Girl, Missing Page 2

  That night, Rory appeared in the doorway just as Mum was putting a big casserole dish down on the table.

  ‘Mum, I’m still hungry,’ he whined.

  Dad rolled his eyes. He gets well narked with Rory’s attention-seeking ways. I could see him building up to saying something. (He doesn’t exactly operate at the speed of light, my dad.)

  But Mum – so strict when it comes to my bedtimes – had already taken Rory’s side.

  ‘I can’t let him go to sleep hungry, Dave.’

  And before Dad could say anything, she’d grabbed the fruit bowl and was shushing Rory out the door.

  Dad stared at the casserole dish as if he was hoping the stew inside would somehow leap out onto his plate.

  ‘She spoils that boy,’ he muttered under his breath.

  I grinned to myself. Dad’s the supreme master of the blindingly obvious comment. He’s an accountant – good with Maths homework but a bit slow when it comes to words.

  Which is what made his next sentence so jaw-droppingly, outstandingly incredible.

  ‘Mum tells me you were asking about your … about when you were little,’ he said.

  I nearly choked on the slice of bread and butter I’d been stuffing into my mouth.

  ‘Well?’ Dad had his serious face on. Not an easy one for him to pull off as he’s short and bald with round, pink cheeks.

  I could feel the heat creeping up round my neck. I looked away and nodded.

  Dad cleared his throat. ‘I think …’ he said. Long pause.

  Come on, Dad. Before we both die of old age. Please.

  ‘I think … that if you’re old enough to ask—’

  At that moment Mum reappeared. She took one look at my red face and I knew she knew what was going on.

  ‘Old enough to ask what?’ she said.

  Dad mumbled something totally incoherent. Mum put her hands on her hips.

  ‘I thought we agreed, Dave?’ she said in a threatening voice.

  The atmosphere in the room stretched out tight, like a Croydon facelift.

  I pushed back my chair and stood up, my hands balled at my sides. If she was going to stop Dad from talking to me, she could forget about me eating her stupid stew.

  ‘Sit down, Lauren,’ Mum snapped.

  Anger surged up from my stomach. ‘No,’ I shouted. ‘Who put you in charge? Why d’you always, always think you know what’s best for everyone else?’

  Mum’s face clenched up.

  ‘Sit down and eat. Now.’

  Tears of rage and frustration welled in my eyes. How dare she order me about like that – like a little kid. ‘I won’t sit down,’ I shouted. ‘You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not even my real mother.’

  I ran out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind me. Tears streamed down my face as I raced through the hall, heading for the stairs and the small privacy of my own room.

  Rory was sitting on the top step, munching on an apple.

  ‘Why’s everyone shouting?’ he said.

  I stopped just below him and took a deep breath. My hands shook as I wiped my face. ‘Get out of my way,’ I muttered.

  ‘Wanna see a Martian train wreck?’ Rory opened his mouth and stuck out a tongue full of pale-green mush.

  I closed my eyes. What had I done to deserve such an uncool family? I bet Martha Lauren Purditt’s family weren’t like this. I could just imagine them: understanding, glamorous mother; sensitive, fun-loving father; and not a brother or sister in sight.

  The sound of Mum and Dad’s angry voices drifted towards the stairs.

  Rory shuffled down a couple of steps towards me. ‘Are Mum and Dad going to get divorced?’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ I snapped. ‘They’re arguing over which one of them has to live with you afterwards.’

  Rory stuck his tongue out at me again but didn’t say anything. A few seconds later he stomped off to his room.

  The shouting was getting louder, Mum’s high-pitched shriek piercing through Dad’s thundering rumble. And then I heard my own name. I walked back across the hall, trying to separate out what they were saying.

  ‘Stop shouting,’ Mum was yelling. ‘This is your fault. You promised me—’

  ‘For Chrissakes!’ Dad yelled back. ‘I’m only saying we can’t ignore her asking about it.’

  I’d never heard him sound so angry. I mean, they bicker all the time, but mostly about trivial stuff – like Dad working too hard. This was different.

  I shivered, and crept closer to the kitchen door.

