The Lost and the Found (18 page)

E
very surface in Martha's kitchen is covered with jars. There are two huge pots bubbling away on the stove, and Martha's mom is dipping a metal thermometer into one of them. She looks happier than the last time I saw her. Being unemployed seems to suit her.

Martha drags me away from the kitchen and upstairs to her room. “The jam-making is completely out of control! She thinks she can make a business out of it, even though I told her it's a stupid idea.”

I shrug. It seems like an okay idea to me. Customers at the farmers' market think nothing of spending a crazy amount on a jar of artisanal jam. But I let Martha rant and moan, because that's what best friends do.

I almost tell her about what happened last night, but it's all too complicated. Plus, I don't want Martha thinking I'm weird. She wouldn't understand why I didn't confront Laurel for spying on Thomas and me. I don't even tell Martha about the shoplifting, but I do talk about Laurel. I tell Martha about the dress, and she agrees that it's an obscene amount of money to spend on one item of clothing. I moan about the book deal and the fact that I have to go and meet the ghostwriter next week. They've decided that I should be the first one to be interviewed, probably because I have so little to say. At least I got to choose the meeting place; the editor (Zara Double-Barreled) told Mom it should be somewhere I feel comfortable. Mom said I should do it at home, thinking I would be reassured by her presence. I suggested a café bar near the canal—where it's highly unlikely I'll see anyone I know.

It starts with the dress and the book deal, and before I know it I'm telling Martha (almost) every little thing that Laurel's done to annoy me over the past couple of weeks. “She's just always
there,
you know?” Because that's what it really comes down to: Laurel is around
all
the time. Unless you count her twice-weekly visits to the psychologist and random sessions with Penny. But other than that, there's no respite, no escape.

“So having a big sister isn't all it's cracked up to be, then?” Martha says with a smirk.

And there it is again: the guilt. It's always there, too, shadowing me, just like Laurel. I feel like I have to be grateful
all
the time, that any negative feelings—no matter how small—are not allowed. Sometimes, late at night when sleep eludes me, I worry that something awful will happen to Laurel. That she'll get run over by a car or choke to death on a fish bone or drown in the bath, all because of me. Because I haven't been grateful enough to have her back. I worry that Laurel is going to be taken away again just to punish me.

I tell Martha that I didn't mean it, that I do like having a big sister, honestly. She laughs and says, “It's okay, you know. You don't have to pretend with me.” She leans over and squeezes my knee. “This is a
safe
place,” she says with a fake sympathetic expression on her face.

I know she's making fun of me, but I'm so grateful I could cry. Just knowing that she doesn't mind listening to me whine, and that she doesn't think I'm a terrible person, makes me feel a whole lot better.

I tell Martha about the Fairlies and how weird it's going to be. Martha reassures me that however weird it is for me, it's going to be ten times weirder for Laurel. Everyone will be focused on her anyway; they always are.

“What are you going to wear to the party?” Martha's sitting at her desk with her back to me. She always sits up straight, like a character in a costume drama. People her height usually slouch.

“What party?” I'm sitting on the floor with my back against the bed, deleting old messages from my phone. It's been a bit of a waste of an afternoon. We could have at least gone to the movies, but Martha said there was nothing she wanted to see. Still, it's been good to get away from home for a few hours. God knows how I'll get through the rest of the week with my sanity intact.

“Thomas's party.” She doesn't turn and look at me, and I'm not sure whether it's because she's worried about my reaction or because she doesn't realize that I have no idea what she's talking about.

“I'll say it again: What. Party?”

Now she turns, unable to ignore my frostiness. She looks confused. “His surprise party? For his eighteenth? How can you not…? Hasn't his mom…? She said she was going to get in touch with you last week.”

There are so many things wrong with what Martha's saying that I really don't know where to start. First of all, Thomas hates parties
and
surprises. Put the two together and you pretty much have his worst nightmare. Second of all, how come Martha knows about this before I do? Last, but by no means least, what the hell was she doing talking to Thomas's mother?

