by Cat Clarke
“What was he like? The…man. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk about it.”
Laurel leans forward and grabs a sheet of paper that was facedown on the coffee table. She hands it to me without comment.
It’s a drawing of a man’s face. It’s hard to tell how old he is—somewhere between forty and fifty, perhaps. His eyes are slightly too far apart, which is supposed to make a person look more trustworthy. His face is utterly nondescript, apart from the nose, which is big and hooked, with weirdly distracting nostrils. His hair is short and spiky. “This is him?” Laurel nods. I am looking at the man who took my sister.
“It’s not quite finished. The police artist is coming back later to work on it before the press conference. The nose isn’t quite right yet.” She stares at the picture, and I have the strongest urge to scrunch up the paper, to set fire to it and watch his face blacken and burn.
“What’s his name?”
A faint smile appears on Laurel’s face. “At first I called him Smith. He was hardly going to tell me his real name, was he?”
Smith. Probably the most common name in the country. “At first?”
Laurel tilts her head questioningly.
“You said at first you called him Smith. What did you call him after that?”
She looks away and keeps her eyes averted from mine as she tells me the name she called him—the name he made her use even though she knew it was wrong.
“Daddy.”
—
My parents choose that exact moment to come back. They’ve brought drinks and food. When I look at the clock, I see that Laurel and I have been talking for more than two hours. Glancing out the window, I see that it’s snowing, thick and fast.
I manage to get rid of the appalled look on my face while Mom and Dad take their wet coats and scarves off. They both try to hide it, but they’re looking at us closely to see how things are going. Laurel and I smile to show them that things are going just fine, thank you very much. I bet Mom wanted to come back ages ago, but Dad made her wait, to give us more time.
Daddy. The thought of her saying it to that man sickens me. I hope she hasn’t told my parents. Our parents.
Dad starts pulling sandwiches out of a plastic bag. “Shrimp salad?” Laurel says, adding, “Eurgh!” And I make a gagging noise, and then we both laugh. Dad rolls his eyes and says, “I suppose I’ll be having that one, then,” but you can tell he’s delighted that we’re bonding.
Laurel and I both reach for the BLT baguette, and she insists that I have it, and I insist that she has it. In the end it all comes down to who’s more stubborn, so of course I win. I end up with ham and cheese; it’s dry and hard to swallow. I want to ask Laurel what kind of food she ate, because whatever it was, she clearly didn’t eat enough of it. She makes short work of the baguette and devours a bag of chips, too. I realize that all three of us—me, Mom, and Dad—are watching her eat. Laurel doesn’t seem to notice, or if she does, she doesn’t seem to care.
There’s a slightly awkward moment at lunch when Mom says something about this being our first family meal together in thirteen years. She apologizes that it’s not something more special and says she’ll cook something soon—a roast dinner, perhaps?—so that we can sit down as a family at long last.
Laurel says that would be really nice, and Dad requests roast beef. Mom blushes (I have no idea why).
“Will Michel be invited, too?” I can’t help myself. Someone needs to remind them that things are different now.
For a second, the only sound is that of Laurel tearing into a second bag of chips. She says, “I hope so. I can’t wait to meet him.” And Dad smiles gratefully because he knows as well as I do that Laurel has just averted an argument.
Mom says, “Of course Michel will be there,” as if that was the plan all along. As if she hadn’t completely forgotten his existence for a minute there. She’s a bit quieter after that, which makes me feel guilty, but I won’t allow Michel to be sidelined. He’s as much a part of this screwed-up family as the rest of us. And unlike the rest of us, he actually chose to join it.
