The Reappearance of Rachel Price

Morning came, eventually, a yellow promise pawing at the sky and her window. Bel hid in her room. Her fortress, badly defended, surrounded on all sides by the possibility of Rachel Price. She could be anywhere, a figure in the shape of her mother, creeping around, laying claim to the house, even though Bel had lived in it longer.

Bel waited, ear to the door, listening. She heard the pad of footsteps downstairs, a clatter in the kitchen, but she couldn’t tell whether it was Dad or Rachel. It sounded like one person, no voices.

The front door slammed, and Bel jumped. New footsteps, heavier, and the swish of plastic bags. That must have been Dad, but where had he been? Did that mean he’d left Bel all alone in the house with Rachel? Thank God she hadn’t left her room.

Now there were voices, muffled and low.

Bel straightened up, stomach rumbling.

It was safe, now Dad was down there too. Well, safer.

She opened the door and went downstairs.

Charlie was half inside the refrigerator, unloading a grocery bag.

Rachel was by the counter, and she caught Bel first, like she’d been waiting to do just that, eyes trained on the doorway.

“Oh, good morning,” she said, a smile on her face as bright as the sun. “I was about to bring you this. I made you a coffee, Anna.” She stepped forward, brandishing a mug. “Sorry. Bel. Can’t get used to that.”

Bel didn’t move to take it.

“D-do you like coffee?” Rachel hesitated too, losing the smile. “Sorry. I don’t know the things you like. Yet. I want to learn. Everything.”

Dad looked over, a nudge with his eyes. Things were supposed to feel strange, remember?

Bel shuffled one foot forward, offering Rachel an inch. “I like coffee,” she said.

The smile reappeared. “With milk, right?” She handed it over, their fingers colliding again, a cold afterglow where Rachel’s skin had touched hers. At least the sharp, overgrown nails were gone. Bel looked down at the coffee. “Is it too much milk? Not enough? I want to learn,” Rachel said again, not stepping back like she should, taking up too much space.

“It looks perfect.” Bel took a tiny sip, using it as an excuse to move away, into a seat at the kitchen table.

Rachel beamed down at her. “Do you want anything else? Orange juice? You like juice?”

“I’m fine,” Bel said, the words echoing inside the mug.

“Gonna do eggs and bacon for breakfast,” Charlie said, coming back out of the refrigerator, crushing the empty plastic bag in one hand.

So that was where he’d been; out getting groceries. Not just leaving to leave Bel here.

He clattered away with pans and pots, busying himself at the stove. Removing two plates from the drawer, forgetting, and going back for a third, laying them out on the counter. Rachel took the chair one away from Bel, nursing her own coffee. In the Santa mug; Dad’s favorite.

“Bel,” Charlie said, breaking the eggs into a jug. “You cracked a plate last night, when you loaded the dishwasher.”

Did she? She didn’t remember, but she’d had no awareness of her hands at the time, all attention diverted into her ears, listening out for her parents in the other room. One must have slipped.

“Sorry. I didn’t realize.”

“No problem, kiddo. Just letting you know.” He smiled at her, laying the bacon out on the pan in regimented lines.

“So, Anna-bel,” Rachel said loudly, catching herself just in time, cracking Bel’s name into self-conscious halves. “You must be in senior year, not long to go. Are you at Gorham High? How’s your GPA? Did you apply to college?”

Her eyes seared into Bel’s.

Bel blinked them away, looking down at her coffee. “Yes, I’m at Gorham High. GPA is fine.” Because fine was easier to say than distinctly average, as Principal Wheeler had put it. “I’m starting the liberal arts program at White Mountains Community College in the fall.” A good choice, so she could stay at home with Dad, an unspoken promise between them, to never leave the other behind. Except now there would be a stranger in her home too.

“Great,” Rachel said, smile hidden behind Santa’s on the mug. “Do you know what you want to do yet? I didn’t know when I was your age, and I always hated being asked. Sorry.”

