by Cylin Busby
I met her eyes, suddenly having a terrible feeling she was going to say something like, Don’t ever come in my room again.
“Can you leave the door a little bit open? I don’t like to be closed in.”
“Sure.” It was hard to believe this was the same Sarah who had always insisted on privacy, who had a habit of slamming her door, hard, behind anyone foolish enough to leave it open. As I left, I dimmed the hallway light, then I went into my own room and closed the door behind me.
That night, I woke to the sound of screaming. “Let me out!” I jerked awake, my feet on the floor before I even knew where I was. In a moment I was at Sarah’s door, panting for breath. “Stop, stop!” she yelled.
Dad stood in the hallway, in the dim light, and whispered to me, “It’s okay, Sarah’s just having a nightmare, go back to bed.” I peered into Sarah’s room and saw Mom on the bed next to her, holding her and rocking her back and forth as she sobbed and gulped air.
“It’s okay, you’re home now, you’re safe, you’re okay,” Mom said over and over again.
“Nico, back to bed,” Dad commanded.
Before I turned back into my room, I whispered to him, “Leave the door open a little, she doesn’t like it closed.”
He looked at me with sad eyes and rubbed the stubble on his face. “I know,” he said.
I went back into my room and lay in bed, just staring at the ceiling. I heard Dad go downstairs and hit some buttons on the panel for the alarm system next to the front door, probably checking to be sure it was armed and the door securely locked. I could hear him pacing, his slippers on the hardwood floor, checking the windows and doors, like he sometimes did before we went on vacation. But I wasn’t sure who he was protecting us from. The damage had already been done.
SARAH
THERE WAS ONE BOOK in the room, oversized with a puffy front cover, like there was padding inside it. It was white and felt like leather to the touch. It was an illustrated book of Bible stories for kids, big pictures with everything from Adam and Eve to Moses parting the Red Sea.
They never said I could look at the book, so I only did it in secret, when I was alone in the room for a long time. When I heard the key in the lock, I would quick put it back.
The next time I got in trouble, I thought it was maybe because I had been looking at the book. But that wasn’t why. It happened because she washed some clothes that had been sitting around. I only had two or three things to wear then and I just wore them over and over.
She said she saw something. “Has he been messing with you?” she asked me, and I didn’t know what to say so I just shook my head.
She sat on the bed and looked at me for a long time, then pulled the blanket up around my shoulders and tucked me in. She had never done anything nice like that before.
That night, the yelling was so bad I could hear it even though I pressed my hands hard over my ears. If only they had neighbors, they would hear and call the police, but from what I had seen out the little window, we were too far away for anyone to know what was happening. I couldn’t see another house or car anywhere. I just sat on the bed and rocked and rocked for hours. Sometimes I would get out that old Bible book and look at the pictures, but not now. There was noise and yelling and things being thrown. It was not a time for Bible pictures.
CHAPTER 12
MAX AND GRAM WEREN’T the only ones who wanted to see Sarah. My friends were all dying to come over, suddenly, and everyone wanted a photo of how she looked now. She had been gone for four years—was she still the same pretty girl? Or had she been tarnished in some way that could never wash off? Even Tessa, who stopped by with my assignments from school and lingered in the doorway, her mom’s car idling in our driveway.
“Can I stay for a little bit? Mom said I can, if your mom says it’s okay,” she said breathlessly, looking past my shoulder. I couldn’t help but think back to just a year or two before, when Tessa hadn’t even been allowed to come over or spend the night. Now we were suddenly celebrities, and everyone wanted a piece of us.
“It’s not a good idea,” I said, though I didn’t fault her. I wanted her to come in so we could talk—really talk—about what was going on. Tessa would know what to do.
“We saw on the news—she really doesn’t remember anything? I mean, like, nothing?”
