“You want a bucket?” Rachel offered.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Like hell you are.” And she put our wastebasket at my bedside. “They have a little boy, Alice.” She meant our neighbors with the pool. “You probably scared him. You shouldn’t have done that.”
I ignored her. “Why were you crying?”
Too quickly she said, “I wasn’t crying.”
“Don’t lie.”
My sister crossed the room, the floorboards creaking beneath her bare feet. She crawled into bed beside me.
As we lay quietly together, she said, “I’ll take care of tomorrow. We’ll both sleep late. They’ll never know the difference.” She meant that she would take my place. She did that a lot when I got into trouble. I never asked her to, but she’d often insist. I’m not sure why.
“You don’t have to do that.” I stared out our window, across the street. The police were gone, but the neighborhood was still rippling from the excitement. Trish Gardill stood on her front porch, curlers in her hair, a bathrobe wrapped around her lumpy body, talking with Jane Summers. The two of them were undoubtedly rehashing my misbehavior.
“I want to do it. You need a break. Stay inside and rest. I don’t mind.”
My eyelids began to flutter closed against my will. “You want to get screamed at all morning? Aunt Sharon will probably be up here at seven a.m., banging pots and pans to wake you up. She’ll probably make you go to church. You won’t be allowed to talk to anyone. It’ll be awful.” I paused. “And what about Robin?”
“What about him?”
“I don’t want you to see him. I don’t want to trick him, okay? We’re not doing that.”
She was quiet for a minute. When I opened my eyes to peer at her, she was staring at me with the oddest expression, almost like she didn’t recognize me anymore. “I don’t think that will be a problem.”
The offer was too good to refuse, even if I didn’t understand her motivation. “All right. Have it your way.”
“Good.” She began to tug off her pajamas. “Sit up and give me your shirt.”
My aunt puts her hand on my arm. Two policemen, along with my uncle, stand behind her. I recognize the taller cop, whose name tag reads M. BALEST, as one of the officers who showed up the night of the incident in my neighbor’s pool. “Rachel, honey,” Aunt Sharon asks, “what happened to you? Where did you go?”
I lower my head. “I’m sorry. I was so scared. I went to look for … to look for her.”
My aunt guides me inside to the dining room and helps me into a seat at the table. The adults hover around me. The police exchange a brief look of annoyance over my head, like we’re all wasting their time.
With a tone that makes it sound like he’d rather be at home right now watching football, Officer Balest says, “Rachel. You need to tell us where you were.”
I shake my head. “Nowhere. I drove around for a while. I looked for my sister.”
“Uh-huh.” I can tell he doesn’t believe me. “So you stole your uncle’s car just so you could—what? Drive around town? Did you look anywhere in particular for Alice? Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“I didn’t steal my uncle’s car,” I clarify. “I borrowed it. And no, I don’t know where my sister is. But I know she’s in trouble. She didn’t just wander away.”
The other officer, the one I don’t recognize, gives a little cough, like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite have the nerve to interrupt my fascinating and productive exchange with his partner. His name tag reads R. MARTIN. He barely looks old enough to be out of high school. He’s on the short side for a guy, maybe five nine or five ten, but he’s not scrawny. He has cute, boyish features: a fresh-scrubbed face, big blue eyes, and rosy cheeks. Beneath his hat, I glimpse a few stray locks of straight, shiny blond hair. I notice a silver chain-link bracelet engraved with red lettering on his wrist. I can’t make out what the words say, but I recognize the bracelet from a silly TV commercial—the one where the elderly woman has fallen and can’t get up. It’s a med-alert bracelet.
Our eyes meet, and I know he knows what I’m looking at. He probably thinks I’m wondering what’s wrong with him. He flashes me a quick, uncomfortable smile. Then he puts his hand in his pocket, and the bracelet slips out of sight.
Officer Balest glances at him. “What’s up?”
