by Cylin Busby
When finally the car pulled to a stop in front of our gray-and-white house, she moved to the door and looked out at the carefully manicured lawn, up at the second floor. “Do you remember this?” Dad asked cautiously.
Sarah nodded, her lank blond hair bobbing. She had barely spoken since we’d left the shelter, but now she offered up one word, “yes,” in a whisper.
The news van was gone and, while I didn’t quite know how Mom had managed it, there were no reporters waiting in the bushes for us. We simply got out of the car and went into the house. Once inside, the three of us stood and watched as Sarah moved, silently, through each room, laying her hands on things and looking out the windows. Mom couldn’t help herself and had to ask, “Do you remember this? How about this? Any of this look familiar?”
In the front room, she stopped at the piano and slowly picked up a framed photo of our family—the one that had been used on the news after Sarah went missing. “I remember that dress,” she said, running her hands over the image.
“You do? Oh, that’s so great.” Mom practically clapped and Dad was beaming. I tried to see our home as she must see it now. Two floors, spacious and decorated with Mom’s flair for beautiful antiques. The money to live in this neighborhood hadn’t come just from Dad’s work, though he made tons. Some of it was from Mom’s family too—she had grown up this way. I looked around at all the nice things we had, the beauty of our home that I took for granted. The den with a surround sound system, the kitchen full of expensive appliances and chef’s oven. What the counselor had said about Sarah being starved floated into my head as I watched her run her fingers over the fruit bowl on the marble counter—apples and pears, carefully polished. They weren’t really ever eaten, not by us anyhow. The cleaning lady just shined them up and replaced them when they went soft.
“Would you like something to eat?” Mom asked.
Sarah nodded, her eyes still darting around the room until Dad said, “Let’s sit down.”
Sarah pulled out the chair closest to her and sat down at the table while we all froze for a moment. That was my seat. Sarah’s chair was on the other side of the table, Mom and Dad on either end. That’s how it always had been since Sarah and I were little.
“Well, um, Nico, why don’t you sit here?” Dad said, pulling out the chair on the other side. The chair that had been empty for four years: Sarah’s chair.
I sat down with a stiff back, as if I didn’t really want the chair to touch me, while Mom busied herself at the counter, putting together a sandwich for Sarah. “We don’t have the kind of cheese you like,” she said, almost talking to herself.
“Anything’s fine, really,” Sarah said quietly, that slight southern twang drifting into her voice, something that hadn’t been there before. When Mom slid the sandwich in front of her, I held my breath, waiting for the old Sarah to show up. Swiss cheese? Really? It smells like sick, I can’t eat this. Or: Is this turkey the low-sodium kind? You know I can’t bloat, we’ve got a game on Saturday.
But this girl just sat and ate the sandwich in big bites, chewing with her mouth slightly open and murmuring, saying “So good” between bites. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her face as she ate.
When you see an old friend or a relative who you haven’t seen in a while—maybe over summer break or a few months or a year even—and then you see them again, it’s the little things you pick up on. What’s different from how you picture them in your mind. How you last saw them. And at first, it’s jarring. Maybe they gained weight, like my uncle Phil did one year, and when we saw him again, Dad said he looked like someone had taken an air pump and stuck it up his butt and gave it a few hard pumps. Sarah and I had a good laugh about that, and it was true. He looked the same, just like Uncle Phil, but inflated somehow.
As I looked at Sarah now, all I could think of was how deflated she looked. Hair hung limp to her shoulders, brittle and too yellow, her face was thin and pale. Her eyes seemed to have fewer lashes. I studied her hands on the sandwich. Her nails were smaller, bitten down and ragged, cuticles torn.
To be fair, I looked different too, now so much taller and thinner. I wasn’t the chubby little eleven-year-old sister Sarah had last seen, with braces and a forehead covered in pimples.
She glanced up from her plate and took a long drink of water. Dad said, “Well, that disappeared awful fast. You want another one?”
Mom was in the kitchen already fixing more sandwiches. “It’s no problem at all, I’ve got one right here.”