—
A bunch of people turn up after lunch, and it’s chaos. They’re trying to organize this press conference, even though everyone’s fully aware that the press already has the story. It’s on the Internet, of course. #LaurelLogan is trending on Twitter. When I check my phone, I see that lots of people have messaged me. Only a few of these people are actually my friends. Martha and Thomas have both texted, and I text back to say everything’s fine. Martha texts again immediately: What’s it like having a brand-new big sister? A stranger might think she’s being insensitive, but this is just Martha being Martha. I think for a second, looking over to where Laurel and Mom are talking to a high-ranking police officer. I wonder why he has to wear a uniform if he’s so senior. Perhaps he thinks the uniform adds gravitas. There’s another, much younger police officer standing behind the first one. He has the beginnings of a black eye, which makes me wonder if he’s the one Laurel supposedly lashed out at yesterday. I must remember to ask Dad later.
Whatever it is they’re talking about, Laurel doesn’t look happy. She shakes her head a number of times during the conversation. Eventually, Mom puts her arm around Laurel and leads her off to the bathroom. What was all that about?
When they finally come out of the bathroom, Laurel sees me watching and aims a shy little wave in my direction. She even manages a smile.
Everyone told her that it would be better if she stayed away from the press conference. They said it would be overwhelming for her, but she was adamant that she wants to be part of it. She wants to read a statement, too. “I won’t let him win,” she whispered to me. I felt something suspiciously close to pride.
I text Martha back: I think I’m going to like it.
I watch the press conference—alone—on the massive TV in Laurel’s suite. They didn’t want me down there any more than I wanted to be there.
It’s surreal, watching my family (now new and improved, with added Laurel!) walk into the ballroom fifteen floors below. Laurel’s flanked by Mom and Dad; Mom’s crying already. I can’t help comparing it to the press conference they held when she went missing; I must have watched it a hundred times on YouTube. Dad spoke straight into the camera, talking to whoever had taken Laurel. She belongs with us. Faith keeps asking where her big sister has gone. Please, if you’re listening, do the right thing. Bring our daughter back to us. Bring Laurel home. That was the moment when Dad really broke down. He’d managed to keep it together up until then, but you could tell it was there, bubbling under the surface. He slumped back into his chair, and Mom took his hand and squeezed it tightly, as if she was trying to force some of her strength into him. But by that point she was sobbing, too.
This press conference is very different. It’s rowdier, for one thing. Journalists start shouting questions the minute my family walks in. The camera flashes go crazy. The high-ranking police officer reads a statement, after pausing to take a pair of glasses from his breast pocket. Another police officer reads another statement and shows the cameras a new picture of “Smith.” This one’s been done on a computer, I think. It’s a bit different from the one I saw—the face is narrower, the nostrils larger. Both police officers say that while they’re delighted that Laurel is home, they will not rest until the “perpetrator of this sickening crime” is brought to justice. They used that line at the press conference when Laurel was taken—not these police officers, but ones just like them.
Police Officer Number Two says investigators are knocking on doors and asking questions as we speak. Laurel was able to give them some very useful information about her captor. (Really? That’s news to me.) It’s only a matter of time, apparently.
The police ask if there are any questions, and of course there are. Most of them are aimed at Laurel and Mom and Dad, so they ignore those. But they do answer a couple.
“How can you be sure that Laurel is safe now? Why would he just let her go?”
“We are as sure as we can be that Laurel’s ordeal is over, and we will be doing everything in our power to keep her safe. As to why she was released after all this time? I think, today of all days, we should just be grateful that she’s back home with her family. There will be plenty of time for those questions in the coming days and weeks.”
“Were there any sightings of the suspect leaving Laurel in the yard yesterday? Any CCTV?”
“We’re not aware of any sightings at the moment, but officers will be going door-to-door on Stanley Street, speaking to every resident. We will, of course, be reviewing CCTV footage for anything that might be relevant.”
“Did the police fail Laurel?”
An almost inaudible sigh from Police Officer Number One. “We did everything we could to find Laurel Logan, mounting the biggest search the county has ever seen. But sadly, tragically, it wasn’t enough….Now Bernard Ness would like to say a few words before I hand this over to the Logans.” He doesn’t quite manage to hide the disdain in his voice.