Was there still a question in there?

“I don’t know,” Bel answered. Clinging to those safe, dependable words.

“That’s fine, you have all the time in the world to figure it out. What about hobbies? Sports—you play any?”

“Not really.”

Rachel blinked, a strain in her smile. “So what do you like to do for fun?”

Bel shrugged. “Just, kind of, stay home, I guess.”

“Friends over?”

Why was Rachel asking her so many goddamn questions? She hadn’t asked Charlie even one. Interrogating Bel, pushing her into corners. And when Bel got pushed into a corner, she normally came out fighting. She bit it down this time, really trying, because she wasn’t ready for war; she didn’t know yet, whether she and Rachel belonged on the same side.

“Carter comes over a lot,” she said.

Rachel nodded, a grateful flash in her eyes. “A-and who’s Carter?”

Bel forgot: there was no overlap. Carter knew of Rachel, but not the other way around.

“She’s my cousin,” said Bel. “Jeff and Sherry’s daughter. Born a few months after you left.”

Her eyes widened. Maybe they’d both picked up on the word Bel had used there. Left.

Rachel pressed a hand to her chest, the one with her rings: wedding and engagement. She’d kept them on all this time too. “That’s nice. I’m so happy for them; they always wanted a baby.”

“Not a baby anymore,” said Bel. “She’s almost sixteen.”

“Do they still live in number nineteen?” Rachel asked. “Jeff and Sherry.”

“Yes,” Charlie answered this time.

“What about Pat, Charlie?” Rachel said suddenly, narrowing her eyes. “Is he still … ?”

“He’s alive, yeah,” Charlie sniffed, stirring the eggs. “Went to see him this morning, actually. He had a couple of strokes, the first one last summer. Has vascular dementia now, doesn’t remember a lot. Not doing so great. We have a full-time caregiver with him.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Rachel put her mug down with a thunk, a splash of coffee over the rim, Santa crying dark brown tears. “That must be tough. What about my parents? Oh, I should call them.” She rose up from her chair, almost like she meant to do it right now.

“Rachel,” Charlie said in a small voice. He didn’t turn back to say it. “Your dad passed away four years ago. It was cancer. I’m sorry too.”

She dropped back into her chair, smile peeling away, retreating muscle by muscle.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said again, even though Grandaddy dying wasn’t his fault.

Rachel went to wash her hands for breakfast. She didn’t come back for six minutes, eyes rubbed red when she did. The eggs and bacon and toast were ready and waiting.

“Dave Winter called,” Charlie said, snapping a piece of bacon in half. “Chief of police,” he explained, reading the confusion on Rachel’s face. Maybe she wasn’t unreadable to him. “They’ll be around this afternoon sometime, to go over details for the press conference tomorrow morning. And see how you’re doing, of course. They want to get you booked in with the psychiatrist.”

Rachel nodded absently.

Another mouthful before she asked: “Do you know him well, the police chief?”

“We’ve had our dealings,” Charlie replied, a cough to help the bacon go down. “He’s the one who arrested me for your murder, Rachel.” His eyes were shy, dropping to his plate.

“Right,” she said, just as shy, spooling her fork through the pile of fluffy eggs. There would be more questions on that later, Bel thought, once Rachel worked up the courage. There were land mines everywhere here, open your mouth and they blew up. Dead dads and wrongful arrests, and nieces she never knew about.

Charlie’s phone rang then, a welcome break in the tension, buzzing angrily against the table. He looked at the screen and ended the call, his face giving nothing away.

Bel’s went off too, vibrating in her lap. She glanced down at the name on-screen—Ramsey Lee—and let it ring out.

“You should call them,” Rachel said, eyes tripping over the sharp lines of the rectangular device in front of Charlie, like this was her first time seeing a smartphone, understanding what it did. “Your brother and Sherry. Invite them over. I’d like to see them, meet their daughter. They should know before the world does, at the press conference tomorrow. You should call Jeff.”

