Longer than lost

My vision is blurred as the dirty blonde beside me smokes. When you think of dirty blonde, maybe you think of an ashy gold color, but this dirty blonde is different. Her hair is more of a sandy color, brittle and unkept because of how much she's dyed it. "That's not helping," I snap as I sniff the tangy air irritably, turning over a dusty red moleskin. I open it up cautiously, the pages flaking at my touch. "Hey, Daisy, come look at this," I muse. She tilts her head up and leans forward. "What's this?" She takes it from me, trailing a nimble finger along the cracked spine. I watch as she opens it, her pale green eyes traveling along the words written in loopy cursive. This may seem a little bit odd, considering the fact that I'm snooping through someone's stuff, accompanied by someone who might seem like a pothead. Unfortunately, I have a reason. My sister, 27 years old, went by Lily Lakes the last time I checked, has disappeared, and I was put up to the task of going through her things. This isn't uncommon for her, withdrawing like that. She's run away many times, but only ever for a few weeks at most. It has now been almost ten years since the last time anyone ever saw her, which was on July fourteenth, at 2:22pm. You may wonder why she feels the need to vanish, and I'll tell you. Ever since August fourth, 2014, my mother, Elizabeth Fair, has been critically acclaimed an alcoholic. Now, this wasn't just out of the blue, like she woke up one afternoon and decided she was going to raise an addiction, but in the months following her best friend's death, she has started drinking, more than at the occasional dinner party. So much, that she stopped being invited to the occasional dinner party, and instead to the rehab center. So my sister decided she didn't want a mom full of champagne, and left. She checked up on me all the time, and when she turned eighteen and was able to enroll in a community college, I could go and visit her in her dorm. As of two days ago, I'm eighteen now, and I can go live in a nice college dorm, too. "Mia, I asked you a question," Daisy's voice jerks me back into the present. "Hm?" I mummer, and she lifts the moleskin to my eyes. I read the first passage. There's no dear diary, or dear future me, not even a single hey, just straight to business. Today I woke up to a nightmare. Literally. I opened my door and there was mom, being dragged off by some bulky guys in baby blue t-shirts. I stop reading, because this sounds familiar. I dive in again. I screamed at her, and I asked her why she was doing this to us. She was sobbing, tears leaking down her face and dripping onto her pretty white blouse. One of the bulky guys stepped towards me, asking if I was the daughter who had called. I shook my head, confused, and then turned. My sister, Mia, stood in the doorway to her room, holding a small pink phone, her olive hands shaking, her dark brown hair ruffled, her brown eyes glistening. "It was me," She whispered, and shivered. My hand flies up to my head, already throbbing. My hands start to shake holding the moleskin, and I almost laugh. My hands are always shaking, but right now is because this is the person who wrote in this ancient-looking moleskin is my sister.

