The Lost and the Found (20 page)

“You seem quiet, love.” Mom glances over at me. We're stuck in a traffic jam. I always start to feel claustrophobic after being in the car with Mom for more than a few minutes. There's no escape if she decides to start an argument.

“I'm just tired. I don't think I've ever talked so much in my life.” This is the truth. I'm much more likely to be sitting in a corner, watching and listening. I thought I preferred things that way, but I'm starting to wonder if maybe that isn't the real me. Perhaps the real me—the me I would have been if my life hadn't been completely overshadowed by Laurel's abduction—
likes
being the center of attention. Perhaps she likes having people hang on her every word.

“I wonder how your sister's getting on with the pasta,” says Mom.

I'd forgotten all about that. I'd forgotten all about Laurel, in fact. Even though I've been talking about her all afternoon.

W
e hear the laughter coming from the kitchen as soon as Mom opens the front door. The kitchen door is closed. Mom and I exchange a look. Laurel's laugh is loud; the other laugh is quieter, and deeper. I recognize it immediately.

Mom takes off her coat and hangs it on one of the pegs next to the front door. I head straight through to the kitchen, opening the door with such force that it bangs against the wall. Mom
hates
it when I do that.

The scene in front of me can only be described as chaos. There is flour
everywhere.
Broken eggshells litter the counter. Laurel is kneading a big lump of dough; Thomas is standing next to her, holding a glass bowl. He has flour on his nose. Thomas freezes when the door slams open, but Laurel doesn't even blink.

“You're back! How did it go?” She carries on kneading as if this is a perfectly normal situation.

“It went okay, thanks,” I say coolly.

Laurel smiles and says, “I'm so glad! Hey, can you pass me some more flour?”

I get the open bag from the table, she lifts the lump of dough, and I scatter some flour on the counter. I don't tell her that I think adding more flour is a mistake, that the TV chef she's so fond of always warns you not to use too much.

Thomas looks very uncomfortable with the situation. He seems to not want to let go of the bowl, which is probably a good thing, because I have a sudden urge to smash it over his head. “Hi,” he says, “we were just…”

“Hello, Thomas. I didn't realize you were coming over this afternoon.” Mom comes into the room and stands next to me. “Oh my…” She's a bit of a neat freak, especially when it comes to the kitchen.

Laurel preempts Mom's dismay. “It's okay, it's okay! I'll clean it up in a minute! I just need to leave the dough to prove…or rest or whatever it's called.”

“I didn't say a word,” Mom says with a smile.

“But you were going to!” Laurel laughs.

Laurel is babbling away about making pasta not being as easy as it looks and something about egg yolks. Mom gets a cloth out of the cabinet under the sink and gets started on the cleanup operation, even though Laurel tells her she has it under control. Thomas finally puts down the bowl. I think he's deciding whether to come over and kiss me, or hug me at least. Instead he asks if anyone would like something to drink. Mom and Laurel say yes please; I say no.

Mom keeps glancing over at me. She can tell I'm not exactly thrilled with the situation, but she would never say anything in front of Laurel. Thomas is watching me like you might watch a poisonous snake that's escaped from its cage and is slithering its way toward a group of unsuspecting children. It's amazing that Laurel doesn't sense the atmosphere in the room. So amazing, in fact, that it makes me wonder if she
does
sense it, but is choosing to ignore it.

Laurel places the dough in the bowl and wraps plastic wrap over the top. “Thomas was just saying he thought we were
awesome
on
The Cynthia Day Show.
Isn't that nice of him to say?” This just gets better and better. Either Thomas lied to me about not watching it, or he lied to Laurel just now. The answer is clear from the look on his face and the fact that he's concentrating so hard on the tea bag he's dunking. Why didn't he just admit that he'd watched it? That's just plain weird.

“I'm just going to the bathroom,” I say, and walk out of the room before anyone can say anything else to piss me off.

I go up to my bedroom. I sit on the bed. Thomas joins me a couple of minutes later, bringing two mugs. “I thought you might have changed your mind about the tea.”

“I haven't.”

He puts both mugs down on the bedside table. He's given me the one with Laurel's name on it. “Is everything okay? You seem annoyed. Are you annoyed?” He sits down next to me and takes my hand in his. I don't snatch my hand away. That's something, at least.

“Why would I be annoyed?”

“Is it the Cynthia Day thing? I'm sorry I lied. I didn't want to make you more nervous about it.” I don't want to look at him. I'm doing such a good job of
not
looking at him. But I can't work out if he's telling the truth. I risk a glance, and he maintains eye contact, nodding ever so slightly as if that's going to convince me.

