The Long-Lost Brother Read online

  THE LONG-LOST BROTHER

  Written by

  Kate William

  Created by

  FRANCINE PASCAL

  Copyright © 2015, Francine Pascal

  To Sarah Hohenwarter

  Tim flinched. "Sara, will you just give me a chance? I know I've hurt you in the past, but I'm different now, and—"

  "Listen," Sara broke in, her voice a fierce whisper, "I don't want you to tell anybody about the reform school, understand? I told everyone at school that you were living with Dad in Connecticut, that you get good grades, and that you're a member of the track team. And you'd better go along with the story."

  Tim's eyes flashed. "You want me to lie?"

  "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?" Sara countered.

  Tim placed his hands on the table as if to steady himself. He looked carefully at his sister, and then spoke. "Sara, I need to be straight with people about where I've been and what I've done."

  "If you don't back up my story, I'll never forgive you!" Sara hissed.

  "I have a feeling you'll never forgive me anyway," Tim replied sadly.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  One

  Sixteen-year-old Elizabeth Wakefield, a junior at Sweet Valley High, tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her chin. Her sun-streaked blond hair was pulled back into an attractive French braid and her skin was tanned to a golden glow. Her new white jeans and blue tank top showed off her perfect size-six figure.

  At the moment, though, the last thing Elizabeth was thinking about was her looks. A thoughtful expression shone in her aquamarine eyes. Her mind was spinning as she tried to absorb all the things she had learned in this interview for The Oracle, Sweet Valley High's newspaper.

  Mrs. Marstowe, head of the local shelter for battered women, sat across from her, behind a cluttered desk. "So you see, Elizabeth, abused women come from all economic and educational backgrounds. Quite a lot are married to professional people—doctors, lawyers, teachers, even clergymen—and many are also professionals themselves."

  Elizabeth's forehead crinkled in a frown. "I can understand why some women would stay with men who abuse them. I mean, women with little money or education or self-esteem, or no family or friends to help them make a new start. But I really can't figure out why the others don't just pack their bags and leave."

  The social worker smiled patiently. "There is no simple explanation, Elizabeth. But the primary reason is that too many women have little or no confidence in their own ability to make lives for themselves without the help and support of a man."

  "When the women come here to you, how do you help them?" The whole problem seemed overwhelming to Elizabeth. "Where do you start?"

  Mrs. Marstowe traced the handle of her coffee mug with the tip of one finger while she considered her answer. Finally she said, "We begin with counseling both individually and in groups. If the situation at home is dangerous, and it almost always is, we bring the women and their children to the shelter, which isn't far from here, to live until something more permanent can be worked out."

  Elizabeth wrote busily in her notebook. She was familiar with the community center itself; she had done an article on Project Youth, a clinic based at the center. Her twin sister Jessica's friend, Amy Sutton, and Amy's boyfriend, Barry Rork, were active volunteers on the hotline for troubled teens.

  "Where is the shelter?" Elizabeth asked.

  "That's a secret," Mrs. Marstowe answered quietly.

  "Of course," Elizabeth said. "In order to protect your clients, you would have to have a safe place for them to hide." She shifted in her chair. "How do women in trouble find the shelter?"

  "The police often bring them to us after there's been a 'domestic disturbance,' as they call it. And we can always be reached by telephone. Our number is listed in the white pages, and it's widely publicized. Sometimes our volunteers and counselors go and pick the women up, after they've asked for help, of course."

  "What happens when the women arrive at the shelter?"

  Mrs. Marstowe turned in her swivel chair to fill her cup from the pot of coffee on the credenza behind her desk. "We see that any medical needs are taken care of first, naturally. After that, it's largely a matter of providing food, warmth, clothing, and counseling until other arrangements can be made. Ideally, the client continues to visit a counselor for some time after she goes out on her own."

  Elizabeth brightened. "Most of the women do succeed at making new lives for themselves, then?"

