Of Scars and Stardust

by Andrea Hannah

  Aunt Sharon’s shoulders slumped and she pressed her hands into her face. “That poor, poor girl. After everything that happened before, now this.” She choked back a sob. “What are Mike and Rosie going to do? What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, and I stood up. But that wasn’t the truth. “I’m going to my room.” That was the truth. I stepped over Aunt Sharon’s purse and headed toward the hallway.

  Before I turned the knob, I’d made up my mind.

  I had no choice.

  It was me or Ella, and I’d already let them hurt Ella once.

  Now it was my turn.

  twelve

  It’s a funny thing, when you decide it’s okay to die. When Mom and Dad sent me to New York, they’d thought I’d wanted to die then, that they’d find me hanging from my doorframe strung up by Ella’s blinking rainbow lights. But they were wrong.

  I wanted to find the wolves.

  I wanted them to know I didn’t care if they still watched me.

  I wanted to watch her learn to talk again, watch her half-eaten lips learn to make sounds again.

  I didn’t want to die then.

  And I still didn’t. But that itchy feeling prickling at the back of my mind always told me that I’d have to face them one day. The wolves were waiting, and they didn’t care if I wanted to live.

  The train was only five miles from my exit, about a half an hour outside of Amble. I hadn’t stopped chewing my lip since Philadelphia, and now I had a bloody crater pooling there.

  Hysteria bubbled up in me and I started to giggle. Even when I pressed my hand over my mouth, I couldn’t muffle the manic laughter coming out of my throat. The guy next to me shifted his Time magazine so there was a wall of glossy pictures between us.

  The two most important things I took with me when I left Amble—Ella’s periwinkle bird and a mountain of guilt—I took with me when I went back.

  I couldn’t stop laughing about that.

  The train lurched to a stop, metal screeching against steel until the seat beneath me stopped rumbling.

  Outside the sign said, Welcome to Elton, Ohio.

  I was home. Or, close to somewhere that used to be home.

  I sucked on my lip and stared out the window.

  There they were, my parents.

  A part of me hadn’t expected them to show, especially not Dad. Why would they? We’d barely spoken over the past two years, except for the obligatory birthday phone call (which didn’t happen that year because of Ella’s disappearance) and an occasional silly card in the mail from Mom, signed with just X’s and O’s along the bottom.

  And yet they were here, standing in the snow with red ears and windswept hair, looking extremely three-dimensional.

  I grabbed my backpack and stepped off the train, holding my breath the whole way down the steps.

  “Claire,” Mom breathed. She stared at me with the same round eyes she’d passed on to Ella. Her mouth hung limp against her face, and I couldn’t tell if she was happy to see me or if she was going to turn on her heel and walk back to the car without another word.

  “Good to see you, Claire,” Dad interrupted. He stepped in between Mom and me like I was some kind of rabid animal that would rip her heart out and patted me awkwardly on the shoulder. “Glad you could come stay with us for a while.”

  I pressed a smile to my face, the one with the teeth that they liked. But inside, Dad’s words made me cringed: Glad you could come stay with us for a while? What was I, one of Dad’s second cousins from Alabama? I was his other daughter, the one he sent away when he couldn’t bear to look at her anymore. I almost reminded him of that, right there in the middle of the train station five seconds after our first physical contact in two years. But I caught the look on nestled between the lines in Mom’s face, and I couldn’t.

  She looked … happy.

  Like she might actually want to touch me.

  She gently pushed Dad’s arm out of the way and wrapped her arms around me, her fingers twisting through the waves in my hair. I closed my eyes and let myself relax into her coat. She still smelled the same: like lavender face soap and freshly baked biscuits, even when she hadn’t been cooking. “I’m so glad to see you,” she breathed into my hair. “We’ve missed you so much.”

  I blinked quickly and pulled myself away from her. I couldn’t cry, not about this. This was a good thing, a nice thing; why waste tears on something that was supposed to make you feel good?