I nodded. “Yeah, she’s reading a book right now that she read before, and she doesn’t even remember that.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt I had betrayed my family, my sister. Mom and Dad had been very clear: no media, and no talking to anyone about Sarah. We didn’t know how the facts about her having amnesia had gotten out, but Mom suspected it was a leak from the children’s shelter in Florida. We hadn’t released anything: no photos, though the papers and magazines had been clamoring for them. Mom had fielded calls from news shows like 48 Hours and Dateline and also magazines—even People. But she turned everyone down.
“I want to give other people hope, the families of missing children—to tell them to keep believing and that maybe it will happen for them too, but not at the expense of my own daughter’s mental health.” That was the statement she gave to most sources.
“Can I see her?” Tessa whispered, leaning in, and I had to shake my head.
“Don’t even tell anybody what I said about the book, okay?”
Tessa nodded seriously. “Okay.” She lingered for a moment. “You know Liam is having that party tomorrow night? I feel weird going without you.”
“That’s okay, you should just go,” I said, taking the pile of books from her hands.
“So you don’t think your parents will let you? My mom will drive us.”
I looked out at Tessa’s mom in the car. She was usually on her phone, but not today. She was watching us, waiting to see if Tessa was going to get inside. If I was going to come out. If Sarah was going to make an appearance.
“I dunno, I have to see.” Really I knew that we already had plans for the weekend. Max was coming into town, but I couldn’t tell Tessa that.
“Okay, well . . .” Tessa met my eyes. “I guess just let me know, okay?”
I felt a weird detachment from her, as if I was lying to her. We usually told each other everything. I didn’t like how it felt to keep secrets from my best friend—if that’s what I was doing.
After the family session with Dr. Levine, we talked about visitors and let Sarah decide who she wanted to see first. She had agreed to let Max come for a visit over the weekend, but she was nervous—not about her amnesia, but about something else. At dinner Friday night, she said quietly, “I’m mostly just worried what people will think of how I look now.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Mom laughed lightly. But I knew what Sarah meant. She could see from the photos all over the house how she used to look. And she didn’t look like that anymore.
Sarah sighed and stared down at her plate. She didn’t want to say the words. “They might think I’m different now. Ugly.”
“You are not ugly, Sarah,” Mom was quick to say. “You are a beautiful girl, and I want you to see that. Whatever it takes to make you feel better, we’re going to do it, right, Nico?” Mom looked over at me.
“Yeah, of course,” I agreed. But Sarah was right. Max was going to be shocked to see her—older, so thin and drawn. That glow, that whole “Sarah” thing, was gone, and I didn’t know how she could possibly get it back.
“How about this? Tomorrow, before Max comes over, we go see Amanda at the salon—makeovers all around. Then shopping—you need new clothes, shoes, everything. Okay?”
Sarah smiled. “I’d like that,” she said, taking a bite of pasta from her plate. “I love this pasta.”
“It’s gnocchi,” I told her. “Your favorite, but you almost never ate it because you said it had too many calories.”
“Nico!” Mom snapped.
“What? It’s true, she used to say that.”
Dad pushed his plate away. “Well, it’s mighty filling, I’ll give yo
u that.”
Actually, what Sarah used to say was that I shouldn’t eat pasta, because I was so fat already. I wish we could order pizza, but Nico can’t have any, she told her friends who were over one night. My mom had to put her fat ass on a diet, so now we all have to suffer. Thanks, Nico.
I looked over at Sarah now and tried to marry her words from the past with this person sitting at the table. She smiled at me and took another bite, this washed-out version of my sister. Deep down, part of me still hated her, even though I knew that was wrong. I had tried so hard after she was gone. Tried to remember only the good things about her, but it was nearly impossible.
On her birthday every year, Mom and Dad left white roses at the entrance to MacArthur Park, and they made me come, too. March 11, early spring, and almost always raining or damp. A dozen white roses, wrapped in a yellow ribbon, wasted, left to rot on the brick wall at the entrance arch. We never actually set foot in the park, just stood outside the gates. Mom made us each say something—something good we remembered about Sarah. The first year, I said something about how she was so awesome at cheer. That was easy, a good thing, a true thing. The next year, I mentioned how she always kept her room so neat. Mom had laughed at that, through her tears.