  Mrs. Marstowe shook her head regretfully. "Unfortunately, quite the opposite is true. The majority return to their troubled home situations and the problem gets progressively worse." She smiled wisely at Elizabeth's disappointed expression. "But we are making progress, Elizabeth. We are getting the word out that violent behavior is not OK, that there are places to go and people who want to help."

  Elizabeth nodded and closed her notebook. "Could I visit the shelter itself one day soon?"

  The older woman considered the request for a moment, then replied, "I don't see why not. The problem of domestic violence needs all the publicity it can get. You understand, of course, that the actual whereabouts of the shelter must be kept completely confidential."

  Elizabeth promised to keep the location a secret. She thanked Mrs. Marstowe, and said goodbye.

  Typical California weather greeted her when she left the building. The day was bright and warm. Jessica was waiting at the curb, as she had promised, in the red Fiat Spider the twins shared. Jessica was revving the engine and there was a grim expression on her face.

  Jessica had a tan the color of warm honey, too, along with a terrific size-six figure and beautiful blue-green eyes. Her hair was exactly the same shade of blond as Elizabeth's, but no style as tame as a French braid would do for Jessica's hair. It fell freely around her shoulders, glistening and sexy. And when it came to personalities, the twins were as different as their hairstyles. Elizabeth was the more thoughtful of the two. She enjoyed reading good books, writing for The Oracle, and spending time with her boyfriend, Todd Wilkins. Jessica, on the other hand, was the more impulsive one. Her life was almost totally dedicated to shopping, boys, and cheerleading. But in spite of their differences, the twins were best friends.

  "It's about time," Jessica snapped as Elizabeth opened the passenger door and got into the car. "This may come as a big shock to you, Liz, but I have other things to do besides play chauffeur to my sister!"

  Elizabeth was almost grateful for Jessica's irritable mood; it provided a welcome distraction from the heavy subject she had been dealing with all that afternoon. "Like what?" she asked.

  It was clear that Jessica's legendary temper was sizzling, but Elizabeth was glad her sister didn't allow it to make her a reckless driver as she steered the Fiat out into the light afternoon traffic. Only recently, Mr. and Mrs. Wakefield had made a point of repeating their law regarding the twins' use of the small red car. If either of them was careless behind the wheel, she would have to hand over her keys and walk until further notice.

  "It's Friday," Jessica pointed out. "I have a date with Steve Anderson. We're going to a beach party and I have exactly half an hour to get ready!"

  Elizabeth let out a long breath, and her soft blond bangs danced against her forehead. It was Jessica's turn to have the car, and coming to pick up her twin had probably been an inconvenience.

  "I'm sorry, Jess," Elizabeth said quietly. "I really appreciate it."

  Jessica downshifted for a stoplight. While they waited for it to turn green, she snatched up her sunglasses from the dashboard and put them on. "What were you doing at the community center, anyway? Didn't you already write an article about that Project Kids Clinic, or whatever it is?"

  Elizabeth couldn't help but smile, despite her gloomy thoughts. "Project Youth," she corrected. "This time I'm doing a piece on battered women."

  The light changed and Jessica pressed her foot down on the gas pedal, sending the little car zooming through the intersection. "You mean women whose husbands hit them?"

  "Yes," Elizabeth answered sadly.

  Expertly, Jessica rummaged through her bag, keeping her eyes on the road the whole time, and brought out a stick of gum. After unwrapping it, she folded it into her mouth.

  "Bummer," she said, consulting the rearview mirror before signaling and changing lanes.

  A pile of letters and magazines lay on the small hooked rug just inside the front door. Sara Eastborne bent to gather them up with a graceful sweep of one hand and set them aside on the hall table. She wished her mom would get a regular mailbox instead of that old-fashioned slot in the door.

  "Aren't you even going to look and see if you got any mail?" Sara's best friend, Amanda Hayes, asked. Amanda, like Sara, was a junior at Sweet Valley High, and the pair had a lot in common. Both were popular and got good grades, and both excelled in modern dance.

