Sarah Durst - The Lost

I watch Tiffany as she reads, and I know the instant she reaches the article. Her face drains of all color. Her makeup is stark against her bloodless face. She reads it once, twice, three times. She carefully folds the newspaper.

Claire skips from foot to foot. “What’s it say? Do you remember?”

“I’m dead,” Tiffany says simply. She stands up.

I want to tell her that she’s not. Of course she’s not. She’s right here talking to me. But the emptiness in her eyes... Words die in my throat. I think of when I first met her. One of the first things she said was she wanted to step in front of a train. Later, she fashioned nooses out of rope. A part of her must have known.

She looks at Claire. “Scottsdale. Your parents are in Scottsdale, Arizona.”

She doesn’t say anything else. She takes off at a run toward town. I watch her and don’t try to stop her. I feel Claire’s hand slip into mine.

A buoy tolls outside my bedroom window, and I wake. Shooting out of bed, I launch myself at the window and look out. Waves lick the baseboards of the house. Whitecaps crest directly beneath me. It’s coming, I think. The void is coming for me! I grip the windowsill as if it will keep me tethered to the ground, safe from the void. The air tastes thick with salt. My mouth feels as dry as the desert that the ocean has eaten.

I step back from the window and try to take deep, calming breaths. It doesn’t help. All it does is make me feel like I’m gasping for air like a waterless goldfish. “Peter?”

He’d slept in my bed again last night, his arms around me, his body warm. I hear the mattress creak and know he’s standing directly behind me. He puts his arms around my waist and draws me against him. I fit against the curve of his chest. “It’s high tide.” His breath is soft against my ear and on my neck.

“The void...”

“...isn’t any closer. Besides, you went in and you came out. You don’t need to be afraid of it.” He pauses. “Of course, it could destroy everything and everyone else, but c’est la vie.”

“I found my prom dress.”

“You told me.”

“Tiffany’s dead.”

“You said that, too.”

I’d nearly pounced on him when he’d returned last night, telling him everything that had happened from the moment that Victoria and Sean had shown up with the oatmeal through everything with the dead girl who ran the Pine Barrens Motel. He’d listened, and when I’d told him I’d come out of the void, he’d kissed me.

Thinking of that kiss, I take another deep breath, and it works better this time. I feel my rib cage loosen, and I can suck in air again. Out the window, I see he’s right—it’s only the ocean that’s closer. The void is a distant smudge on the horizon. At least “helping” Tiffany didn’t make anything worse. “The lie seems to still be working. And Tiffany didn’t send a mob with pitchforks after me. Maybe it will be a good day. Maybe you’ll find the Missing Man today!” As soon as I’ve said the words, I wish I could suck them back.

He releases me and steps away. Twisting, I see his expression is closed and guarded. “I’ll begin my search,” he says stiffly.

“Peter...”

Claire races into my room. Even though she’s a little girl, she has elephant-loud footsteps. She jumps on the foot of the bed. “Lauren, you have to get dressed! There are people outside. For you!”

Peter grabs my arms. “I’ll distract them. You climb out the back window and swim—”

Laughing, Claire bounces on the bed. “Don’t be silly! They don’t want to hurt her. Everyone wants her help.” She hops off the bed and skips to my dresser. “You can’t let them see you in pj’s, though. You need pretty.” She pulls out a blue dress. It flutters as she unfurls it.

“But—”

She steers me toward the shower.

Digging my heels in, I stop. “Claire, how many is ‘everyone’?”

She waves her hand in the air. “A bunch.”

“Claire.”

“Lots.”

“Claire!”

“It’s okay.” She darts into the bathroom and turns on the shower. She lays my towel out for me, fluffs it, and smiles. “You can do this! You can help them! Save them!” I picture Claire with tiny pompoms. Amused by the image, I stop protesting and let her shoo me in.

I take the fastest shower of my life. Scrubbing my hair dry, I study myself in the mirror. I look thinner, like my skin is pinching my skull. The shadows under my eyes are tinged purple, as if I’ve been hit in the eyes. I pull on the dress that Claire picked out for me, and I drag a brush through my hair as I walk out the door. Claire is waiting in the hallway. She frowns at me, and then she grabs my hand and marches me into the bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed while she kneels on the mattress and combs my hair. She hums to herself as she weaves in ribbons that she produces from hidden pockets on her own yellow tulle dress. I begin to feel like an overly wrapped birthday present.

“Out of curiosity, are you making me look like a crazy person?”

“Yes.”

I turn my head to see her expression.

She pushes my head straight. “Stay still, please.”

I look out the window. I could stand up, walk away. I don’t think she’d resort to her knives to force me, but I’m transfixed by the view out the window. The ocean roils and rolls. I notice it has ships on it: tall ships with triple masts, sunfish, catamarans, sea kayaks, a cruise ship. All of them jostle between the waves. I don’t think they were there before my shower. I can’t tell if there are any people on the boats.

“You’re sure they aren’t here to kill me?” I ask.

“I’m sure. Mostly sure.”

“Where’s Peter?”

“On the roof,” she says. “He’s not as sure.”

I try to look at her again, and she yanks on my hair. I wince. Looking back at the water, I think of the Pacific. I used to wake to the sound of the ocean, back when we lived in a barely insulated cottage by the shore. At nine o’clock, Mom would knock on my bedroom door and tell me not to waste the day. You only have so many glorious days per lifetime, she said, and if you fritter them away, then you’ll come back as a penguin who has to brave winters in Antarctica as penance. I’d tell her I like penguins and go back to sleep.

When she was diagnosed, Mom said I’d never ignore her again. A side benefit of dying, she claimed. Your words carry a lot more weight. She then told me to floss daily, wear suntan lotion, and never, ever date a guy who doesn’t respect your dreams. I told her I’d listen to every word she said if she didn’t say the word dying. She told me I had avoidance issues and gave me a self-help book, which I avoided reading, and she continued to talk about dying.

Claire hops off the bed. She spins me so she can examine me from all angles. Bits of ribbon dangle at the edges of my vision. “Claire...” I’m not certain how to delicately break it to her that I don’t want to look like a half-wrapped present—or that I’m not sure I can “save” people. I don’t know how I found the ring and the newspaper.

“You look wise,” she says. “They need you to look wise. If they even think you can help them, even if you can’t, then they won’t kill you. Lauren, this is your chance to win them over, to fix what happened in the diner.”

Oh. That...makes sense. I nod slowly. “Okay, go ahead.”

Claire smiles.

“What?”

“You really trust me.”

“Sure.”

“I told Peter from the start that you’re different.” She sounds very satisfied with herself. “Most grown-ups wouldn’t listen to a kid.”

“You’re not an ordinary kid.” But I can’t argue with the sentiment. I had an uncle who liked to talk to me as if I was no smarter than his pet Maltese. Less smart, in fact. I had on occasion contemplated biting him on the hand as he patted my shoulder and told me how cute it was that I liked art, or how sweet that my mother still kept my artwork on the wall, even though I was well out of elementary school, as if the paintings I’d labored over and poured my heart into were no better than the drawing that I’d scrawled when I clutched a crayon in my hand, still plump with baby fat.