Silence seems like the best policy. I count to twenty-seven in my head before Thomas speaks again. “She texted me, asked me to come over to help with the pasta.”

“Because you're so
renowned
for your cooking skills?”

“Well, um…I suppose no one mentioned to her that I'm useless in the kitchen. I told her as much, but she sounded stressed. She really wanted to cook you something nice for tonight. I think she feels bad about you being pressured to do this book.”

He thinks he's saying the right things, but with every word he utters, I feel myself getting more and more wound up. “I wasn't pressured into doing anything. I can make my own decisions, you know. But it's nice to know that you two talk about me when I'm not there.”

“We don't! It's not like that.” He lets go of my hand. “God, I should have
known
you'd be like this. I can't seem to do anything right these days.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he mumbles. “Forget I said anything.”

“No. Tell me what you're talking about.”

He sighs and stands. “I think I should go. I don't want to fight with you.”

“We're not fighting.” I'm not sure why I say this. Perhaps because I really want it to be true.

He almost smiles. “I'm sorry if you're annoyed that I came over when you weren't here, but I wanted to see you after your meeting with the writer. I was worried about you.” He reaches out and touches my cheek, and I find myself leaning into his hand.

Everything Thomas is saying sounds reasonable enough, and every feeling I've had since I got home suddenly seems petty and small and paranoid. I look up at Thomas, and he's looking at me with so much patience and understanding that I feel ashamed of myself. I'm fed up with feeling ashamed of myself. “I'm sorry.” I think Thomas is as surprised as I am to hear me say those words. He crouches down in front of me and tells me that he loves me. “I know,” I say.

“Now, are you sure I can't tempt you with that tea? I made it just the way you like it.” He arches his eyebrows and looks at me expectantly.

“No one makes it just the way I like it except me…but I will sample your pitiful attempt.” Thomas laughs and says that I'm incorrigible. I like the way the word sounds when he says it.

We sit side by side on the bed, drinking our tea. “Not bad at all,” I say, even though it's a lie. The tea is too strong and too cold, but Thomas can only be blamed for one of those things.

“We're okay, aren't we?” I ask after downing the last dregs from my (Laurel's) mug.

“Of course we are,” says Thomas. “I'm really looking forward to my birthday, you know.”

“Me too.” A romantic meal. Just the two of us, sitting at a table bathed in soft lighting, gazing into each other's eyes, eating fancy French food. That's what Thomas is expecting, anyway. The restaurant he thinks we're going to is next door to the bar we're
actually
going to. Thomas's mother roped me in as the bait to get Thomas to where he needs to be for the big SURPRISE! moment. The poor boy has no idea what's in store for him.

S
he's done a good job with the pasta, I have to admit. Mom and I both have second helpings. Laurel doesn't eat much, taking ages to twirl the fettuccine around her fork only to let it fall back onto her plate. “Not hungry, love?”

Laurel shrugs. “It's not as good as the pasta you get from the store, is it? What's the point of going to all that effort if it's not better than the ready-made stuff?” She seems genuinely upset about it.

“Ah, welcome to my world!” says Mom with relish. “That's why you'll never find me making my own pastry….Life's too short.” She doesn't seem to realize how upset Laurel is, so I give her a nudge while Laurel is staring forlornly at her plate. She clears her throat. “Honestly, sweetheart, this is delicious. The best meal I've had in ages. And it is better than the store-bought stuff…because it's made with
love.
”

I manage not to laugh at Mom's cheesy line, which is just as well, because it's made Laurel smile. “Really? You're not just saying that? You promise?”

Mom smiles indulgently. “Really. Honestly. Truly. I
promise.
” She looks to me for backup and I nod enthusiastically, which is all I can do, given that my mouth is full of pasta.

Mom puts her spoon and fork down. “It's amazing how far you've come in such a short time, Laurel,” she says, and I can tell she's about to get all emotional again. You'd think she'd be over that by now, but no, these little scenes are still happening on a daily basis. “I'm so proud of you.” It's not that I roll my eyes or pretend to gag or anything obvious like that, but Mom must sense my irritation, because then she says, “I'm proud of
both
of you.” We all clink our water glasses together. And Laurel finally starts eating her dinner.

Later, Laurel and Mom are downstairs watching some trash on TV. I have to get started on research for a history essay. That's the reason I go upstairs. There's nothing on my mind apart from wondering if I remembered to take the right book out of the school library last week. I'm almost sure I
did,
but now that I think about it…

Laurel's bedroom door is open and the bedside light and main light are both switched on. Mom obviously hasn't given her the lecture about saving electricity yet. Or maybe she never will, given that Laurel has spent so much of her life in darkness.

