by Cylin Busby
SARAH
HE BURNED ME THE next day. In the morning, he opened the door and came in while I was asleep. I felt his weight on the bed next to me and I rolled over. He smelled like old beer and cigarettes and sweat. He was smoking and didn’t look at me. Just said, “You fucked up real good this time, kid.”
I didn’t know if he was talking to me or to himself.
When he looked over at me, he said, “Don’t give me that face.” Then he reached over and pressed his cigarette onto my back. At first I didn’t know what was happening, then I felt it all at once, right through my nightgown, a sting and burn and sizzle. I jerked away, and quick, he was on me, holding me down, my face into the pillow with his arm on the back of my neck. And another burn and another. I screamed but the pillow filled my mouth. I couldn’t hear myself screaming, even in my own ears. He pressed harder on me and I couldn’t breathe. Then he burned me again and I felt myself drifting from the pain. It didn’t hurt anymore because I was just floating up, like there was a big wave under me, carrying me far. Carrying me far.
CHAPTER 14
I GOT THROUGH THE afternoon of shopping, woodenly saying “yes” or “no” to items she picked out—clothes my real sister would never wear, fabrics she would never let touch her body. When we walked back through the atrium to the parking lot, she suddenly stopped, shying away from a guy who bumped her accidentally. “Sorry,” he said under his breath, and kept going. Mom put her arm around Sarah’s waist and guided her to the door as I walked behind them, trying to make sure no one else came too close.
We got home without any problems—no one following us, no news crews outside. I could tell Mom was relieved as she pulled the car into the garage. If she had her way, Sarah would never leave the house again. When we got into the kitchen, Sarah took one look at the clock and her face blanched. “I’ve only got an hour before he gets here?”
“You look wonderful, what’s wrong?” Mom asked.
Sarah rolled her eyes, exasperated with Mom, and I thought I saw a glimpse of something, the old Sarah. You don’t get it, none of you. Maybe I just wanted to see it, to convince myself.
“Nico, you’ve got to help me.” Sarah raced upstairs, carrying her bags of new clothes.
I followed her into her room, where she dropped the bags on the floor. Sarah sat in front of the mirror and dumped out her old makeup bag, poking through it. “This stuff . . .” She shook her head and started to say something, then caught herself. I saw her pick up the metal eyelash curler and set it to one side. The rest of the old makeup—eye shadow, powder, lip stain—she pushed off the side of the table with the back of her hand into the garbage.
She pulled over a small white bag and started unpacking the new products Mom had just bought at the department store: a really expensive face cream, foundation, eyeliner, and lipstick. All of it came in fancy-looking boxes, which she lined up on the side of the dressing table, her eyes as big as a kid’s on Christmas morning. “Well, it’s showtime.” She opened the lotion and smoothed it over her face carefully as I watched, noting the small pocks where pimples must have left scars. “Maybe this stuff will do the trick.”
This stuff will do the trick. Sarah would never say that.
“You’re in charge of music.” She nodded to the speakers on the bookshelf. I pulled my phone from my pocket and plugged it in, scrolling to a playlist. Nico, I heard you listening to that stupid boy band. What are you, like, seven or something? You really like that crap?
“Nice,” she said, bobbing her head to the first song as it played. I sat on her bed, uneasily, and watched as she expertly applied a thick layer of eyeliner.
“I’m thinking the skinny jeans and the black top, the one that ties up here?” she said. “Can you dig those ones out for me and cut off the tags?”
I did what she asked and laid the clothes on the bed, then started to leave so she could dress, but she stripped off her pants and slid into the new jeans before changing her top, giving me a glimpse of how empty her bra was, stretched over her ribs.
She leaned into the mirror and fluffed up her hair. “You’re so quiet—is it because I look terrible?”
“No.” I shook my head. She actually looked good, almost like Sarah used to, although with a bit more makeup than she used to wear. “You look really great.”
She smiled at herself in the mirror, as if I wasn’t there, a perfect imitation of the Sarah pictures on the bulletin board—head tipped down just a bit, eyes narrowed. “Do you think he’ll look the same? Just as cute?” She moved over to the photos and studied them closely.
