The Lost & Found (3 page)

I
woke up early the next day and checked my nightstand drawer immediately. The acceptance letter was still there, but I wouldn't have been surprised if it wasn't. Like the helicopter, the things in my life had a tendency to be there one minute, gone the next.

But there it was, right where I had left it. I unfolded it and read it over again, making sure I hadn't made up the part where they'd accepted me on a full scholarship.

Included in the envelope was a letter from the head tennis instructor. She had invited me to come down to take a tour.
Anytime
, she'd written.
You are welcome anytime
.

I put the letter back in the drawer and closed it. I leaned
back in my bed, struggling to keep my breathing under control. Just reading the letter, just considering the possibility that I might actually get to play tennis for a Division I school . . . it was enough to make me feel anxious and like I was running out of air.

I hung over the side of my bed and rescued my laptop from the floor, where my cat, Bucker, was currently sleeping on it. I checked my email first, scanned Facebook, and then headed over to TILTgroup.org, a site that hosted online support groups for people who'd experienced tragedy.

In the years after Willa's accident, we were both sent to therapists.

We had back-to-back appointments with an older woman, graying hair twisted into a thick, neat bun. My sister went first. I read outdated issues of
Highlights
while my mother knitted erratically. My mother knitted so much in the year following the accident that she had to have surgery on her wrist. One of her tendons swelled up so big it was like an enormous fat worm underneath her skin. Afterward, even though the doctor said it was okay, she wasn't so interested in knitting.

“It was nobody's fault,” the therapist often said to me.

But because she said it so often, I had to assume the opposite.

We saw Dr. Williams for a few years, but when we got a little older, she suggested we sign up for accounts
at TILTgroup. It was a way to wean ourselves off therapy without quitting cold turkey, she said, and plus it was sometimes easier to open up from behind the safety of a computer screen.

“This is progress!” she exclaimed to the both of us in our separate sessions. “I am so happy with all the work you've put into therapy!” (She often said the exact same things to each of us. We compared notes after our appointments.)

Except apparently Willa was making more progress than I was, because a few months after we started TILTgroup, Willa was released from face-to-face therapy. Dr. Williams recommended that my parents keep me in both, at least for the time being.

Dr. Williams told my parents she was concerned about my insomnia.

She told my parents she was concerned about my panic attacks.

She told my parents a lot of things that I wish she hadn't told my parents, because they started looking at me like they were worried I was going to lose it, snap in half, or explode in the living room.

Post-traumatic stress disorder. A propensity for self-harm.

Willa and I heard her because we stood on the opposite side of the door, eavesdropping.

“What's
propensity
?” Willa asked.

“I don't know,” I said.

“What's
self-harm
?”

“I don't know; shut up.”

I was irritated because Willa didn't have PTSD. I was irritated because Willa was the one who had lost her legs but I was the one stuck in therapy.

“Your daughter is a surprisingly well-adjusted young lady,” Dr. Williams told my parents.

“I'm well-adjusted,” Willa whispered.

“She just feels bad for you because you don't have any legs,” I told her.

“Well
you
have to keep seeing her and
I
don't.”

“CB,” I told her.

That was what we called all the special treatment Willa received for being a young kid with a handicap. CB stood for chair benefit. Like when we went to Disneyland and we didn't have to wait in any of the lines, or how we always got to park closest to the mall, or how any type of concert or show sat us directly in front of the stage. I got to benefit from all of Willa's CB, of course, because when she got free ice cream in Universal Studios, they couldn't just not give free ice cream to her twin brother.

So it worked out for both of us.

It didn't make up for the accident. Obviously.

But sometimes it felt like Willa had lost her legs, and I was losing everything else.

TILT stood for
Tragedy Inspires Love and Togetherness.

You were supposed to call yourself a tragedy overcomer.

Years later and it still didn't feel like I'd really overcome anything. I also hadn't actually attended a group session in a while, but I still logged on to TILT daily. I mostly just used the messaging feature, because the one good thing to come out of TILT was my best friend.

Whose real name I didn't know. She went by the screen name TheMissingNib.

It was kind of weird but I don't know—it also kind of worked.

Besides not knowing her name, I also didn't know exactly where she lived (East Coast somewhere. Maryland maybe? Rhode Island?) or what she looked like (it was against TILT policy to exchange photos). So for all I knew she could be an old, weird serial killer and not the teenager she claimed to be.

But I liked talking to her, so to be honest, I didn't worry that much about anything else.

I was planning on telling her about my acceptance to the University of Texas, but my password kept failing. I was terrible with passwords. I tried a variety, one after another:

Bucker

Buckerisacat

Buckermcbuckerson

Nothing worked.

I had them email me a reset code.

When asked to pick a new password, I typed in
Buckerisnowmypassword
.

The site labeled my password
weak
but accepted it, so I was feeling fairly triumphant as the home screen popped up.

I had one unread message from TheMissingNib.

It's six in the morning over here. I've just spent the past five hours reading every letter my mother's written me over the past five years. You know, my mother who moved to Florida? Except—and here's a fun new fact I recently learned—SHE NEVER MOVED TO FLORIDA. She's been living in my town the whole time, IN A MENTAL INSTITUTION. WTF. Except now she's dead. Are you awake? Message me when you're awake.

I checked the clock. It was about seven in the morning. Nib had sent the message four hours ago. I hit Reply and typed back:

I'm awake now. Are you?

I hit Send.

Her response popped up a minute later.

I'm awake. Instamess?

TILT didn't have instant messaging. I opened up the Instamess application on my computer. I was still signed in from last night, so I closed my away message and opened a chat box with TheMissingNib.

