Only she, of course, wasn’t his sister, which meant he was a doubly phony celebrity. Which only made him more pissed off every time Darla grabbed his hand or whispered in his ear—and Ben let her know that by shaking her off, the way he flicked off those creepy caterpillars that spun themselves down from the maple trees every summer. Which is when she’d asked him what the fuck was wrong with him.
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” he told her. “What’s wrong with you?”
Darla got offended by that, striding off to the group of girls who were hanging by the hookup tree—they called it that not because you hooked up there, but because kids had been carving their names into it for forever—you know, Jimmy loves Shari, Tony loves Maria. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a Darla loves Ben on it somewhere too, courtesy of Darla, no doubt, who was right now talking to the girl he used to hook up with—Jamie—who was probably using this opportunity to rag on him with righteous passion, so there’d be two of them out there saying what an amazing asshole he was.
So all in all, he didn’t need his best bud, Zack, cranking on him too.
“You need to chill,” Zack said, which was something Ben usually said to girls, which made it even more annoying.
“I need different parents,” Ben said.
“Like I don’t?” Crappy parents were something Zack could relate to, since his dad had moved to Scottsdale, Arizona, and only saw him once a year in the summer—seeing being kind of a misnomer because he’d leave Zack sitting in the apartment all day with nothing to do, while he went off to work. And his mom—don’t get him started on that—was always out gallivanting around with her newest boyfriend, who was a major asshole with a Mercedes convertible and a comb-over, which didn’t exactly mesh.
“They’re fucking certifiable,” Ben said. “I mean . . . seriously.”
“Huh?” Zack said. “What’d they do?” While Zack could relate to shitty parents, he thought of Ben’s as light-years ahead of his own, so he was understandably perplexed.
Ben had half opened up to Zack about his long-lost sister, first not saying anything at all about her, then finally acknowledging her presence when they’d seen her all over the TV news that morning. Then sharing his growing doubts about whether she really was his sister, which Zack had thought was kind of cool, even though Ben wasn’t sure Zack entirely believed it—that his sister wasn’t his sister—but the possibility that she might not be was kind of cool.
“Why do you think she’s not your sister?” Zack asked him.
“I just do,” Ben said, which, granted, maybe wasn’t the most persuasive answer in the world. Especially mumbled from the back seat of a pot-smoke-filled car.
“Doesn’t she remember all this shit about your family, like who everybody is and everything? If she’s not your sister, dude, how the hell would she know that stuff?”
Which is when Ben saw it—when it crystallized for him.
“She read it.”
“Huh?”
“On my page.”
He’d never told Zack about the memorial page and all the shit he’d unloaded there, how all the trivial and nontrivial stuff he kept remembering about Jenny ended up there—everything—and so how all the stuff this girl might seem to remember wasn’t remembered. It was memorized.
That revelation made Zack a semibeliever.
“Wow, so she’s like a fake or something?”
And when Ben got home, what did he find sitting on his computer—sitting right there out in the open like some sort of cosmic joke, or cosmic reckoning—but his previously mentioned Facebook memorial page, which she’d obviously been poring over while everyone was out of the house.
He waited for his parents to get home so he could deliver the coup de grâce—which is French for fucking nail to a cross.
His mom came home first, and Ben contemplated maybe doing this in two stages . . . first letting her in on the secret, then Dad. But since his mom was going crazy over Jenny these days—just over-the-top stupid—and since she seemed kind of distracted when she got home, not even acknowledging his cheery hello, but disappearing into her room with the door closed, he thought it better to wait until his dad got back and do it simultaneously. His dad was the more logical one anyway, and this was all about the facts, which were fucking inconvertible . . . or was it incontrovertible, something like that . . . pretty black-and-white, that’s for sure.
He was downstairs waiting when his dad came through the front door, looking kind of rumpled and tired, but Ben had just the thing to wake him up—wake them both up—out of that delusional dream they were both living in.
“Hey, Dad,” Ben said.
“Hey, Ben.” His dad dropped his shoulder case on the alcove table, then nearly tripped over one of Ben’s sneakers. “Jesus, Ben, how many times have I told you to put your sneakers away?”
“Hundreds. My apologies on the matter of the sneakers.”
His dad peered at him. “Are you okay?”
“Affirmative. Can you ask Mom to come down?”
“Huh?” His dad was still peering at him as if he didn’t quite recognize who he was.
Your only child, Dad. That’s who.
“I have something of grave importance to talk to both of you about.”
“Grave . . . ? Any particular reason you’re talking like that, Ben?”
Yes, there was a particular reason he was talking like that. This was a matter of grave importance, and of grave consequences, so he was using language suitable to this grave occasion. They’d understand soon enough.
“Did you get suspended, Ben? Is this about smoking pot again?”
“No, I did not get suspended. I did not smoke pot again.” Okay, he was lying about one of those things, but now wasn’t the time for truth telling, or actually it was the time for that, but only about the much more grave matter of the imposter living upstairs in the den. Where was she, by the way? He hadn’t heard a peep out of her since he’d left her that little note on the computer.