Maybe why I'm so shocked right now is because this measly collection of memories holds the truth to everything I've ever asked. What is my sister's real name? Where did she go? Who was she friends with? These questions might seem a little weird, but that's because my sister and I have a ten-year age gap, so she was gone by the time I was 5, and everything before that is a blur. I don't know anything about her, even though she's like a mother to me. She took care of me my whole life, even while she was miles away from home. She would call me, write me, (Even though at the time that was kind of lame, still is,) and send her friends to check up on me. I asked her for advice on everyday life, asked her about what I needed to do when I got my period, asked for her opinion when I got my first boyfriend, and filled her in on every detail about my first kiss, while she told me about everything she wished she had, and everything she wants, all while I lived with our Grandma. My mom came out of rehab, but she moved and never spoke to me again. I push the thought away. "That's my sister!" I almost shout, because the opportunity has kicked in. Daisy's eyes fly open. I mean, they weren't closed, but she was squinting. "ohhhh, that's why she said Mia!" I pretend to ignore the fact that she's high, and nod enthusiastically. "Mhm! Which means I can find out everything I never knew!" I continue. Daisy cocks her head. "I bet there are other ones. You get reading, okay?" I nod, and flip open the book. I approached her and pulled her into my grip. "It's okay, lil sis," I whispered as she sniffled, too young to understand what was going on. I skim through most of the entries, looking for something incriminating. Maybe that's not the right word. Looking for something interesting. There. I find it. School was awful today. Like always, no one payed me any attention, because I'm just another kid of a junkie, but it still made a difference to me. I have friends in almost every class, and the fucked up thing is that they all think it's incredibly cool that my mom got dragged off to rehab. Literally. I feel bad for the neighbors, having to listen to her scream and cry about how she promises to do better. Sometimes I wonder what the outcome will be like. Maybe she'll come out, and immediately relapse, or maybe she'll reappear and be some crazy zen parent, or maybe she'll be a good mom again, which I highly doubt. Oh, yes, there are some amazing memories of us, Mia, mom and I, and even before Mia, when It was just us two. She was an awesome mom. She was a teacher at one of our local elementary schools, and all of the kids loved her. I remember it so clearly. Everyone loved me, too, because I was her daughter. I was the daughter of that one chill teacher. Well, actually, I wouldn't describe her as chill. She was actually really tense, but also fun. She knew what every kid needed, not what they wanted. She would take kids out on the playground when their brains got too filled up, and hand out small toys on the days they were well-behaved. She was amazing. Tears sting my eyes as I read about the mother I never had. Daisy is bent over, tossing things out of the boxes scattered on the floor. I move to a different page. You might be wondering what I was like. You, I don't know who you are. You could be future me, or some alien from outer space, doing research on earth beings. Or maybe you're mom, better mom, reading this to try and see where I went wrong. Maybe you're my best friend, or maybe you're my sister, trying to make sense of why things are like this.

Well, you, here's my story. I was born on a boat, yes, a boat, when my mom was traveling in Mexico. She was pregnant, and yes she knew about it, but her due date wasn't for another month or two, so she thought, "Why not go and take me and my baby on a bumpy boat ride to a highly active volcano on another island, hours away from any city?" So that's exactly what she did, and you, I bet you can guess what happened next. Yep. She "peed her pants," but it turned out her water broke. Oops! Luckily, there was an obstetrician (A doctor who delivers babies) on board, who was able to guide mom through giving birth to me. And she did. So I grew up, just her and I, and developed long, flowy black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes. I looked just like mom. I was her mini-me. I loved kicking around this little purple soccer ball I found in the park, and I loved to bang the keys on our grand piano, driving mom nuts. I also loved to sing, so I drove mom nuts by doing that, too. My first ever song was called "I love you," A Kathy original. Wait. Kathy. Is that her real name? Her nickname? So maybe her real name is Katherine, just like my real name is Miandria. Don't worry, I've heard stranger. I sang that song and I kicked that purple soccer ball until third grade when I joined the little kid soccer team and started going to youth choir group. It was fun until it started to get real. Then, in middle school, I decided to try choir again, and kept with that until, well, I'm still in choir. There I am. Katherine Gabriella Fair. Named after the doctor who helped my mom give birth. That's me. I frown at the page. My sister has always had different names. Alex, Sarah, Savanah, the list goes on. The closest name she's ever called herself to Kathy is Katie. That's not why I'm frowning. I'm frowning because my sister has always been this big secret. She didn't have to be a secret, but she chose to be. Even after she turned eighteen, she kept making up all of these lies, creating a story for people. It makes me mad, so mad that tears stream down my face, making my mascara run, turning me into a raccoon. Daisy turns around, hearing me hiccup. "What's wrong?" She asks, sounding concerned, and I tell her. I spill out all of my problems, while she sits there and listens intently. When I'm done, she says, "Well, if it helps, I found out where she lives," I jump up when she says this. "Actually?" I gasp, wiping drops of salt off my face. She nods, "Actually," and stands up, walking over to the boxes. She reappears with a small, pocket-sized notebook. I flip through it, watching words fly by. Words like California and Los Angeles and Taylor May. I read a few of the pages, putting together her plan, as if it were my own. She took a plane from Texas to California, Los Angeles, and moved into a house on 72nd street. She lives there as Taylor May with her cat and boyfriend, Angel Smith, who works as a doctor (Actually a pediatrician) at the Lucky Los Angeles Community Hospital, LLACH for short. Oh, and I didn't mention "Taylor's" job, did I? She works at a suicide prevention hotline. Yep, that's her job. So, now I just have to figure out how to get there. By car? By plane? I turn to Daisy. "Do you know anyone who has a car?" I ask her, and she nods. "Yeah. There's this guy-" "Great," I interrupt, "Tell him he needs to drive us to California," I demand, and I swear her eyes bug out.

