Now You See Her

by Lisa Leighton

  “I’m sorry about today, Landon.” As I say the words, I try to channel so much more into the apology. “But—”

  He cuts me off and shakes his head. “Don’t.” He looks away for a second and then back up, his jaw set. “I can’t stop thinking about that newspaper article, the birth certificates, these people. We need to go to the police.”

  His words send flares of panic shooting through my brain. “I’m not ready. . . . I mean, my dad made me promise not to do this. He doesn’t want me to get involved.”

  “We can’t just pretend like this isn’t happening. They could be in danger. Amelia’s already in a coma and you think you saw someone try to take her. This isn’t a game, Sophie. This is her life.”

  I want to cry because I know he wants me to do the right thing and we both know I’m not going to.

  “Please, Landon. Please don’t go to them. Not yet. Just give me some time to talk to my dad first, okay?”

  “Fine. I’ll give you twenty-four hours. But after that I’m calling the police with or without you. Got it?”

  He doesn’t wait for me to respond, he just turns on his heel and walks across the street, over to his house with the permanent bakery smell and whatever ghosts might be lingering in his backyard. I watch him glance up to my window one last time, but I’ve already stepped back into the shadows.

  I feel like I’ve burned two lives to the ground. Everything I touch turns to ash and now it’s all slipping between my fingers—pieces of Sophie, pieces of me, lifted by the wind before they even hit the ground.

  When I sink into Sophie’s bed later, I curl up into her blankets and lose myself in her pillows. I let the tears fall then, let them soak her million-thread-count, Egyptian-cotton sheets. And in the darkness with my eyes open but seeing nothing, I give myself permission to feel every loss, every regret, every missed opportunity as I wait for morning.

  Thirty-One

  THE SUN IS JUST RISING AS I APPLY A FINAL COAT OF LIP GLOSS AND smack my lips together. Hair done, makeup applied, dressed, brushed, and ready to go. Today I’ll wear Sophie’s perfection like a suit of armor. I check my bag to be sure the letter is inside, throw it over my shoulder, and head for the stairs. All the doors that line the hall are still shut tight, the sound of running water traveling through the walls as the Grahams get ready to face the day.

  I have more than enough time to make breakfast as planned, so I pull eggs, almond milk, and gluten-free bread from the fridge and get started on French toast. Mrs. Graham walks in first. Her eyes widen when she sees what I’ve been up to. I put two pieces on her plate and push the bottle of organic maple syrup across the table with a smile.

  “Oh, Sophie . . . how nice.” She glances back toward the hallway, sharing a long look with Mr. Graham. “Look, Robert, Sophie made us breakfast, isn’t that just lovely?”

  Mr. Graham nods distractedly. “Oh thanks, Sophie. Smells great, but I have a meeting I can’t miss.” Ever since our confrontation in the guest room the other night, he hasn’t so much as looked at me. But I don’t have time to worry about Sophie and her not-real dad’s tenuous relationship. He offers his wife a quick kiss and is out the door in seconds. I look over at Mrs. Graham and see her close her eyes for a second, her lips stretched into a thin, tight line. The memory of the Grahams yelling and the hidden papers that proclaim Sophie to be someone else’s daughter are such a stark contrast to the world Sophie has painted for herself online. There are secrets here too. But they’re not mine, at least not yet.

  “I just had a huge craving for French toast and didn’t want to bother you . . . Mom.” That word still sounds all wrong and I wonder if she notices. The way she looks at me like I’m a complete stranger in this kitchen makes me feel like maybe she does. Is it my hair? Or maybe my makeup? I knew I put on too much eyeliner. My smoky-eye attempts tend to leave me looking more like someone who accidentally slept in her eye makeup than a doe-eyed model. Sophie’s strange eyes somehow just make it worse.

  “Okay, well, I don’t want to be late for school.” I’m fifteen minutes early, but anxious to get out of here. It’s been real, Grahams, but I’m ready. It took the darkest, most silent time of the night for me to realize that Landon was right. He gave me twenty-four hours, but I only needed a pen, paper, and the morning. “I’m picking up Janie and she has to meet a teacher for some extra help before first period.”

