hell is going on here.

  Mom looks at Dad, but he shakes his head and puts his hands up. “I’m having nothing to do with it.”

  Mom purses her lips. Then she turns to me. “Laurel and I had a meeting this morning.” It’s the first I’ve heard of any meeting. “With a publisher. They’ve got a proposal for us.”

  “What kind of proposal?” I ask, even though there’s only one kind of proposal it could possibly be.

  “A book deal. They’re prepared to pay a significant amount of money.”

  “They want you to write a book?” I ask Laurel.

  Laurel opens her mouth to speak, but Mom gets in there first. “They want us to write it.” She places her hand on top of mine. “As a family.”

  “Well, that’s weird.”

  “The editor said it will be the first book of its kind. ‘Groundbreaking’ was the word she used.” It doesn’t escape me that Mom used the word will instead of would, as if this is already a done deal. From the look on Dad’s face, it hasn’t escaped him, either. “Of course, the lion’s share of the book would be about Laurel, but they want to hear the whole story—what it’s been like for each of us. They’ve already found the perfect ghostwriter for the project. They’re hoping to publish in time for Christmas.”

  “Why would anyone want a book about us—about Laurel—for Christmas? No offense, Laurel.” Laurel is sitting quietly, just watching.

  “My point exactly,” Dad says triumphantly.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “You two are so cynical. It’s the perfect book for Christmas—it’s a story of hope, isn’t it?”

  “Anyway,” says Dad, “it’s a decision we have to make as a family. I’ve already made my feelings on the matter quite clear. I think the public has probably had just about enough of us by now. It’s time to move on.” He looks at Laurel, but her face is curiously blank. “But I’ve agreed to abide by your decision.” He looks from me to Laurel and back again.

  That is so typical of Dad, taking the easy way out.

  “Well, Faith, what do you think?” Mom’s eyes are wide and hopeful even though she knows (she must know, surely?) what I’m going to say.

  “I think it’s a terrible idea.” I can practically see the thought bubble coming out of Dad’s head: That’s my girl.

  Mom sneaks a glance at Laurel before focusing back on me. “But why? Don’t you think it would be good to set the record straight? To tell our side of the story?”

  “You’ve been telling your side of the story for years.” This sounds worse out loud than it did in my head. I try again. “I just don’t see the point of this. Of keeping on talking about what happened. It’s in the past now.”

  There’s silence around the table. I stare at the empty mug in front of Laurel—the one with my name on it. I’m not sure why, but she seems to prefer it to the one I bought for her.

  “Faith has a point, Olivia.”

  “Yes, I know she has a point. Thanks, John, for stating the bloody obvious…as usual.”

  Dad holds his hands up as if he’s being held at gunpoint. “Whoa there! There’s no need for this to turn nasty.”

  Mom sighs and leans back in her chair. “We have to think about Laurel’s future. The kind of money they’re talking about could set her up for life.” I wish they wouldn’t talk about Laurel as if she weren’t here. But it’s almost as if she isn’t here. She isn’t reacting to anything anyone says. She doesn’t seem bothered by Mom and Dad arguing, which makes me think they were probably arguing before I got here. “And you’d get a share of the money too, Faith….”

  I hadn’t thought of that. For some reason I assumed it would all go to Laurel. I wonder how much….No. No amount of money is worth that kind of invasion of privacy. I stand; Mom tells me to sit down. I ignore her. “I just want to live a normal life without everyone knowing our business. You three can do what you want, but there’s no way I’m getting involved in this.”

  I grab my bag from the sofa and walk out of the room. Mom and Dad both call me back, but I ignore them. Upstairs, I slam my bedroom door, then flop down on the bed.

  Is it always going to be like this? Why can’t people just leave us alone? Everyone seems to want their pound of flesh, and Mom seems perfectly willing to carve it up for them and serve it lightly sautéed with a side of béarnaise sauce.

/>   I keep waiting for someone to knock at the door. Dad, maybe, coming to say that he’s proud of me for taking a stand against all this bullshit. Mom, coming to apologize and say that she’s had a change of heart and realized that the idea of us all writing a book together is truly, truly terrible. Or Laurel. I have no idea what she would say. But no one comes, so after a while, I pick up a book and start reading. Time passes, slowly.

