The Lost and the Found (9 page)

L
aurel turns out to be a natural at making macarons. She really enjoys it, too. I was worried it would spoil things, having someone else there. I've always felt like this time with Michel is sort of sacred somehow, but it's actually nice having her with us. Michel turns up the music on the iPod dock—we always listen to cheesy nineties French pop. I know a lot of the words by heart, even though I don't necessarily know what they mean. We get a little production line going, with Michel at the end, piping the mixture onto the baking trays.

Dad was reluctant to go out, which probably should have offended me. He never minded leaving us when it was just Michel and me. But I can't really blame him, can I? He's missed out on thirteen years of Laurel's life; he's got a lot of catching up to do. It's natural that he'd want to spend every possible moment with her. Mom's been the same, even though you can see she's trying desperately not to smother her. She keeps saying that Laurel needs her space, but it's as if she's saying it to remind herself rather than anyone else.

Laurel's only been home for three weeks. Four weeks since she came back to us. The time has gone so fast.

Things have been a bit more normal since the media circus packed up their cameras and microphones and left. There was no reason for them to stay; there were only so many times they could show footage of Laurel leaving the house. Mom hated having them there, practically camped out in our front yard. It didn't seem to bother Laurel, though. I caught her waving to them from my bedroom window one night. I warned her not to, that it was always best to ignore them. After that, I didn't catch her at it again, but I know she still did it because I saw some footage on TV one day.

The police car is still there, parked a few doors down and across the street. The officers inside must be bored out of their minds. They certainly look that way whenever I walk past.

Laurel is gradually learning how the world works. Sometimes it's easy to forget that she's not a normal nineteen-year-old girl who's had a normal, average,
boring
sort of life. Sometimes she acts exactly like you'd expect a nineteen-year-old girl to act. But then something will happen, or she'll ask a question or do something weird, and you'll remember. Like the time she insisted that Barnaby the Bear had a seat at the table for dinner. Mom acted like that was a perfectly normal request. Luckily, Barnaby was clean by that point; Laurel had given him a bath in the sink.

I've been trying to teach her as much as I can, because I hate the idea of her being out
there
—in the big, wide world—without knowing how to deal with the stuff life throws at you. The counseling sessions are helping her, too. She's still seeing the psychologist twice a week, and she likes her new counselor, Penny. Penny takes her out on trips; Laurel's favorite was the zoo. The trip to the movies wasn't so successful. Laurel had a panic attack ten minutes into the movie. No one knows what triggered it. They weren't watching some torture-filled horror flick or a psychological thriller or anything like that—the latest Pixar movie had seemed like a safe choice. Laurel wouldn't talk about it afterward. When she doesn't want to talk about something, she closes her mouth tight, lips pursed. Her chin dimples up, and she looks like a little girl. Penny told us not to push her. She said there are bound to be lots of things Laurel isn't able to deal with yet. We have to give her time.

I don't think it helps that the police won't leave us alone. There are always more questions they want to ask or something that needs clarifying. It feels like a setback every time they come around. It's hard for us to act like a normal family with the constant reminders that we're not one. Mom completely lost her shit with Sergeant Dawkins and another police officer the other day after they arrived unannounced.

Sergeant Dawkins said they really had to get the DNA swab out of the way. She reassured Laurel that it wasn't going to hurt and it would only take a second, but Laurel was having none of it. She backed away from them as if she thought they were going to pounce on her at any second. Mom asked them whether it was really necessary; Sergeant Dawkins said it
was
necessary. That's when Laurel started freaking out again—crying and clutching at her hair. “No no no no no,” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head the whole time. “Don't let them touch me!”

Mom tried to calm her down, to reassure her that everything was okay, but it was no good. Mom told me to take Laurel upstairs. As soon as we got to her room, she crawled under the dressing table. That was the first time I saw the den she'd created. You couldn't tell when the stool was in front of the table, but there were a couple of cushions and a blanket down there. It was a tiny space, barely big enough for a child, let alone a grown woman.

Laurel somehow managed to fold her limbs into the space, then she pulled the blanket up to her chin. The blanket was mine; I hadn't even realized it was missing. I kneeled down in front of Laurel and asked if she was okay. She didn't answer. No matter what I said, she wouldn't answer. She stared into space. I crossed my legs and sat right in front of her. “It's okay, Laurel. There's nothing to be scared of anymore. You're safe now. I'm going to stay right here.” I babbled some more, talking about what we were going to have for dinner (baked potatoes), the essay I had to write for English (
Twelfth Night
), anything I could think of to bring her back. Eventually, her hand snaked out from under the blanket, reaching for mine. “I won't leave you, Laurel,” I said. She squeezed my hand and looked at me. There were tears in her eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

It was the first time Laurel had eaten a baked potato since she was a little kid. I made sure it was perfect—plenty of salt, plenty of butter, far too much cheese. She loved it. Mom was still ranting about the police (
How dare they? Why can't they leave her alone after all she's been through? Why don't they just get on with
catching
that monster?
), but Laurel seemed much better. I'd managed to coax her out from her little den, and she'd folded the blanket and put the stool back in front of the dressing table. She was fine by the time Mom came upstairs to check on her. I haven't told Mom about the den; it would only upset her.

