So Livia found herself, just free from afternoon rounds at five p.m., driving east again toward Emerson Bay. It was close to seven p.m. when she pulled into the parking lot of the Montgomery County Federal Building. She walked to the plaza in front of the building with twilight still burning the horizon. As promised, Livia found her waiting on a bench outside the courthouse.
“Megan?” Livia asked to be sure, although she’d seen Megan McDonald’s photo—dozens of them while she read Missing—and knew Megan’s face well from the time immediately after the girl’s escape. But this real-life Megan was different from the girl in the photos and on TV. That girl was happy and vibrant, with eyes filled by something missing from this real-life version of Megan McDonald. It took Livia a moment to define it, but when she came face-to-face with her, Livia was able to see it. The photos that covered the pages of the book were all taken—and likely carefully chosen—from before Megan was abducted. In them, Megan’s eyes had a conquering effect to them. There was something in the pupil and iris and adnexa that announced she was ready for the world and for the future. But more than that, those bright eyes on the page were enjoying the present life they were watching. These new eyes, however, the ones that were now the windows through which this girl witnessed the world, were vacant of passion and empty of the ambition that had so badly irked Livia as she read Megan’s words. These true-life eyes were sad and lonely, and certainly had no propensity for optimism. They were stuck on today, and today was not as bright as it once had been.
“Hi,” Megan said.
“I’m Livia. Nicole’s sister.”
Megan nodded. “I’ve met you before. A long time ago, when Nicole and I were in grade school.” She allowed a small smile. “You seemed really old back then, I remember.”
Livia had memories of her early high school days when Nicole, in third grade then, ran with her friends through the sprinkler in the backyard. Livia’s mind wandered back to those sunny summer days, when Nicole danced with her friends through the twirling water, their skinny, childish bodies sporting swimsuits, their feet peppered with blades of grass, and their braided hair dripping before the sun could dry it. Livia imagined one of those girls as Megan McDonald, dancing with Nicole through the sprinkler. Livia had a powerful urge to go back to that warm summer day and broadcast to the world what was coming for those two innocent girls. She wanted to go back and warn them, protect them, and scoop them up and stop what was to come a decade down the road.
“I don’t remember you and Nicole being friends,” Livia said.
“Until middle school. Then we kind of lost touch.” Megan avoided Livia’s eyes. “In high school we didn’t hang out much.” Megan forced a laugh. “I actually think Nicole thought I was annoying, or something.”
“Really? You guys didn’t get along?”
“No. It wasn’t like that. We just hung out with different crowds.”
“Jessica Tanner told me Nicole was bitchy to you. Tried to steal your boyfriend?”
Another forced laugh from Megan. “Matt? No. We were never dating. That was just a confusing summer.”
“Mind if we sit?” Livia asked.
They both sat on the bench and watched the activity outside the county courthouse, a scant two hours after the official close of business. Still, in the fading light, late-working lawyers walked the boulevard in blouses with their blazers hung on their shoulder bags, or with ties loosened at the neck and sleeves rolled to their elbows.
“I read your book,” Livia said.
“Oh yeah?” Megan shrugged. “It’s not really mine, but thanks.”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t write it, not much of it anyway. Most of it was my shrink.”
“It’s written in first person.”
“Yeah. My publisher insisted on that. Made it more personal, they told me. But my doctor did most of the writing. He asked, like, a thousand questions and then pieced it together. I mean, I read through everything he wrote and made it accurate.” Another shrug. “I was told that’s how a lot of books are written. On the cover, Dr. Mattingly’s name should be bigger than mine, but he’s not the star, you know?” Megan took a deep breath and looked up into the evening sky. “I’m sorry about the book. I’m embarrassed that you read it.”
“Why?”
Another shrug. “The book wasn’t my idea. I never wanted to write it or be part of it. I never wanted the thing to exist. But so much was going on after that summer. My parents wanted their daughter back, and I haven’t had the courage to tell them she’s long gone. Haven’t found a way to break it to them that that girl doesn’t exist anymore.”
Megan paused a moment.
“You know, I was missing for two weeks and was completely alone, never felt so alone. Then, when I escaped and came home, I never had a minute to myself. Someone was always with me in those first few months, too afraid to leave my side. My parents smothered me. My shrink was all over me to write the book. Then publishers approached me. Some agents. I used the book as a way to get them all off my back. I used the book to escape, as a way to buy some anonymity from those closest to me. It worked, too. As long as I was working on that stupid book, they all left me alone. My parents used the book as a distraction as much as I did. As long as my mother believed I was writing, it relieved her need to check on me every minute of the day and ask if I had decided on college and about what I was doing with my life and my future. As long as I was writing that book, my parents believed I was in some magical place of healing. And now look at me. The book that was supposed to bring me anonymity has brought celebrity. The book that was supposed to bring healing has only reopened all my wounds.”
Megan looked at Livia.
“I wanted to include more about Nicole, but they all told me not to. Dr. Mattingly strictly warned against it, and my agent and editor greatly revised what I had written.”
Livia heard through Megan’s words the voice of a girl trapped and haunted by the past. It was a voice very different from the one her mind heard as she read Megan’s book.
“Have your parents read the book?” Megan asked.
“I’m not sure,” Livia lied.
“Don’t let them, okay? It’s not right for them. It’s a goddamn celebration of my life and triumphs that completely ignores that someone else was lost that night.”
“Thank you,” Livia said. “I’ll keep them away from it. Can I ask? Why was everyone around you so adamant about excluding Nicole?”
Megan shook her head. “Nicole is not a feel-good story. The editor was very specific that he wanted a triumphant story. He wanted the gritty, disturbing details because that’s what sells. Because, really, that’s why people buy the book. But the story needed to end with my victory, not with Nicole’s tragedy. They have some formula they actually showed me about memoirs with dark themes that ended triumphantly for the victim versus the same books that ended in defeat.”
“Based on sales, I’d say they know what they’re talking about.”