The Lost and the Found (19 page)

“T
hat was lovely. Wasn't that lovely?” Mom turns to look at me. The bus is packed with commuters and shoppers. There was one double seat available—for Mom and Laurel, of course—so I'm sitting behind them, next to a skinny guy wearing jeans, a denim shirt,
and
a denim jacket. He keeps looking at me out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah, it was nice.” I want Mom to stop turning around. I don't want Triple Denim listening in on our conversation and having the chance to figure out who Laurel is.

Mom turns to Laurel next. “Such a nice family. I was so upset when they moved away!”

Laurel says all the right things—how much she enjoyed the lunch and how wonderful it was to see Bryony. I can only see the side of her face as she talks to Mom, but it's her voice that's the real giveaway. Too polished, too shiny.

When Bryony and Laurel came back from the bathroom, the other three were engaged in a pointless debate about the sexuality of some middle-aged actor Mom's always had a thing for. No one else noticed the awkwardness between the two girls, or the fact that instead of talking to each other, they spent the rest of the meal focusing on Mom and Mrs. Fairlie's conversation. Bryony was sitting as far away from Laurel as she could possibly get, perched right on the edge of the bench seat. Mom and Mrs. Fairlie were probably too distracted by the desserts—they both kept on making
ooh
and
mmm
sounds with each spoonful.

I caught Laurel's eye, arching my eyebrows in a silent question.
Is everything okay?

Her response was half a nod—a brief raising of the chin.
Everything's fine.

The good-byes were less awkward than the hellos. Kirsty suggested we exchange numbers, given that she's going to be at college over here next year. There were tears in Mrs. Fairlie's eyes. “This has been
so
special….I'm so glad everything turned out okay.” She glanced at Laurel, but Laurel was busy staring out the window. Mom and Mrs. Fairlie vowed to keep in touch, and Mom said we might even go to Australia on vacation sometime in the next couple of years. She neglected to mention who was included in that
we.
There had been no mention of Dad during the meal, I was pretty sure of that.

I seemed to be the only one who noticed that Bryony and Laurel didn't really say good-bye to each other.

As soon as we get home, Laurel announces that she has a headache.

Mom says, “Why don't you go upstairs for a nap? There's Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet if you need it.”

Laurel's halfway up the stairs when I call up to her. “I'll bring you up a glass of water if you like?” I get an approving look from Mom for that.

Laurel says there's no need, that she can swallow the pills dry, but I insist.

She's sitting on her bed when I come in. I ask her if she wants me to get the Tylenol for her.

“No, thanks,” she says.

“You don't really have a headache, do you?”

“No.”

I sit down next to her on the bed. “What's the matter?” I don't say that I noticed the awkwardness at lunch; it's better if people don't know that you can read them so easily.

“Nothing. I'm just tired, I think.” I'm about to quiz her further about Bryony and what was said, but she says, “The nightmares have been bad the last few nights.”

“I'm sorry.” There's not much else I can say. My nightmares are bad enough. They're horrible at the time, but the horror recedes as soon as I wake up. Laurel's nightmares are different, obviously. She's lived inside a nightmare for most of her life. I'm not sure she'll ever be able to truly escape.

I'm dying to find out what happened with Bryony, but I can't ask Laurel while she's sitting there looking so desolate.

I've started to notice a pattern, if you can count something happening three or four times as a pattern. There are times when someone—usually me—asks Laurel a question or says something to her, and out of nowhere she'll mention Smith or something that happened to her in that basement. It's almost as if she feels the need to remind you (me) about what she's been through. As if there are some things she doesn't want to talk about, and shouldn't
have
to talk about, solely because of what that man did to her. The strange thing is, the questions that spark this reaction rarely have anything whatsoever to do with what happened to her. I try to remind myself that any little thing could trigger a memory for her. But I can't get rid of the niggling feeling that sometimes she uses her ordeal as a sort of Get Out of Jail Free card when she wants to shut down a conversation.

T
he ghostwriter is late; I was twenty minutes early. I chose a couple of sofas next to the window in the corner, putting my coat and bag next to me so she would have to sit opposite me. Mom arranged to meet a friend for lunch in town so she could give me a lift. She invited Laurel, too, but Laurel said she wanted to stay home.

“I hope you're going to do something other than watch TV?” Mom said, and it was the first truly Mom-like thing I've heard her say to Laurel. It was nagging, pure and simple, and I was very, very happy to hear it. Laurel didn't seem to mind, either. She promised she'd only watch one episode, then she would start on dinner. She's going to have a go at making pasta from scratch, which she's been excited to try ever since she saw some TV chef making it in his pretend apartment.