Martin seems surprised to be acknowledged at all. “Oh, nothing. I mean—well, I’m just wondering what makes Rachel so sure that her sister didn’t run away.” To me, he says, “You two are twins. I assume you know her better than anyone. Is that right?”
His gaze is kind and steady. He seems genuinely interested in what I have to say. For the first time since my sister disappeared, I feel like someone is tossing me a lifeline.
“Yes,” I tell him. “I know that she’s been in all kinds of trouble before, and I know it was mostly her fault. Believe me, I know. But this time is different. She just … vanished. We had plans last night. We walked to the fair together. She wouldn’t have left on a whim without telling me where she was going.”
“But she’s done it before,” my aunt breaks in. “You know that, Rachel.”
Before I can respond, Balest begins to scribble something in the little notebook he’s holding. “Tell us about that,” he says. “When was the last time she disappeared? How long was she gone?”
“It was a couple of months ago.” My aunt looks to my uncle for help remembering.
“July third,” he supplies. “You remember.”
She nods in agreement. “That’s right. There were fireworks at Hollick Park, and we had plans to walk down and watch them. Like a family. But at the last minute, Alice didn’t want to come along. She said she wanted to stay home and read.” My aunt rolls her eyes. “We should have known better than to believe her. Anyway, we were gone for about an hour and a half, maybe two hours. We came home to an empty house. She didn’t get back until late the next day, around dinnertime.”
“Uh-huh.” Balest continues to take notes. “And did you call the police?”
She shakes her head. “No, we didn’t.”
He stops writing to glance at my aunt. “Why not? Weren’t you concerned?”
Aunt Sharon looks perplexed, sort of like even she isn’t sure of the answer. She crosses her arms against her chest, hugging herself. “Alice has been having a lot of problems lately,” she says, like that’s a good explanation for her lack of caring.
“What kind of problems?” Balest asks.
My aunt glances at my uncle. “You tell them,” she says.
I don’t need to listen to this conversation. I know what I’ve been like for the past few months; hearing my uncle recite my adventures in delinquency isn’t going to help me find Rachel any faster.
I’d been tuning them out for a few minutes, letting my gaze drift in and out of focus on the Oriental rug beneath the table, when a hand clasps my shoulder, startling me back to attention.
It’s my aunt, her grip gentle yet firm. I can smell the perfume on her wrists. It’s called “Sweet Dreams,” and it’s the same fragrance she’s worn her entire adult life. As a tradition, Charlie buys her a new bottle every year for Christmas. I have to admit that there’s something comforting about her consistency, about the fact that she is steady and predictable right down to the smallest details.
Even though she’s standing behind me and I can’t see her, I can sense her gaze on the back of my head. My wound is covered with hair, but it must be noticeable to someone who knows what they’re looking at. How does she explain it? I wonder. Does she think I did it to myself somehow? And if she believes it was inflicted by another person, why isn’t she concerned that someone has hurt me?
I don’t have any answers. All I know for sure is that my aunt isn’t a big fan of introspection or self-examination. She tends to focus on superficial things instead of probing too deeply beneath any surfaces, particularly emotional ones. Maybe she doesn’t want to think very ha
rd about all the things she can’t control. I know for certain that her life has turned out quite differently than she must have hoped. I’m pretty sure that, when she was much younger, she never wished her future would include staying home all day to care for her adult son or—surprise!—having to raise her sister’s kids, one of whom turned out to be a juvenile delinquent.
That’s the problem with life, I guess. The only thing a person can know for sure is that nothing in the world is certain, no matter how carefully they might try to plan the future.
“Rachel,” Aunt Sharon says, “do you understand what the police are saying?”
I turn to look at her. “I’m sorry. I got distracted.”
“Twenty-four hours,” Balest says, shutting his notebook and tucking his pen into his breast pocket. “Your sister is an adult. If there’s no real indication that she’s in danger, we’ll wait until she’s been missing for twenty-four hours before we investigate any further.”