Martha rushes to explain, trying to get the words out as quickly as possible—the words that will remove the look on my face. “Oh…wow…okay, I was sure she'd have talked to you by now. Anyway, I can fill you in. So she's planning a surprise party. She's already invited all the family. She knows that it's not really Thomas's thing at all, but she said this was her last chance to throw a party for ‘her little baby,' and he hasn't let her do much to celebrate his birthday for the past couple of years, so she decided to just go for it. I did say it might not be the best idea, but she thinks he'll probably secretly love the attention. She said that he might pretend to be all cool and intellectual, but underneath he's just a little boy whose favorite food is jelly and ice cream. Did you know that? I thought his favorite food was sashimi.” Finally, she pauses to check how she's doing. Is the look on my face still unimpressed, or has it morphed into something friendlier?

It has not. “When were you talking to his mom?”

Martha shrugs. “Last week? Or maybe the week before. I can't remember exactly.” She's going to have to do better than that, and she knows it. “I needed to borrow a textbook. Thomas went upstairs to get it, and she cornered me in the kitchen.” Thomas's house is nowhere near Martha's. For her to get there, she would have to get a bus that passes right by the end of my street. There are no textbooks that Martha would need to borrow from Thomas that she wouldn't be able to borrow from me. “You were out,” she says, answering a question I didn't ask.

“He didn't mention it.”

“Why would he? Anyway, what are you going to wear? Mrs. Bolt said ‘smart-casual,' whatever that means. Do you think it means we can't wear jeans?”

She's making a decent effort to distract me, or rather, she would be if we were the sort of girls who have conversations about clothes. The fact that we're
not
the sort of girls who have conversations about clothes makes me realize that she hadn't been able to find a better entry point into a conversation about the party, and that she was therefore fully aware that I knew nothing about it. My head hurts.

I do a good job, I think, of acting like I don't mind about Martha having cozy little chats with Mrs. Bolt—the kind of chats that Mrs. Bolt has never shown any interest in having with me. Martha watches me closely for signs that I'm pissed off, but after my initial failure to hide my feelings, I'm back on track.

A surprise party for Thomas's eighteenth is a terrible, terrible idea. He will hate every minute. He will hate the presents people give him—the presents that prove that they don't know him at all. He will hate the music, having his photograph taken, blowing out the candles on his cake (which, Martha informs me, will be in the shape of a pile of books). It will be funny to watch him squirm. In a way I'm glad his mom didn't talk to me about it, because I probably would have managed to talk her out of it. I wouldn't miss this for the world.

I ask Martha who's invited. Thomas has a few friends at school, but no one really close. Mrs. Bolt will be getting in touch with them over the next couple of days, leaving it until the last minute so they don't “ruin the surprise.” It seems to me that leaving it so late is much more likely to mean that they won't be able to come. It's not as if people will have cleared their social calendars just in case there's an outside chance they'll get an invite to the coming-of-age of Thomas Edwin Bolt. (I tease Thomas about his middle name on a regular basis. Not that Thomas is much better; why can't he just be Tom like a normal person?)

While we're talking, I get a text message from a number I don't recognize. Speak of the devil. Thomas's mom has finally bothered to inform me about the impending celebration. She doesn't even apologize for leaving it so late. The message answers the next question I was about to ask Martha: the venue. The Bolts have booked a room above a bar near their house. Another text arrives before I've finished reading the first.

“She's asked if I want to bring Laurel.”

“So?”

I sigh. If I have to explain this to Martha, it means she doesn't get it.

Martha shrugs. “You know…it might be a good thing, Laurel coming to the party. It's the perfect opportunity for her to make some friends, don't you think?”

Martha could be right. As long as there are some half-decent people coming, there's bound to be someone Laurel can hang out with. I think Thomas mentioned something about a cousin who's studying at Oxford; she might be a good place to start. It's times like this that I'm grateful to have a friend like Martha—someone who sees things slightly differently. I smile. “You're a genius.”

Martha sighs dramatically and flops down onto the bed behind me. “I
know.
A brain like mine is
such
a burden. You have
no
idea.”

L
aurel's
really
happy about being invited to the party, and I can tell from the look on Mom's face that she's happy about it, too. Mom probably thinks that this is a
beginning,
that maybe Laurel can start to live something close to a normal life after all. I swear them both to secrecy, explaining that Thomas knows nothing about the party.

Laurel looks at me with wide eyes. “I don't know how you manage not to say anything to him! I could
never
keep a secret like that.”