“OK.”

Rachel couldn’t have meant right this second, he hadn’t even finished his breakfast, but Charlie picked up his phone and wandered out of the kitchen, disappearing upstairs, like he’d been waiting for any excuse to escape. Like it was unbearable to sit here, being a family of three. Bel got up to clear the table, so she could escape too, clinging to the low hum of Dad’s voice through the ceiling.

* * *

A knock on the door. An uneasy knock, at once too serious and too silly, five taps clumped together in a tune. That would be Uncle Jeff, bad at reading rooms, even when he wasn’t in them.

Dad had just told him on the phone, repeated it until Jeff believed it. So they knew what to expect, the three of them. But you wouldn’t have known it by their faces, when Bel pulled open the door, Rachel standing behind her, still in those striped pajamas.

“Oh my God!” Sherry gasped, somewhere between a whisper and a shriek, flickering between the two. “Oh my God!” More a shriek now, as she barged past Bel, folding Rachel into a tight hug. Rachel returned it, just as tight. “Oh my God!” Sherry held Rachel back to look at her, running her fingers through her short-hacked hair. There was a matching smile on Rachel’s face, eyes looming and wet. “Rachel, honey. I can’t believe you’re alive,” Sherry cried. “We all thought you were gone forever. I can’t believe you’re really here, sweetie. This can’t be real.”

Sherry squeezed Rachel again, breaking into sobs that shook both of them, locked in an earthquake together.

“We missed you so much,” Sherry continued. “God, it’s a miracle!”

“Move over, Sher,” Jeff said, stepping into the house. “Let me look at her.”

Rachel sidestepped back into view, tears falling into her open smile. “Hello, Jeff,” she croaked, but her eyes strayed behind him, to Carter, who was now shoulder to shoulder with Bel.

Carter squeezed Bel’s hand and Bel squeezed hers back. They didn’t always need to speak, that said enough, a language of their own.

“Come here,” Jeff said, arms open pincer-wide, catching Rachel. “I can’t believe you’re really back. It’s been such a long time. We always hoped, but I never thought …” He pulled away. “So good to have you back, Rach.”

“Good to be back,” she said, gaze flicking to the front door, to Bel and Carter standing here against the sun.

Jeff followed her eyes. “Oh, Rachel, this is our daughter, Car—”

“Carter,” Rachel completed it for him, a nod of her head, almost a bow. “Bel already told me about you.”

“Hi, Aunt Rachel.” Carter stepped forward, waving one awkward hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Rachel moved too, meeting her halfway. They leaned into a hug, arms slotting in. “It’s good to meet you too, sweetie,” Rachel said, eyes glittering as she pulled away.

Sweetie. She hadn’t called Bel that yet, couldn’t even get her name right. Come to think of it, Rachel hadn’t tried to hug Bel either. Or Charlie, for that matter, her own husband. The people she should love most. But Sherry and Jeff and Carter walked through the door and they got hugs and smiles and sweeties.

“Very good to meet you,” Rachel said, another smile for Carter, another stab in Bel’s gut. It wasn’t jealousy, don’t be stupid. It was something else, a side effect of the wrongness of it all, of Rachel, and everything she said and did. Something wasn’t right, whatever Dad wanted to believe.

“When’s your birthday, Carter?”

“July tenth,” Carter answered, still too close to Rachel. Something in Bel wanted to pull her cousin away, protect her from Rachel’s gaze.

Rachel nodded. “So you must have been pregnant, Sherry, when I was taken?”

“I was. Not yet showing.”

“I’m sure we all have lots to catch up on, sixteen years’ worth. Can’t do it all here in the hallway,” Rachel said, the tears gone but a near-unnoticeable shake in her bottom lip, threatening to bring them back. Maybe she was just realizing; people had had entire lives in the time she was gone. “Please, let’s sit down.”