“Okay, so what’s so grave that you need to talk to both of us?”
“Oh, you’ll see. Can you get Mom down here?”
“Sure, Ben. Can I have a minute?” His dad walked upstairs, where Ben could hear him enter his parents’ bedroom. Ben sauntered into the living room and sat down on the settee in front of the couch—which is where he usually put his feet up when he watched The Walking Dead—which is what the girl sitting upstairs was. It was the strategically perfect position for him, face-on to both of them, whom he’d ask to take seats on the couch. They’d need to be sitting down for this.
He was getting, all right, a little nervous, cursing himself for not fortifying himself with a little of that leftover Skywalker OG. This was momentous news he was about to break to them. Kind of heart wrenching and everything. But nothing compared to what she’d done—pretending to be his dead sister—something that was monumentally crazy, even sacrilegious, maybe even something you could get locked up for. He didn’t know about that, but he’d see.
The bedroom door opened and he heard his parents start down the stairs.
So, Mom and Dad, I know this is going to be a shock to you . . .
Mom and Dad, I need you to brace yourself . . .
Guess what . . . ?
He was trying to choose an opening line. In debate class—which he personally sucked at—they said your opening line was the most important one, next to the closing line, which was even more important.
His parents walked into the living room.
“Okay, Ben,” his dad said, “what is it?”
“I think you both should sit down for this.”
“That’s okay, Ben,” his mom said. “What’s the matter? Is this about school?”
“No, it’s not about school. That’s what Dad said. School’s just fine. It’s just fantastic. Amazing.”
“Great to hear,” Dad said. “So, what’s the problem?”
“I really think you should sit down for this.”
“Jesus, Ben.” His dad sighed and shook his head. “Fine, we’ll sit down. Laurie, would you care for a seat?” He motioned toward the couch, which Mom promptly sat down on, but he himself dropped onto the love seat in the right corner of the room.
“Here,” Ben said.
“What?” Dad said.
“Here. I think you should sit down here. With Mom.”
“For chrissakes. Why does it matter where we sit?”
Ben coughed. He fidgeted. He looked down at the floor. His heart was doing that tom-tom thing, and he suddenly felt sweaty all over.
“The thing is,” he said, “Jenny isn’t Jenny.”
He looked up expecting to see shock and awe on their faces, but instead what he saw was pretty much nothing. The same expressions they’d walked downstairs with, which, if they registered any emotion at all, seemed to be minor annoyance.
“Come again?” Dad said.
“Jenny isn’t Jenny. Hate to break it to you, ’cause I know . . . well, how much you miss her and everything. I know. But that’s not her.”
Now their faces did seem to show a little bit of alarm. Cool . . . he was getting through to them, and he felt some of his nervousness ease. Like his heart wasn’t trying to break out of his ribs anymore.
“Listen, Ben . . . ,” his mom said. “I know you’re having a hard time dealing with this . . . Who wouldn’t? It’s totally natural to feel like you’ve been, well . . . usurped. But this is taking things too far . . .”
Huh? The alarm he saw on their faces wasn’t for the fact that some crazy-ass imposter was sitting upstairs in the den. It was for him. It took a minute for that to register, and then another minute for the anger to start welling up in him, as his mom shook her head and his dad sighed as if this whole thing had been about him fucking up in school.
“Are you guys hearing me? I mean, seriously . . . are you fucking hearing what I’m saying?”
“We can do without the cursing, Ben,” his dad said.
“Oh, really? How about this, then? The fucking girl sitting upstairs in the fucking den is not your fucking daughter. Am I making myself fucking clear here?”
“Enough, Ben.” His dad again, looking truly pissed off. “I’m not going to tell you again, understand?”
“Well, I’m going to tell you again. She’s not Jenny.” He pointed up to the ceiling, more or less in the direction of where the den was. “That girl up there is not your daughter. She’s not my sister. She’s not fucking anybody. She’s a fake. She’s some crazy bitch. Am I getting through to you?”
“First of all,” his mom said, “keep your voice down. It’s bad enough you’re saying this to us, but I don’t need Jenny hearing it. You’re upset, Ben, I get it. You’ve been an only child for a long time, and suddenly you’re not, your sister’s back, and you’re confused and angry. And, okay, I grant you, this isn’t an everyday occurrence. You have a right to be confused. And, okay, you’re having a hard time dealing with it and accepting it. But I can’t have you making horrible accusations, and I can’t have you screaming them where Jenny can hear it. Am I getting through to you?”
“Jenny is not hearing it. Because Jenny isn’t here. Get it? Sorry if that sucks for you, but there it is. Okay, listen . . . all the stuff you think she knows, about our family and Disney World and all that crap. She read it. Understand? She fucking read it.”
Dad sighed. Mom sighed. They both sighed.
