“We can just bring her over,” Mom said quickly.
“You don’t need to bother. Sarah’s an adult now, isn’t that right? You’re eighteen now?” Detective Donally asked her.
Sarah looked over at me in the doorway as if I held the answer, not at Mom or Dad.
“Her birthday is in March,” I said. The memory of Sarah’s birthday, the actual date, the dread of that day, of what we had done on her birthdays while she was missing, caught in my throat as I added, “She just turned nineteen.”
Sarah nodded. “March eleventh,” she said mechanically. “That’s my birthday.”
“Well, look at that, she does remember some things.” Donally gave Sarah a tight smile and pushed his chair in. “She won’t need you all to come in with her. But if you want to send your lawyer, that’s fine.” Before Mom could respond, he turned back to Sarah. “See you tomorrow, Sarah, and welcome home.”
Dad shot Mom a look behind the detective’s back as he went to walk them to the door. When he came back into the kitchen, Mom and I were still silent. “Why would she need a lawyer there?” I asked.
“I’m sure it’s just how they do things,” Mom said cautiously. “Sarah, if you’re not ready for this . . .” The way she said Sarah’s name hung in the air.
“It’s okay,” Sarah said, again a little lilt of the South in her voice. “I just don’t know how much I can help them.” She was so quiet, she sounded like a little girl.
“I’m sure you’re anxious to see your room and get some rest,” Mom offered, starting to lead her back through the front of the house to the stairs. When Sarah walked into her room, I held my breath, waiting for her to jump on the bed or run to her closet, so happy to be home. But she looked around as if she had never seen the place before. She moved across the carpet to the bulletin board by her mirror. She fingered the silky cheerleading award ribbons and glanced at the photos pinned there as if searching for something she knew.
“Max,” she said, pointing to one. “And Polly . . . no, Paula?”
“That’s right, your friends,” Mom said. “Do you recognize anyone else?”
Sarah looked closely at the images. “Sort of, but not really. It’s like it’s right here”—she pointed to the front of her head—“but I can’t get at it.”
“Might be because you need these.” I laughed, handing her the glasses on her desk. She only wore them at school and for reading, but I wondered if she even remembered them.
“I wear glasses?” she asked, looking confused. They were light purple frames and went great with her blond hair.
“Just sometimes, like to see the board at school,” Mom explained.
She put them on and squinted at the photos again, stepping back, clearly unable to see anything. Her prescription had obviously changed over the past four years, and she didn’t even know it.
I looked over at Dad, standing in the doorway, and saw a sad look cross his face. His daughter was home, his little girl, but she wasn’t really Sarah—not anymore.
SARAH
I HAD BEEN IN the room for two days with nothing to eat. This time, he had a special treat for me: a package of two cupcakes wrapped up in cellophane. Chocolate cupcakes with a white swirl on the top.
“You say anything to her? You tell her anything?” he asked me. He held the cupcakes just out of my reach.
I shook my head. Of course I didn’t say anything to her. Why would I? This was our special time, when she was gone and he was supposed to be gone too but he was here and watching TV.
Sometimes when she came back and I was in the room, I could hear her asking him, “Why’d you smoke all my cigarettes?” or “Where’s the beer?” And then I was nervous that she would know what he had done. But he always had an answer for her and then they would laugh and I would hear music and voices all into the night. I knew I must be doing good, because no one had hurt me in a long time.
CHAPTER 9
THE NEXT MORNING, SARAH was up early, just like me and Mom. The Curse of the Morris Women, Mom called it—we always woke early. Sarah had never needed an alarm clock, and this morning was no exception. She came out of her room wearing the same dirty clothes from the shelter: jeans and a white tank top with Mom’s borrowed sweater over them. She was even wearing the grubby flip-flops.
“Don’t you think you want to wear something else today, at least some warmer shoes?” Mom asked, serving us toasted bagels.