Bernard Ness is the mayor. God knows what he’s doing there. Bernard Ness is not a fat man, but he walks as if he is. He huffs and puffs his way up to the microphone, and I become transfixed by his nose. It’s bulbous and red, much like the rest of his face. His sideburns are damp with sweat.
He was also present at the press conference thirteen years ago. Deputy mayor back then, slightly less red, less bulbous, milling around in the background. This time he’s right there up onstage with my family. It quickly becomes clear that Bernard Ness is here for two reasons: he likes the sound of his own voice, and he’s desperate to associate himself with a good-news story (and let’s face it—this is the best good-news story there’s been in a long, long time). Maybe he thinks it will help people forget the financial scandal he was involved in last month.
Ness says that thirteen years ago “our community” was shocked and devastated and a few more words that all amount to the same thing. The crime against “Little Laurel Logan” threatened to tear “our community” apart, but in the end it brought us closer together. “We” never gave up hope. Apparently.
He talks for far too long, but no one tries to shut him up. Laurel and Mom and Dad listen politely in the background. Laurel’s face is perfectly expressionless. Finally, Ness starts winding down. He ends his pointless speech by turning toward Laurel, pausing for effect, then saying, “Welcome home, Laurel.” Laurel nods; she doesn’t smile.
Dad’s up next. The first thing he says is, “I’m going to keep this short,” and I love him for it. In the background, Bernard Ness nods as though this isn’t a dig at him. Dad talks about how happy we all are to have Laurel home, and thanks everyone who never gave up searching and hoping and believing she would come back. He thanks the police and says (emphatically) that they should not be held responsible for what “that man” did to his daughter. Then he does something weird. He addresses Laurel’s captor directly. “Whoever you are, wherever you are, I want you to know that we will find you, and you will be held accountable for your crimes.” He lets that hang for a beat or two before taking a steadying breath. His hands grip the sides of the lectern. “But for now, today, I want to thank you.” There are no gasps from the crowd or anything, but you can tell people are shocked. I certainly am. “Thank you for giving our daughter back to us.”
Dad sits down, and no one seems to know what should happen next. The police officers exchange glances, and Mom looks at Dad, and Dad looks at Laurel, and Bernard Ness looks at the photographers (of course). Laurel stands and walks over to the lectern.
Laurel looks out at the crowd in front of her, and it seems like she’s looking at each and every face and camera. She doesn’t flinch under the constant flashing. “My name is Laurel Logan.” She clears her throat and takes a shaky breath. I can’t believe how brave she is, doing this. “My name is Laurel Logan, and I’d like to take this opportunity to thank some people.” She echoes what Dad said—thanking the police and the public—but she also mentions the press. “Thank you for keeping my story alive—thank you for never forgetting.” It’s a little odd, but I bet the journalists down there are lapping it up. I’m sure Dad doesn’t approve, after everything he’s been through with the press, but I think Laurel’s earned the right to say whatever she wants.
Laurel stares into the camera, and it feels like she’s looking at me. It must feel the same way to everyone who’s watching—our friends and family, Thomas and Martha, people up and down the country and all over the world. The camera moves in closer on Laurel’s face so that you can’t see anyone else. They didn’t do anything about her hair before the press conference, and it still doesn’t look like she’s wearing makeup—maybe just a bit of powder. She looks like a girl who has been through some seriously bad stuff.
“Yesterday my nightmare came to an end. I don’t think I ever believed it would happen. I hoped for it and prayed for it every single night, and when things got really bad”—she pauses and blinks hard to stop herself from crying—“well, I hoped and prayed even harder. Yesterday my prayers were answered.” She bows her head for a moment before looking at the camera again. “I don’t have the words to express what I’m feeling right now. To know that my family never stopped looking for me. Never stopped caring. And they’ve told me that you never stopped caring, either. They told me that total strangers from all over the world have sent cards and letters—even money. They told me that the police worked tirelessly to try to find me and that my story has hardly been out of the newspapers—all this time. I can’t tell you how much this means to me. To know that I wasn’t forgotten.” Another bow of her head. I bet half the people in that room have tears in their eyes.
