The Lost and the Found (14 page)

M
ichel volunteers to do the washing up and asks me to dry the dishes. Mom, Dad, and Laurel stay in the living room.

“You didn't have to do that, you know,” Michel says quietly as he hands me the wineglass he's just washed.

“I did.” I wipe the glass with a dish towel, careful to get rid of every last drop of water before placing it on the counter.

“No, you really didn't. It's your life, too.” I want him to stop talking. “They shouldn't have pressured you into it.”

“They didn't pressure me into anything. I'd already made up my mind to do it.” I have no idea why I'm lying to him, especially since it's abundantly clear that he knows I'm lying to him.

He stops washing dishes and turns to look at me. I continue drying because I can't face looking at him. “I'm worried about you, Faith.”

“Worried? Why would you be worried about me?”

He's silent for a moment. Either he's choosing his words carefully, or he can't think of the exact English words to convey what he's thinking. “You're not being yourself.”

My grip tightens on the stem of a wineglass. I wonder if I could shatter it if I grip hard enough. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I know you don't,” says Michel. He sounds tired.

I'm about to ask him what the hell he's talking about when Mom walks in, asking whether I've seen the fancy cookies she bought at the store last week.

“I haven't seen them.” Laurel and I polished them all off on Tuesday night. “Actually, Mom, I've got a bit of a headache. I might just go to bed, if that's okay? I'll put away the rest of the dishes in the morning.”

Mom comes over and touches my forehead with the back of her hand. I didn't say anything about having a temperature, so I'm not sure what she's hoping to achieve. She prescribes a tall glass of water and two ibuprofen.

Michel tells me he hopes I feel better soon. I thank him and leave the kitchen. I don't hug him good-bye like I always do.

Dad and Laurel are sitting on the sofa, talking quietly. I tell them I'm not feeling so well and give each of them a hug. Laurel's worried. She asks if she can bring me anything, then she asks Dad if he thinks we should call a doctor. Dad laughs and tells her not to be silly, and I can tell she doesn't like being called silly, but she doesn't say so. I reassure her that I'll be fine, I'm just tired. I don't think she believes me, but she says good-night, and that she'll come up to check on me in a little while.

She doesn't come, though. I lie in bed, listening. I hear Dad and Michel leaving after half an hour or so. I listen to their footsteps on the gravel outside. Michel will be the one to drive them home—he's
always
the one to drive them home. He says he doesn't mind not drinking, which is just as well because Dad would definitely mind.

I'll apologize to Michel tomorrow, even though I'm not quite sure what I'll be apologizing for. He was only looking out for me when he said I didn't have to be involved in this ridiculous book idea. I know that. He's always the one to look out for me. But what was that nonsense about me not being myself? Where the hell did
that
come from?

It's not true. I
am
being myself. I'm always myself, because what else is there to be? The weirdest thing is that, these past few weeks, I've felt more like “me” than I ever have before. Not that I go around thinking about how “me” I'm being. But since Laurel came home, I've been feeling more settled somehow, despite all the upheaval. It's as if I can breathe again—great, big gulps of air—after a lifetime of feeling slightly suffocated.

Less than an hour after Michel and Dad leave, I hear footsteps on the stairs. Mom's footsteps. I know that, because she always steps over the creaky stair, third from the top, when she thinks I'm asleep. The footsteps come closer and stop outside my bedroom door. I clutch the edge of the duvet, and my whole body tenses up. There's something creepy about someone standing, listening, on the other side of a closed door, even if it is your mother.

Perhaps she wants to apologize. I'd like to think she feels bad for pressuring me about the book deal. But I suspect she hasn't even given it a second thought. I don't necessarily think it's a case of her putting Laurel's needs before my own. It's more like she's putting
her
needs before mine—and Dad's. She's always been more comfortable with the publicity side of things than he has. And she's always claimed that it's because she would do anything in her power to get Laurel back. Since she couldn't go and knock down every door in the country or search every abandoned warehouse or travel around the world looking for clues, it was her only option. Making sure as many people as possible knew about Laurel Logan, and making sure they never forgot her. That was her mission, her obsession.

On my unkinder days—and I've had a lot of those—I used to wonder if maybe my mother enjoyed the attention a little bit. She seemed so comfortable being in the limelight—going on talk shows and speaking in front of huge crowds—that sometimes it was hard to think otherwise. Dad went on the talk shows, too, and read out all the official family statements, but there was always a sense of reluctance about it. He gritted his teeth and did what had to be done—for Laurel. He hated all of it. And, like me, he probably thought those days were over. He probably thought that we could go back to being a normal family. Maybe not quite the normal family we were thirteen years ago, but a slightly different version, with Michel included.

The Cynthia Day Show
was one thing, but this book deal is a whole different ball game. This will be big news. This will make sure the spotlight remains firmly fixed on the Logan family for months and months—maybe even years. What was I
thinking
?

