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The phone rings, and as Mom answers I realize how much she just sounded like my sister; Mom, too, is worrying about what everyone thinks about her, stressing out about how they are judging her.
“You’re coming by when? Tonight? I don’t know if my daughter … Oh, okay. I understand.”
She hangs up and dials again right away.
“Pete, I need you home. The police are coming. They have a lead and they need to ask us some questions … Half an hour. Okay, bye.”
Mom downs the rest of the wine and starts clearing her papers off the table. After she has stacked them into a precise, neat pile that she puts into her briefcase, she looks out the sliding back door to the patio, where Lara is curled up on a chair in a Snuggie, reading a book, so she can be constantly observed by Mom like a goldfish in a bowl.
“What kind of lead do they have?” I ask.
“They didn’t say. Only that it’s something about who might have created the Christian DeWitt profile,” Mom says, biting her cuticle. She hasn’t had a manicure since The Bathroom Incident and it shows. It was something her campaign manager pointed out, believe it or not. He said it didn’t make for good visuals, whatever that’s supposed to mean. “I better tell Lara. I hope it doesn’t set her back even more.”
She goes out the sliding door and closes it behind her. Lara stiffens as Mom walks over, clearly miffed that there’s an interruption in her rare and precious alone time. Mom starts talking and tries to stroke Lara’s hair, but my sister moves her head and Mom’s hand falls on the back of the Adirondack chair. It’s like watching a bad ABC Family special with the sound on mute, but this is my family drama and I can’t change the cha
Dad and the police arrive at the same time, which means we don’t have warning that they’ve arrived. Just a “Hi, I’m home!” and the next thing I know my father’s walking in the room with Officer Timm and some other guy in a jacket.
“Mom, the police are here,” I call into the kitchen so she isn’t as surprised as I am.
Dad kisses the top of my head and says, “Hi, sweetheart,” and then tells the police to follow him into the kitchen. I trail in after them. If they have some kind of lead on who was sick enough to do this to my sister, I want to know about it.
Lara is still out on the patio. She’s watching us now: a silent, Snuggie-wrapped observer. Mom opens the door and tells her to come inside. She stands up and shuffles into the house, clutching the Snuggie around her as if she’s trekked across the frozen tundra rather than just taken a few steps across our flagstone patio.
Without saying a word and barely acknowledging the policemen, she sinks into a chair and pulls the Snuggie tighter around her. If she could disappear into it like a turtle into a shell, I bet she would.
Jacket Guy, who says his name is Detective Souther, and who apparently has been here once before, asks Lara how she’s doing.
She shrugs, avoiding eye contact with him. “Okay.”
Mom is standing behind Lara, shaking her head no and mouthing, “Not good.”
“The reason we wanted to come by is that we may have a lead on the Christian DeWitt profile,” Detective Souther says, tapping his pen against his notebook. He stops suddenly and looks straight at Lara. “Have you had any issues with neighbors?”
“Neighbors?” Mom gasps. “You mean … someone we know did this?”
“We’re trying to narrow down our field of inquiry,” the detective says, which doesn’t answer her question.
“Have there been any problems with neighbors?” Officer Timm echoes.
“No,” Mom says. “In fact, all of our neighbors have been so supportive and kind since this happened. I haven’t had to cook di
“We’re going to have to buy a new freezer just to hold all the casseroles,” Dad jokes.
I suddenly wonder who decided that casseroles are the currency of support and kindness in a time of crisis? Why didn’t they have the good sense to make it cookies instead? I could really go for some chocolate chip ones right now. Or brownies. Really great fudgy brownies.
“What about you, Lara?” Detective Souther asks. “Any issues with kids on the block?”
Lara has been staring out the window, as if she wasn’t even paying attention. She still won’t give the detective eye contact but looks over his shoulder at the clock on the wall and says no so softly we can barely hear her.
“What about Bree?” I ask.
Lara looks at me as if she’s a resistance fighter I’ve just betrayed to occupying forces. I stare back at her, because seriously, what is the point of pretending anymore?
She looks away first.
“Bree who?” Detective Souther asks.
“Brea
“That’s not true, dear,” Mom protests. “Mary Jo brought over the lasagna that’s in the oven for di
The detective is scribbling as we speak. I imagine his notes. Neighbor Mary Jo Co
Being a detective must get super, super boring.
“Yeah, but we never hang out with them anymore,” I argue. “And we used to all the time when Lara and Bree were friends.”
“Even if we’ve drifted apart from the Co
Lara Pumpkin is back in zombie land, tuning the rest of us out.
“But Bree posted that picture of Lara the day she … that day … on Facebook,” I argue.
“The one on the stretcher?” the detective asks.
“Yeah, and then people made all these sick comments,” I say, glancing at Lara because I’m worried about causing her another “setback” by talking about all of this. But if I don’t, how will they figure out who did it?
“It was disgusting,” Dad says. “I just don’t understand what possesses kids these days. There’s no judgment, no thought —”
“Dad,” I say, “it’s police time, not rant time.”
“Sydney, that’s enough,” Mom snaps.
I shut my mouth and go back to disappearing into the background.
“So you haven’t had problems with any other neighbors, at school or out of school?” the detective tries again, determined to get Lara’s attention.
“Not that I know of,” Lara says, still staring out the window. She laughs, bitterly. “Well, except for all the kids who liked the mean stuff Christian wrote on my wall. I didn’t stop to check if any of them were my neighbors before I … well, you know.”
Detective Souther puts down his pad and pen and says Lara’s name gently. She finally looks him in the eye.
“Here’s the thing, Lara. Facebook gave us the information that the person who posted as Christian DeWitt did it from an IP address in this neighborhood. We’ve got the court order for the Internet service provider to tell us more specifically which customer of theirs it was. I was just hoping you might be able to give us a clue to speed things up.”
“You’re saying one of our neighbors did this?” Dad is so upset he springs halfway out of his chair, but Mom pulls him back down to seated and glares at him.
Lara opens her mouth like she’s going to say something, and I hold my breath without realizing until she closes it without uttering a word and shakes her head no.
“Are you sure there’s nothing you can think of?” Officer Timm asks.
Lara nods, but she’s done. She’s gone back into zombie mode. I want to slap her. Doesn’t she realize that if she talks, it’ll help find out who did this faster so we can all get on with our lives? Doesn’t she realize that this is messing up my life, too?