Two and a half hours later, I'm sitting in a rusty blue beat-up van, driving to California. The guy Daisy was talking about is Justin Greel. He has light brown hair that fluffs out above his chocolate-brown eyes. He smiled at me with soft lips when I ducked into the car and asked me what music I like to listen to, so now we're driving to California, and blasting The Smiths. He told me he likes them too. He likes them because of his dad. Maybe his dad is one of those dads that takes him to the park to play ball. Maybe he's the dad who takes him on long summer road trips, or maybe he's the dad that teaches him to read and add numbers. Maybe he's tough, or maybe he's soft. Whoever he is, I'm sure he's nice, and I'm sure he's a very good dad. "So, what's your story?" The words spill out of me, unexpected. Justin turns and looks at me. "I don't know. What do you think my story is?" His question startles me. Usually people just speak. They don't think otherwise. He does. "Your story...you grew up with two perfectly happy, loving parents, lived in a nice big house, with a roof over your head, food on your plate, and two younger siblings. Your younger siblings are Rylie and Kyle, twins, perhaps. They're both seven years old, and they're a pain sometimes, but you love them. You have...a beautiful aunt who comes and visits every couple weeks, bearing gifts and food. Her name is Aunt Marie. She is sister to your very kind father, and she loves him very much, even though they argue sometimes. You go to a fancy private school, and you have a very pretty girlfriend named Emma who bakes cookies for you," I assume, and he shakes his head. "That is where you are very wrong," He beams. "Your right, I have two loving parents. But they love me, not each other. I do have two little siblings, but they aren't twins. One is a small toddler named Jack, and the other is a fussy eight-year-old named Lucy. I haven't always lived in a nice big house, I was born in a crumbling apartment, and lived there until I was ten, maybe eleven. I don't have an Aunt Marie, and I go to a public school, not a private school. We don't have that much money. I don't have a very pretty girlfriend named Emma, I'm single. I'm on the boxing team at my school, and I've won three tournaments. There's my story," He tells me. We drive in silence, then he asks, "What's your story, Mia?" I stare at him like he's crazy, but I still spill. He listens, leaning in as I tell him about my sister, and my mom. He nods sometimes, and frowns other times. I tell him how much I love running. Did I mention that? I don't think I did.

Ever since my Grandma forced me into track in seventh grade, my life has been forever changed. I ran through all of middle school and high school, as if my life depended on it. Maybe it did. In middle school, I didn't have a whole bunch of friends. I was friends with this girl Emilia, and she was friends with half of the grade, so maybe that made me friends with half the grade too, and that was all I really wanted. To be popular. I wanted a glamorous life, Like Finnly Blue, with amazing blonde hair everyone wanted, ocean blue eyes, and a perfect, model-like body. Everyone wanted to be her. Everyone wanted to be effortlessly flawless. She was so nice, but only to some people. She wore a shiny white smile, but it dropped when she approached her enemies. She smiled at me, and that used to make me feel really good. I think she felt bad for me because of my mom. High school came, and suddenly I was popular, too. Well, I wouldn't say popular, just known. I was known for saying things other people couldn't. I was known for being honest and pointing out flaws. People would come to me with their problems. They would tell me about their ex-boyfriends and old best friends, and I would stand up for them. I'd go off on whoever I was told was the bad guy. That was my role. The teachers didn't exactly love me, I'm sure. I'm sure they hated when I threw daggers at them when they chose the wrong book, played the wrong video, or spoke the wrong words. When I'm done, Justin is quiet. "Damn," He says softly, and I nod, "Yep," and turn away. Not a rude gesture, but I did just puke my life onto the leather seats of his old van, dotted with bumper stickers in unusual places like the dashboard and the sides of the door.