Jeff and Sherry walked into the living room, greeting Charlie with more Oh my gods and I can’t believe its. Rachel glanced at Bel, a look in her eyes that was still unreadable. Then she gestured Carter ahead with a kind “After you,” following behind her.

No one mind Bel, then. She shut the front door, harder than she had to.

Dad put on another pot of coffee. And Sherry had brought cupcakes; they were just sitting around the house, she thought she might as well bring them. Didn’t feel right, though, happy blue-and-yellow frosting with sprinkles, turned this all into a celebration somehow. Bel was full from breakfast: none for her, thanks.

No one asked anything about Rachel’s missing time, speaking around those sixteen years in wide, awkward circles. Dad must have asked them not to. Rachel seemed happy with that, focusing on everyone else. She must have been sick of the story of her disappearance and reappearance too, the number of times she’d had to repeat it in the last twenty-four hours: to Bel, Charlie, the Gorham Police Department, State Police, feds, attorney general’s office. Must have been exhausting, especially trying to remember all those little details. She’d already messed it up once. Bel needed to stop thinking about it, maybe she should have a cake.

“So, Carter, tell me about yourself,” Rachel said, studying her niece, wedged on the sofa between her parents. “What subjects do you like at school? What do you do for fun?”

This question again. Had Rachel forgotten what fun meant; was that what sixteen years being disappeared did to you?

“I like English lit most.” Carter fiddled with her sleeve.

“Really?” Rachel beamed. “Do you go to Gorham High with Bel? I used to teach English lit there.”

Carter nodded politely. She already knew that; she had to walk past The Rachel Shrine every day too. Rachel must not know yet, that she was this town’s most popular mystery.

“What’s your favorite book?” Rachel asked her.

She hadn’t asked Bel that yet. Bel liked to read too.

“Um, I like—”

“Carter’s actually a dancer, Rachel,” Sherry cut in, a dramatic sip of her coffee. “A ballerina. She has the potential to go all the way.”

“Wow, really?” Rachel said, eyes lighting up. “That’s amazing. I’d love to see you dance sometime.”

Carter swallowed her mouthful of cake. “There’s a show, at my dance school, in a few weeks,” she said. Was that an invite? Carter never asked Bel to come and watch her.

“That must be quite a commitment, on top of your schoolwork,” Rachel said. “Do you enjoy all the dancing, Carter?”

“She loves it,” Sherry spoke for her, a proud squeeze of Carter’s bony knee. “Lives for it.”

Carter nodded, agreeing. She’d told Bel sometimes it was easier to let her mom speak for her; Sherry loved to speak, and Carter didn’t always. They worked well together like that, how a mother and daughter should.

“So, Rachel,” Sherry turned attention back to her. “Charlie said there’s going to be a press conference tomorrow morning. Are you ready for the world to know you’re back? It’s going to be a media shitstorm, pardon my French.”

Rachel looked unsure what to say.

Charlie spoke instead; he’d been quiet for a while, hovering close to Bel’s chair. “We’ve dealt with media shitstorms in the past, we can do it again. As a family.”

“Happier news this time,” Jeff added. “Finally a chance to clear your name for good, Charlie. No one can think you killed your wife now.”

“I don’t have anything to wear,” Rachel said in a small voice, a flash of shame as she looked down at her pajamas, everyone else dressed for the day.

“Honey,” Sherry said, sticking her bottom lip out in sympathy, a flap of her hand. “Don’t you worry about that; I can lend you something. Or maybe Bel has something you can borrow.” Sherry nudged Bel with her eyes. “You two are the same size. Bel, you must have something your mom can wear. A black dress, something nice?”

Everyone waited for her answer.

“Um, yeah,” Bel said. “I’ll find something.”

“Thanks, Anna,” Rachel said, a small smile to match her small voice.

It was Bel, for fuck’s sake. She hoped someone else in the room would correct Rachel for her, but a knock at the door saved them.

Charlie stiffened. “Did you order anything, Bel?”

She shook her head and followed him out of the room, to get away from Rachel’s eyes, too much like her own.