And this year, just a month ago, it was easier for me to say something nice about Sarah as the memory of her cruelty faded. I was more forgiving. I said she always wanted the best for me, which was true, sort of. She wanted me to be thin and pretty like her; she wanted me to care about my appearance, to work out instead of constantly reading. To have more friends, be more popular. All the things that had happened for me after Sarah went away. Without Sarah’s shadow over me, I became what she wanted me to be. And now she was back. But that didn’t mean that I had forgotten.
CHAPTER 13
THE NEXT DAY, WE left the house with Sarah bundled up in a hat, sunglasses, and baggy clothes. If anyone was waiting outside with a camera, they would be disappointed. But I didn’t see any of the news media trucks that had parked outside those first few days. Perhaps they had moved on, forgotten us already, or the police presence had finally intimidated them into leaving. I noticed just one car that looked a little suspicious, probably an unmarked police car, but I didn’t get a good look at the plates as Mom drove out of the garage.
Mom checked the rearview mirror a few times on the drive, but saw nothing. And I knew that Amanda—her longtime stylist—had emptied the salon for us that morning. Amanda had actually done Sarah’s hair before, just a trim now and then, or for a big dance at school.
When we got to the salon, Amanda, a tiny woman with short spiky black hair and a light British accent, raced toward us and hugged us all, saving Sarah for last. I saw tears in her eyes as she held her. “You sit right here, we’re taking care of you first, guest of honor,” she told Sarah, wrapping a cape over her clothes as she sat down. Mom and I sat on either side and Amanda’s assistant started on Mom’s trim.
Amanda fluffed up Sarah’s lank tresses. “Looks like it’s just a little overprocessed . . .” she murmured, then caught herself. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.” She smiled and pulled a comb carefully through Sarah’s hair, parting it. “That’s your real color right there, sort of a light brown.” She pointed at the roots. “I’ve been coloring your mom’s hair for years”—she leaned in and whispered—“and that’s her real color exactly. Now, how blond do you want to go?”
“Well, Nico has the most beautiful hair. I’d love to have her color, if you can even get close to it,” Sarah said. She smiled over at me and I felt my neck get hot and red with embarrassment. I couldn’t remember a time when Sarah had given me a compliment. To call my hair beautiful—I was shocked.
“You’d be surprised what I can do, a few highlights and lowlights.” She combed through Sarah’s hair carefully. “You’ll have to lose a couple of inches to damage, but otherwise, you’ll look like twins.”
Sarah reached over and took my hand as Amanda started working on her hair, and our eyes met in the mirror. Her smile was sincere, relieved, happy. Feeling the small bones of her hand as she squeezed mine, I had to smile back.
Two hours later, we left the salon looking more like a family: all the same shade of blond and trimmed and styled to perfection. Sarah’s hair was a few inches shorter now, just above her shoulders, but the color was amazing: We did look like twins, just like Amanda had promised.
“Lunch at the mall, then shopping?” Mom said as we headed for the car. Sarah slipped on her sunglasses and, with her newly lightened hair, looked better than she had in days.
“I’m starving, and I think I’m in the mood to go shopping. How about you, Nico?” she asked me. It was probably her longest sentence since she got home.
I looked over at her, almost too stunned to answer. Was she really asking me how I felt, what I wanted to do—instead of just insisting we do what she wanted? “Yeah, sure, why not,” I said, climbing into the backseat. Sarah took the seat beside me instead of sitting up front.
“I feel like we used to do this all the time,” Sarah said, pulling on her seat belt. “Shop together, right?”
At first I thought she was being sarcastic, old Sarah, back with the digs. But there was no laugh, no as if! We never went shopping together. She always went with her friends, and I just didn’t go. I looked down at my boyfriend-cut jeans and old concert tee. An outfit that Sarah would have called “dumpy.” No way is Nico coming with us, we aren’t going to the store for fatties—oh, I mean plus-size. Isn’t that where you get your clothes, Nico?
