Incandescence

28: Remorse

When Mason went missing, I didn't cry. I pulled out my scrapbook, slumped on my bed in my ASA dorm and rifled through the pages. It's easier to live in happy memories than it is to think about the dreaded future. I found myself focusing on the photos that marked memorable days, building up my hopes by convincing myself that Mason would come home, smiling and enthusiastic, and things would return to the way they were before. We'd laugh about his temporary disappearance and he'd dramatize some story about being cornered by a bear. End of chapter. Things would be normal again; Mason would be back to his typical dorky self and, in no time, we'd be racing through the park on roller-skates and he'd be off begging his parents to let him get a tattoo.

            I don't get my scrapbook out now. I don't think back to the times where Lena and I really bonded over ice-cream and bitch sessions about the teachers at Destination Doom. I don't even try to deny it's happened, or make MISSING TEENAGER posters to stick on lampposts and shop windows like I did when it was Mason who was gone.

            I don't do much of anything – because I'm sick and tired of false optimism.

            The hours that followed my return were torment, like I'd been sucked out the real world and deposited in my own living hell. Cops swarmed our house, gathering our stories and trying to get a better idea of what time my sister vanished. Patrol cars invaded Hope and the nearby towns, and the phone rang like crazy as news of Lena's disappearance spread from neighbourhood to neighbourhood like wildfire. During the pandemonium, my mother's tears seemed to dry off, with rage and determination diffusing in to take their place.

            I was first in the firing line.

            "I sneaked out," I told both Mum and Sheriff Marwick when they demanded to know where I'd gone. I had no alibi, no well thought out excuse to feed to them, so I was going for half-truths all round. It was better than the ludicrous alternative: To admit I broke into the town cemetery and bribed Malice to summon a ghost. "To meet friends; they live on the other side of town."

            "And you thought that would be okay?" Mum cried. "That I wouldn't notice?"

            "Sarah, calm down." Detective Marshall made his way to her side, shushing her and handing her a mug of coffee. The strong scent filled my nostrils, overwhelming me. Mum hates her coffee black, but she lapped it up regardless. In my head, Sarah Sinclair had been knocked off her godlike pedestal. Suddenly she was just an average, worrying parent.

            "I'm sorry, Mum," I said, the guilt having fully hit me by now. "I was just –"

            "Being a typical teenager," Detective Marshall finished for me, and Mum raised her eyebrows in a high arch, ready to bawl him out. "Don't tell me you never sneaked out after curfew when you were her age," he said to her, and I managed a grateful smile in his direction.

            Aunt Marian arrived later that day, bearing enough suitcases to fill a minibus. Following her appearance was that of the camera-bearing news team. I kept my distance from them, remaining locked in my room until I was certain they were gone.

            "April, there you are!" My aunt pulled me in for a hug when she saw me, smelling like lavender and mint chewing gum – just like always. Some things never change.

            "I missed you," I said, basking in the familiar scents and the warmth from her embrace.

            "I know, hon. I would've been over much sooner, but. . ." She trailed off, and I knew why. Mum was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, watching us through wary eyes. When she brought her up a few weeks ago in the car I just assumed they'd gotten over what caused their previous fight. But looking at the sisters, it was obvious things still weren't all that smooth between them.