Certain sections of the press will have a field day with this. It won't be the first time that we've been accused of courting attention, but this will be different. Back then, there was always a reason, and no one could really argue with that reason without being vilified themselves—just ask Jeanette Hayes. My parents were desperate to get their daughter back. Who couldn't relate to that? But now Little Laurel Logan is back home where she belongs. Of course people will still be interested in her—in hearing about how she's doing. People want their “happily ever after.” But the danger is that they'll soon tire of the story, that we'll be seen to be milking the situation for all its worth. And before you know it, journalists will be digging around for nasty stories about Laurel or Mom or Dad…or me.

People will buy the book—I have no doubt about that. But that doesn't mean we should write it. We don't have an obligation to satisfy anyone's curiosity—the most morbid curiosity you could ever imagine. I've agreed to it now, though; there's no going back. I just have to focus on the fact that Laurel will be set up for life—or at least for the next few years. And she'll get to tell her own story, in her own words (well, a ghostwriter's words). If she's happy to talk about it—for everyone to know what that monster did to her—then she has the right to be heard. It's not the choice I would make, in her situation. But Maggie and Penny have both said that it's good for Laurel to talk about her experiences, and that the real danger is in her bottling things up inside.

I lie in bed and wait for Laurel to come and check on me like she promised. I stare at the glowing red numbers on my alarm clock and count the seconds in each minute, trying to catch the exact moment the numbers change. I never get it right, though. The sixty seconds I count out in my head are always faster than the real sixty seconds.

She must be staying up to watch TV. I don't mind that she's forgotten to come and see me. It's not as if I need her to tuck me into bed for me to get to sleep. But for some reason I
can't
sleep. My brain is too busy, flitting from one topic to the next and back again, like a hyperactive housefly. I'm dreading telling Martha and Thomas about the book. Martha will mock me mercilessly, but I've had years of practice dealing with that. It's Thomas I'm more worried about. His favorite insult is
sellout
, and he uses it a lot. He stopped liking his favorite band as soon as they became popular.
(Their new material is far too commercial.)
We argue about it sometimes, but it's more bickering than a real argument. I maintain that he only likes obscure bands that no one's heard of because he likes to be the one who “discovered” them, even though that's total bullshit. He likes to be able to say that he saw them play in some sweaty little back room of a club
long
before they were famous and playing huge arenas. The trouble is, the bands he likes always seem to end up being popular, which clearly means that when it comes down to it, the music he's into is little more than the lowest common denominator.

Thomas will be disappointed in me. Even if he doesn't say it (and he probably
will
say it), I'll know it's true. I can hardly blame him, though—I'm a little bit disappointed in myself. But I'm just going to have to get over that, because I'd rather be disappointed in myself—and have Thomas disappointed in me—than let Laurel down. If Thomas can't understand that, then maybe he's not the right person for me. As soon as that thought pops into my head, a jagged ball of anxiety lodges itself in my chest. It's nothing new; it magically appears almost every time I really let myself think about my relationship with Thomas these days. To be honest, I started having some doubts even before Laurel came back. But I always stomped on those doubts, grinding them down to dust under my shoe.

I don't know if it's normal to feel like you love someone one day and then like you sort of hate them a little bit the next. Actually, that's not even how it is. It's more of a minute-to-minute thing. Thomas can be really, really kind and sweet. I like him the most when we're laughing about something silly—not
at
someone. But then he'll say something so insufferably pompous that I want to slap him.

It can't be normal to have these feelings about the person you're supposed to be in love with. Or maybe it
is
normal, and being in love is a global conspiracy in which everyone vows to keep quiet about the fact that it's actually nothing special.

I'm not sure what would have happened if Laurel hadn't come back. Would Thomas and I still be together? Is having a boyfriend you're not entirely sure about better than having no boyfriend at all?

J
ust before two a.m., I realize that there's no way I'm getting to sleep. I'm thinking hot chocolate is the way to go. If Laurel hasn't fallen asleep on the sofa, I'll make one for her, too. I put on my bathrobe and creep downstairs, careful to avoid the creaky stair.

The lights are off in the living room; the TV is off, too. Laurel's not on the sofa. A strip of light under the kitchen door confirms her whereabouts. Maybe she's read my mind and has already got the milk heating on the stove. I like the idea that we might have some kind of psychic connection.

I open the kitchen door, and Laurel jumps in her chair. She knocks over the glass that was on the table next to her, and water goes everywhere. “Shit! Faith! I was just…”

I rush over to the sink and grab the paper towels. “Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you!” That's when I notice what's on the table: a photo album. Luckily the photos are protected by plastic, so the water hasn't done any damage.

“Why did you sneak up on me like that?” Laurel grabs some paper towels from me and starts dabbing at the photo album while I concentrate on the water on the table.

“I didn't mean to! I just came down for some hot chocolate.” Laurel is breathing hard; her face is even paler than usual. Something's not right here. “Laurel? Are you okay?”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes for a second, trying to compose herself before she speaks. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak out. It just…it reminded me of
him.
” Oh god. “I…I never knew when to expect him.”