Sarah caught my eye and I flinched, waiting for her to snarl, What are you staring at? Instead she gave me a small, sincere smile and nodded. “Sure, I’ll take another one.”
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS ALMOST A relief when the detectives showed up later. I used to dread them coming to the house. I would actually hide out in my room or the den when I saw their unmarked Ford pull into our driveway. But today, the sound of the bell was so welcome, I raced to the door to get it—anything to get away from the table and my family just sitting there looking at one another.
I let in Detective Donally and Detective Spencer before my parents could reach the door, but I could hear Mom complain, “They didn’t say they were coming today.”
“Maybe they’re just here to keep reporters away, you did ask for that,” Dad pointed out.
As soon as the men were in the house, Dad came to shake hands. He led them into the kitchen, murmuring under his breath about the amnesia and how tired Sarah was. I stood in the archway to the kitchen and watched.
“Sarah, I’m Detective Donally, this is my partner, Detective Spencer; we’re with the state police. We sure are glad to see you home, safe and sound. The children’s shelter in Florida is sending us over some files as well, just to follow up on your release.” He pulled out a chair and motioned to my mom as if asking permission before sitting down.
Mom nodded, but said quickly, “We’ve just gotten home and were having something to eat, I think Sarah might need time to rest.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or anything? I’m afraid I only have instant.”
Donally shook his head. “Oh, no worries, we won’t be long, just wanted to check in and introduce ourselves. Set up a time for Sarah to come down to the station for a talk.” He undid his jacket and I could see the black gun strapped to his belt.
“Why does she need to come to the station?” Dad asked. He went to stand behind Sarah’s chair while Detective Spencer circled the table and stood on the other side, looking around the kitchen. He was always the quiet one, letting Detective Donally do the talking.
“Well, because she’s a crime victim and we need to talk to her about that crime.” He smiled over at Dad as if he was talking to a child.
“She can’t remember anything. We’re going to take her for an MRI to see . . . to see why.” Mom caught herself before saying what they mentioned at the shelter—the possibility that Sarah had brain damage.
“We’ll still need to ask her some questions—that okay with you, Sarah?” Detective Donally asked.
Sarah met his eyes warmly and nodded. “Sure.”
Everyone else in the room seemed to let out a sigh. We were all waiting to see how Sarah would react, how she would handle questioning. None of us had asked her yet what she remembered, as if we were hoping it was all a blank and things could just go back to how they were. But now that wouldn’t be possible, the police had to have their answers: Where had she been these past four years? Was she kidnapped? If so, who was responsible? I wasn’t sure my parents really wanted the answers.
“Why don’t we pick you up about nine tomorrow morning, okay?” Donally asked, standing and buttoning his jacket over his gun.
“We can just bring her over,” Mom said quickly.
“You don’t need to bother. Sarah’s an adult now, isn’t that right? You’re eighteen now?” Detective Donally asked her.
Sarah looked over at me in the doorway as if I held the an
swer, not at Mom or Dad.
“Her birthday is in March,” I said. The memory of Sarah’s birthday, the actual date, the dread of that day, of what we had done on her birthdays while she was missing, caught in my throat as I added, “She just turned nineteen.”
Sarah nodded. “March eleventh,” she said mechanically. “That’s my birthday.”
“Well, look at that, she does remember some things.” Donally gave Sarah a tight smile and pushed his chair in. “She won’t need you all to come in with her. But if you want to send your lawyer, that’s fine.” Before Mom could respond, he turned back to Sarah. “See you tomorrow, Sarah, and welcome home.”
Dad shot Mom a look behind the detective’s back as he went to walk them to the door. When he came back into the kitchen, Mom and I were still silent. “Why would she need a lawyer there?” I asked.
“I’m sure it’s just how they do things,” Mom said cautiously. “Sarah, if you’re not ready for this . . .” The way she said Sarah’s name hung in the air.