I want to cry, but I know I shouldn’t; my makeup might smear, revealing the bruises on my face. I fight back my tears with intense concentration, my eyes widened as I blink again and again, afraid that I won’t be able to hold back. I can actually feel my cheeks growing hot and my chin quivering. I feel like such a stupid little girl, way over my head in a mess that I can’t possibly clean up all by myself.
I stare at Balest, whose expression remains stony and cool. His dry lips are set in a straight line. He taps one of his shiny shoes against the floor, impatient, clearly anxious to leave.
“Why don’t you believe me?” I plead, slumping away from my aunt’s grasp, leaning toward him. “I know her. I know something’s wrong.”
With his mouth closed, Balest runs his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. The gesture is creepy and vaguely sexual. “Tell me something,” he begins. “Did you ever hear of Occam’s razor?”
My gaze flickers to the far end of the room. Charlie stands on the opposite side of the doorway, the front of his body pressed close to the wall as he attempts to peek in on us while he eavesdrops. Linda McCartney is cradled awkwardly in his big arms. She wriggles halfheartedly, like she wants to get away from him but isn’t feeling up to the task of escaping his grip. I notice that, sometime since last night, my aunt or uncle has purchased a rhinestone collar for her, with a small golden bell dangling from the buckle. As she shifts her weight around, the bell makes a soft jingle, jingle, jingle.
I pretend not to notice my cousin because I know he doesn’t want to be noticed; he wants to feel like he’s getting away with something. My aunt and uncle do the same. Officer Martin glances over his shoulder when he hears the bell, but it doesn’t take him long to realize that something’s different about Charlie.
But when Officer Balest notices the sound, he turns around and fixes his gaze on my cousin, who quickly ducks all the way out of sight. Balest’s eyes narrow into small slits of focused judgment as he contemplates Charlie’s existence. His expression makes me feel furious; watching him, I get the sense that he thinks he has more of a right to be here than Charlie somehow, like he’s serving a meaningful purpose in our home, while my cousin is merely taking up space.
“Occam’s razor,” he continues, without waiting for my response, “describes the law of succinctness. It’s about simplicity.” He pauses. “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
Charlie pokes his head around the corner again. As Linda McCartney’s bell goes jingle, jingle, I realize that my sister doesn’t know about our new feline family member yet. The thought makes my stomach flutter with nausea; I remember having a similar realization years ago, a few months after our parents died. In an effort to bond with us, my aunt took me and Rachel to get our ears pierced, something our parents had simply never bothered to do. After it was done, I looked at myself in the mirror, admiring the shiny gold studs, and I thought, I’m different now. I understood that my sister and I would eventually grow into adults who barely resembled the Alice and Rachel who my parents had recognized. The fact made their deaths seem so final; it was like I could feel my entire life with them slipping away, its significance fading as time marched forward.
“I know what Occam’s razor is,” I tell Officer Balest. “It’s the theory that the most obvious answer is usually the correct one.”
He nods. “That’s right.”
I glance at Officer Martin, if only to avoid having to look Balest in the eye for a moment. Martin is looking at me with an intense expression, his brow wrinkled in thought. He seems unaware of the stray lock of blond hair that has fallen over his right eye. He’s chewing gum, working it slowly with his jaw as he studies me.
“Alice has run away before,” Balest continues. “What seems most likely to me, at least for now, is that she’s done it again.” He pauses. “Unless there’s some other reason—aside from having a bad feeling—that makes you so convinced your sister is in danger? Maybe there’s something you aren’t telling us?”
I’m still looking at Officer Martin. I imagine that he would be understanding and receptive if I told him the truth about everything: who I really am, the money in my book-bag, even how it came into my possession. He would be concerned about Rachel. He would help me. For an instant, I consider blurting out the whole story. I imagine how different things would be once I’d explained everything to everyone, how light and relieved I would feel once the burden of all my secrets had been lifted away.
Don’t. Tell. Anyone.
I shake my head. “No. There’s nothing I’m not telling you.”