  There was silence for a few seconds. Then Mum spoke again. Her voice was quieter now, almost pleading.

  ‘She’s too young. Her head’s still full of homework and … and … pop songs.’

  Yeah, right, Mum – you know me so well.

  ‘Then why’s she so angry? Why’s she been asking questions?’ Dad said.

  ‘Some stupid school project got her started. But she’ll lose interest.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘You mean you hope she’ll lose interest.’

  There was a longer pause. Then I could hear Mum sniffing. Her voice sounded muffled.

  ‘If we tell her one thing, she’ll want to hear the rest.’

  Dad murmured something I couldn’t catch.

  ‘I know, but not now,’ Mum said. ‘When she’s sixteen, I’ll show her my diaries. That’ll put it all in context for her.’

  I heard footsteps coming towards the door and scurried away, up the stairs. My heart was beating fast. So much for all Mum’s ‘closed adoption’ crap. They did know something about my life before they got me.

  My stomach twisted into a knot. What could it be that was so terrible they didn’t think I could handle yet? Could it have anything to do with Martha Lauren Purditt?

  I lay on my bed sure of only one thing. There was no way I could wait until I was sixteen to read Mum’s diaries.

  4

  Marchfield

  Break time the next day. Jam and I were out on the high street, buying our lunch. It’s something school only lets you do once you get to Year Ten. Three weeks in and Mum’s already complaining about my eating rubbish food – and spending too much money on it.

  I told Jam about the diaries while we waited to order our pizza from the takeaway bar.

  ‘Why don’t you just go and read them?’ he said.

  ‘Because Mum keeps all her old stuff in these locked trunks up in our attic.’

  A gust of wind whipped round my legs as a group of girls from another school tottered into the pizza bar. They stood in a cluster at the opposite end of the counter from us, giggling over a menu.

  Jam ordered our usual – a ham and pineapple pizza with double extra pepperoni for me to pick off – then we sat down to wait on the metal bench in the corner.

  ‘Well, get the keys and go up there,’ he said.

  I stared at him. Jam always made everything sound so simple.

  ‘What about Mum?’ I said. ‘I’ll need someone to keep her out of the way for at least an hour.’

  Jam frowned. ‘Doesn’t she ever go out?’

  ‘Not much.’ It was true. While Dad often doesn’t get in until nine or so, Mum works from home and spends most weekends and evenings in her office too.

  She isn’t exactly a party animal.

  After a few minutes Jam wandered over to the counter to see where our pizza was. While he waited, one of the girls from the other school went up to him. She was dead hard-looking, with spiky blonde hair and her school skirt hitched right up her legs.

  ‘My mate reckons you’re really fit,’ she said, jerking her thumb towards a short redhead on the edge of the group of girls.

  I grinned as Jam blushed. He was always getting hit on by girls. I guess he is quite good-looking. Tall, with regular features and lovely smooth, golden skin.

  The hard-faced blonde put her hand on her hip. ‘So d’you wanna go out with her? She’s free tomorrow night,’ she said. There was a burst of giggles from the gr
oup at the other end of the counter.

  Jam was smiling, trying to be nice as he said no. He looked really embarrassed. The man approached with our pizza.

  I stood up and took the box. Then I turned to the girl. ‘Sorry.’ I touched Jam’s arm. ‘But he’s busy tomorrow night.’

  I let go of Jam and swept out of the shop. There was a chorus of sarky ‘Ooooo’s at my back. I smiled to myself again.

  It was funny how alike Jam and I were. Not interested in going out with anyone, just wanting to be friends. Well, friends with each other.

  Jam caught up with me as I set off up the high street.

  ‘What did you mean?’ he said. ‘About tomorrow night?’

  I grinned at him. ‘I was hoping you’d help me get Mum out of the way so I can look through those diaries.’

  My plan was simple. Jam’s mum, Carla, was always saying she and my mum should get together, what with me and Jam being such good friends. So that night, after school, I asked her if Mum could visit her the very next day.

  ‘She’d really like to get to know you,’ I lied.

  Carla was typically enthusiastic, if a little vague: ‘How lovely, darling, but tell her to come before seven, that’s when I start seeing clients.’