“It’s okay,” Sarah said, again a little lilt of the South in her voice. “I just don’t know how much I can help them.” She was so quiet, she sounded like a little girl.
“I’m sure you’re anxious to see your room and get some rest,” Mom offered, starting to lead her back through the front of the house to the stairs. When Sarah walked into her room, I held my breath, waiting for her to jump on the bed or run to her closet, so happy to be home. But she looked around as if she had never seen the place before. She moved across the carpet to the bulletin board by her mirror. She fingered the silky cheerleading award ribbons and glanced at the photos pinned there as if searching for something she knew.
“Max,” she said, pointing to one. “And Polly . . . no, Paula?”
“That’s right, your friends,” Mom said. “Do you recognize anyone else?”
Sarah looked closely at the images. “Sort of, but not really. It’s like it’s right here”—she pointed to the front of her head—“but I can’t get at it.”
“Might be because you need these.” I laughed, handing her the glasses on her desk. She only wore them at school and for reading, but I wondered if she even remembered them.
“I wear glasses?” she asked, looking confused. They were light purple frames and went great with her blond hair.
“Just sometimes, like to see the board at school,” Mom explained.
She put them on and squinted at the photos again, stepping back, clearly unable to see anything. Her prescription had obviously changed over the past four years, and she didn’t even know it.
I looked over at Dad, standing in the doorway, and saw a sad look cross his face. His daughter was home, his little girl, but she wasn’t really Sarah—not anymore.
SARAH
I HAD BEEN IN the room for two days with nothing to eat. This time, he had a special treat for me: a package of two cupcakes wrapped up in cellophane. Chocolate cupcakes with a white swirl on the top.
“You say anything to her? You tell her anything?” he asked me. He held the cupcakes just out of my reach.
I shook my head. Of course I didn’t say anything to her. Why would I? This was our special time, when she was gone and he was supposed to be gone too but he was here and watching TV.
Sometimes when she came back and I was in the room, I could hear her asking him, “Why’d you smoke all my cigarettes?” or “Where’s the beer?” And then I was nervous that she would know what he had done. But he always had an answer for her and then they would laugh and I would hear music and voices all into the night. I knew I must be doing good, because no one had hurt me in a long time.
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT MORNING, SARAH was up early, just like me and Mom. The Curse of the Morris Women, Mom called it—we always woke early. Sarah had never needed an alarm clock, and this morning was no exception. She came out of her room wearing the same dirty clothes from the shelter: jeans and a white tank top with Mom’s borrowed sweater over them. She was even wearing the grubby flip-flops.
“Don’t you think you want to wear something else today, at least some warmer shoes?” Mom asked, serving us toasted bagels.
“These are fine,” Sarah said quickly. But Mom headed up the stairs to Sarah’s room, talking to herself. I looked over at Sarah and realized it was the first moment we had been alone together since yesterday, since she’d come home. The first time in four years. I found it hard to take my eyes off her face: sharp, pointy angles I didn’t recognize as “Sarah” yet. I waited for her to speak, to say my name the way she used to, drawn out, like when she was angry with me. So, Nee-co . . .
But she didn’t say anything, instead she seemed totally focused on eating her bagel as quickly as possible, like someone might come and snatch it away from her.
“You, uh, sleep okay?” I asked, breaking the awkward silence, then felt stupid. That was a question for a guest, not for your sister. And also, how could she sleep? She had a back covered in cigarette burns and didn’t know where she had been for four years—no one with a past like that could possibly close their eyes and feel safe ever again.
“Yeah,” she said quietly. She looked up at me with an open expression on her face that I didn’t recognize at all. “But I’d kill for some coffee—do you guys have any?”
You guys.
“I think Mom might have some around.” I stood up to check the cabinets. “You know, when Gram comes she likes it.” I found instant coffee and held it out to her, raising my eyebrows.
“Better than nothing.” She smiled. “They’ll have some real stuff at the station—you know how cops love their coffee.”
She picked up a second bagel and I put the kettle on the stove, wondering how Sarah knew that cops loved coffee. Mom had offered it to the detectives yesterday.