I could kid myself that something caught my eye in Laurel's room, that
that's
the reason I find myself in there, looking around. But nothing caught my eye. I don't have an excuse. If she came upstairs right now and saw me, I'd be able to think of something. Looking for my laptop? That would do. Except we both know full well that she doesn't have my laptop—I've been hiding it in a different place every day, just in case. She hasn't asked to borrow it, so I guess the novelty of using it must have worn off.

The night-light is still there, but not switched on. Laurel's one concession to saving the environment, perhaps. The room is tidy. Laurel has yet to accumulate the little possessions that make a room look like it belongs to someone. Most of the gifts people send her get donated right to the children's hospital. That was her idea, one that made Mom positively glow with pride. I didn't point out that most of the gifts are teddy bears and other cuddly toys, so it would be weird for her to keep them. When are people going to start remembering that Little Laurel Logan is a nineteen-year-old woman now? It's as if the entire country—my family included—has a mental block about it. She's kept a couple of cuddly toys, though. One Winnie the Pooh and a random reindeer.

There's only one teddy bear that means anything to Laurel—Barnaby. I look over at Laurel's bed, neatly made, pink and purple cushions lying at a perfect angle in front of the plumped-up pillows. No sign of Barnaby. He's usually there, isn't he? Nestled in between the two cushions, tucked in under the duvet. I go over for a closer look, careful to step softly so Laurel and Mom don't hear that I'm in here. I pull back the duvet, but he's not there. He's not stuck between the pillows or behind the cushions. I put everything back just the way I found it—or as close to it as I can get.

I kneel down and look under the bed, just in case Barnaby has taken a tumble and is awaiting rescue. He's nowhere to be seen. This is odd. I briefly wonder if Laurel might have taken him downstairs with her. For the first week or so after she came home, she often carried him around with her, sitting him down next to her on the sofa. I could tell it broke Mom's heart, seeing her clutching that scruffy old bear.

Barnaby has disappeared. I have no idea why this bothers me so much. I stand back and look at the room, trying to work out where he could be hiding. The closet is the only option. This definitely counts as snooping. If Laurel catches me looking in there, the only option I have is to say that I want to borrow an item of clothing, which I haven't done once the whole time she's been back.

The closet is a mess. Now her tidiness makes sense—everything has been crammed in here. I smile, reassured that Laurel isn't so perfect after all. There's only one clothes hanger in use; the red dress lording it over all the other clothes. T-shirts and tops and sweaters and jeans are all crammed on the shelves. The ones on the bottom of the piles are folded neatly; the ones on the top are not. In the space underneath the hangers, there is a heaped pile of shoes. A shiny shoe box sits in the corner. A quick peek inside confirms my suspicions: a pair of very expensive red shoes. They match the dress perfectly. Mom and Laurel must have been on another shopping trip without bothering to tell me. Not that I blame them—I was clearly spoiling their fun the last time.

I wrap the shoes back up in the black tissue paper and put the lid back on the box. The lid won't go on properly—one of the corners is being stubborn—so I go to pick up the box. That's when I see the leg. A brown furry leg with a bald patch just above the paw.

Barnaby the Bear has suffered the same fate as the Wicked Witch of the West, except he's been subjected to Death by Designer Shoes instead of Death by Tornado-Dumped House. I pick up the box to survey the damage. Actually Barnaby hasn't been completely flattened by the shoe box, and he still has three out of four limbs intact. But that doesn't stop the sight of him from hurting my heart. His head is at an unnatural angle, as if his neck has been broken; he looks
wrong.

Why is he stuffed into the bottom of the closet like this? Laurel
loves
that bear. He's her prized possession—one of the only things that truly belongs to her. But he didn't toddle into the closet on his own, lift up the shoe box, and snuggle under it. Mom wouldn't have done this—no way. So Laurel must have put him here.

I know what I'm about to do is stupid. And I know it means Laurel will know that I've been in her room, rooting around in the bottom of her closet. But it feels like I have no other option; I can't stand to leave him where I found him.

I put Barnaby the Bear back where he belongs, tucked in on Laurel's bed, snug between the pillows. “There,” I whisper to the battered bear. “That's better, isn't it?” For the first time, I start to wonder if there might be something wrong with me, because it feels like maybe my brain isn't working quite as it should. But it's pointless, thinking that way. I'm fine.
I'm
not the one with the problem.

I switch off the bedside light and the main light.

Laurel will know for sure that I've been in here. The question is: what is she going to do about it?