  Of course Mum didn’t want to go. Partly because she hates going anywhere. And partly because she thinks Jam’s mum is a total nut. She’s right, in fact – but that’s another story.

  ‘What does “come before seven” mean?’ Mum said. ‘Suppose they’re having tea when I get there?’

  I sighed. ‘They don’t “have tea” like that. They all just drift in and out, getting food when they want it. Come on, Mum. Please. It’ll be really embarrassing if you won’t go.’ In the end Mum agreed.

  I reckoned Carla would keep Mum talking for at least an hour. Plenty of time for me to find the diaries in the attic and have a good look at them.

  Mum left our house at quarter past five the next day, still grumbling and issuing instructions about Rory not having chocolate before tea. Ten minutes later, Jam rang from his house.

  ‘The package has arrived,’ he said.

  I giggled. ‘Don’t forget to ring me as soon as she leaves again,’ I said.

  As soon as Jam hung up, I raced down to the kitchen to grab as much chocolate as I could carry. I panted back up the stairs and into Rory’s room. His pudgy little face was bent over his PSP. Jam – in a heroic gesture of friendship – had lent him his Legends of the Lost Empire game.

  ‘Here.’ I thrust the chocolate bars at him. ‘Now keep quiet.’

  I picked up my mobile and charged into Mum’s office. All her keys hung neatly on a row of hooks behind the desk. I shoved the set marked ‘attic’ in my pocket, then ran into Mum and Dad’s room, pulled down the loft ladder and climbed up.

  I’m guessing, of course, but I imagine most people’s attics are a bit of a mess. Bin bags, bits of old equipment, suitcases. That kind of stuff.

  Not ours.

  Mum has everything organised in trunks. Labelled trunks. Clothes. School. University. Letters. There. Diaries.

  My hands were shaking as I fumbled with the keys, trying one after the other in the lock. At last one of the keys turned with a satisfying click. I opened the trunk and peered inside at the neatly stacked rows of black notebooks. They were labelled in quarter years: Jan–Mar, Apr–Jun and so on.

  All disgustingly well-organised.

  I rummaged around and found the year I was adopted. I picked out Sep–Dec: the three months that covered Martha’s disappearance and my own adoption.

  Heart pounding I scanned the pages, searching for my name.

  There were references to me on Sept 25 and 30. But at that point I was just a possibility. An idea of a child they hadn’t met. Then . . .

  Oct 7 – We met Lauren at Marchfield. She smiled at me. At least I’m telling myself it was a smile. Dave said it was more of an accidental curl of the lip. Lauren doesn’t smile much. Not surprising, I suppose. With Sonia Holtwood involved, everything’s very tense and I’m sure she picks up on it.

  I put the diary down. For the first time since I’d found the information about Martha Lauren Purditt on the net, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to know any more. My stomach twisted into a knot. Who was Sonia Holtwood? And what exactly were they all involved in?

  I sat there for a few moments, the diary in my lap.

  Then I picked it up again. It was too late to turn back now.

  Oct 14 – I daren’t hope. I don’t want to be disappointed again . . .

  Oct 20 – Sonia’s attitude is unbelievable. But we’re going to go ahead anyway. Nothing’s going to stop us getting Lauren. Nothing.

  Oct 30 – Lauren. My Lauren. After all this time, it’s really happening. We’re bringing her home from Marchfield in two days.

  That was it. No more references to Sonia or Marchfield. Just loads of stuff about what it was like when they got me home.

  So what and where was Marchfield? I flicked to the back of the diary, to a clear plastic sleeve containing a selection of business cards. I saw it instantly – a yellowing card with the words Marchfield Adoption Agency embossed across the front.

  The doorbell rang – a long continuous screech.

  I leaped up and raced to the trapdoor.

  ‘Hi, Jam,’ I heard Rory saying.

  ‘Lauren! She’s almost here.’ Jam’s yell echoed urgently up from the hall.

  I pocketed the Marchfield Agency business card, tossed the diary back in the trunk and raced down the stepladder. Jam pelted into Mum and Dad’s bedroom in time to help me push the stepladder back up into the attic. It clicked into place just as the front door shut.