  I clear my throat. “Can you pass the salt, please?”

  Mom doesn’t move, even though the saltshaker is closest to her. Michel reaches across the table, almost catching his shirtsleeve on the candle flame. He grabs the salt and puts it down in front of me. “Merci,” I say, under my breath.

  Poor Michel. He has no idea what he’s walked into. Unless Dad called to warn him. No one’s mentioned the book deal since I stormed out of the conversation. It’s not the elephant in the room—it’s bigger than that. A blue whale, floundering and gasping for air.

  There are lots of awkward silences. Michel does his best to fill them, but it’s a losing battle. He’s already complimented Mom on the food—slow-roasted shoulder of lamb—five times.

  Dad’s on his third glass of wine already. Mom says it would be nice if he left some for other people. He ignores her and pours himself some more. The glass is so full that he has to lift it to his mouth excruciatingly slowly so he doesn’t spill a drop on the pristine tablecloth.

  Laurel has barely touched her food. Mom’s noticed—she keeps on glancing at Laurel’s plate. Laurel moves the food around with her knife and fork, as if that’s fooling anyone.

  “Is everything okay, love? Are you not hungry? I can make you something else if you’d prefer?” Mom’s always fussing over Laurel. She can’t leave her in peace.

  “No, it’s really good, thanks.” Laurel eats a tiny bit of potato, which seems to make Mom feel better. She stops watching Laurel like a hawk and concentrates on her own plate for a couple of minutes.

  Michel starts telling us about a man who came into the vet’s office with baby turtles in his coat pockets. Laurel smiles politely and I even manage to laugh. Dad drinks more wine.

  We’re having dessert—chocolate mousse served in little espresso cups—when Mom finally crumbles. “Look, we’re going to have to sort this out. Zara—that’s the editor; she’s really lovely, by the way—wants an answer tomorrow.”

  Michel doesn’t ask what Mom’s talking about, so Dad must have given him the lowdown after all. Everyone looks at me.

  “What are you all looking at me for? I’ve told you what I think. Write the book without me—no one would give a shit about what I have to say anyway.”

  Mom dabs at her mouth with her napkin. “I think you’re being remarkably selfish.”

  Dad leans forward. “Now, hang on a minute, Olivia. That’s not fair. Faith’s entitled to her opinion on the matter. Some of us are just…more private than others.”

  “Well, some of us have more reason to be private than others,” Mom snaps back, tossing her napkin onto the table.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Dad’s face is red, and I can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry or drunk or both.

  “You know full well what it means.”

  “How dare you? After everything I’ve been through with the press…” He shakes his head in disgust.

  Things are getting out of hand. Someone needs to step in and say something. I thought Michel might be the man for the job, but he’s always so careful around Mom.

  I try to think of something to say to defuse the situation. “Have either of you bothered to ask Laurel what she wants to do?”

  Mom’s lips twitch into a half smile, and that’s when I know I’ve made a mistake. She wants to do it; Laurel wants us to write the fucking book.

  “Laurel? Why don’t you tell Faith what you told us earlier?”

  Laurel’s hands are in her lap. She almost looks like she could be praying, if it wasn’t for the fact that her eyes are open. The chocolate mousse in front of her has a single spoonful carved out of it. Laurel’s mouth is clamped shut, as if she’s worried someone will force another spoonful into her mouth if she opens it even a little bit.

  “Laurel?”

  “Leave the girl alone, Olivia!”

  “Can you please stop fighting?” Laurel says, her voice little more than a whisper. Everyone hears, though.

  Mom and Dad both apologize, and Michel shoots me a look that I can’t decipher. Laurel looks at me, too.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “You can tell me the truth.”

  “I want to write the book. I want us all to write the book.” I half expect Mom to high-five her and run a victory lap around the dining table. But I’m pretty sure my mother has never high-fived anyone in her entire life, and she doesn’t “do” running.

  “Why?” It’s a simple question, but I’m almost certain Mom never bothered to ask it.

  Laurel stares at the light above the table—the one that looks like it’s made up of three flying saucers from the 1970s. The one Mom’s been meaning to replace ever since we moved in. The last time I mentioned it, she said it was “growing on her.” Like a fungus.