  Mrs. Graham opens her mouth to say something but throws me a tired-looking smile instead. And I’m free.

  Sophie’s car is iridescent black with rich tan leather seats. It’s the kind of car Mae and I roll our eyes at in the school parking lot. As soon as I tuck myself into the spacious interior, the memory comes.

  “Thank you, Daddy!” It took me three tries to pass my driver’s test and I finally managed to score that thin piece of plastic by the skin of my teeth. The shiny black car has been mocking me in the garage since that first failed test. Climbing in feels more like a right than a privilege.

  As soon as I press the start button like some sort of video game, the seat automatically adjusts to the perfect height for me to reach the steering wheel and gas pedal. The engine purrs to life, and I try not to think about what part of the car hit me and where.

  Before pulling out, I wonder if I should throw open the door and run back up the steps, say good-bye again, appreciate something that might be missing when I switch back. But it’s too late for that. It might even be too late for me. I need to get to Mae.

  When I press the button for the radio, I’m assaulted by the loudest, most aggressive heavy metal I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Even after I stab at the button again to silence the blast, it feels like my ears are bleeding, the bass still reverberating within my rib cage. Oh. My. God. That cannot be a real thing that just happened. And yet when I look down at Sophie’s iPod, I see a playlist entitled Morning Metal with an unassuming smiley face beside it.

  In another life, I’d have time to appreciate Sophie’s surprises.

  The Morristown Police Station doesn’t see very much action. In fact, the running joke in this town is the Morristown Gazette’s weekly police blotter. Police were called to a Larkspur Way residence after a suspicious package was found on the front porch. The package was cleared of all suspicion after the officer asked the resident if she had ordered anything from Amazon recently. I imagine that’s why my mom chose Morristown. No one does anything wrong here. You can go to sleep with your doors unlocked and your windows cracked, leave your purse in the car, your keys in the ignition. You can fly under the radar. You can disappear.

  I imagine who might read my letter. Who will pull up our names in their database? Who will start a file? Who will finish what I started? Before I lose my nerve, I pull Sophie’s beast of a car as close to the Morristown Police Station’s mailbox as I can, open her car door so I can reach, and slip the envelope inside. I pull away and don’t look back. This is for Mae now. This is all for Mae.

  I’m relieved to see Crimson Wave parked in front of Pete’s Donuts when I pull into the lot. So many things have changed, but at least Pete’s is still the place you can find Mae on any given morning. The lot is spotty; it’s late. But I’m not here for a donut. The familiar bells jingle their welcome and I turn toward our usual booth tucked into the back corner. Sure enough, Mae is there, sitting alone, nursing her coffee.

  But before I can navigate around the maze of half-filled chairs toward my sister, I hear another voice that I’m confident will remain etched into my soul like a fingerprint despite whoever’s genetic code wins in the end. They say a baby can recognize her mother’s voice even before birth. I imagine that whooshing darkness, the muffled vibrations connecting my mom and me together despite all the ugliness of this life. I recognize my mother’s voice even after my apparent rebirth. The sound grounds me like gravity and I’m pulled toward the back room where Pete’s office door is slightly ajar.

  “I won’t take your charity. That’s not why I’m here. I know you’re short staffe
d and I just need a little bit to tide us over while Amelia . . .”

  Dies? She can’t bring herself to finish the sentence.

  I can’t make out Pete’s reply, but knowing him he’s trying to throw money at her. He’s well known for his generosity toward regular customers. He once paid a preschool tuition for one of his employee’s kids after her husband was laid off from his job. It was supposed to be anonymous, but the preschool totally gave him away. Pete still grumbles about the local newspaper article that ran featuring his random act of kindness one February.

  “No, no, no. I insist. Just one shift under the table. I can’t do this any other way,” she pleads. I need to hate her. But the desperation in her voice makes it hard.

  Pete tugs my mom in for one of his gruff hugs and pats her back. “You need anything . . . anything, Carol, you know who to ask. Got that?”

