“Anything’s fine, really,” Sarah said quietly, that slight southern twang drifting into her voice, something that hadn’t been there before. When Mom slid the sandwich in front of her, I held my breath, waiting for the old Sarah to show up. Swiss cheese? Really? It smells like sick, I can’t eat this. Or: Is this turkey the low-sodium kind? You know I can’t bloat, we’ve got a game on Saturday.
But this girl just sat and ate the sandwich in big bites, chewing with her mouth slightly open and murmuring, saying “So good” between bites. I tried not to stare, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her face as she ate.
When you see an old friend or a relative who you haven’t seen in a while—maybe over summer break or a few months or a year even—and then you see them again, it’s the little things you pick up on. What’s different from how you picture them in your mind. How you last saw them. And at first, it’s jarring. Maybe they gained weight, like my uncle Phil did one year, and when we saw him again, Dad said he looked like someone had taken an air pump and stuck it up his butt and gave it a few hard pumps. Sarah and I had a good laugh about that, and it was true. He looked the same, just like Uncle Phil, but inflated somehow.
As I looked at Sarah now, all I could think of was how deflated she looked. Hair hung limp to her shoulders, brittle and too yellow, her face was thin and pale. Her eyes seemed to have fewer lashes. I studied her hands on the sandwich. Her nails were smaller, bitten down and ragged, cuticles torn.
To be fair, I looked different too, now so much taller and thinner. I wasn’t the chubby little eleven-year-old sister Sarah had last seen, with braces and a forehead covered in pimples.
She glanced up from her plate and took a long drink of water. Dad said, “Well, that disappeared awful fast. You want another one?”
Mom was in the kitchen already fixing more sandwiches. “It’s no problem at all, I’ve got one right here.”
Sarah caught my eye and I flinched, waiting for her to snarl, What are you staring at? Instead she gave me a small, sincere smile and nodded. “Sure, I’ll take another one.”
CHAPTER 8
IT WAS ALMOST A relief when the detectives showed up later. I used to dread them coming to the house. I would actually hide out in my room or the den when I saw their unmarked Ford pull into our driveway. But today, the sound of the bell was so welcome, I raced to the door to get it—anything to get away from the table and my family just sitting there looking at one another.
I let in Detective Donally and Detective Spencer before my parents could reach the door, but I could hear Mom complain, “They didn’t say they were coming today.”
“Maybe they’re just here to keep reporters away, you did ask for that,” Dad pointed out.
As soon as the men were in the house, Dad came to shake hands. He led them into the kitchen, murmuring under his breath about the amnesia and how tired Sarah was. I stood in the archway to the kitchen and watched.
“Sarah, I’m Detective Donally, this is my partner, Detective Spencer; we’re with the state police. We sure are glad to see you home, safe and sound. The children’s shelter in Florida is sending us over some files as well, just to follow up on your release.” He pulled out a chair and motioned to my mom as if asking permission before sitting down.
Mom nodded, but said quickly, “We’ve just gotten home and were having something to eat, I think Sarah might need time to rest.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or anything? I’m afraid I only have instant.”
Donally shook his head. “Oh, no worries, we won’t be long, just wanted to check in and introduce ourselves. Set up a time for Sarah to come down to the station for a talk.” He undid his jacket and I could see the black gun strapped to his belt.
“Why does she need to come to the station?” Dad asked. He went to stand behind Sarah’s chair while Detective Spencer circled the table and stood on the other side, looking around the kitchen. He was always the quiet one, letting Detective Donally do the talking.
“Well, because she’s a crime victim and we need to talk to her about that crime.” He smiled over at Dad as if he was talking to a child.
“She can’t remember anything. We’re going to take her for an MRI to see . . . to see why.” Mom caught herself before saying what they mentioned at the shelter—the possibility that Sarah had brain damage.
“We’ll still need to ask her some questions—that okay with you, Sarah?” Detective Donally asked.
Sarah met his eyes warmly and nodded. “Sure.”
Everyone else in the room seemed to let out a sigh. We were all waiting to see how Sarah would react, how she would handle questioning. None of us had asked her yet what she remembered, as if we were hoping it was all a blank and things could just go back to how they were. But now that wouldn’t be possible, the police had to have their answers: Where had she been these past four years? Was she kidnapped? If so, who was responsible? I wasn’t sure my parents really wanted the answers.
“Why don’t we pick you up about nine tomorrow morning, okay?” Donally asked, standing and buttoning his jacket over his gun.