The Leaving (5 page)

AVERY

The sun arrived right on time, at least, and nosy-body Mrs. Gulden took her yippy dogs out for their early-morning walk and stopped at the foot of the circular driveway. “Everything okay?”

Avery smiled and waved. “Yes! Beautiful morning!”

She should call Ryan, to see whether Lucas had come back yet, but they hadn’t spoken at all these past few years—not since Avery had started high school and decided to try to reinvent herself and stop letting the past be such a part of her life.

They should probably call Dad, too, but maybe it’d be better to wait until it wasn’t a really ungodly hour out west, or to wait until her brother was actually there.

The mailman came and put a bundle in their pelican mailbox, but nei ther Avery nor her mom went to get it. Mom didn’t even get up once to put real clothes on or make coffee or use the bathroom or answer the phone, which rang a lot more than usual.

When it was a normal time, Avery went inside and popped some bread in the toaster—texting Emma about the weirdness while she waited and getting suitably shocked replies like:

OMG

and

WHAT???????????????

She brought her mom a piece of toast with jam. “You should call Dad,” she said.

“We’ll call him together”—she frowned at the toast—“when he gets here.”

A van turned onto the street, and for a second Avery actually wished it was the Mystery Machine—Scooby-Doo and his crew could crack the case for sure—but no, of course not. It was a news van.

Avery really should have called or at least texted her dad.

He needed to get on the next plane home.

The phone rang and, this time, it somehow sounded more urgent. Avery ran over and picked it up, hoping it was her dad, and if not him at least someone who could explain the delay. “Hello?”

“Avery?”

“Dad.”

“Is it true?” he asked. “They’re back? I just got a crazy call from Adam’s father. Something about us needing to get in front of this, in terms of the news.”

Avery’s mom came to the open doorway, hope lighting her shiny eyes.

“Some of them are back, yeah,” Avery said into the phone. “But no sign of Max yet.”

Her mom sank to her knees on the foyer rug and began to sob. Avery saw a flash of her mother’s fleshy white thigh inside her robe and had to look away.

“I’ll get there as fast as I can, Ave,” her dad said.

“Move mountains.”

Avery hung up and went to her mom and knelt beside her, pulling
her robe closed and then easing her into a stiff hug; her mother had turned mannequin, unfeeling.

Right then a reporter reached the front porch, trailed by a camera guy, and said, “Tell us your story. Why do you think Max is the only one who didn’t come back?”

Avery used her foot to push the door shut and pictured the days ahead. The endless news coverage, the weird-sad looks she’d get from neighbors and everyone at school next week. She’d be famous, but not in the right way. Mannequin Mom would end up in the hospital again, quick-sanding into depression, and Dad would act like there was nothing wrong when everything about Mom—about all of them—was wrong and had been, probably, since the day Max disappeared.

After a minute, there was a gap in her mom’s crying and, in the silence, Avery had a weird feeling of wishing she’d never stopped talking to Ryan—one of the only people who had ever understood—or started things up with Sam, who was too nice for her, or too simple or something—or given up hoping that her brother was still alive.

Scooby-Doo, where are you?

“We’ll find him, Mom.” Avery stared at her worn flip-flops and wondered when the new ones she’d ordered would arrive. “I promise.”

S
c
a
r
l
et
t

“I need clothes,” Scarlett said.

“And a toothbrush

and . . .”

Hairbrush.

Shoes.

Makeup?

Phone
.

Purse.

Deodorant.

Wallet.

Lip balm.

Socks.

Underwear.

Bras.

Pajamas.

Swimsuit.

Tampons?

Driver’s license?

What else?

“. . .
everything
.”

The woman—
her mother
—was on her fourth cigarette of the morning, the first three having been consumed while two detectives—one old, one young—asked Scarlett questions and got annoyed at her answers.

They asked about Max.

/
     /
      /
   /

And whether any of the others had violent tendencies.

         /
     /
                /

They explained about the accident.

Lucas’s father.

Opus 6.

Hard to process.

Could she think of any reason why Lucas would want to harm his father?

No.

No, no, no.

How . . .
horrible
.

As they left, they told her she was to go immediately to an address they gave her, for a physical examination and an MRI. That she’d be informed of further appointments, like with a memory expert and possibly some others.

That time was of the essence if they were going to find Max and the person or people who had taken them.

After eleven years.

Now
time was of the essence.

Scarlett was still in her mother’s pajamas and wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Putting on the clothes she’d come back in.

OR

Borrowing more from . . . her.

Her mother stubbed out her cigarette—“We should get going. I’ll get dressed. We’ll go shopping after”—and left the room.