  Sara picked up the stack again and flipped through the envelopes, mostly for show. There was a thin envelope from her father, addressed to her mother—probably just the monthly support check, she thought, since he never bothered to write—a bill, a sales flier, another bill.

  And a letter from Tim.

  Sara's stomach jumped nervously. She shuffled t
he plump envelope back in with the other mail and tossed it all nonchalantly onto the coffee table as she passed through the living room.

  "Nothing for me," she said with an airy sigh, but her emotions were churning. She wished she could forget that her twin brother, Tim, even existed. Telling her best friend and the other kids at Sweet Valley High the truth about him was out of the question.

  Sara led the way into the kitchen, where she set down her books and her dance bag and went over to the refrigerator. Her face, reflected back to her between the magnets and notes stuck to the shiny metal door, looked troubled. She tossed her shoulder-length dark hair back, opened the door, and took out two sodas, setting them on the counter.

  "How do you think you did on the French quiz?" she asked, not quite meeting Amanda's intelligent hazel eyes. Sara's hand trembled a little as she filled two tall glasses with ice, and then poured the fizzing soda over the ice.

  "I aced it, just like you did," Amanda answered, without a trace of conceit. When Sara turned to look at her friend, she saw that Amanda was frowning.

  "What's bothering you?" Amanda asked as she flipped her long auburn hair over her shoulder. "You were in a great mood until you looked through the mail."

  So many times Sara had wanted to tell Amanda all about Tim and the terrible trouble he had gotten himself into, but she had never been able to bring herself to take the risk. Amanda, Bob Hillman, who was Sara's boyfriend, and the other kids at Sweet Valley High all meant too much to her. She couldn't take a chance on losing their friendship and respect because of Tim. She wouldn't pay for his mistakes.

  Knowing Amanda wouldn't let the subject drop without some kind of explanation, Sara decided to tell a partial lie. "I saw that we got a check from my dad, that's all. You know, he never asks how we are, how I'm doing in school, or whether I've made friends since Mom and I moved to Sweet Valley. I wish that, just once, he'd care enough to ask a few questions, instead of just signing the support check and having his secretary mail it off."

  Amanda's parents, Bill and Sharon Hayes, were happily married, but Sara saw sympathy and understanding in her friend's face all the same. And it made Sara feel ashamed for altering the truth the way she had.

  "That must be hard," Amanda said, nodding her thanks when Sara handed her a glass of soda. "Maybe if you wrote to your dad, or called him on the phone . . ."

  Sara had to look away for a moment so that her friend wouldn't see the lie in her eyes. Sure, it hurt that her father showed so little interest in her, but he had been like that even before the divorce. She was used to it. "It's OK," she said quietly. "I don't need him any more than he needs me."

  Amanda took a sip of her soda. "Tell me about your brother," she said after a moment.

  Sara flinched. Again, she turned away and busied herself searching the cupboards for chips. With her back to her friend, she managed an offhanded shrug. "What's to tell?" she said, hoping there wasn't a tremor in her voice. "He and I are twins—fraternal, of course. After the divorce, Tim decided to stay in Connecticut with my dad."

  "Do you miss him?"

  Yes, answered a voice deep within Sara's heart, but she shook her head and said, "Not really. We never had much in common."

  "Except the same birthday and the same parents."

  Sara found the chips, pulled them from the shelf, and closed the cupboard door with slightly more force than necessary. "Can we talk about something else, please?"

  When Sara finally dared to meet Amanda's eyes again, she could tell that she had hurt her friend's feelings. "I'm sorry," Sara said truthfully. She sighed. "I shouldn't have snapped at you like that. I . . . I guess I'm still not over my parents' divorce, and how Tim and I ended up apart."

  "Whenever you're ready to talk, you know you can come to me," Amanda answered, and Sara thought how lucky she was to have such a terrific friend, and how terrible it would be to lose her. Unfortunately, it wasn't hard to imagine losing Amanda. Sara had lost other friends, back in Connecticut—because of Tim.