“I'm so sorry, Laurel.” I don't like it when she mentions him. I try my hardest to forget that he's still out here, because it scares me. He could be anywhere. The police have assured us that it's highly unlikely he'll be anywhere within a hundred miles of us, that he'll be lying low, given that he's now the most wanted man in the country. That seems to be good enough for Mom and Dad and Laurel, but it's nowhere near good enough for me. A couple of police officers parked down the street wouldn't be able to stop him—not if he really wanted to get Laurel back. I've been having nightmares about him creeping into our house and taking her.

Laurel walks over to the kitchen window, and her shoulders start to shake. Mom must have forgotten to pull the blinds down, so I can see Laurel's reflection in the window. Her hands are up to her face, as if we're playing a game of hide-and-seek. I hate it when it's dark outside and light inside and you can't see if someone's lurking in the shadows. Whoever is out there can see you, but you can't see them. There's a security light above the back door, but it's been broken for nearly a year.

I go over and put my hand on Laurel's shoulder. She flinches slightly and it breaks my heart. I rub her back and tell her everything's going to be okay. In between sobs, Laurel apologizes for overreacting. I tell her there's no such thing as overreacting, after everything she's been through. She turns to me, and I go to wipe away her tears, but her eyes are dry. She sniffs and wipes her nose with her sleeve and takes a long, shuddering breath.

“Do you want a hot chocolate? It always makes me feel better.” It's true. It's been my comfort drink since I was little. I used to have three cups a day until Mom decided I was getting too fat. She didn't exactly
say
I was getting fat, but I knew she was thinking it. She stopped buying chips and Coke, and suggested I take up a new hobby…some kind of sport, perhaps? I was ten years old. She must be happy now that she's got the skinny daughter back, even if she's only skinny because she's been practically starved for the past thirteen years.

“No, thanks. I think I'll just go to bed. Would you…? Oh god, this is going to sound so silly….” Laurel shakes her head. “No, it's okay, actually. I'll just…”

“What is it, Laurel?” I ask gently.

She stares at a spot on the wall, avoiding eye contact. “Would you mind staying with me until I fall asleep?” She says this quickly, running the words together.

“Of course I will.”

Laurel doesn't look at the table as she walks past it; I do. There are two photos on each open page of the album. Four photographs, all taken at Christmas. A sleepy, pajamaed eight-year-old me standing beside the Christmas tree. Me opening my presents, sitting cross-legged in a scrunchy sea of wrapping paper. Dad carving the turkey, looking proud of himself even though Mom was the one who did all the cooking. An awkwardly posed family picture: Mom, Dad, me (wearing an orange paper hat), Gran and Gramps, Auntie Eleanor.

“What were you doing with those? Looking for tips on how to have the worst haircut in the whole history of human existence?”

Laurel doesn't laugh. “I think your hair looks cute in those pictures.”

“Why were you looking at them?” It makes me sad to think of her sitting down here all by herself, poring over photos of things she missed out on. The photos give a false impression, though. Everyone looks happy (even me, with my disastrous hair), but that's because no one took pictures of Mom sobbing in the kitchen or Dad staring into space instead of watching the Christmas film I insisted we watch together every year. Laurel would never know any of that from looking at these photos. These photos make it look like we didn't miss her at all, like everyone just got on with their lives and couldn't care less about her.

“Mom was showing me them earlier.”

I nod and close the album. I turn off the light, and we go upstairs. I wait in Laurel's room while she gets changed in the bathroom and listen to the water running as she brushes her teeth. She never gets changed in front of me. Mom's the only one of us who's seen what marks that monster might have left on my sister's body.

Laurel gets into bed, and I perch on the stool in front of her dressing table. We talk for a little bit, then I turn out the light and wait for her to fall asleep. It's at least fifteen minutes before I hear the change in her breathing, and I sneak out of her room and into my own.

It's a long time before sleep comes for me. I keep replaying the scene in the kitchen. Laurel lied to me. She looked me in the eyes and lied. Mom didn't show her that photo album, I know that for a fact. Because Mom didn't know where it was.

Two days before Laurel came home, I took the photo album from the bookshelf next to the fireplace. I sat in bed staring at the photos, trying to make sense of everything that I was feeling. Thinking about the past and wondering about the future. The next morning, I didn't take the album back downstairs. I wanted to keep it close to me, so I put it in one of my bedside drawers—the bottom one. It lay there on top of a couple of old swimming certificates, a pair of Mickey Mouse ears, and a “book” I'd written (and illustrated) when I was eight years old.

Mom stopped rooting around in my room years ago. She wouldn't dare go through my stuff. There's only one explanation: Laurel has been snooping in here. I know it. And she must
know
that I know it. So why didn't she just say she found the photo album while she was looking for something in my room? I'd probably have believed her. Even if I hadn't believed her, I wouldn't have been annoyed. There are a couple of things in there that I wouldn't be too happy if Mom found, but I've got nothing to hide from Laurel.

There shouldn't be any secrets between sisters.