“Are you sure you're going to be okay on your own?” Mom asked. “Don't answer the door to anyone you don't know, remember.”

“I'll be
fine.
Stop worrying and go and have some fun!” She hugged Mom, then turned to me. “Thank you for doing this.”

“For doing what?” But I knew what she was talking about. Of course I did.

“The book. It means a lot to me. You know that, don't you?” I nodded. “I hope it won't be too painful for you to talk with the writer. All those memories…”

“I'll be
fine
…as long as I have a decent dinner to come home to! By the way, there's regular pasta in the cupboard if it all goes horribly wrong.”

Mom waited till she heard Laurel locking the door behind us before getting in the car.

I feel pretty good about things. The last couple of days have been okay. I've spent most of my time hanging out with Laurel and Mom, and everything has been normal, even though it's a new kind of normal. Thomas and I went for a walk yesterday, and it was nice even though the weather was awful. We huddled under his umbrella and talked—really, actually
talked
—for the first time in ages. We talked about things that had nothing to do with my sister.

I thought I would be more nervous about meeting with the ghostwriter. I
am
nervous—of course I am; it's a weird thing to have to do—but I'm glad I'm doing it. Laurel is so grateful; I like her being grateful. And the money will come in handy, even though Mom says I can't get my hands on my share until I'm eighteen. She's put my money in a special savings account, but at least she's increased my allowance. Laurel's getting a much (MUCH) bigger share of the money from the publisher, and she has access to hers now. It makes sense—it is
her
story. Martha asked me if it bothered me—Laurel getting so much more cash than me—and I said it didn't. She called me a liar. I knew she could never understand. Laurel needs this money; I don't.

A woman walks into the bar and cranes her neck to look around. I don't wave just in case she's not who I'm waiting for. In my head, the ghostwriter is short and thin and mousy, rounded shoulders and rounded glasses. She's the kind of woman who fades into the background. I realize my mistake as soon as this woman starts striding in my direction. She covers the distance in remarkably few steps.

“You must be Faith. Kay Docherty. Lovely to meet you.” She holds out a hand, and I shake it. She must be at least six foot tall—even taller than Martha. White-blond hair in a severe bob with equally severe bangs. She's dressed in lots of complicated layers in varying shades of gray, finishing off the look with a pair of black leather Converse.

“Nice to meet you,” I say as she starts unwinding a very long scarf.

She takes one look at my bag and coat before picking them up and putting them on the other sofa along with her coat and scarf, not even bothering to ask if I mind. I watch as she takes out a notepad, a pen, and a tiny recording device and lays them out on the table, then sits down and grabs the cocktail menu. She flicks through it, then puts it down again.

She calls the waitress over and says, “Bombay Sapphire, tonic, three ice cubes, and a wedge of lime, please.” The waitress doesn't seem to think this request is anything out of the ordinary. I'm half tempted to order a cocktail, just to see what happens, but I go for a Coke instead. Some alcohol might help loosen me up a bit, but I can just imagine it ending up in the book—
Laurel's ordeal drove me to drink!

I have to turn in my seat to face Kay, and she does the same. She places the tape recorder between us, switches it on, and tells me to ignore it. Easier said than done. She explains a little bit about how it's going to work, that I can just tell the story in my own words or she can ask questions to prompt me. We'll probably need a couple of sessions like this, depending on how much I have to say. Then she'll go away and write it up and send it to me for approval.

“So you'll write it like you're pretending to be me?” It feels dishonest somehow. That people will read this book and think they're reading
our
words.

“Sort of. I like to think of it as something like channeling your spirit.”

She laughs at the skeptical look on my face. “Okay, okay, that sounds like bullshit. But it's actually not far off. Last year I worked with a very famous athlete—not mentioning any names! It was a fascinating project, trying to work out how
he
would write the story, trying to nail his voice….It's about capturing the essence of a person—the essence of their story. Anyway, you don't need to worry about all that now.”

“Wouldn't you rather write your own story?”

The waitress arrives with our drinks and sets them down on little black napkins. My Coke has three ice cubes and a wedge of lime, just like Kay's drink. The waitress glances at the recording device on the sofa, then looks from me to Kay and back again, trying to work out what might be going on here. Maybe she thinks that Kay is famous and I've won a competition to interview her for my school newspaper. The waitress asks if we would like anything else and goes on to list the available bar snacks. She's clearly just dragging things out, waiting to see if we'll give anything away, but we both say, “No, thanks,” so she has to go away.