The drive to Los Angeles from my hometown, Carson City, takes seven hours. We've been driving for two, and Justin pulls into the parking lot of a beat-down gas station. I follow him inside and use the restroom while he buys two cans of coca- cola soda. In case you're wondering, why two? It's because Daisy didn't come with us. Unlike me, she can't just up and leave. I can. My Grandma will just call the school. "Oh, Mia dear has come down with a cold. She won't be at school for some time. Good day, darling," She will utter, and attempt to place the phone face down on the table, as if it were an old-time telephone. The person on the other line will sputter, confused, because there are probably a hundred other Mias that attend Carson City High School, where everyone is welcome! Before hanging up and searching for an absent Mia who hasn't yet been excused. The point is, my best friend left me with some rando I barely know. All I know is what he told me, and that he is a nineteen-year-old collage dropout willing to drive to a different state in order for a sharp-tongued, seemingly carefree but broken girl to find her missing sister. When I walk out of the bathroom and find Justin, he's gained a bag of salty chips, a pack of gum, and a headlamp. "What is that for?" I ask, and he turns to look at me. "For when we go camping, of course!" He informs me, gleefully watching my face go from curious to pissed. "Camping?! Why would we go camping?" My voice echoes through the store, making customer's heads rise to stare at us. He blinks, and recovers. "I mean, we're passing Yosemite, we have to camp," He stares at me, as if it were obvious. Annoyance rises in my chest. He can't just take me camping on the most important trip of my life! I start to protest, but he stops me. "Nope! I get that I'm driving you to go see your sister, who is presumed missing, but if anything you need to let loose. One night. That's all I'm asking for. Besides, Yosemite is amazing. You'll love it," He says this as if he knew me. The items on the aisles seem to lean in, waiting for a response. I nod begrudgingly, "Fine," and follow him to the checkout as the items nod approvingly.

We drive until sunset, arriving at the foot of Yosemite. I gape at the purple-pink sky, dotted with wispy white clouds. Never in my life have I seen anything quite so beautiful. Apparently, I say this part allowed, and Justin smirks, "Told you so," knowingly. We park in a gravel lot, and I help Justin carry backpacks to our camping spot, a five-minute walk from our car. He tells me all about how he used to camp here with his dad while we start a fire. I trail the edges of our campsite for sticks to roast gooey white marshmallows he brought. When I find two long, brown, nimble twigs, I bring them back to Justin, and we slide the marshmallows onto them. "I've never roasted Marshmallows before," I admit after burning the last three. "I could tell," He shrugs, making my lips turn upwards. He notices, and mirrors my grin. The sun has set, whispering the secret of the stars, and animals speak to each other in the trees. We throw the sticks into the firepit. They crackle and scream as flames engulf them, tearing the bark and burning the soft wood. Justin leads me to the tent, where he's set up two sleeping bags. He motions towards a ripped black one, and I assume it's mine, until he tells me, "That one's mine. You get this one," I follow his gaze to a smooth, red one. I try not to look surprised. Every boy I've dated never has spoiled me. They dated me for love, or because I looked like a slut. Maybe I was a slut. I went through guys as quickly as books. I would obsess over some ripped jock, and when he finally came around to me, I would get bored. The longest relationship I had ever been in was four months, with a kid named Brock Long. He was pretty cute. We hooked up at a party, and instead of leaving me in nothing but my bra and underwear on some rando's bed, he drove me home. He talked to my Grandma. Even she liked him. She said he was a "good one." So, instead of grabbing Justin's face and screaming at him, asking him why he's so nice, I curl into my sleeping bag, still dressed in skinny jeans and a tight top, and fall asleep.

