“That’s okay, I’ll do it,” Mom said, holding the white bear delicately. She pulled it into her chest and hugged it tightly. “Good night, sweetie. Don’t stay up too late, okay?”
With all the false alarms my parents had to weather, all the bodies they had to identify, and the so-called psychic visions, Mom was decidedly unenthusiastic when the call came in that afternoon. It was almost four years after Sarah’s disappearance and two years after our visits from Azul, and every day had brought nothing but more disappointments.
The phone rang in Mom’s office, a special line specifically set up for tips about Sarah or for Mom’s assistance in other cases of missing kids. I wouldn’t even have heard it except for the fact that Tessa was over and we were microwaving some popcorn in the kitchen. “Mom, your phone is ringing,” I yelled to her upstairs. Dad and I always called that line Mom’s phone—it was easier than having to say “the Sarah line” or mentioning Sarah’s name at all, something we all tried to avoid whenever possible. Besides, most of the calls had nothing to do with Sarah at this point—she had been gone so many years. The calls Mom got now were mostly invitations to speak at conferences or consultations with the parents of other missing kids. Mom was so good at it, she was in demand, but unless they were somewhat local, she turned them down—she didn’t want to leave her family, specifically me, for any length of time.
Tessa opened the fridge and scowled. “Yogurt, more yogurt, and . . . Greek yogurt. Oh, I see some celery. Awesome, so glad I came over.”
I poured the popcorn from the bag into a bowl and offered it to her. “What’s wrong with this?”
She half smiled and took a handful. “Not as satisfying as chocolate brownie ice cream, which we actually have at my house. Besides, we just played tennis for an hour and a half, I’ve earned it.”
“I played tennis, you sort of ran around and chased balls, then sat down and had a Gatorade.”
Tessa grabbed the popcorn bowl from my hands in mock anger and stomped away with it to the den, spilling kernels along the way. As we walked by Mom’s office, I could hear her talking quietly on the phone, something about how long had she been there? Another missing kid, I thought to myself, and had to push the emotions that threatened to overwhelm me to the back of my mind, where I stored all the memories of Sarah, of the hurt our family had been through.
Tessa cozied in on the couch and I grabbed the remote. We were watching a Mexican soap opera for school and trying our best to translate the Spanish, with somewhat disastrous results, mostly because we couldn’t stop giggling and repeating phrases to each other in mock sexy voices. Actually, the show was pretty good and, while neither of us probably wanted to admit it, we were digging the story line about the handsome stepson and his father’s new young bride.
We were arguing about a slang verb conjugation when Mom came and stood in the doorway of the den. I muted the TV and looked up, expecting her to ask us what we wanted for dinner. She had a curious look on her face. “I’ve just had the oddest call,” she began, then hesitated, looking over at Tessa, “from a children’s shelter in Florida.”
“Cómo?” I joked. Tessa shoved my shoulder. “What did they say?”
“Well, they have a girl there. She says her name is Sarah Morris.”
When Mom said Sarah’s whole name, I felt a shiver run through my body. “Children’s shelter?” I repeated. “Sarah would be nineteen now, hardly a child.” I aimed the remote at the TV and turned the sound back on, wishing Mom would leave. I didn’t want to talk about Sarah, not now.
Mom shrugged and disappeared back into her office, and I heard the printer running a few minutes later. She came back into the den and sat next to me, showing me a printed photo without a word. The image was in color, of a girl with light eyes and blond hair. Her hair was lank and hung on either side of her face, her eyes looked tired, her skin was broken out, her lips chapped and thin. There was beauty there, though weathered, older than the Sarah we’d known. I clicked the TV off and sat up, my hands shaking as I took the photo from Mom.
“Nico, you okay?” Tessa asked, moving closer and looking over my shoulder. “Who is that?”
Mom let out a little laugh. “She says she’s Sarah Morris.”
We all sat silently for a moment, just looking at the photo. The girl was the right age. She looked about twenty, maybe older. I stared into the eyes in the photo, but they were flat, unreadable. Cold.
“Should I call your father?”
Mom knew that Dad hated to be bothered at work with every lead. I took another look at the image . . . something about her eyes. They were so blank, so empty. More brown than green now. What could do that to a person?
“Yeah, you should call him,” I finally managed to mumble. “Because I think this is her.”
SARAH