After Sarah went missing, we had been in close contact with Max for a while. Mom and I had both repeatedly defended him to the cops, making sure they knew that we didn’t suspect him, that he couldn’t be responsible. He loved Sarah—probably more than we did. Still, they questioned him over and over, searched his house and his family cabin, and they found plenty. Her hair was everywhere. Her fingerprints. Yes, she had been there, but they didn’t find what they were looking for: Signs of struggle. Blood.
Just when it seemed like the looming suspicion of guilt had lifted, two years ago, a local paper had done an article about Sarah, looking into her disappearance again. There were photos of Max and Paula. And, of course, the talk started up again. Mom spent a lot of time on the phone with his parents after that article was published. It didn’t seem to matter how many times our family gave statements about his innocence or Paula’s, people still thought Max had something to do with Sarah’s disappearance, probably right up until she returned.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Sarah asked, running her finger over the photo, touching his face.
I had bumped into Max last winter, when he was home for Christmas, shopping downtown. It was startling to see him and we had an awkward hug. Neither of us even said Sarah’s name. And he looked just as handsome, if not more.
“Not that long ago, and, yeah, he still looks pretty good,” I admitted. “You know, he went through a really bad time—” I started to tell her, but then the doorbell rang downstairs.
Sarah turned to me, grabbing my hands. “Oh my God!” We went down the stairs. Dad had already opened the door to Max before we got there, so we saw him standing in the front hall. Tall, dark, and handsome summed it up—now with the broad shoulders of a man to go with it. He turned to look at Sarah. It felt like time stood still as I watched his face, waiting to see his reaction. What would he say? I waited for him to say the words that were running through my head: That’s not Sarah.
Max stood still, rigid, his jaw muscles tense. He didn’t seem to blink, looking at her. The air felt charged with something: electricity, fire, metal, static.
“Wow,” he said quietly. Finally, a slow smile. “I didn’t want to believe it until I saw you, but just, wow!” He moved to lift her into his arms in a bear hug.
I felt myself breathe—I hadn’t realized until that moment that I’d been holding myself rigid, waiting. What was he seeing? I looked at her, the blond hair, the smile, and the clothes. It was Sarah, of course it was Sarah. I thought back to how I had been feeling in the dressing room at the mall, watching her, detached, like she was a stranger. Holding myself apart from her. What was wrong with me?
“You weigh nothing!” he said before he could stop himself. And then, in the doorway, I saw someone else—short dark-blond hair, a black coat. Paula.
“Oh, Paula,” Mom said, taking her eyes off Max and Sarah for a moment. “We weren’t expecting you—what a nice surprise.” I wasn’t sure if anyone but me could tell that her tone was decidedly not happy. We all sat in the living room and awkwardly stared at Sarah between conversation and the crudités Mom had set out. My parents asked about college and Max and Paula gave the stock answers about what they were studying.
“We’re going to help Sarah take her GED, once she’s settled, so maybe she’ll be joining you both soon,” Mom offered. Sarah’s face was unreadable at the news.
Paula sat close
to Max, their thighs touching, and put her arm around him as she asked, “Do we look much different to you?”
Sarah smiled a little, then admitted, “Well, Max has a beard now.”
Everyone laughed, except Paula, who corrected her. “Not a beard, he just hasn’t shaved for a couple of days.” She looked over at him and I could feel the affection between them. They had bonded over Sarah’s disappearance years ago, but now they seemed to be really in love—at least, Paula was. Max never took his eyes off Sarah.
Sarah’s face was somewhat ashen, seeing them together. We hadn’t thought to tell her that Max and Paula had been together for a few years. Mom thought it would be best for Max to tell Sarah himself, but now it was too late.
“Well, you sure look different,” Paula said, and when Mom shot her a look she added, “You look great, just older, I mean, we all do, right?” Max looked down at his shoes and rubbed his hands together. She went on talking, awkwardly, as if trying to cover what she had said, bury it under more small talk. “And I cut my hair. Remember? It used to be as long as yours, Nico.”