I wake up to the sound of a zipper. My eyes drift open just in time to see Justin step into the tent. I rub my eyes. "Good! Your up! I was just about to wake you!" He announces. It takes me a moment to realize I must have taken off my shirt sometime in the night, and I'm dressed in my bra. My hands fly up to my chest, covering myself. Justin chuckles. "Put a shirt on. We're leaving in twenty minutes." I move around the tent, receive my fading pink crop top, and walk out of the tent. I dig through the backpack I brought for myself, pulling out clothes. Justin brings me a breakfast egg sandwich, and I devour it eagerly. We walk back to his van, and I don't understand why we didn't just spend the night there. I ask him, and he shrugs. "Sometimes it's nice to appreciate nature, you know. Can you drive?" The question catches me off guard, because I can't. I've never even thought of that. I've never had to drive myself anywhere. I shake my head. "No," And Justin, who was climbing into the passenger seat, whips around, shocked. "Deadass?" He asks, and I repeat, "Deadass," and he walks around to sit in front of the wheel. "Alright," Is all he says.

We drive for not even ten minutes before Justin stops the car again. "What are we doing?" I ask, dismay in my voice. I don't want to wait to see my sister any longer. "We're going on a quick walk. It's quick," He promises, and I shuffle after him as he heads toward the head of a trail. Most of the walk is scrambling over boulders, until it evens out. Then there's the trouble of dust being kicked up by our shoes. After that, we, or rather I, have to deal with all the roots. So many roots. I stumble over them, innocent brown lumps sticking out of the ground. When we finally reach the top, the view is beyond anything I could have imagined. I turn in a circle, staring at all the mountains, cliffs, whatever, around us. The walk must not be very popular, despite its beauty, because the only other people are a group of Minnesotans that struggle up behind us, squinting at the bright Californian sun as we're leaving. Going down is a lot easier than going up. We reach the car, and Justin runs over to it, his forehead creased in concern. He throws open the door. Our stuff is all still there, if that's what he's worried about, because he steps back, letting out a relieved sigh. "What are your siblings like?" I ask him once we're back on the real road. He shrugs. "Well, Jack is pretty emotional. He cries at everything. I accidentally get him something other than his favorite applesauce, and he screamed and cried for hours. Lucy's very emotional too. Actually, more sensitive. If you tell her her shirt looks good, she'll fret about it since you didn't tell her her pants, hair, shoes, and hot pink headband do too. I guess it runs in the family. Their mom is a really emotional person, too. She's constantly stressing about what she could do better," He expresses, and I cock my head at him. "Their mom? Is she not your mom, too?" I push. "No, she's my stepmom. My parents are divorced. My mom lives in Anaheim, so not that far from here, really," He looks surprised, like maybe he doesn't think about his mother very much.

"What is she like, your mother?" I feel like I'm interviewing him.

"Oh, she's the opposite of Beverly-My stepmom-she's kind of blank. Not boring, but when it comes to feelings, sometimes I wonder if she had any," His voice turns hard when he says this. "I don't hate her for it, but sometimes I can't understand it," He adds. I bite my lip, because people have said I'm like that. So mean that I can't feel. "That's just who she is. You can't understand her, but you shouldn't blame her for it. I mean, she's really just a person, if you think about it," I stutter horribly, I think. Justin takes his eyes off the road to look at me, smiling. "You're wise, Mia. Do you know that?" I don't blush like a normal, dignified girl who thinks a boy is cute. I just shrug, my face straight. "Maybe,"