Laurel finishes by thanking everyone. She doesn’t mention Smith. She says she’s looking forward to getting to know her family again—especially her little sister, Faith. She smiles when she says my name, and the camera flashes start up again. I realize I’m smiling, too.
As soon as she stops talking and moves away from the lectern, the journalists start shouting questions. You might think they’d have a little bit more respect—and sensitivity—today, but you would be wrong. It’s hard to distinguish individual questions, but most of them seem to start with some variation of “How do you feel…?”
A man takes Laurel’s place. He was one of the people milling around the suite earlier. He makes calming motions with his hands; he looks like he’s directing traffic. It takes a long time for the shouting to die down, and when it does, you can hear a woman’s voice shouting out one final question: “Laurel! Laurel! Have you been shopping yet?” I swear at the TV while laughter ripples around the room downstairs. Even Mom and Dad smile; Laurel does not.
The press conference is over, and a man and a woman with perfect hair sit in a futuristic-looking TV studio and talk about how brave Laurel is. They use the word remarkable a lot, and they say that they hope the media will leave our family to heal in peace, which is ironic because one of their correspondents has been known to shout questions through our mail slot.
The shiny hosts decide that the moral of the story is that we should never give up hope, no matter how bad things look. They seem very pleased with themselves for having found a greater meaning in Laurel’s story.
Martha texts: That was surreal.
Yes, it was.
Mom stands back to admire her handiwork. “There. What do you think?”
The room looks much better than it did a week ago. It looks cozy and comfortable and welcoming. Mom asked Laurel what colors she liked and whether there was anything special she wanted in her room. Laurel said she didn’t feel strongly about the decor as long as the bed faced the door; Mom didn’t need to ask why.
It took hours of rummaging through boxes in the attic (not to mention a traumatic spider-in-hair incident), but eventually I found what I was looking for. I plug it into the socket next to the door and switch it on. Egg the Penguin is the finishing touch. Laurel’s room is ready for her. My sister i
s coming home.
—
Someone (Maggie the counselor, perhaps?) had decided that Laurel shouldn’t come home right away. She needed some time to adjust to life in the outside world. Mom wasn’t too happy about that, but Dad persuaded her to go along with it. “It’s only one more week, love.” He was right: one week was nothing compared to thirteen years. The two of them took turns staying in the extra bedroom in Laurel’s suite.
Laurel’s been talking to the police almost every day, repeating her story over and over again to different officers. Mom told me that Dad lost his temper with them on Wednesday because they kept on asking the same questions, and Laurel freaked out when they tried to do the cheek swab again. They got a female officer to try this time; the reaction was less violent, but the result was the same. Laurel locked herself in the bathroom until the woman went away. Laurel refused to tell my (our) parents what the problem was, but I guess it must have triggered some bad memories or something. Dad thinks they really need to leave her alone now. (“She’s got enough to deal with without the police hounding her all the time. And what do they need a DNA test for, anyway?”)
Laurel’s been talking to a psychologist, too. About the abuse, I think, but I haven’t asked. We’ve had two family sessions with Maggie Dimmock—one in the hotel and one in what used to be our favorite Italian restaurant. That second one was a big deal; Laurel isn’t used to going outside. She has been outside. Once a week the man would blindfold her and put her in his van and drive her to a forest. The police were obviously keen to learn as much as they could about that forest, even showing Laurel pictures of different kinds of trees in case they could narrow it down that way. But Laurel thought the trees were probably pines, which are just about as common as you can get. She wasn’t even sure how far the forest was from where she was being held. She tried to count the seconds and minutes she spent in the van, but Smith wasn’t stupid—the journey would take anywhere between one hour and three hours, but they would always end up at the same place. He would let Laurel out and tell her to exercise—jumping jacks and push-ups and crunches. She only tried to run away once; he made sure she didn’t try ever again.