Dad comes home just as we're filling the last couple of macarons. He clearly didn't want to stay away a minute longer than he had to. Laurel gives him a little plate with three macarons. She says she saved the best ones for him. (This is a lie. She tried to give them to Tonks, and Michel had to explain that Tonks should only eat cat food, because she's on a special diet for some weird kidney problem.)

Dad smiles widely and eats the macarons, saying they're excellent. He winks at me. “Look out, Faith, you've got some competition! Macaron mastery must run in the family.” We all laugh. No one says that our cooking skills can't possibly run in the family, because Laurel was adopted. And Dad keeps quiet about the fact that he hates macarons. He's never tried any of the ones I've made.

Laurel and I stay up late talking. She gets the bed, I get the inflatable mattress. We tossed a coin to see who sleeps where. There's barely enough floor space for the mattress; it fits snugly between the closet and the bed. It was strange at first, sleeping so close to this person I don't really know that well. When I stay at Martha's, I always sleep in the spare room, and she's never slept over at my house. I'm not really sure why.

Laurel lies on her left side, peeking out from under the duvet. I lie on my right side, trying to pretend the mattress is as comfortable as the bed (
my
bed). She likes to talk after we've turned out the lights. It's not exactly dark; Dad bought another night-light so Laurel wouldn't have to bring Egg with her every weekend. Laurel likes me to tell her stories—but they have to be
true
stories. She never tires of me talking about my childhood or about school or about Thomas.

She was nervous about meeting him. She didn't say so, but I could tell. She kept on checking her hair in the mirror and fidgeting. I'd arranged for Thomas and Martha to come over for pizza and a movie. That seemed like the best way of getting the introductions over and done with. I just wanted all the most important people in my life to know each other and to get along. I even persuaded Mom to go out for the evening; she arranged to meet a friend in town for cocktails. She's never done that before, as far as I know. Maybe this is part of what's “normal” for her, but if so, it's a normal that hasn't existed for the last thirteen years.

Martha and Thomas arrived at the same time. The introductions were a little awkward, but we all laughed at the strangeness of the situation. Martha was really shy at first, which is not like her at all. Only Thomas seemed to be at ease right away. He was polite and charming and even offered to pay for the pizza. I was about to take him up on the offer when Laurel pulled some money from her pocket. Mom had given her the cash before she left. I ignored the niggling feeling that it was odd that Mom hadn't given the money to me. Was this how things were going to be from now on? Laurel is the oldest, after all. She insisted on being the one to call for the pizza; she'd never done that before. There was a pause and then she said her name. I winced and looked over at Martha—she knew the score. Thomas was too busy flicking through the channels on the TV to notice. Laurel said yes in answer to a question that was almost definitely something along the lines of “Laurel Logan?
The
Laurel Logan?” I went to grab the phone from her, but she waved me away. Her face lit up. “Thank you. That's very kind. Yes…Yes. It's wonderful to be back. I really appreciate that.” There was another pause as she listened, then she laughed. “Thank you! Have a good evening, Phil. Bye…Yes…I will do. Bye!” She pressed the button to end the call and then turned to us, triumphant. “He said he'd throw in some free garlic bread and a bottle of Sprite.”

“Why?” I asked.

Laurel shrugged and said, “I don't know. He saw me on TV. He said I was pretty.”

I wasn't about to lecture Laurel about the dubiousness of getting freebies from strangers who've seen you on TV and “feel a connection with you.” (That's what they always say—all the strangers who stop us on the street or who've sent cards and letters and presents. They all feel this mysterious “connection.”) Anyway, Thomas was pleased about the Sprite. He raised his glass in Laurel's direction. “Cheers, Laurel!”

My sister smiled at him, and I tried to ignore the pointed look that Martha was aiming in my direction. When the pizzas arrived, Laurel insisted on going to the door. I'm not sure “giving money to the pizza-delivery guy” counts as one of the essential life skills her counselor is always going on about.

There were a couple of awkward moments when we were trying to choose a film to watch. Thomas scrolled through all the options on Netflix, and Laurel kept on suggesting this film or that film, even though she had no idea what they were about. And that was the problem. You'd be surprised by how many films include abduction or a sinister psychopath or sexual abuse or some kind of family trauma. I kept having to say no to Laurel's suggestions, which made it look like I was being difficult.

Thomas was getting annoyed. He handed me the remote control. “Why don't
you
choose, then?!” So I did. A romantic comedy that none of us had seen. Thomas despises romantic comedies. He despises most films, in fact. Unless they're four hours long and subtitled. He kept on bitching about the one we watched, which was fine because it was dire. It didn't matter, though, because Laurel loved it. She cried at the end and then laughed at herself for crying.

Laurel thanked me when Martha and Thomas had gone home.

“What for?” I nibbled on a leftover pizza crust.