We pass a yellow-green sign reading Welcome To Los Angeles the next time I raise my head and look out the window. My stomach turns. I don't realize I'm holding my breath until Justin looks over at me and tells me to breathe. I do, letting out a long sigh as we exit the highway. Los Angeles is nothing like Carson City. Graffiti stains the sides of pretty brick buildings. The sun shines brightly, but no one is biking or walking anywhere. Maybe I can see why. Sad teenagers hover at a bus stop, filling their lungs with smoke to distract them from their hurt. An old, hobbly man is kicking and cursing at another old, hobbly man's blue tarp. A woman visibly sways, and at first I feel bad for her until she yanks a young man from his tent, sending him rolling onto the sidewalk. He howls at her as she runs on bare feet into his home and starts to tear the place up. I force myself to look away, but everywhere I look there's disaster. "This is awful," I whisper, watching an old woman double over and retch. "This part is particularly bad, but don't worry, it gets better," He tells me, fully content. Before I'm ready, he pulls into the driveway of an old, victorian house. It's painted a pale green. It has a turret. It has plants, and ivy trailing along the side. This is everything my sister has ever wanted. I wonder how long she's been living here, though. Maybe all this time she said she was in places like Oregon, New York, Pennsylvania, she was here, with her husband, my brother-in-law. "Ready?" Justin asks me as the van stops rumbling. I nod uncertainly, my stomach doing a trick that almost makes me want to cry. I follow him up to the front porch, where there is a bench swing with a purple pillow floating in the breeze. There's also a clear glass table with a Vouge magazine lying open on it. Justin raises an arm to ring the doorbell, but I get there first. "You wait in the car. I got this," I tell him, and it comes out meaner than I intend. He nods, and I watch him walk down to the car. Another car is parked there. One of those small, thin black cars. I take a deep breath, reminding myself why I'm doing this, and ring the goddamn doorbell.

The door swings open, and I totally expect to see Katherine standing there, but no. It's a full-grown man. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a bright smile. He's dressed in a black jacket and jeans. "Hi! Who are you?" His voice is loud and eager, and it startles me. "Oh...right. You must be Angel. I'm looking for Kath-oh, Taylor," I blurt, and he nods, totally unphased at the fact I know who he is. He opens the door wider, and I step in. The walls are painted beige, and I bump into a small table, holding up a bowl with keys in them. Next to it, there are pictures on the wall. Pictures of Katherine. Pictures of Katherine and Angel. Pictures of Katherine and a bunch of other women, dressed in fancy dresses, sitting at a fancy table looking humble. "Taylor!" His voice is loud again through the house. Someone yells back, and I hear a door open. Then stairs creaking. Then my sister appears. I don't know what on earth I was expecting, but it's not this. Katherine has her dark hair up in a messy bun. Her mascara is smudged, and her face is red. She's dressed in gray sweatpants and a black hoodie, supporting her big, rounded stomach. She's pregnant.

"Oh my god! I'm so sorry. I-I totally wasn't expecting anyone!" She yelps, her hand flying up to her hair self-consciously. She wipes at her eyes, and I notice long, painted nails. I'm speechless. She's so pretty. Much prettier than I could have imagined. Angel and Katherine are staring at me now, expecting me to say something. "Kather-I mean, Taylor, it's you," I finally breath. Her eyes widen, and her face turns even redder. "Angel, could you get this girl some water?" She asks, and hobbles to the living room. I follow her, not knowing what to do. I open my mouth and say, "I'm your sister. Remember me? You stopped talking to me when you turned 18. Remember me, your little sister? Remember?" She looks shocked for a moment, and I almost expect her to tell me to leave, get out, never come back again, but she doesn't. She leans forward, pulling me into a hug. I breath her in, and well, honestly she stinks. She releases me, eyes teary. "Why doesn't your husband know your real name?" I whisper, my voice shaking. "He already knows," She tells me, and I give her a confused look. She laughs light-heartedly, and adds, "He prefers to call me Taylor. He says it fits me well. He doesn't care about my past, only my present," I nod, because that's so sweet of him. He walks in with a clear glass of water, handing it to me, as if he was just waiting for us to start talking about him. I thank him grateful, soothing my quenched throat. I'm pretty sure I forgot to drink water when we took that hike. I hear my sister whisper something, and Angel turns to me. "Yes, I'm concluding that I do know your sister's true identity," He snorts. "I never would have imagined myself saying something like that," He tells me, and I already like him. I never thought I would really have a family. I mean, of course I have a mom, a sister, and a grandma, but I've never really met my aunts or uncles. It's really nice to feel whole again.