  My mom nods, her head bent into him. She looks so defeated. But I know she’ll manage to put on the “I Donut Care” T-shirt he’s handed her and paste a smile on her face. She could pass for exhausted, maybe a little sad as she hands a customer his change. If only everyone knew. As Pete moves toward the office door, I bend in front of the drinking fountain long enough for him to head back into the kitchen to tackle the morning mess, and then I return to the door like a magnet. I can’t not watch her. I might never see her again no matter where I end up. And it’s so sad. So fucking sad. Even in this body, with Sophie’s heart and this mixed-up sense of self, it feels like someone has yanked out every essential piece of who I am and torn it to shreds. Tears slip down my cheeks and my mom swipes an arm across her own. I’m crying her tears, feeling all her hurt in this moment like those weird stories you hear about twins who feel the pain of the other even miles, worlds away.

  I will myself to stay angry. This is the woman who lied to me my entire life. This woman is wanted for murder. When she stole us, she robbed us of a normal childhood. She robbed us of a dad. I can’t ever forgive her for that. I won’t.

  But somehow I can’t take my eyes off her. And when she lifts off her sweatshirt the tank top she has underneath comes with it, leaving her back exposed before she yanks it back down.

  And there it is. Right in front of me this whole time. My whole life. I was wrong. So wrong. My pulse quickens and I can’t pull enough air into my lungs. The hallway starts to close in on me and I can’t help but breathe faster, shorter breaths, which never helps. Sure enough, my vision is burnt along the edges, the black creeping its way in. I fight it, blink it back. Not now. Not now. I have to get back to the police station. I have to get back.

  “Sophie? What the hell?” Mae rounds the corner, ripping the panic right out from under me. Her face turns bright red with anger and, worse, embarrassment when she sees what I’ve been doing. “Are you watching her? Does this get you off? Watching the poor people scrounge around for money after you destroyed our family? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  My mom pushes through the office door, a shell of her old self. “Mae Avery!” she screams, but like everything else, it’s too late.

  Mae is already out the front door of the restaurant. I run after her, not knowing what else to do. “Wait, Mae! I can explain. There’s something you need to know. It’s important!” I have to tell her everything. I have to make her believe. The truth has been right in front of us all these years. “Mae, wait. Please!” I chase her into the parking lot, focused on the back of her head, her bobbing ponytail. So focused that I don’t notice the red Honda Civic backing out of its parking spot.

  So focused I can’t even be sure I feel the impact. For a moment I’m suspended midair until I fall hard and skid across the gravel in the parking lot. I’m level with the car’s tires, a low whooshing rumbling through my ears, the too-bright sun blocked occasionally by crumpled faces, mouths huge with panic, and then . . . nothing.

  Now you see her. Now you don’t.

  Thirty-Two

  THERE IS AN ODOR IN MY ROOM. I NOTICE IT BEFORE I EVEN OPEN UP my eyes. Like boxed mashed potatoes and the chemicals they sprinkled over Teddy Whitehall’s vomit when he got sick in the back of the bus during second grade. When my eyes finally adjust to the light, I don’t see the dove-gray walls my mother and I spent weeks debating before painting—French Toile was too purple, Nimbus had blue undertones, but Shaker Gray, it turns out, was the perfect backdrop for my outfit-of-the-day posts because . . . priorities. Instead, I’m in a room with pockmarked walls painted a dirty white.

  I wrinkle my nose. I’m stuck in a hospital. I remember slamming on my brakes for something in the road, my head smacking against the dashboard.

  I have a killer headache and what feels like some serious ass bruising, but beyond that my worst symptom seems to be dry mouth.

  “Mom?” There’s a strange note of desperation in my voice and I feel the same blind panic that suffocates me in a dark room when I wake up from a nightmare. The need for my mom is strong and sharp and almost supernatural in its strength.

  She jerks awake in a corner chair, smoothing back her hair from her face. She looks like absolute hell. “Sophie? What’s wrong?” She launches her body out of the chair to my side, grabbing my hands as though I’ll be ripped away from her if she doesn’t hold on tight enough.

