There on the news.
And on his birthday.
And on Christmas.
When they pretended it wasn’t really Christmas.
And on the anniversary.
And then his next birthday.
The next anniversary.
And on and on, and in and out of breakdowns and misery for years.
Emma said, “You need a subtitle.”
“I Was There,” Avery said, “The Story of the Girl Left Behind.”
“Not bad.” Emma nodded. “Not bad at all.”
Avery stretched out her legs, brushed some sand off one foot with the other. “Do you remember last week?”
“What about it?” Emma giggled, not understanding.
“Last week, my biggest concern in life was buying new flip-flops and getting ready for auditions and planning the many ways in which I could do nothing this week.”
“Yeah.” Emma sighed. “I liked last week.”
A few dolphins were swimming past. People who’d apparently never seen dolphins were making a fuss. “Is it wrong that I don’t really have any hope that they’ll find him alive?”
“I don’t think so,” Emma said. “It would be wrong if you didn’t want them to find him alive.”
Avery sat with that thought.
Imagined a teenage brother in the house.
Imagined him damaged, annoying.
Because what if it went that way?
What if his coming home had the potential to actually make things worse?
Emma said, “Now is when you’re supposed to say ‘Of course I want them to.’”
“Right,” Avery said. “Of course.”
Scarlett
Walking up a lit pathway to an adobe-style house, Scarlett hoped that aliens might actually come and snatch her and spare her this experience.
Trish and Ted lived on a golf course, basically, in a community with clones of houses and fake lakes with fountains, and a pool and clubhouse where people probably played bingo or had a trivia night, maybe a book club. The couple had, they claimed, been abducted together. Which made sense. It was hard to believe that someone who hadn’t been abducted would stay married to someone who thought they had.
Six people were gathered in the living room, where cheese cubes in a variety of yellow-orange hues sat on a round glass platter. The couches were floral, stiff. The AC was on too high and Scarlett goose-bumped instantly.
Tammy greeted some of the people with small waves, and one man got up to hug her. Then she presented Scarlett with a bit of fanfare. “This”—she clasped her hands together, like to thank God or someone up there—“is my daughter.”
“Welcome to our home,” Ted said, and Trish, by his side, took Scarlett’s right hand in her two hands and squeezed.
Something about the look in her eyes—
so deep and meaningful in intent—
made Scarlett go
/
/
and say, “I’m not sure I really belong here.”
Trish smiled. “Everyone feels that way the first time.”
Scarlett was about to explain that she really didn’t belong.
But it was too late.
Trish took her by the elbow and guided her to a seat by the cheese cubes.
Chatter kicked up as Scarlett busied herself with a too-soft, essentially flavorless piece of possibly cheddar, and soon her mother’s voice rose about the others: “She doesn’t remember. I thought maybe if she heard your stories . . .”
One by one, they went around the room and shared.
Lost hours.
Lost days.
No memories of how they got to the kitchen floor, let alone naked.
Being levitated on light beams.
Small creatures with big eyes.
Glowing hearts.
Spacecraft large enough to shadow entire city blocks.
Each of them seemed to tell their story as if reciting, like they’d told it a million times before.
Scarlett wondered whether she’d have her script down by the time she reached adulthood, whenever that was.
I was one of the six victims of The Leaving.
Yes, we were gone for eleven years.
No, we don’t remember.
No, they never figured it out.
Would she, too, eventually become bored by her own narrative?
If she did end up writing a book, would it be one she even wanted to read?
The room got quiet. She felt the soft pressure of their gazes, like feathers.
“Could you point me toward the restroom?”
Trish stood and pointed. “Just this way.”
In the powder room, she checked the time on her phone and saw she had a message from Sarah.
Listened.
“It’s me, Sarah. I think I’m remembering more things. I remembered someone else there with us. But not Max. Another girl, I think. But I don’t know. It’s like I can only see her as a police sketch in my head or something.”
Then voices through the line, then Sarah saying, “I gotta go.”
Hanging up.
Putting her phone back into her purse, Scarlett examined herself in the mirror—another outfit that felt wrong on every level—and fixed her hair.
Another girl?
/
/ /
/
/
Was Sarah becoming unhinged?
I’m going on a trip.
To the leaving.
Going on a trip.
Tomorrow.
Or was it Scarlett who was losing purchase on reality?