  But everything that made me feel good also made me ache inside, like a muscle I hadn’t used for way too long. I didn’t think I knew what it was like to be happy anymore without hurting at the same time.

  “It’s cold out here,” Dad said. He had a tight smile on his face that must have mirrored mine, and I wondered how long it had been since he’d really smiled too. He patted Mom’s shoulder. “Let’s go back to the house.”

  Even the way he said “the house” made my stomach hitch. It wasn’t our house, not a house for all of us. It was their house, and I was just a visitor in for the holidays. I’d even packed my own pillow and blanket because I wasn’t sure if my bed was still there anymore.

  I followed them through the swirling snow and into the parking lot. I blinked away the white congealing in the corners of my eyes as I searched for the old Taurus. But we made a quick right at the only Taurus in the lot and headed for a smoky blue Explorer.

  “You got a new car,” I said as I pulled myself inside and slid across the leather seats.

  Dad’s eyes caught mine in the mirror. “We needed a more reliable vehicle for the winter, to get Ella to her speech therapy appointments and such.” His eyes flicked away from mine and I caught Mom shooting him a death-stare.

  Her face softened as she turned in her seat. “That Taurus was on its last legs anyway, sweetie.” She smiled. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I’m not,” I said, staring out the window. “I’m just tired.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and relax? You’ve had such a long trip.” She turned around, and I caught her chewing on her lip in the side mirror.

  I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep, not in this car with these people who said they were my parents but felt more like aliens posing as them. But the hum of the engine and the heat creeping through the car pushed me into sleep, into dreams that I wasn’t ready to have just yet.

  At home, I sat in my bedroom for a long, long time.

  Longer than they probably thought was normal, considering I said I’d be down for dinner in ten minutes.

  But I couldn’t get over how everything looked exactly the same, but so different at the same time.

  Like the walls. I remembered putting up the wallpaper behind my bed a month before I left. It took Mom and me half a day just to do one wall because glue bubbles kept creeping up under the seams. After I left, I’d missed that wallpaper because I used to trace the flower petals along the headboard until I fell asleep. But now it just looked stupid, babyish.

  Then there was everything else that seemed so much smaller.

  There was a tiny pinprick of light that was still eye level with my bed. Ella had found an industrial-sized nail at a building site in town and brought it home. We’d used a hammer and a pair of needle-nosed pliers to force a tiny hole the wall. I used to stare into the hole and watch Ella whenever she was sleep talking, and I think she watched me at other times. Because she always seemed to bring up stuff that she shouldn’t really know. As I stared into that hole now, all I could see was a tiny speck of a yellow wall. I swore it was bigger before.

  After an hour of shifting through dresser drawers and staring at the ceiling, I knew it was time. I couldn’t avoid them forever, at least not if I planned to find Ella.

  The whole kitchen smelled the way the stove smelled after the burner had been left on too long, kind of like leftover food a
nd burnt metal. Mom and Dad sat at the breakfast bar, whispering, while the sound of the churning coffee pot muffled their words.

  “Claire!” Mom stood, and her coffee splattered across the counter. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  I glanced around the cleared countertops and the chugging dishwasher. “Did you guys already eat dinner?”

  “We weren’t sure you were ready to come down yet,” Dad said into his mug.

  “But I made a plate for you,” Mom added quickly, a tight smile wrapped around her teeth. A tight, fake smile.

  I nodded and slid onto the empty stool across the breakfast bar from them. Mom bustled around the kitchen, opening drawers and making the microwave beep until a plate of steaming lasagna sat in front of me.

  She tapped her nails on the counter as she scooted onto the stool next to Dad. She pressed her mouth into a thin line. They both watched as I picked up a fork and pushed the cheese around my plate.

  “You still like lasagna, right?” Dad asked, his eyebrow hitching. “Your mother made it just for you.”

  I shoved a glob of cheese in my mouth. “I’m a vegetarian,” I said through open-mouthed bites.

  “Oh,” Mom said, her eyes flicking to the plate. “Oh.”