  ‘I’m home,’ Mum shouted.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me?’ I said to Jam, as I carefully replaced the keys on their hook.

  ‘I did. Your phone kept going to voice mail. I had to run all the way here – the long way round, too.’

  I checked my mobile. The volume was turned right down.

  Rory was standing in the study doorway, grinning at me. ‘I did it while you were getting my chocolate,’ he said.

  ‘You little . . .’ I lunged for him, but he slipped out of my grasp.

  ‘Do anything and I’ll tell Mum you were looking at her things,’ he said.

  I stared at him. ‘Fine.’ I’d get him back some other way.

  We went downstairs. Jam slipped out, unnoticed by Mum. She was in a good mood, clattering about in the kitchen. I suspected Carla had given her more to drink than a cup of tea.

  ‘Totally chaotic,’ Mum said. ‘Poor Jam. They live in the most unbelievable mess. Frankly, the place could do with a damn good clean as well. But of course, Carla’s too busy with her hypno-flexology-colour-in-your-own-aura nonsense.’

  I nodded without really listening. My mind was on the Marchfield business card in my pocket. I slipped out of the kitchen and went up to my room.

  Hands shaking, I took out the card:

  Taylor Tarson, Director

  Marchfield Adoption Agency

  11303 Main Street

  Marchfield, Vermont, USA.

  America. I was adopted from America?

  The ‘missing’ poster from the website flashed into my mind. Martha Lauren was American too. My skin erupted in goosebumps, sending a shiver snaking down my back.

  I was getting closer and closer to the truth.

  Part of me wanted to run back downstairs, burst into the kitchen and confront Mum with what I’d found out. But what good would it do?

  She’s too young.

  Mum still wouldn’t tell me anything.

  Plus – she would totally freak if she knew I’d been nosing through her diaries.

  Whatever I was going to find out from the Marchfield Adoption Agency, I would have to find out alone.

  5

  Carla

  The last week of September was hot and sunny. With the weather like that, I much preferred being at Jam’s house to mine. The grass in his ba
ck garden was always long and soft – perfect for lying out on.

  The day after I’d read Mum’s diaries, we rushed back there after school. I reckoned we should be able to sit outside for at least an hour before Mum rang to demand I went home and did my homework.

  As I sat down on the grass, Jam emerged from the kitchen carrying a bunch of bananas, three vegetarian sausages and several packets of biscuits.

  ‘So how far away from each other are Marchfield and Evanport?’ he asked, ripping open one of the biscuit packs.

  ‘Not far – just a few centimetres on Rory’s atlas.’ I tipped my face to the sunshine. ‘They’re in different states, though.’

  Jam carefully placed a veggie sausage between two wholewheat digestives. ‘What’re you going to do?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I sighed.

  What options did I have? I couldn’t talk to Mum and Dad. And I already knew no adoption agency would tell me anything without their approval.

  Marchfield wasn’t even in this country, for God’s sake.

  Everywhere I turned was a dead end.

  I detached a banana from the bunch and broke off the tip.

  ‘That all you’re having?’

  I shrugged. It’s not like I’m a diet freak or anything. But I hate being so much bigger than the rest of my family. I mean, Mum’s basically a bony elbow on legs. I’m even taller than Dad.

  Jam stretched out across the grass and bit into his sausage and biscuit sandwich. ‘You know, Laurenzo. It’s a shame you can’t remember all this stuff about your adoption. It would save an awful lot of time.’

  I stared at him. For some reason it had never occurred to me that the one place all the answers to my past could be found was inside my own head.

  The front door slammed. Jam sat up and groaned. ‘The lunatic has re-entered the asylum.’

  A minute later Carla poked her frizzy head round the back door. ‘I’m back from my colonic, darlings.’

  I blushed.

  ‘Gross, Mum.’ Jam made a face. ‘Way too much information.’

  Carla stepped out into the garden and fluffed up her hair. ‘Don’t be so uptight, darling. I’m sure Lauren’s heard it all before. What are you guys doing?’ Her eyes twinkled.