I don't tell them that I've only just found out about it myself, and I haven't talked to Thomas, so keeping the secret has been easy as pie so far. I should have known about this weeks ago and been fully involved in planning it. That's what people would expect—and what Mom and Laurel clearly think—so I'm not going to tell them any different.

“Thomas doesn't really strike me as the type of person who'd like a surprise party,” Mom says coolly, sipping her wine. She's clearly decided that hair of the dog is the only way to deal with her hangover.

“He's not,” I say. They both look at me, waiting for me to continue. “That's what makes it such an amazing idea!” I laugh, and Mom laughs, too, and says I'm terrible.

Laurel's face is blank, and I realize this is one of those everyday human interactions that seem to baffle her. She can't understand why I would be so gleeful about something that Thomas will hate. I try to explain, but it doesn't do any good. Laurel narrows her eyes and looks thoughtful. “Do you mean you think he'll actually secretly enjoy it? He'll just be pretending to hate it?”

A quick glance at Mom, who nods almost imperceptibly. “Yes, that's exactly what I mean.”

Laurel seems nervous about meeting up with the Fairlies. While we're waiting for Mom to get ready, she keeps on getting up and staring at herself in the mirror above the fireplace. For reasons known only to herself, she's decided to wear her hair in pigtails today. Mom raised her eyebrows when she saw her, but said nothing.

I ask Laurel if she's okay, and she nods and smiles and says of course she is. I don't believe her. It's understandable that she's anxious, I suppose. I'm a little nervous, too, but Mom's really excited. Yesterday's hangover is a distant memory and the prospect of lunch out with “her girls” seems to make her happy. She eventually comes downstairs wearing far too much makeup. There's no point in saying anything, though—it would only upset her. I can understand her wanting to look her best to see a friend she hasn't seen in years. I just wish that she would understand that she doesn't need to wear that much makeup these days. Now that the trauma of Laurel's disappearance is starting to erase itself from her face, she doesn't need to wear a mask anymore.

I spy them on the other side of the restaurant. They're in a big, curved booth that reminds me of a clamshell; I wish they'd sat at one of the normal tables instead.

None of us have been to this restaurant before; I have no idea why Mom chose it. On the way over to the booth, I look at the other customers and notice that they're mostly well dressed, a lot of women with bags from fancy shops. So
that's
why Mom chose this place: she's trying to impress.

The Fairlies file out of the booth, and Mrs. Fairlie hugs Mom. “Olivia! It's so wonderful to see you!” She comes over to me next, which surprises me. Most people notice Laurel first. “Little Faith! Oh my goodness! Look at you!” I never understand what that means:
Look at you.
It's the kind of thing you say when someone has a new haircut. It's neither positive nor negative, but people tend to take it positively. They hear what they want to hear, rather than what's actually been said.

Over Mrs. Fairlie's shoulder, I see the two girls. Bryony and Kirsty. They're both smiling shyly and looking about as awkward as I feel. Then Mom hugs them, too, and we all keep getting in one another's way in our efforts to greet everyone.

Nobody tries to hug Laurel; Mom must have warned them, I guess. Bryony embraces me in a loose sort of hug—the kind where you barely touch the other person. Kirsty and I sort of wave at each other from a couple of feet away.

Eventually we go to sit down. Mom and Mrs. Fairlie make sure that Bryony and Laurel are sitting next to each other.

“Well,” says Mrs. Fairlie, “long time no see!” Her accent is odd—with a slight upward lilt at the end of each sentence. Bryony and Kirsty have full-on Australian accents. It suits them. They
look
Australian: tanned and blond and beautiful.

As soon as the drinks have been poured, Mom raises her glass. After a moment's hesitation, we all do the same. “To old friends!” We all clink glasses and take a sip of our drinks. Then there's a pause before Mom launches into a barrage of questions about the Fairlies' “life Down Under,” as she calls it. I see what she's doing: trying to divert the focus from Laurel and pretend that this is just your standard reunion with old neighbors.

Before long Mrs. Fairlie and Mom are deeply involved in a discussion about the benefits of the Australian outdoor way of life
(We eat outside eight months of the year!).
Laurel and Bryony are talking quietly on the other side of the booth. I can't hear what they're talking about, because Mom and Mrs. Fairlie are being so loud.

Kirsty keeps staring at Laurel, as if she can't quite believe Laurel is real. I mostly concentrate on my plate—a salad with three different varieties of beets. The food is really good, actually.

