“What?” My muffin sticks in my throat, and I sip some of my latte to try to force it down. It’s so sugary sweet, it gives me a momentary jolt. “Mom told her I was dead?”
“Yeah.” He looks like he can’t believe it himself.
“You’re dead, little girl. Dead, dead, dead. You don’t even exist.”
“But…why? Did they have any reason to think I was dead?” I ask. It never even occurred to me, while I was gone, that my family would assume I was dead. I always believed they would keep looking for me until they found me.
Zac shakes his head. “No…there was nothing that ever hinted at that. No evidence at all. Your friend ran home and told her mother what happened, and she called nine-one-one. Everything happened so fast. But you disappeared without a trace. In her panic, Sammi didn’t notice what the guy looked like, or his car. She’s always felt really guilty about that…we’ve talked a few times over the years. You should maybe contact her. She would probably love to hear from you.” I had never even thought to contact my childhood friend who had run off while the man dragged me into the car, and I’ve never wondered how she felt about it. “Unfortunately, no one saw anything, even though you two were right in our neighborhood. The leads dried up pretty quickly. It just seemed hopeless. And so I think, for Mom, it was easier to say you had died than to tell Lizzie you were kidnapped and missing. That’s scary for a little girl to hear.”
“I lived it, Zac. It was scary for me.”
“Holly, I know that.” He leans forward. “But Mom is just…in denial about a lot of things. She always has been. She can’t deal with reality.”
I push the other half of my muffin across my plate, my appetite gone. “No wonder Lizzie stares at me all the time.”
My brother takes an uneasy pause. “Mom’s very overprotective of her. She had a total meltdown after you were taken. For months, all she did was lie in bed and eat Valium. When she wasn’t sleeping, she was pacing all over the house or walking up and down the street. She didn’t start to act normal again until she got pregnant and Lizzie came. Lizzie totally distracted her from everything and, in some ways, that was good—but bad in a lot of ways too. She put herself in denial about what happened to you and projected all her love and happiness onto Lizzie. She barely lets her out of her sight.” He lets me absorb that for a few minutes before continuing. “And Dad just thrust himself into his work. Our whole family fell apart. Nothing has ever been the same.”
I shouldn’t feel jealous that my mother is trying to protect Lizzie from something bad happening to her, like what happened to me. But I do. A mix of envy, jealousy, and anger simmers deep in my stomach. “I don’t even know what to say,” I finally tell him, not wanting my emotions to come vaulting out of my mouth in the middle of this quiet café.
“They feel guilty, Holly. They blamed themselves for a long time. Still do. What parent wouldn’t?”
Does blame and guilt make you wish your child was dead instead of missing? Was that actually easier for them to cope with? My bottom lip quivers. “I think they wish I never came back. Maybe me being dead would have been better for them. For all of you…”
Zac’s eyes turn a darker shade of brown. “Jesus Christ, Holly. Don’t even say that. We’re all glad you’re back, safe and alive. We love you.”
Counting to ten, then fifteen, I breathe deeply, feeling overwhelmed. Emotional. Feelings I’m not used to. “It doesn’t always feel that way. And I don’t mean you…you’ve been so nice to me since I came back, you’ve never acted weird around me. I always look forward to seeing you. And I really like Anna. But I feel like an outsider around everyone else. It all feels…awkward. I feel like I don’t belong.”
There. I finally said it. A tiny weight lifts from my shoulders.
He listens intently, leaning on the table, exactly like when we were younger. “I know, Holly. Listen,” he says. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something. Next summer, Anna and I are moving to New York. My friend John has a business out there. Do you remember John?”
I search my memory, trying to remember a John. “John from next door?” I ask as the image of a skinny, sandy-haired boy with hazel eyes comes to mind.
“That’s him. We’ve been best friends since we were kids. He’s offered me a great job. A partnership, actually. The money is good, and the business is doing great,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “I don’t think it’s an opportunity I can pass up.”