Charlie pulled the door open with an intake of breath.

Ramsey was standing on the doorstep. James next to him, a camera perched on his shoulder. Saba and Ash arranged behind on the steps, a yellow backward cap over Ash’s curly hair, the boom microphone hanging above them all.

“Sorry to come by unannounced,” Ramsey said, a grating sound as he ran his hand over his stubble. “Been trying to call you, both of you, since you left set yesterday, Bel.” He looked sorry about that, like he’d worked out why that happened, solved a mini-mystery in the shadow of the main one. He didn’t know that was solved now too. Although Bel bet he was going to find out in three … “We’ve rescheduled the reenactment, but that’s not why we’re here.” … two … “Listen, don’t really know how to say this, but there’s a weird rumor going round. Kosa—who owns the hotel—says she heard from someone that Rachel has re—”

… one …

The life drained from Ramsey’s face all at once, teeth gritted in the shape of his broken word. Eyes wide. Horror or awe or both.

There she was, hanging in the hallway behind, like she’d been summoned by the mention of her name. Hadn’t worked for sixteen years, but it worked every time now.

“… appeared,” Ramsey whispered the rest.

Ash rose up on his tiptoes behind, eyes searching for what Ramsey had seen, starting with Bel, trailing to the woman behind.

Fuck, he mouthed silently, leaving his lips open around it.

“Hello,” Rachel said, narrowing her eyes, surprised to see a British film crew standing at her front door, staring in shock.

“R-Rachel?” Ramsey staggered. “Rachel Price?”

Rachel stepped forward, glancing at Bel, then Charlie, like she was checking with them first. Neither of them said anything to stop her.

“That’s me.” She dipped her head. “Who are you?”

“Jesus Christ.” He whistled. “No, that’s not my name. I’m Ramsey Lee, filmmaker.” He offered his hand for her to shake, a visible shiver passing through him when she did. Was he scared, or was this the best thing to ever happen to him? He probably wouldn’t struggle to find a broadcaster for his documentary now.

“Sorry, this is very surreal.” Ramsey sniffed. “We’ve been making a documentary about you. I can’t believe you’re alive. After all this time.”

“It was a surprise for all of us,” Charlie said.

Well, not Rachel. She knew she was alive.

“Sorry, didn’t get a chance to tell you about this yet,” Charlie said to Rachel, gesturing at the crew.

“God, it’s so strange, meeting you,” Ramsey continued. “I’ve done so much research about you the last few months, it almost feels like we’ve already met.”

“Whoa, hey, wait,” Charlie said suddenly, a trace of rare anger in his voice that made everyone stand back, Rachel and Bel too. “Are you rolling?” He eyeballed the camera on James’s shoulder.

Ramsey slinked back over the threshold, Prices inside, crew out, redrawing the lines between them. “Well, yes,” he said, not meeting Charlie’s eye. “I wanted to see your reaction to this crazy rumor. I never in a million years thought that Rachel would actually—”

“Stop recording.” Charlie put his hands up to block the camera’s view. “She hasn’t even had her first full day back yet. We are still processing. The investigation is ongoing. The police won’t want us talking to you until they’ve worked out what information they want released publicly.” Charlie ushered them all back, stepping down the stairs in their same formation, not breaking ranks. Ash was on the path, looking at Bel, like he was trying to catch her attention. She gave it to him for one second.

You OK? he mouthed.

Bel took her attention back.

“There’s a press conference tomorrow morning in Town Hall,” Charlie said, shooing them farther. “After that, I will talk to the police and see where that leaves us with the doc.”

“OK,” Ramsey said, bowing his head quickly, one finger raised, “but I—”

“What’s it called?” Rachel cut in, hovering in the doorway, eyes screwed against the sun. “The documentary?”

Ramsey swallowed, staring up at her. “The Disappearance of Rachel Price. Except, I guess we’ll have to change the name now.”

“To what?”