  For a moment there’s nothing but relief. I’m so happy she’s here, so grateful for her touch. But then I remember that I’m not nine years old anymore, and I pull my arm away, retreating into a pile of cheap pillows propped up behind me. “How long have I been asleep?”

  She looks so much older, and suddenly I’m sure I’ve woken up from a coma after sleeping away five years of my life. There are memories curling around the edges of my consciousness. Someone singing to me softly. A man whispering, “Anthony, Anthony, look around, what was lost has now been found.” Panic rises in my chest.

  “I remember the accident, but am I okay? Can I still play tennis?”

  She just stares. I realize that she’s speechless. My mother. Without words.

  “Mom? Hello?” My voice goes up an octave. There must be something wrong with me. Something awful. I either have a brain tumor or I’m pregnant.

  “Sophie, honey, just relax. I’m going to call the doctor, okay? I think he can help. . . .” Her eyes are wild, fiercely searching mine. Her forehead wrinkles in a way I never thought possible after thousands and thousands of dollars spent on Botox and chemical peels.

  “Relax? I wake up in the hospital and you won’t tell me what’s wrong with me, and you expect me to relax?” I’m frantic now. Trying to pull memories from the darkness. Cold metal against my chest, a searing pain in my head. And Amelia Fischer, who I beat for first singles. Something happened to her, and the memory of it is infuriatingly close, but completely inaccessible.

  “Amelia?” I ask aloud. The name sounds weird, wrong. Like a word I’ve said so many times that it’s lost all meaning.

  My mother’s reaction is instantaneous. She’s up and jabbing her finger into the call button above my bed before the last syllable leaves my mouth.

  A doctor strides purposefully into the room and I fire questions at her. “What happened to me? Why am I here? When can I play tennis? How long do I have to stay? What the hell is wrong with my mother?”

  The doctor talks to me like I’m a kindergartner who walked into the wrong classroom on the first day of school. She starts talking about accidents, about side effects, concussions and confusion, that they’re being extra careful since I’ve suffered two head injuries in such a close period of time.

  She keeps talking, but I’m not listening anymore, because I’m pretty sure she said something about two accidents, about the days following the first. Days that I was apparently awake and doing things that somehow negated the effects of my mother’s monthly Botox.

  “Wait, what day is it?”

  “What day do you think it is?” The doctor’s voice is so condescending that I feel like rattling off March 22, 3014, just to watch her punch furious notes into her little
computer. But given the situation, I figure it’s best to go with the truth.

  “September 20.” The day after I won the first singles position. But I know as soon as I say the words that I’m wrong.

  “Sophie, it’s September 24.” The doctor pauses a moment to let me digest her words. “We believe you’re suffering from post–traumatic stress disorder. It’s not at all unusual for someone who’s suffered two accidents this close together.”

  I let her voice wash over me, not sure whether to feel relieved that I’m not dying or with child or terrified that I have no memory of the past few days of my life. Mostly I just want to go home. I want to be back in my room with its gray walls and comfortable bed. I want to be back on the tennis courts. I even want to be at one of our endless family dinners watching my parents try to out silence each other. Basically, I want to be anywhere but here in this depressing room with those depressing brown watermarks on the ceiling with this depressing woman who is supposedly my mother.

  “Well, I feel fine now. Just give me a couple of Tylenol and we’ll be on our way.” I use my homecoming queen voice and my sweetest smile, which hasn’t ever failed me.

  Until now.

  Thirty-Three

  AS IT TURNS OUT, EVERY RIDICULOUS CLICHÉ ABOUT HEAD INJURIES is true. They wake you up every hour to make sure you haven’t slipped into a coma. Doctors actually ask you how many fingers they’re holding up and you’re supposed to know how to rate your pain using ridiculous cartoon faces. And of course the endless questions about why I was at Pete’s Donuts when I should have been at school. A question I’m completely unable to answer because I haven’t eaten a donut since I was literally five and my parents decided that a gluten intolerance was holding me back from my true potential. Personally, I think my mother just couldn’t risk being around refined carbohydrates while in the throes of a ketogenic hell of her own making.