“I’m not kidding,” Ben continued. “Listen, I’m not making this shit up . . .” He noticed the distinct whine in his voice, which is how he sounded whenever he’d gotten busted by them over the years and tried to avoid one of their stupid punishments, which is decidedly not how he wanted to sound now, since he’d generally been lying when he’d attempted to weasel out of being grounded for smoking pot or some such shit, but he certainly wasn’t lying now. “I never told you guys . . . but I put up this kind of . . . memorial page to Jenny. On Facebook.”
Two blank expressions staring back at him.
“It was . . . I don’t know . . . something I just did because I’ve always felt weird about it . . . about my sister being kidnapped. I mean, you guys never talked about it that much and I had a hard time remembering things . . . remembering it. And remembering her. I mean, I know I freaked out about it back then and everything and you put me in that fucking asylum—”
“For God’s sake, Ben,” Mom said, “it was a Catholic school. We didn’t put you in a mental institution.”
“Oh yeah? So why was everybody zonked on shit? I had to take pills every day. I remember. I don’t remember a lot, but I remember that. I couldn’t swallow back then, remember? I couldn’t swallow pills, so the nuns had to mash them in applesauce, which pissed them off, like I was making them work too hard or something.”
“Depakote, Ben,” his mom said. “It was . . . just something to help snap you back. The therapist we took you to after Jenny . . . after she was kidnapped said you were suffering from trauma. You don’t remember this—you don’t remember a lot about back then—but you wouldn’t go to school. You literally refused. I had to drag you there, and then I had to go back one hour later and drag you home. You were disruptive—you were fighting with other kids. You wouldn’t go, and when you did, you wouldn’t stay. I’m not blaming you, Ben, I’m not . . . Jenny’s loss was devastating for everyone. I was a major mess back then. You wouldn’t remember that either. But I was. A big one. Maybe if I wasn’t, I could’ve helped you more than I did. I’m sorry . . .”
“I’m not asking for sorry. I’m sorry for you . . . and Dad. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I put up this page, on Facebook, ’cause so much of that time seems to be missing for me, like somebody erased it or something, it’s . . . not just my memories of Jenny, but everything. So I put up this page, okay? . . . And I just wrote down anything that came to mind. You know, about Jenny and me . . . about us. Just all kinds of random shit. Whatever, you know like Jenny wouldn’t let me play with her stupid horse, and how I got lost in Disney World . . . anything that popped into my head, right? And that Facebook page has got like a thousand followers now. Mostly people who’ve lost sisters and brothers like me, but other people too. And she’s read it . . . that girl upstairs read it, and that’s what she’s been playing back to you. That’s how she was able to fool you. And the police too, I guess. Okay? So now you know . . .”
He was looking for this to register on their faces. To see some kind of realization there, for his dad to stop looking like he was about to wallop him and his mom to stop looking like she thought he needed to be carted back to that asylum—because he didn’t care what they said, that’s what that place was . . .
“Look, Ben,” Mom said, leaning forward on the couch, the way the guidance counselor at school leaned forward when she was trying to empathize with him. “Maybe it’s wishful thinking,” she said. “That you could lose your sister like that, get absolutely traumatized by it, and then come out of it and be just fine. And that she could come back into our lives now, and you’d be just fine with that too . . .”
“Did you hear what I just told you? Both of you? About her reading my page? I caught her doing it. That’s how she knows. About all our stuff . . .”
Only his mom was giving him that smile, the kind you give to Special Olympics kids when they cross the finish line—they’d held regionals at his school last year and Ben had helped out for extra credit—the smile that’s half Attaboy and half I feel really fucking sorry for you.
“Ben, what I’m telling you, what I’m saying, is that you obviously have a lot of . . . unresolved issues, honey . . . with losing your sister, and with getting her back. And I understand that, I really do. We need to work through them. We need to work this out together, and we will. We’
re both here for you.”
Ben couldn’t actually believe what he was hearing. He’d laid it all out for them, like one of those stupid crime shows on TV, when they take you step by step through the murder and everyone nods and says you solved it. But his parents weren’t nodding; they were shaking their heads; they were giving him pitying smiles and telling him how they all needed to work through this. He felt like he was in that sci-fi movie he saw as a kid, where the aliens came down and took over these parents’ bodies and they all became smiling dummies.
“Are you guys fucking delusional? Am I speaking Chinese? I . . . caught . . . her . . . reading . . . my . . . page,” he said, laying out each word for emphasis. “I went upstairs when she was out of the house and saw my page on the computer. I busted her. Red-fucking-handed. What part of this are you not understanding?”
“Well, wouldn’t you be curious if you were her?”
“What?”
“Wouldn’t you be curious if you were Jenny? About what her brother wrote about her?”
“Huh . . . ? What’s that got to do with anything? I’m telling you that all the stuff she’s told you—it’s on there. On my page. Because I fucking wrote it. All of it. About Uncle Brent and Nanny and going to the beach and blowing off fireworks on the Fourth of July, and . . . and everything else. She’s just memorized it.”
“All the things on your page are things that happened, Ben.” Mom again. “Of course Jenny would remember the same things—they happened to her too. I understand you’re upset . . . I understand what an enormous . . . adjustment this is for you. But give it time, honey. We just need time . . .”
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