Her last few words hung in the air, as if no one knew what to say next, how to get into a conversation that meant anything. I felt that funny rushing sound in my ears as my heart started to beat fast. I closed my eyes just for a second and willed myself to be calm. None of this is going to be easy, the counselor had told us. She was right.
I looked over to Sarah and saw that her mouth was set in a thin line. Part of me wanted to be happy, to see Sarah not get her way—for once. To have Paula sitting there with Max, claiming him as hers. But this wasn’t Sarah, even though she looked like her—not the same Sarah from before—this girl did not deserve to be hurt by her friends. The image of that little round scar on her back flashed into my mind.
Mom broke the tension by asking if she could get drinks for everyone. “I’d love a beer, if you’ve got any,” Max said. At first I thought he was joking but then quickly remembered that he was over twenty-one now.
“I’ll check. Nico, care to help me?” Mom gave me a look that told me it wasn’t really a question.
The moment we got into the kitchen, Mom slammed open the fridge. “Who does that girl think she is to come here—this was supposed to be for Sarah and Max.” She moved some bottles around and found one of Dad’s beers.
“Mom, they’re a couple, they’ve been together for years.”
“Still, she couldn’t let Sarah have half an hour with him alone—an hour? That’s too much?”
I shrugged. “I’m sure they were so excited to see her that they just didn’t think about it. They were all friends, remember?” I said, but my mind kept replaying Paula looking over at Max, that little smug smile on her face. She didn’t have to do that.
“You’re right,” Mom said with a sigh. “I’m just thinking of Sarah—I wish we could make everything like it was for her. But that’s not going to happen, is it?”
I shook my head and went to pick up the tray Mom had fixed. What had happened at the mall was still haunting me. It was a long time ago. “Don’t you think it’s weird how she’s so . . .” The word wouldn’t come to me. “How Sarah’s so different now?”
Mom tilted her head. “Different how?”
Was it possible that she hadn’t picked up on everything I had, all the things I was seeing? “Just, the clothes she wanted to get, and well . . .” I thought of the other things: her hair being darker, her shoes too small. When I really thought about it, they were all easily explained away. The shoes were Mom’s. Or her feet had grown. The hair—someone dyed it an ashy blond, trying to disguise her. All of those little things were not as strange as how she was acting: Nice. Loving. Like a real sister. And how I was feeling about her: Protective. Defensive.
“We all wish our old Sarah was back, that everything was just like before, but this is the Sarah we’ve got,” Mom said. “And I am so happy that I just don’t want to compare things to how they were before.” She added some ice to the water glasses on the tray. “Yes, she’s different. She’s older, for one, and we don’t know what she’s been through. But she’s back, she’s with us, she’s safe, and that’s what’s important.” Mom stopped moving and talking for a moment. She put her hands on her hips and took in a deep breath. I watched as she arranged her tense features into a more pleasant face, a small fake smile replacing the line of her lips.
Her eyes met mine and I knew. Of course she had noticed the differences, all the strange little things that didn’t add up. But Sarah was back now, the black hole in our family had been filled. And that was all that mattered.
CHAPTER 15
AFTER PAULA AND MAX left, I helped Mom clear the living room. “Your phone was buzzing,” she said to me, fluffing the pillows on the couch. She arranged them so that everything was perfect again, as if the short, awkward visit never happened. “You had a bunch of text messages. Not that I was looking at your phone—it was just in the kitchen.”
I put Max’s empty beer bottle and Paula’s glass on the tray. I knew that Mom checked my phone. She had the pass code, she probably scanned through it every night. I could tell, sometimes, by what had been left open—the photos or my email was the last thing looked at—when I had closed those apps. It didn’t bother me because I knew what she was looking for. It wasn’t coming from a place of distrust or her concern that I was going to disappear like Sarah had. She wasn’t suspicious about secret boyfriends or if I was doing drugs. She and Dad were worried about something else, in the opposite direction: that I wasn’t having a normal teenage life. That I didn’t have friends. That I didn’t go out, wasn’t invited to things. They both worried—well, mostly Mom—that Sarah’s disappearance had ruined any chance for me of being a regular teen girl. And while Mom always reminded me that what happened to Sarah wasn’t our fault, I know she blamed herself for how they handled it and how much of my life had been lost in that mix.
