I found her clip in the pocket of my jeans, two days after the social worker took me away from her. It’d come out of her hair at the playground, and she asked me to keep it safe for her. She was so little and she trusted me—
Ariana had been five back then, to his nine, and he’d been in charge of her. He’d shoved the clip in his back pocket and taken her hand, a bit grumpy because he wanted to stay and play longer, but she’d needed the bathroom. By the time they were home, he’d forgotten. Days later, in his solitary room in his new foster home, he’d been desperately glad he had it…
His backpack was sitting on the kitchen counter, stuffed with random bits and pieces worth keeping. He dug his puzzle box out one-handed, not wanting to let go of that tattered ribbon. The edge of the plastic clip dug into his skin in a familiar way, and he forced his fingers to relax, trying not to crush the ribbon more.
I used to hold it, just like this. He turned it so the broken corner of the plastic bit deeper into his palm. Hold it and remember… try to remember. What color were her eyes? What kind of brother doesn’t remember his sister’s eye color? They were some kind of blue. He’d repeated that in his head for years, but the truth of it, the actual color— dark or pale, bright or pastel, gray-ringed or amber-streaked— vanished into a hundred faces over the last decade and a half. Even her hair became a vague impression of dark and curly with a tendency to break hair clips. Her face was a blur. Of course, by now she’d be twenty-one. That child’s face wouldn’t even exist anymore.
Sometimes it’d felt like he’d dreamed her up— one last piece of family still out there because he wanted it so badly. Distant and fading. Unreal. Especially after he lost the clip. He’d searched frantically when he realized it was missing. How the hell had it ended up in that book? Some sudden visitor who’d made him shove both trinket and erotica out of sight? Had he used it as a bookmark one night, on the edge of sleep? Or had he been called out suddenly and tucked it in there “safe” by reflex as he scrambled out of bed?
He opened his hand to look at the ribbon, the dent in his palm fading as he stared down, and faced the idea he’d been suppressing.
I have Ariana’s ribbon back. Brian could Find her! His heart raced and acid caught at the back of his throat, in a flash of hope and fear. This is all he needs!
All these months, he’d desperately wished Brian could use his Finding talent to search for Ariana, but Brian used a token, an object with connections to its owner, to follow a person’s thread. It’d felt like some kind of cruel irony, or karma, that he’d lost the ribbon— his only connection to his sister— before he ever met Brian. He’d tried so hard not to be bitter about that, despite nightmares where Brian was about to lead him forward and the clip vanished from his hand. One more regret for his collection. That was life, right?
That’s all changed now.
Maybe.
He looked down at the faded ribbon. It’d been a new hair-clip, all those years ago. Had she worn it once, or three times? Ten? Would it still lead to her, or had a decade of Nick holding it tight made it connect only to him?
And what if Brian touches it and there’s nothing there? What if he says she’s dead?
His hands shook as he struggled with his little treasure box. It was hard to hold the ribbon and the box, while sliding the strips of wood in the right order until the top opened, but he couldn’t set the clip down.
The box was mostly empty. At the bottom was a picture of his parents, printed from an old newspaper announcement of their engagement. On top of it, a picture of himself, grinning like a loon at his Academy graduation, spiffy in his uniform, so sure he was about to set the world on fire. Then, rattling loosely, one key to his bank box where he kept the important legal crap, a pebble from the beach where he’d gone on his first actual date, and a coaster from the bar where he and Charlie came