The Reappearance of Rachel Price

“You’ve been out all day.” Dad spoke from his chair, balancing a beer on his shoulder.

“So have you,” Bel said.

“Work’s crazy at the moment, kiddo.” He didn’t take his eyes off the television.

Well, so was home.

“Did something happen today?”

Bel stalled. What did he mean? A lot had happened today, but nothing he should know about. “I don’t …,” she began.

“Mug was broken.” He finally looked up at her. “My favorite one.”

“Santa?”

“Just had to throw it away. Did one of you break it?”

Bel didn’t like that, being lumped into the same you as Rachel. But Bel was the one who’d drunk out of that mug this morning; Rachel had made her a coffee, still hadn’t learned that Santa was Dad’s mug. Had Bel broken it? She couldn’t remember, gulping it down, rushing to get away from Rachel. She’d done things like that before, careless, forgetful. Unless Rachel did know it was Dad’s favorite and broke it on purpose, pushing him a little farther every day.

“I don’t know, sorry, Dad.” Bel sat down. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said.

But it did.

“I gotta talk to you about something.” Dad leaned over for the remote, paused the TV. “I just got a call from your principal. He says you went to a teacher’s house today. Mr. Tripp. That you harassed him.”

Bel’s eyes darkened, her gut clenched. “Fucking rat,” she spat, picturing him, stamping on his glasses.

“Apparently you were asking strange questions about Rachel. What’s going on, kiddo?” he said, hands motionless in his lap.

Bel was caught.

But that was OK. She didn’t have enough evidence for the police, but she had enough for Dad. He was on her side, always. Bel glanced toward the stairs. “Where’s Rachel?”

“She’s taking a bath.”

Bel squeezed her fingers, lowered her voice. “I think she’s lying, Dad. About all of it.” Dad sat up, chair creaking beneath him. “Her disappearance, her reappearance. She planned them. I don’t think a man ever took her. There have been inconsistencies in her story, things she knows that she couldn’t know if she’d spent the last sixteen years locked in a basement. She was in North Conway a few months ago, out and free, buying clothes to match the ones she disappeared in. It was all planned. I think Mr. Tripp knows something. Rachel’s a liar, Dad, and I don’t know what she wants, but we have to find out what really happened so we can—”

“That’s enough, Bel,” he said, gentle but firm, cutting her off. “We talked about this already. Rachel isn’t lying.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” He peeled the corner of his beer label. “Rachel is telling the truth about what happened to her. Of course she is; how else could she have been gone for so long?” His gaze hardened, the sharp rip of the beer label coming free. “Trust me, I know her better than you. I believe her, OK, kiddo? That should be enough for you too. I want you to drop this. Please?”

A punch to Bel’s gut, knuckle prints in the knot that didn’t fade. Dad was supposed to be on her side. How could he not see it?

“You know something’s wrong,” she tried again, desperate. “You haven’t been the same since she came back, avoiding the house, working all the time. I’ve hardly seen you.”

Dad sighed. “Things are just complicated. Real life is, kiddo. It’s only been a week, takes longer than that to get used to such a life-changing thing. For me, and for you. Please, Bel, let this go. You’ll only make things harder. Promise me?”

Bel had already made a promise: to get rid of Rachel, to go back to their life before Rachel reappeared and ruined everything, back to when they were both happy. Bel chose Dad. He was her constant, the one who’d never leave. She would always choose him. But he wasn’t asking her to choose, he was asking her to let it go, to accept Rachel, to make a new promise.

Maybe they could all exist together, in this house.

Bel had to try, because Dad was the one who’d asked. Dad believed Rachel; and that should be enough for her too. Should be.

Bel deflated, but the knot grew, pulling tighter. “OK,” she said quietly. “I promise.”

Dad smiled at her, raised his beer in a sad salute. “Principal Wheeler said you were with someone from the film crew today?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Ash. The camera assistant.”

Dad coughed. “I would be careful, spending time with him. They are trying to tell the most interesting story, sensationalizing it, using us to do that. Orchestrating tense situations where they know we’ll react in front of the camera. They’re trying to manipulate you, kiddo, all this stuff about Rachel. I think you probably shouldn’t see Ash again, on your own.”

Bel sniffed. “You’re probably right,” because Dad always was. And Ash was getting too close, anyway. There had to be a reason he was the only one who’d believed her about Rachel, didn’t there?

“Just trying to protect you.” Dad reached for the remote, finger hovering over the button.

“Can we do something tomorrow?” Bel spoke quickly, before he could un-pause it. “You and me. Rachel too, I guess. The three of us. Maybe a hike or something? I’ve missed you.” He wouldn’t know it, but that was one of the hardest things to say, baring everything, chest pried open rib by rib, heart beating and unguarded. She was trying.

Dad’s face softened around a smile. “Sure, kiddo. Anything you want.”

Upstairs they heard the bathroom door swinging open. The soft pad of Rachel’s bare feet, creeping against the carpet. Them down here, her up there. Had Rachel heard any of that, what Bel said about her? Was she trying to listen in? Maybe she …

No, stop it. Bel was letting it go.

Really trying to let it go, to override that bad feeling in her gut.

Bel held her breath, waiting, listening. It came; the click of the spare-room door shutting, the double click as Rachel locked herself inside.