Scarlett watched smoke rise from the ashtray.

The cat appeared, unsure at first, then hopped up onto the table in front of her. It had a collar and a name tag: Comet.

Scarlett lifted her hand to pet it but then stopped.

Looked at her hand.

Was she . . . allergic?

  /
    /
      /

She got up and walked to her room, put back on the clothes she’d come home in.

The police had taken the map.

Would she be able to find the playground tonight?

Returning to the kitchen, she found her mother, also dressed, who grabbed a set of keys off a hook just inside the kitchen.

“We’ll leave through the side door.” Scarlett’s mother reached for a baseball hat and a pair of sunglasses and held them out to Scarlett.

“No one’s going to recognize me. I was five.”

“People are going to want to know what you look like. Now. You’re all going to be famous whether you want to be or not.”

Scarlett took the hat and sunglasses and followed her mother to the car. When they pulled out of the carport and eased down the driveway, reporter types and cameramen ran for their vans like startled birds. Scarlett put the glasses on and slid down in her seat. Her mother tore out at the bottom of the driveway and then blew through a stop sign to get away from a van in pursuit but then had to hit the brake pedal too hard at a light.

The same red as . . .

“Did we ever go up in a hot air balloon when I was little?” Scarlett asked.

“Are you making
fun
of me?” her mother snapped.

“No!” Scarlett protested. “Did we?”

The sky so ridiculously blue.

“Of course not,” her mother said. “I am not, you may have noticed, made of money.”

“Okay, it was just a question. I thought we had.” Something triggered a bunch of black birds to abandon a tree.

“You remember me, though?” her mother asked. “And stuff from before?”

“A pink flamingo in the yard.” The side mirror said the birds were closer than they appeared.

“But nothing . . . bad?” Her mother checked her mirrors.

The van was gone. The birds, too.

“Not that I can think of.”

“Well, that’s good, then.”

    /
       /    /
          /      

Scarlett didn’t have the energy to even think what that might mean.

The MRI, at least, she was eager for.

This way they’d know there was no implant, no chip.

She would not, one day, be awakened by an alien device implanted in her heart.

She would not set about some evil scheme, maybe even involving killing the whole human race, including her own damaged mother.

She could prove it.

To her mother, and maybe just a little bit to herself.

This was how.

One little test at this totally ordinary-looking office-type building.

Easy as:

Following the nurse down a long hallway.

Changing into a pink surgical gown.

Lying very, very still as the machine whirred to life.

Listening to its sounds.

Looking for a tune.

Finding none.

When the humming stopped, Scarlett couldn’t be sure how long she’d been in there, but it didn’t matter.

It was over.

The doctor would speak with them shortly.

Scarlett returned to her mother, and then it seemed they were waiting a very long time and Scarlett decided to talk to try to pass the time.

“So,” she said, “what have you been doing?”

Her mother
pff
ed and looked at her funny. “For eleven years, you mean?”

“Yeah, I guess. What’s your life like? Do you have a boyfriend? Hobbies? Do you travel? What?”

“Oh, sure, me and Hans go to the French Riviera every week.”

Scarlett looked at her.

And blinked.

And waited.

“I’ve got a guy, yeah. Steve. Been together going on six years now.”

Six was a lot.

Not as many as eleven but still . . .

“You don’t live together?”

“No way, no how.” Punctuated with four head shakes. “Had one of those. Had one move in and it turned out he was flat broke. Never making that mistake again. No, Steve’s successful-like. He’s a good guy. You’ll meet him. He wants to take us out to dinner tonight.”

Scarlett’s gut contracted, released.

Contracted, released.

Like doing some ab workout without her permission.

“Tonight?”

“Well, he’s dying to meet you. And, well, you know. He’s been there for me. He’s really been my rock these past few years. Him and the folks in the abduction group. And anyway, you got any better plans?”

As a matter of fact . . .

Abduction group?

How many hours until 8:00 p.m.?

How many hours until
him
?

“I’m just not sure we should go out to a restaurant right now. You know?”

“Oh, Steve knows a place. He knows the owner and they’ll look after us, make sure the cameras stay away. And we’ll go early. It’s nice. On the water. A proper welcome-home dinner.” Her mother nodded. “He’s got some real good ideas for us, too.”

“Ideas?”

“He can explain it better.”

The nurse finally came to get them and led them to a room, where they waited a minute more.

Then a doctor came in.

The older detective from that morning was with him.

        /
  / 
     /

“What’s going on?” her mother asked.

“Well,” the doctor said, “there’s something inside Scarlett. So I called Detective Chambers.”