I brought the tray into the kitchen and picked up my phone, scanning through the text messages from Tessa. Mom came in and started loading the dishwasher. I knew she was dying to ask who the messages were from.
Finally, I broke the suspense. “It’s just Tessa, some party tonight . . .” I started to say.
Mom instantly brightened. “Oh, a party? At Tessa’s house?”
“It’s at Liam’s. It’s his birthday.” I shrugged and leaned back against the counter. I didn’t go to many parties. There had been a few, mostly birthday parties where my mom would stay to help out. Only in the past year had she let me go to someone else’s house unaccompanied, and that was a big deal. She or Dad had to drive me there and pick me up, checking in with the parents to be sure an adult would be there the whole time. “It’s tonight—seems strange to go.”
“Why?” Mom closed the dishwasher and turned to face me. “Because of Sarah?”
I didn’t say anything, just looked down. “What am I supposed to say to people? It’s weird.”
Mom nodded. “I understand. But I bet after about five minutes of asking you questions, everyone will drop it and move on. You should go, sweetie.” She smiled. “You’re back to school Monday anyhow—it might be a good thing to just see everyone and get it over with, right? Plus, you just had your hair done and it looks so good. Don’t you want to show it off?”
I couldn’t believe that Mom was pushing me to go to a party, practically shoving me. Her sudden desperation for a normal life for not only me but for all of us made me feel a little sorry for her. If I went to the party, it would be for her, not even because I wanted to.
“What about Sarah?”
“She’s exhausted, I’m sure—both physically and emotionally. That was a lot today.” Mom pulled a frozen lasagna from the fridge and unwrapped it, preheating the oven. “Go on, tell Tessa you can go. Really, Nico, I think you should.”
As I went upstairs with my phone in my hand, I realized that maybe she wanted me to go out for another reason—to have some time alone with Sarah. I hadn’t considered that. Si
nce Sarah had gotten back, we’d done everything together. Even when Dad wasn’t around, I was.
I walked by Sarah’s door and noticed that the light was off, even though it was starting to grow dark outside. Maybe she was asleep. I stood outside the door for a moment, listening, but heard nothing.
In my own room, I turned on all the lights and slipped my phone into the speaker, playing a new song Tessa had recommended. I dumped the shopping bag from the mall onto my bed and looked over the stuff I’d picked out—nothing that special: a new pair of skinny jeans in a soft gray that Sarah had proclaimed “awesome” and a simple white T-shirt in a slouchy boyfriend fit. “You can wear a dark bra under, with straps showing,” Sarah had offered. It wasn’t exactly my style.
I slid off my top and put on the new white shirt, letting the shoulder fall to one side, showing the thin strap of my pink bra. Sarah was right, it looked kind of good. I pulled on the new jeans and added a silver belt. I had only one long necklace—a gift from Tessa for my last birthday, a silver chain with a set of white angel wings dangling from it. I put it around my neck and let it fall long over the soft shirt.
I picked up my phone and texted Tessa back: When can you pick me up?
I ate dinner with Mom and Dad, lasagna and a quick salad Mom threw together. Sarah’s room was still dark and Mom said not to bother her, to let her sleep if she wanted to. “I think it took a lot out of her, seeing those two,” she said, sipping her second glass of wine.
“Maybe she needs some new friends,” Dad proclaimed.
“I’d say so,” Mom agreed. “Paula—that girl has some problems, serious issues still with Sarah. It’s so unhealthy and immature. I mean, considering . . .”
I pushed the food around on my plate, not willing to pile insults onto Paula. They didn’t understand, fully, what she had been through with Sarah. How she had been treated. Their complicated history. How strange it must be for her to now be back. I could relate. It didn’t excuse Paula’s behavior, but it did explain it.