  The silence goes on for too long; it’s as if Laurel’s gone into some kind of trance, staring at that ugly light. “Laurel?” I reach across the table to touch her hand, and something flashes across her face. I’d have missed it if I’d blinked. Perhaps Mom, Dad, and Michel were blinking, all at the exact same moment. I take my hand away and start to doubt myself immediately, because what possible reason could there be for her to have that look on her face? All I did was touch her. Surely that didn’t warrant a look of pure revulsion?

  A flashback. That’s the only explanation that makes any sense. Laurel’s counselor, Penny, told us that flashbacks were more than likely. That they can happen at any time, without any warning. She said there were bound to be things that Laurel had gone through that she might have buried in the recesses of her mind to protect herself. Those things might stay buried forever, or they might just lurk there, waiting to jump out at her when she least expected it.

  “Well?” Mom nudges me with her foot under the table.

  “Sorry…what?”

  “The least you can do is listen to what Laurel has to say.” I’m not even sure Mom realizes what a bitch she’s being.

  I look at Laurel and wait. There’s no hint of revulsion on her face now. It’s hard to imagine the twisting grimace I saw—thought I saw?—only seconds ago. Now her expression is warm and kind and open. “I think…I think it would help us heal. As a family.”

  I say nothing.

  Now it’s Laurel’s turn to reach across the table and take my hand in hers. “I think it would give us closure.” Closure. That’s what you get for watching The Cynthia Day Show every day. Cynthia’s always spouting that kind of psychobabble nonsense; her audience laps it up like kittens.

  Laurel squeezes my hand. “It would be a project that we can all do together—as a family.” She looks over at Mom, and they share a sad little smile, like they’re both thinking of all the things we’ve missed out on doing as a family.

  But why does it have to be a book? Why can’t we do something that normal families do, like go to Disney World? Or IKEA.

  Martha would be horrified if I agree to this. Thomas too. Laney Finch would be delighted—and that’s putting it mildly. I don’t even need to look at Michel to know that he thinks this is a terrible idea, but he won’t say anything, because Dad’s in an impossible situation here. Dad would do anything for Laurel—anything at all. Because he’s spent so many years not being able to do a single thing for her.

  Laurel lets go of my hand. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to do it, Faith. We all will.” Mom nods in agreement, because that’s what Laurel wants her to do. “It’s up to you.”

  One last try. “But can’t you do it without me?”

  Laurel shakes her head. “I wouldn’t want to. You can say no, Faith. We don’t have to do it. We can f
orget all about it,” she says. I believe her. Mom might hold it against me until the end of time, but Laurel wouldn’t.

  In the end, it all comes down to one thing: my sister. Laurel’s future with thousands and thousands of dollars in a savings account, or Laurel’s future without thousands and thousands of dollars in a savings account. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she would be able to get a regular job like a regular person. Maybe she can go to some university and study law and end up being a hotshot corporate lawyer. Maybe she can live a normal life and lock up the memories of what happened to her and store them away somewhere in her brain, never to be found again. But maybe she can’t. And if she can’t live a normal life, she’s going to need money. Lots of it.

  Mom’s the only one who seems genuinely shocked when I say, “Let’s do it. Let’s write the book.” Shocked but happy. Laurel rushes around from her side of the table and hugs me. “Thank you,” she whispers.

  Dad’s not surprised at all. He knows I feel the same way he does: Laurel is our priority now. Her needs come first.

  Michel volunteers to do the washing up and asks me to dry the dishes. Mom, Dad, and Laurel stay in the living room.

  “You didn’t have to do that, you know,” Michel says quietly as he hands me the wineglass he’s just washed.

  “I did.” I wipe the glass with a dish towel, careful to get rid of every last drop of water before placing it on the counter.

  “No, you really didn’t. It’s your life, too.” I want him to stop talking. “They shouldn’t have pressured you into it.”

  “They didn’t pressure me into anything. I’d already made up my mind to do it.” I have no idea why I’m lying to him, especially since it’s abundantly clear that he knows I’m lying to him.

  He stops washing dishes and turns to look at me. I continue drying because I can’t face looking at him. “I’m worried about you, Faith.”

  “Worried? Why would you be worried about me?”

  He’s silent for a moment. Either he’s choosing his words carefully, or he can’t think of the exact English words to convey what he’s thinking. “You’re not being yourself.”