  I set down the fork and folded my arms across my chest. “I’m not really hungry. But thanks anyway.”

  Mom started to move toward my plate, probably to have an excuse to get away from me, and Dad shifted in his seat and traced an invisible pattern on the granite with his finger.

  The clock ticked in the corner. How long had I been down here, enduring this special form of torture? I tilted my head past the fridge to watch the seconds shed their skin as the clock hands jerked forward. Four minutes. Four freaking minutes.

  My eyes trailed over the details of the kitchen. It was almost like being in a time warp; nothing had really changed. There was the same chip in the counter where Ella had slammed the rim of a stubborn pickle jar, the same butter-yellow wallpaper, only now a little more faded. Even the same family photo—taken just two weeks before I left—hanging in its tarnished frame. The whole house was the same, except for the family inside it.

  I narrowed my eyes at the wallpaper beneath the clock. “When did that happen?”

  The spoon Mom was washing clanged as it hit the edge of the sink. “When did what happen?” she said. Her voice was tight, like her throat was forcing the words to retreat back into her thoughts.

  I stared at the back of her head as she continued to furiously scrub the spoon. Dad still sat at the counter, tracing his finger around the rim of his mug. My stomach hitched. Something wasn’t right. I watched as they both fumbled with porcelain and silverware, but neither of them dared to even look at the charred wallpaper, the imprint of a flame licking the edges of the kitchen floor. Something had clearly caught on fire.

  “When did that happen?” I asked again. I pushed my stool out from under the counter and went to stand next to the spot, just for good measure. Just so they couldn’t ignore it—me—any longer.

  Dad sighed. “I don’t know when exactly, Claire. It was months ago. It’s not as big of a deal as you’re making it out to be.” He plastered a no-teeth smile to his lips. “Just some vandals. It started on the outside of the house and it burned up a little of the drywall, wallpaper. That’s all.”

  “Then why didn’t you fix it?” I asked as I knelt down beneath the clock. I pressed my fingers into the wall, and was surprised when they sank into the spot. It felt almost like stepping into half-melted snow, all mushy and unstable. When I pushed farther, a sliver of the wallpaper split at the seam, and I could see just how far the damage stretched.

  “Oh,” Mom said, waving her hand dismissively from the sink, “I just need to pick out some new wallpaper, that’s all. You know how indecisive I am about that sort of thing.”

  I pressed my lips together as I ran my thumb over the wallpaper. In all the years I’d lived in Amble, no one had dared to approach our house with so much as a roll of toilet paper, let alone a match. These weren’t vandals; they were arsonists. Someone must have been furious enough, and bold enough, to snap a match to life next to the police chief’s house.

  I wondered if it was because of me.

  Because of the reputation I’d left behind, like a bad taste in Amble’s squeaky-clean mouth. I was the one who’d let her twelve-year-old sister walk home by herself because I was too drunk on alcohol and possibility to go with her. I was irresponsible, and when I’d been forced to leave town, I was irrational and delusional. I was the cavity, rotting away the foundation that Amble was built on: strange things like this just don’t happen here.

  They’re just stories. You don’t blame disappearances and stitches and blood-speckled cornstalks on stories.

  Did they punish my family for my stories?

  I snapped my head around to look at Dad. “Don’t you have some kind of hidden camera you have access to at the station? Couldn’t you have used that, or something, to catch them?” I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re not really the type to let people get away with something like this.”

  “Claire,” Mom said softly. She slipped onto a stool across from Dad and placed a pink, soapy hand on top of his.

  Dad glanced up at her and patted her hand. “It’s okay.” He turned toward me and sighed. “I don’t have access to that type of equipment anymore, at least not without asking for consent.”

  “Consent?” I scrunched my nose. “Who would you possibly need to get consent from?”

  Dad swallowed and stared at his hands for what seemed like forever. Finally, he said, “From Seth. I’m not the chief anymore. It’s been over a year.” He turned his back to me and headed for the coffee pot, signaling that this was all he was going to say about it.

