Page 15 of The Missing Half

I click back to Facebook and delete Perkins from my search. When I hit enter again, a list of Laurens materializes, two of whom are my friends. A Lauren Maxson and a Lauren Tate. Neither name triggers any recognition, but in the thumbnail picture next to the latter, I recognize Kasey’s old friend. Her face is no bigger than a pea, but it’s her. Lauren Perkins. Now, Lauren Tate. “This is her.”

“You’re still friends.”

“Mm-hm.” I click on her name and Lauren’s profile fills the screen. “Yikes.”

“Not what you were expecting?” Jenna says.

“Not exactly.”

In high school, Lauren was the kind of girl who loved indie bands and Jane Austen. She wanted more than anything to get out of Indiana, explore the world. Her current Facebook profile seems to be for someone else entirely. It’s one of those shiny-happy-family ones, with a small picture of her beaming down at a baby, her hair and makeup perfect. The banner photo behind it is a professional: Lauren sits on a grassy knoll alongside a clean-cut man who looks like he could be a political candidate with a little time and money. There’s a baby in her lap and a little girl in front. All four are in matching white and denim. Beside the wordFromon her About page, it says: Mishawaka, Indiana. BesideLives in,it says the same.

The mean part of me whispers that Kasey would have done it all better, lived a life more worthy of existence. For the first time, I briefly let myself visualize a future for my dead sister. She would have become a nurse, traveled the country, dated all types of different men before settling down with someone interesting and kind.

Jenna and I dig around Lauren’s profile and discover that it revolves around the same four things: her husband, Matthew; their daughter, Beth Anne; their baby son, Thomas; and their church, Holy Mount Presbyterian. That’s another surprise: Sometime since 2012, Kasey’s former best friend found Jesus. We sift through post after post, going back in time. Matthew and Lauren with their kids at Beth Anne’s birthday party. There’s a candle in the shape of a fouron a cake and a bounce castle and young moms in sundresses talking to young dads in polos. Matthew and Lauren with their kids at their church’s Easter egg hunt. Beth Anne runs around in white patent leather shoes and bunny ears. Thomas is tiny in seersucker shorts and a white collared shirt, asleep in Lauren’s arms. Matthew and Lauren in the hospital, holding newborn Thomas. Beth Anne sits nestled in the hospital bed, smiling down at baby brother. Somehow, Lauren looks fresher and more put together after giving birth than I ever do.

“I can’t believe she has two kids,” I say.

If Beth Anne is four, it means Lauren had already had her by the time she was my age. The idea of me raising a baby right now is absurd. I couldn’t even take care of a cat.

“Should we message her?” Jenna says.

“Yeah, okay.” I scroll back to the top of her page and click on the message button. My cursor blinks in anticipation. “What do I say?”

“Just say you’ve been thinking about Kasey and you’d like to talk, ask her a few questions. Does she have an hour sometime over the next week or two for you to buy her a coffee? Keep it vague and upbeat, something that’s hard to say no to.”

I type out the message, and when I hit send, a bubble of anticipation rises inside me. It’s as if I’m expecting Jenna’s front door to fly open and Lauren to be standing there, ready with all the answers to our questions. Beyond the walls of Jenna’s house, I hear nothing but the chirping of crickets, the buzz of cicadas.

“Thank you, Nic. I know I dragged you into this, but I appreciate your help.”

“I’m not doing it for you,” I say. “I’m doing it for Kasey. And like you said, we found something new. I’m in it now.”

—

I check my Facebook obsessively after that. It’s the first thing I do in the morning and the last thing I do before I close my eyes at night. I start pulling out my phone so often at work that Brad asks me if everything’s all right, and when I say it is, he gives me a rueful smile and gently reminds me that cellphones are only to be used onbreaks. Four days after I sent our original message to Lauren, I send a follow-up telling her to please respond because what I’m after is important. Then I send another two days after that:We can talk over the phone if that’s better for you.

“What’s under the messages?” Jenna asks me on the phone Wednesday night. It’s been a full week since we met up at her house and reached out to Lauren. Jenna’s been asking for updates over text every day, but I’ve had none to give her. Her last text, which I saw after work this evening, said,Let’s touch base. Call when you can.

“Under the messages?” I say. I’ve just gotten home and am sitting on the edge of my bed. “What do you mean?”

“You should be able to tell if she’s seen the messages or not. If there’s a timestamp, likesent seven days ago,she hasn’t read them. But if you see her little profile photo, it means she has.”

I pull the phone from my ear and put it on speaker so I can search my screen. “Shit,” I say. “She’s seen it. She’s seen them all.”

Jenna sighs. “Which means she doesn’t want to talk.”

“What the fuck?” I haven’t seen Lauren in years, but once upon a time, she was a relatively big presence in my life. Sure, I only knew her through Kasey, only talked to her when they were together, but she was in and out of our house a lot during high school. I remember one time before Kasey went away to college when she, Lauren, and I went driving late one night. We rolled down the windows and put on some mix CD we still had from middle school and shouted the songs at the top of our lungs. I may not have wanted to write her, but I assumed if I did, she’d write back.

“Maybe it’s time we track her down,” Jenna says.

“We don’t know where she lives. Her profile just says she’s in Mishawaka.”

“We don’t know where she lives, but we do know where she goes.”

I think back to Lauren’s profile page, all those photos of her and her family on Sunday morning. “Damn it.”

“Yeah,” Jenna says. “I think we have to go to church.”

Chapter Ten

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