“My own story? You know, in all the years I've been doing this, no one has ever asked me that question. No one whose book I've worked on, anyway.” She can't have been doing this job for
that
long; she looks quite young. “I'm afraid my story wouldn't sell many copies….There's nothing much to tell.”

For some reason I'm interested in Kay Docherty. I ask her if she's ever written any novels, and she claims not to have the imagination for it. “No, it's real lives that interest me.”

“But isn't it annoying to do all that work on a book and have someone else take the credit for it?” I would hate it.

She shrugs and shakes her head. “Not at all. It's…rewarding, helping people to tell their stories. Plus, the money is
insane
!” She leans back and laughs, then shakes her head and frowns. “Nice try, Faith.” She smiles as if she's got the measure of me.

“What do you mean?” I take a sip of my Coke.

“Asking me all these questions, trying to distract me. We're here to talk about
you,
not me. So…why don't we start at the beginning. What—if anything—do you remember about life
before
Laurel was taken?” She leans closer to me and cocks her head to one side.

I look at the recording device, then back at Kay. She nods encouragingly. I start to talk.

I'm hesitant at first, stumbling over my words, forgetting things or not saying them the right way, then having to go back and correct them. Kay is patient and tells me not to worry, that there's no need to apologize if there's something I can't remember. She asks about Mom and Dad and their relationship, which I try to gloss over as quickly as possible. I'll leave that to
them
to explain. Kay asks me about the day Laurel went missing, about any memories I have of the man who took her. She asks a lot of questions about how I felt at various times, asking me to describe my emotions in as much detail as I can.

I start to relax. Kay orders me another Coke. She asks for some wasabi peas, too. I've never tried them before. They're vile, but for some reason I keep popping another one into my mouth every couple of minutes.

After an hour or so, I realize I'm actually enjoying myself, even though most of the stuff I'm talking about isn't exactly cheery. But Kay is really nice. She doesn't mind when I go off topic and start talking about something that has little or nothing to do with Laurel. It almost feels like a normal conversation—like we're friends just catching up on each other's lives.

Kay is very sympathetic about everything I've been through. She asks if I ever felt neglected or ignored by my parents, in the aftermath of Laurel's disappearance. I tell her the truth: yes. All the time.

She asks whether it was hard for me to make friends, and I tell her the truth: it was.

I'm honest about everything, which surprises me. I'm used to editing my thoughts and feelings when I talk to people—particularly when talking to strangers. It feels good, to talk about this stuff with someone I've never met before. Therapeutic, almost. I try not to think about the fact that there might be some things that Mom and Dad will wish I'd been slightly less honest about. But I can always ask Kay to take those bits out when she sends me the rough draft to read through. Besides, it's not as if I've said anything particularly earth-shattering. Laurel's the one with the real story. People will probably skip my chapters to get straight to hers; I know I would.

I surreptitiously check the time while reaching for another wasabi pea. Mom will be waiting outside.

Maybe I wasn't so surreptitious with the watch-checking after all, because Kay says, “Well, I think that's about it for today. I know how tiring it can be, dredging up all these memories.” She downs the rest of her gin. “You've done really well. There's some good stuff here,” she says, tapping the recording device. “I think one more session should do it. Whenever you're ready. There's no rush.”

She gives me her card and tells me to call her to set up our next meeting. She goes up to the bar to settle the bill—the publisher is paying, apparently.

We put on our coats, and Kay air-kisses me and thanks me again. I have this strange urge to tell her that we should stay here and carry on with the interview. I could call Mom and tell her I'll meet her at home. Instead, I tell her that I was actually a bit reluctant to go ahead with the book, and that I'd been a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect.

“You're a natural storyteller, you know,” Kay says as we walk toward the door.

I laugh and feel a blush creeping up my checks. “No, I'm not. You're just good at asking questions.”

Kay shakes her head and holds the door open for me. “Well, that may be true, but you've got a gift, young lady. Trust me.”

A natural storyteller?
The words keep popping into my head while Mom is quizzing me about how it went. What did Kay mean by that? Was it a compliment? Or was it a roundabout way of calling me a liar? I can't decide. I'm going to have to ask her the next time I see her.

I should be relieved that there's only one more session. But I can't help feeling offended, if that's even the right word. Kay thinks that after sitting down with her for another couple of hours I'll have nothing more to say. After five hours of talking to me, she will have me all figured out. She'll know the sum total of all that is interesting in the life of Faith Logan, aged seventeen and a half.

Of course Kay will spend days and days talking to Laurel, finding out every minute detail about her time in captivity and how she feels now that she's home. This is
The Laurel Show
and my role is nothing more than a bit part.