Sarah kept her sunglasses on at the mall, but I wasn’t sure she really needed to—the place was mobbed, and I felt like no one took any notice of two blond teens and their mom eating subs at the food court or popping into boutiques. When anyone did do a double take at us, I reminded myself that there hadn’t been any photos of Sarah since she returned, and Mom looked so different from the old press photos they were using, no one would recognize her.
After Sarah went missing, for a few months at least, we couldn’t go anywhere without people coming up to us. They just wanted to say how sorry they were, or that they had seen us on the news. Once, at the grocery store, a teenage boy bagging Mom’s groceries asked, “Aren’t you that family where the girl ran away? Whatever happened to her?” Mom completely dissolved into tears, sobbing so loudly the manager had to come and walk us out to the car. After that, every time someone recognized us as “the family of that girl,” I felt my anxiety meter creep up. I didn’t want anyone to say something stupid or in haste that would hurt Mom or Dad, but usually they were just sympathetic and kind. Still, it was one benefit of the passage of years—people forget, someone else’s story replaces yours on the front page, and you just go on with your life.
We went into a couple of stores, but Sarah didn’t find much that she liked. “Too preppy,” she’d say, passing up racks of outfits that she would have pounced on a few years ago. She finally picked out a couple of pairs of jeans and a few casual tops to try on. Some of the stuff looked more like nightclub wear than clothes for everyday, but Mom wasn’t saying no to anything.
When we went to the dressing rooms, Sarah linked arms with me and almost pulled me in with her. “I’ll wait out here,” I said, uncomfortable with her new physical displays of affection.
“’Kay,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I’ll only show you the stuff I think looks decent.”
She opened the door a minute later, coming out in a bright printed top and skinny jeans that revealed how thin her legs had become. The top had a T-back and showed off her slender shoulders, the bones knobby under the skin.
“What do you think?” She was facing me but I could see in the mirror behind her the circle of a pink burn on her shoulder blade. I knew she had lots of small burns on her back from the report that Mom was given, but I hadn’t seen one before. Now that I did—the spot where someone had pressed a burning cigarette into her fragile skin—I caught my breath.
“What?�
�� Sarah said, whirling around to look in the mirror.
“You have—you can see—”
Sarah turned around and looked at the reflection of her shoulder. “Oh.” She scowled. “Too bad, it’s a cute top from the front.”
Before thinking, I reached out and put my fingers gently on the scar. It felt soft and smooth, almost plastic. “Does it hurt?” I asked.
Sarah shook her head. “It was a long time ago,” she said, stripping off the top and dropping it on the floor.
I registered what she had said before she did: A long time ago. How long? I thought she couldn’t remember.
When she saw my face in the mirror she caught herself. “I mean, it has to be, right?” She smiled, slipping another top over her head.
It was a long time ago. The words kept ringing in my head. Did Sarah remember more than she was telling us?
“Nico, is this one too tight, you think?” she asked me now. Our eyes met in the mirror. “Come on, be honest.” Suddenly the smile left her face and she added, in a low tone, “You know you can be totally honest with me.” We stood like that for a moment, neither of us saying anything, an electricity between us that I didn’t fully understand.
Then Sarah smiled her earnest smile, something that I still wasn’t used to. The Sarah of my memory had a downturned mouth, unless she was with her friends or with Max. “You could pull this off. Why don’t you try it?” she added, unbuttoning the top. And that was perhaps the most jarring thing of all: her niceness. Her sweet way with me. How she reached for my hand at the salon. Her open heart, her love. Gone were the sarcasm, the biting insults. I had almost stopped bracing for acid comments every time she opened her mouth. Almost.
I looked at her in the mirror, thin and washed out, even with her expensive new color and cut. The fitted pink top making her skin look even paler, her body smaller. This girl was broken and scarred. Something horrible had happened to her, that was certain. Somehow, she had come out of it, survived, and become the person she was now—someone wonderful. But she wasn’t my sister.