“Hi, honey,” Mrs. Connors says, holding out the dish. “I brought you some lasagna so your mom doesn’t have to cook. I’m sure she’s got enough on her plate with … everything that’s going on.”
“Yeah,” I say, taking the dish from her. I remember Mrs. Connors’s lasagna. It’s not as good as Mom’s. But with the mood my mother is in, any edible food is good as far as I’m concerned. “She’s pretty stressed out. Thanks.”
“How’s … Lara doing?”
It’s like she’s afraid to say Lara’s name. It’s like that with everyone who comes by. I want to scream at them to stop whispering her name; that she didn’t actually die. She’s just super messed up, that’s all.
“Okay, I guess.”
“But she’s not back at school yet?”
Doesn’t anyone talk to each other in that house? I mean, Bree must know that Lara hasn’t been in school.
“No, not yet.”
“She’s not feeling up to it?”
What is this, a police interrogation?
“Um, no. Not yet.”
“Well, give her our love,” Mrs. Connors says, which is kind of weird, given that Lara and Bree aren’t really friends anymore. She turns and is halfway down the steps before she calls back over her shoulder, “And give my best to your mom.”
“I will,” I tell her. “Thanks for the lasagna.”
I take the dish into the kitchen, where Mom’s reading city council briefing papers and sipping a glass of chardonnay. There’s no evidence of any dinner preparation in sight.
“Mrs. Connors brought over a lasagna. Should I heat it up for dinner?”
“Sure, throw it in the oven,” Mom says, reaching for the wineglass. “That was nice of Mary Jo.”
“She was asking a lot of questions about Lara.”
Mom drains half of what’s in her wineglass in one gulp. I hope all this stress isn’t turning my mother into a wino.
“Everyone who brings over food to help me out so I don’t have to cook asks a lot of questions about Lara,” she says with a sigh. “We’re the talk of the neighborhood. I’m sure everyone is dissecting my mothering skills and judging me on where I went wrong.”
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 channel or turn off the TV. The only thing I can do is go back and try to finish my homework before the police arrive.
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 dinner once.”
“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.
“Breanna Connors,” I say. “She and Lara were best friends until a year or so ago. Our families were friends. And then Lara and Bree fell out, and now nobody is allowed to be friends.”
“That’s not true, dear,” Mom protests. “Mary Jo brought over the lasagna that’s in the oven for dinner.”
The detective is scribbling as we speak. I imagine his notes. Neighbor Mary Jo Connors made a lasagna.
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 Connorses, I can’t see Bree doing something like this,” Dad says. “They’re a good family. Sean Connors and I built that tree fort together, the one you can see out back. Lara and Bree practically lived up there when they were younger, didn’t you, pumpkin?”