  When Sara's mother, Janet Eastborne, came home from work later that afternoon, she was carrying a roll of blueprints under one arm. Sara thought that she looked particularly tired. Mrs. Eastborne was an architect with a prominent local firm, and a friend and colleague of Elizabeth and Jessica's mother. She gave Sara a thankful, but weary smile when she saw that dinner was almost ready.

  "What would I do without you?" Mrs. Eastborne asked, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table. On her way to the kitchen she had picked up the day's mail.

  Sara poured a cup of coffee for her mother and set it down on the tabletop. She didn't miss the eager way Mrs. Eastborne opened the envelope from Tim.

  "He's been taking a special class in car repair, through the vocational high school," Mrs. Eastborne said. Sara thought her mother made it sound as if Tim had mastered neurosurgery or something. "You know how he loves cars."

  "That must be why he stole one," Sara muttered on her way to the refrigerator for the green salad she had prepared earlier.

  Mrs. Eastborne's eyes raced across the lines of the letter, her smile growing warmer and more genuine as she read. "What did you say, sweetheart?" she asked pleasantly.

  "Nothing," Sara lied, setting the salad bowl on the table with an audible thump.

  Janet Eastborne sighed and set the letter aside. "I really miss Tim."

  No kidding, Sara thought sourly. Nothing in the world would have made her admit that she missed Tim sometimes, too—that other Tim, the one she hadn't seen since before all the trouble started. "I have a dinner date with Bob tonight, so I won't be eating with you," she said aloud, as if her twin's name hadn't been mentioned. "I might be out late."

  Mrs. Eastborne sighed. "Sara, we need to talk."

  "About Tim?" Sara's voice was brittle. She pretended to be absorbed in the process of setting the table. "What is there to say, Mom? He's an embarrassment to the whole family. He drank too much, he took drugs, and finally he stole a car. Now he's in reform school. Doesn't that about cover it?"

  "No, it doesn't," Mrs. Eastborne replied firmly. "Sara, Tim made some terrible mistakes. There's no denying that. But he's really trying to turn his life around now. He's been getting good grades at school and attending Alcoholics Anonymous meetings."

  Sara was trembling with the effort to hold in all her anger and pain. "And that makes everything all right?" she finally cried, her eyes filling with tears. "Mom, have you forgotten how good Tim was at faking us all out? Making us think he was this wonderful guy, when all the time . . ."

  Mrs. Eastborne stood and took her daughter gently but firmly by the shoulders. "Sweetheart, I'm not saying we have to pretend we weren't hurt and humiliated by some of the things Tim did. But he's part of this family. I think he deserves a second chance!"

  Angrily, Sara wiped away her tears with the back of her hand. "This family?" she cried. "What family, Mom? Maybe we had a family once, but Tim ruined it, just as he ruined everything else!" "Sara—"

  Sara pulled away from her mother, refusing to listen. She ran into her room, slammed the door behind her, and flung herself onto her bed. She reached for the stuffed toy cat her father had brought back for her a long time ago when he had come home from a business trip.

  There was a soft knock at the door, and then Mrs. Eastborne came in without waiting for an invitation. She sat on the edge of Sara's bed and laid one hand on her daughter's back.

  "Sara, you can't run away from your feelings. You need to work them through, and I think the best way for you to do that would be to start going to Alateen. There's a meeting tonight at the community center."

  Sara knew that Alateen was a self-help group, adapted from Alcoholics Anonymous, for kids with an alcoholic friend or relative. She was definitely in no mood to go to a meeting and sit around listening to other people's problems. Her own were swamping her as it was.

  "I'll be all right," she said stonily.

  "You know that I practice what I preach," Mrs. Eastborne persisted quietly. "I've been going to Al-Anon meetings. And Sara, what I learned there is that alcoholism is a family disease. It's affected all of us, not just Tim."

  Sara sniffled. It was true that her mother seemed happier and more peaceful since she had started going to Al-Anon, the adult version of Alateen. But Sara was sure that she personally didn't need help. Everything would be all right if only Tim would change. "I guess I'd better get ready for my date with Bob," she said after a long time.