All five of us are silent as my words dissolve and sink in. For just a moment, I think I see a flicker of doubt in Officer Balest’s eyes. But it vanishes almost immediately, replaced by what seems like barely subdued relief at the fact that he finally gets to leave, to forget about the silly matter of my sister’s disappearance that has taken up so much of his afternoon.
I go upstairs as my aunt and uncle walk the policemen to the door. As she passes Charlie, my aunt reaches out to muss his hair in a tiny, quick gesture of love that makes it impossible for me to hate her.
Upstairs in my room, I stare out the window as Officers Balest and Martin climb into their car. I’m startled to see that its blue-and-red lights have been flashing silently this whole time, as though alerting everyone who happens to pass by that something in our house has gone so wrong that we needed to reach out to complete strangers for help.
Chapter Eight
When I open the box that I keep beneath my bed, my intention is to replace the bundle of money without looking at any of the photographs. Sometimes I wonder why I keep them so close to me—they’d be just as safe somewhere else in the house, and maybe I wouldn’t be tempted to take them out so often. Looking at the photos always hurts with a sharpness that can take my breath away, like I’m twisting the knife that’s lodged in my heart, tearing open wounds that are almost healed. But sometimes I can’t help myself.
Today is one of those times. I put the money back, and then I shut my eyes, trying to will myself to close the lid and slide the box under my bed. It’s a weak effort; after a few seconds, I grab a stack of photos and settle into a cross-legged position on the floor.
Carefully, I spread out the photos, trying to look at all of them at once. Here we are: remnants of my long-gone family arranged in a semicircle, our glossy faces smiling, our bodies arranged in easy, candid poses as we gaze at the camera.
As I make my way through the pile, I come across one of my favorite snapshots, taken at my parents’ wedding. I’ve looked at it so many times that the edges are bent and smeared with fingerprints. My mom and dad were married on a hilltop at my grandma’s farm. It was a small, inexpensive wedding. My mom wore a dress that she’d sewn herself. My dad didn’t even wear a suit—just a collared shirt and tie with khaki pants. In the photo, he’s sitting at a picnic table, my mom on his lap, her arm slung around his neck. They’re surrounded by friends, but they’re looking only at each other in that moment, oblivious to everyone else
. Both of them seem to be suppressing smiles, like they’re sharing a secret, which they were: my mom was pregnant. I turn the photo over and trace her pretty cursive handwriting on the back with my fingertip, feeling the depressions from the ink on the paper, the words serving as evidence of her existence. Wedding day, May 24.
I still think about the day of the accident all the time, but not for the reasons a person might assume. I think about it because, up until the moment when everything went wrong, it was a lovely day. The four of us were happy together. And then, all of a sudden, it was over.
My parents died on March 15—the ides of March. Spring came early that year; the day was warm and sunny. In the afternoon, my dad got the Slip’N Slide out of the basement and set it up in our backyard. For hours, my sister and I played in our bathing suits while my parents stayed nearby. But they didn’t pay much attention to us. We were nine years old, capable of playing in the yard without constant supervision. My mother sat in a reclining lawn chair, sipped a tall glass of Kool-Aid, and worked on a piece of macramé that she was weaving. My dad stayed mostly inside. We could see him through the sliding glass doors that led from the living-room to the yard. Like my mother, he was an artist. A few weeks earlier, he’d stripped the old wallpaper from the living-room walls, and now he was painting a mural on the one closest to the hallway that led to our bedrooms. He hadn’t made much progress yet. His sketches showed plans to paint our house, my sister and me climbing a tree in the yard, my mother hanging laundry on the clothesline, and our cat, Nelly, sleeping in the shade. But so far he was only working on the sky above us, painting the clouds that blocked the sun. Our house, our family—we were only the lightest of pencil drawings, easily changed or erased.
It happened like this: Rachel was sitting in the grass, her wet swimsuit clinging to her skinny body. The grass had been cut recently, and the bright-green trimmings were caked onto her legs and feet.