The Lost and the Found Read Free

the original photo: four years old, cute in the way that all four-year-olds are, but nothing special. Not like her. Frizzy brown hair, beady little eyes, hand-me-down clothes. I was playing in a sandbox in the background, slightly out of focus. That’s how it’s been my whole life: in the background, slightly out of focus. You hardly ever see that version of the photo—the one where I haven’t been cropped out.
    Laurel would be nineteen years old now. An adult. My brain struggles with that concept. Of course we’ve all seen the age-progressed photos. The last one was four years ago: Laurel Logan at fifteen. None of the images ever look quite right, though. You can see that they’ve taken that photo—
the
photo—and done some computer wizardry, but the results are always weird in some way. They never end up looking quite like a real person.
    —
    I’m looking at Mom, and she’s looking at me and she’s still holding back. There’s some small part of her that doesn’t believe it can be Laurel. That won’t allow her to fully believe that the nightmare could finally be over. She’s had her hopes raised and dashed so many times before.
    I realize she’s shaking and I take hold of her hand to steady it. “Are they sure? How do they
know
?”
    “I have to phone your father. Natalie said she’d call him, but I thought it would be best if I did it. Do you think he’ll be at home, or should I try his cell first?” She looked at her watch, too big for her wrist. “Michel’s probably on his way over here by now anyway. You should still go….I’m not leaving you here by yourself….I’ll call as soon as I know more….”
    “Mom! Stop! Just stop talking for a second. How do they know it’s…her?” For some reason I can’t seem to say her name.
    “Remember she hurt herself the day she was…Natalie says she has a scar on her cheek! After all these years…” She shakes her head in disbelief as she squeezes my hand tightly. “And there’s something else. She’s got Barnaby!”
    It’s her. My sister has come home.
    —
    There were lots of photos of Barnaby in the newspapers, too, at first. I don’t remember, of course, but I’ve done enough research that I could probably write a book about what happened. Mom and Dad gave Laurel a teddy bear for Christmas—six months before she was taken. I got a bear, too. I lost mine years ago.
    Mom and Dad took us to one of those shops where you can customize your cuddly toys. Apparently, Laurel took ages, making sure her bear was just the way she wanted it. You can record a voice message that will play every time you squeeze the toy’s tummy. Laurel was too shy to do it herself, so Mom and Dad did it for her. Her bear said:
Merry Christmas, Laurel! Lots of love from Mommy and Daddy!
I recorded my own message, babbling some nonsense about a teddy bear’s picnic.
    Laurel’s bear was brown and extra fluffy. He was dressed in blue dungarees with a red-and-white-striped T-shirt and a blue hat with his name embroidered on it. Laurel didn’t have to think long about the name—she said “Barnaby” as soon as they asked her.
    Barnaby the Bear is unique. Even if there happened to be another bear with the same dungarees and T-shirt and hat and embroidery, there is only one bear in the whole wide world that has a message from my parents recorded on it. And when Laurel was taken, Barnaby was, too.
    It was a tiny crumb of comfort to my parents, I think. Knowing that wherever she was, Laurel wasn’t alone. She loved that bear. She carried him everywhere and told him all her secrets. Depending on her mood, she would sometimes insist that he had his own chair at the dinner table. I can picture that, if I close my eyes and really try. But I’m sure the details are wrong. Like all my memories of Laurel, this one is secondhand. It doesn’t even count as a memory, does it?
    Sometimes I lie in bed at night and try to clear my head of everything. I empty my brain bit by bit—Mom