  My heart slid into my stomach. I watched his shoulders slump on his way across the kitchen. He looked like he was carrying a million invisible pounds. And really, he was. Only the weight wasn’t his to carry.

  It was mine.

  I could only imagine what they’d said about me, about him, when I left. I wondered if it was why he wasn’t chief. Did Amble demote him for spawning me? Or did he choose it? To take care of Ella after the attack?

  Dad dropped his spoon into the sink and started toward the staircase with his mug. Mom began to bustle around the kitchen, flicking off light switches. Panic began to thread its way through me; my opportunity was slipping away. For now, it didn’t matter why Dad wasn’t the chief anymore. I’d figure that out later. The important thing was that he’d been chief when they found Ella that day, two years ago. I had to muster up the guts to ask, or else this entire trip back to Amble would be nothing more than a waste of time and train ticket.

  “You both know why I’m here,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I need you to tell me what you know about Ella’s disappearance.”

  When they didn’t say anything, I started toward the hallway, my stomach clenching with hunger. Just as I stepped around her, Mom said, “Claire, wait. Just wait.” She closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her chest, and for a second I thought she’d stopped to pray. But her eyes fluttered open and she said, “Sit down. We’ll talk.”

  I sat. Mom took another heavy breath and Dad began to trudge back to the kitchen, staring into his mug the whole time, like if he looked hard enough he’d find a one-way ticket back to New York in my name. I waited. This wasn’t going to be a conversation that I started; I needed them to tell me. I needed them to want to tell me.

  After a long minute, Mom reached across the counter and took my hand in hers. “Claire,” she said, “I want you to understand something. Nothing dragged your sister away.” She blinked quickly, staring at a spot on the wall behind me. “Nothing with four legs, anyway.”

  I tugged my hand free and wiped it on my jeans. “You can say the word, Mom. I won’t go all psycho on you and blow up the house.�
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  Dad looked up from his mug for the first time since I’d slid onto the stool. He locked his eyes on mine, a tactic he’d taught Ella and me a long time ago; the police always burned a hole in you with their eyes when they were trying to scare you.

  “Wolves,” he said, his voice cracking on the word. “There are no wolves, Claire.”

  I stared back at him and lifted my chin. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t afraid of him, of what he thought about me and my “imaginary” wolves.

  Dad stood up like a grizzly bear lumbering to its feet, pressing his knuckles into the countertop until they were as white as the bone beneath his skin. He lifted an eyebrow. “Really? You think wolves dragged your sister away? Animals don’t go around kidnapping people, and that’s a fact.” He spit out the word “fact” almost like he couldn’t get it off his tongue fast enough.

  I sucked in my lip. He was right. At least, under normal circumstances, wolves and bears and hungry-looking dogs didn’t execute kidnappings. But these weren’t regular wolves, and these certainly weren’t regular circumstances.

  Still, I broke my gaze from his, conceding. Even I knew how crazy it sounded to argue for the existence of cherry-loving wolves. And if I was going to figure this out, I needed to be as boring and bland as Aunt Sharon’s cooking attempts.

  “So, then, tell me what you do know,” I said.

  Dad grasped the edge of the counter and gritted his teeth. “One day she was here, and the next day she was gone. No note, nothing. The department is still searching for her, but it’s damn near impossible to find a missing person if I can’t give them a motive. And I don’t think I can.” Dad sighed heavily. “I thought … she was adjusting, after the incident. I thought she was happy again.”

  I clutched at my heart. She was happy.

  Again.

  But how long after the accident had she been unhappy?

  “She was happy here,” Mom insisted, reaching to grab Dad’s fingers. They both seemed to melt into their stools like lumps of snow thawing in April.

  Something in my heart pinged and I couldn’t help but feel sorry for them, even though they’d sent me away. Because they already had one daughter they thought was crazy, and now their prettier, saner daughter was missing. But I also knew that talking to them was only going to get me so far.