“So…” Kirsty has a mouthful of food, but she's clearly not going to let that stop her from speaking. “What's it like, having her back? It must be
weird
!”

I want to hate Kirsty for being so blunt, but I can't. She's one of the only people to recognize the strangeness of the situation. I only wish she'd said it louder so Mom could hear that there are other ways of looking at Laurel's return—it's not all smiles and hugs and rainbows.

“Yeah, it is. It's good, though.”

She snorts loudly and Mrs. Fairlie looks over, disapproval etched on her face. Kirsty ignores the look. “You don't sound so sure!”

“I
am
sure…but you know what it's like having a sister.”

Kirsty looks across the table at her sister, and I look across the table at mine. Their heads are close together, as if they're sharing secrets. “Do I
ever
? I always wanted a brother, you know? Someone who'd shove me or smack me if we had an argument, rather than give me the silent treatment for three days.”

“Bryony seems nice, though?” I whisper, subconsciously mimicking the inflections in Kirsty's voice.

Another snort from Kirsty. “Yeah, that's what everyone thinks. They have no idea what a raving
bitch
she can be—especially when she has her period. Fucking nightmare!”

Mom must have heard the swearing, because she turns her attention to us. “What are you two gossiping about?”

“I was just telling Kirsty about us going on
The Cynthia Day Show.
” The lie trips off my tongue.

“Oh my goodness, is that woman not dead yet?” says Mrs. Fairlie. “I used to watch that show when I was in college! I can't believe it's still running….Who watches that garbage?”

Thankfully Laurel doesn't seem to hear Mrs. Fairlie badmouthing her favorite TV show. Mom doesn't seem offended even though Mrs. Fairlie has essentially lumped us in with the garbage. Mom tells her that
The Cynthia Day Show
has actually got a lot better in recent years. “It's less about teen pregnancy and paternity tests and more about human-interest stories.” She can tell herself that all she wants, but it still won't be true. Laurel told me that yesterday's show featured a woman who wasn't sure about the identity of the father of the baby she was carrying, but she was “ninety percent sure it was either her fiancé or his twin brother.”

Kirsty keeps asking me questions about Laurel, but I don't really mind, because the questions are different from the ones people usually ask. She's actually interested in what it's like for me and how it's changed
my
life. At one point, she admits that she used to wish
her
sister would disappear, but then she sees the look on my face—or rather the absence of the look she wanted to see—and apologizes. I'm surprised to find that I sort of like Kirsty. Maybe if the Fairlies hadn't moved to Australia, we would have been friends.

The waiter brings the dessert menus, and Mom and Mrs. Fairlie both say something along the lines of “Oh no, I
shouldn't,
” before ordering deconstructed sticky toffee pudding and raspberry crème brûlée respectively. I don't order anything; I do my best to ignore the approving look from Mom. Kirsty orders the same as her mom, and then everyone turns to Laurel and Bryony.

Laurel smiles and says she's not hungry. The smile is a bad photocopy of a real one, blurred and smudged. It's not as simple as they say—that you can tell a fake smile because it never reaches the eyes. No, Laurel's better than that. But there's a strained quality, as if she's working the muscles in her face so hard they might go into spasm any second now. It's in her voice, too—slightly too loud, slightly too chirpy. She is
not
happy. I'm sure I'm the only one who notices; the Fairlies don't know her well enough, and Mom has a tendency to only see what she wants to see.

The interesting thing is that Bryony doesn't look too happy, either. She says she doesn't want any dessert, and Mrs. Fairlie nudges her and says, “But sticky toffee pudding is your favorite!”

Bryony scowls and says, “I
said
I didn't want anything.” Then she looks up at the waiter (who is being remarkably patient, waiting to take our coffee order) and asks him where the bathroom is.

“I'll go with you,” Laurel says quickly, and you can tell Bryony isn't too thrilled about that, but she doesn't say anything.

Laurel and Bryony head off in the direction the waiter pointed, and Mom and Mrs. Fairlie look at each other and smile.

“Like two peas in a pod, those two,” says Mom.

“Going to the bathroom together!” says Mrs. Fairlie, laughing at her own terrible joke.

“God, you're
so
embarrassing,” says Kirsty, rolling her eyes.