Mom came back in with an armful of clothes. “Maybe this?” She held up a black dress, but Sarah just shook her head. “This?” She showed us a tailored wool jacket. “At least cover your feet, it’s chilly out.” She put a pair of leather ballet flats beside Sarah. “Why is the stove on?”
“I’m making some coffee, for Sarah,” I said, and Mom looked over at me quizzically. I watched as Sarah slipped off her flip-flops and put her feet into the flats, or tried to. They were too small, and she pulled at the back to try and cram her toes in.
The doorbell sounded and Mom left the kitchen to get the door just as Sarah stood up. I brought her the coffee mug. “Those fit okay?” I asked, motioning down to the shoes. The front was crammed with her toes, shoved in like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters’.
“They’re a little tight,” she admitted. “You know, if you don’t wear leather shoes for a while, sometimes they shrink up.”
“I’ll grab you a pair of mine—hold on,” I told her. I could hear Mom talking to the detectives on the porch as I raced up the stairs. I wore a size 8 now; Sarah had been a size 7 before. I walked by Sarah’s room, and stood outside the closed door for a moment. Should I grab another pair from her closet for her? Maybe she was right about them shrinking. A minute later, I came down with a pair of flats from my own closet.
Sarah took them gratefully and pulled them on fast, swigging coffee from the mug in front of her—black, no sugar. “These are perfect. Here goes nothing, huh?” She smiled at me as she headed for the door.
Mom had convinced the detectives to let Dad accompany Sarah, so we watched from the front yard as they drove off all together in an unmarked police car. I learned to recognize these cars early on after Sarah’s disappearance, when they were parked outside our house most days: dark blue or black Ford four-door sedans with no registration sticker on the plates.
“I almost don’t want to let her out of my sight, you know?” Mom admitted. She wrapped her arms around herself and looked on the verge of tears.
I knew how she felt. The night before, I had been tempted to steal into Sarah’s room, just to look at her asleep, just to check that there was a real girl in Sarah’s bed.
“You know, her shoes—” I started to say, then stopped myself.
“What about her shoes?” Mom asked.
“Nothing, just that they don’t fit anymore.” I kicked the frosty dew off some blades of grass as we went back up the walk to the house.
“I was thinking that we need to take her shopping. I’m sure all her old stuff doesn’t fit, and frankly I don’t want to see her in any of those clothes. It would be like seeing a ghost.”
I thought of Sarah’s beautiful clothes—a closet full, untouched, unworn, the clothes I had once coveted. The clothes that Mom had preserved for the past four years, hanging neatly in her closet, the room kept just as it had been when Sarah was fifteen, waiting for her. Now it was all out of style, wouldn’t fit, wouldn’t work for the Sarah who had come back to us.
The last time I’d been in the room was when Tessa stayed over one night after Christmas break. I hadn’t wanted to go in there; I never did. But Tessa wanted to see. We’d been best friends for three years, but still, she had never known Sarah. She met me as “the girl whose sister disappeared” and had become friends with me knowing only that. Of course her parents knew the whole story, and at first they wouldn’t let Tessa come over to spend the night. I guess they were worried someone might come back for me—or one of my friends. Whoever took Sarah. Or, if Sarah ran away, there was always the question of her influence on me. Was my sister bad? Was I too?
There was a dark cloud over me, over our whole family. But slowly, as the years passed with no leads and no news about Sarah, most people in town, and most of the parents at school, forgot. We were no longer that family with the missing daughter. Other scandals replaced ours—a single mom having an affair with the married PE teacher, or the pretty teacher’s aide who had a secret porn background. Sarah’s disappearance seemed less tawdry and salacious than those stories. And I proved myself to be good, reliable, not a runaway, not a bad girl. Sarah’s disappearance was not our fault—Mom always reminded me of that. It was not something we had done; it was something that had happened to us. She was the one to call Tessa’s parents and get their permission for the sleepover—my first since Sarah’s disappearance.