BuckerMcBuckerson
// Hi.

TheMissingNib
// Hi.

Bucker
// Hi. I'm so sorry about your mother.

Nib
// I thought she was in Florida. This whole time.

Bucker
// I can't believe your grandparents lied to you for so long.

Nib
// You and me both. I thought they were benevolent, but it turns out they are evil old people and must be destroyed.

Bucker
// She wrote you letters?

Nib
// Like a ton of letters. At least once a month for five years.

Bucker
// What do they all say?

Nib
// They're mostly crazy. Unintelligible. I mean, she was in the nuthouse. She didn't really have all her faculties.

Bucker
// Do you mind if I ask you something . . .

Nib
// She hanged herself.

Bucker
// That's terrible.

Nib
// Hanged is the correct verb, btw.

Bucker
// I know.

Nib
// You live in LA, right?

Bucker
// Yup.

Nib
// Guess who my mom says my real dad is?

Bucker
// Who?

Nib
// Wallace Green.

Bucker
// The actor? For real?

Nib
// I mean, we must take that with a grain of salt. She spent the last five years getting lobotomies, probably.

Bucker
// Well he doesn't even live in LA. He lives in Texas. I think I read that in a magazine.

Nib
// All the movie stars are moving to Texas.

Bucker
// Yeah. Isn't it 4 AM where you are?

Nib
// We're three hours forward, not backward. You're not very good at clocks.

Bucker
// Oh, yeah. I knew that. Have you slept yet? Maybe you should get some sleep.

Nib
// Trying to get rid of me?

Bucker
// I have to drive my sister to the doc.

Nib
// Everything OK?

Bucker
// She's getting fitted for some new legs. She wants to be taller.

Nib
// Really?

Bucker
// Ha. No. She doesn't really fit the old ones anymore. These will probably be the last pair, though.

Nib
// Forever legs.

Bucker
// That's a snappy name. I might call her that.

Nib
// Don't tell her it was from me. Talk later.

Bucker
// Bye, Nib.

TheMissingNib has disconnected.

I threw up an away message.
Life is beautiful. For some more than others. (Fishing with John.)

I closed my computer and got dressed. I usually only showered at night because I couldn't get into bed unless I felt clean.

I left Bucker sleeping on the bed on my laptop (I don't know what it was, he just really liked sleeping on my laptop) and walked down the hall to Willa's room. Her door was still closed, and I didn't bother knocking before I pushed it open.

She was sleeping on her back, one arm draped across her eyes, her mouth opened and turned toward the wall. The covers were pooled down at the bottom of the bed. She couldn't kick them away, so she would sit up and throw them off her. She was always hot. She had two fans blasting on her. It made me uncomfortable. I didn't like the noise or the blades. My mother used to say we'd chop our fingers off. Then she stopped saying that.

“Wake up. We're going to be late,” I said. I started pulling clothes out of Willa's bureaus. It was easier if I picked her clothes out for her. Not because she couldn't do it, but because she didn't like to.

It might be weird to say this, but my sister is fairly beautiful. I'm not saying it in a creepy way, I've just heard it repeated so many times that I finally had to acknowledge its truth. She has thick, shoulder-length brown hair, light
eyes, and clear skin. Everybody talked about how beautiful Willa was but nobody said it to her face because she didn't like to hear it. She didn't care.

And we're twins, sure, but we don't look anything alike. The male equivalent of Willa would be a movie star or, like, a famous model or something. I am neither.

“Skirt or shorts?” I asked her.

She never wore pants. She couldn't walk as well in them, and she didn't like covering up her prosthetics.

“Let them fucking stare, who cares,” she always said. And she wasn't just saying it to say it. She really didn't care. She was the least self-conscious person I'd ever met. Losing her legs hadn't changed that.

“How hot is it?” she mumbled. “It feels hot.”

“I think it's hot.”

“Skirt. And bring me my legs.”

“Get your own legs,” I said. I threw her a skirt and a gray T-shirt and she pulled herself to a sitting position. She swung her thighs over the edge of the bed. She was wearing an oversized Mickey Mouse T-shirt and bright-pink sleep shorts. Her hair was sticking up on one side.

“It's hot,” she said.

“You don't have time to shower.”

“Where are we going?”

“Dr. Brightman.”

“New legs,” she said. She reached for her old ones and started pulling them on. “These are starting to pinch.”

“Good timing, then.”

“I thought Mom was taking me?”

“She's at the store. Big client or something.”

“Is Dad back yet?”

“Flew in last night. You were already asleep.”

“I'm still tired,” she said.

“Well, you can take a nap later. Right now we have to see about some new appendages.”

“I hope they match all my shoes,” Willa said.

She had one pair of shoes. Gray Converse. I threw them at her and left her to get dressed.

Even though I had just talked to Nib, I wrote her a short message while I waited for Willa to finish getting ready.

Just wanted to say sorry again, about your mom. I can't really imagine what it feels like and I guess I just wish I could do more for you. Sometimes it sucks, being internet friends—like I wish I knew your address so I could send you a card or something. Or flowers. I think flowers are a nice gesture. Please imagine I have just sent you a very large bouquet of flowers. You can pick what kind. The card attached should say something sweet but not overly sappy. Something appropriate but heartfelt.

Like—I'm thinking of you. (Not in a weird way.)

—Your strictly internet friend, Bucker

Given the circumstances, I decided to wait on telling her about the University of Texas. I put my phone in my pocket and thought maybe I would tell Willa instead. But then she came out of her bedroom with her eyes still closed and ran directly into a wall, so I thought maybe it could wait.