Pretend She's Here Page 2

  “Think of running water,” she said. “Pretend you’re hearing a waterfall.”

  It worked and my bladder unlocked and hot urine poured out and splashed on my red shoes and the legs of my jeans. The sound was loud and went on forever and I was mortified knowing Chloe and Mr. Porter could hear. Then I stopped, and that was the worst part: Mrs. Porter was ready with a tissue.

  My head was thick and pounding. I concentrated as hard as I could. I had no idea where we were, but all those pines and the chilly air—much colder than in Connecticut—and a distant sound of waves breaking made me think we were up north. If I ran into the woods, I could hide among the trees. My cell phone was still in my pocket; I felt its weight. If I could get away, I’d be able to call home. I’d circle back to the highway, and one of the truckers would stop and speed me away to a safe place where my parents could pick me up.

  Was my family already looking for me? They had to be. They would have started as soon as I wasn’t home for dinner. Then a nasty thought filled my mind: Could my mother think I might be hiding out at some friend’s house? Because of our fight? Because I had done it once before? Because Bea would tell her I hadn’t wanted to drive home with her and Patrick? I pushed the idea away.

  “Let’s go,” Mrs. Porter said, tugging on my arm. Then, as an afterthought, “Sweetie.”

  “I think I’m going to throw up again,” I said, bending from the waist, crouching down.

  “What’s taking so long?” Mr. Porter shouted.

  “She’s about to be sick,” Mrs. Porter called back.

  “I’m freezing,” Chloe said in a whining tone.

  “Then wait in the car,” her father said.

  I crouched, as if about to barf, then used my legs as springs and smashed into Mrs. Porter, knocking her down, making her cry out. I turned and ran as fast as I could into the trees. The smell of pine was fresh and strong, clearing my brain like an antidote to whatever had been in that juice.

  There was no real path, but I ran by instinct, like on the field when I played touch football with my sisters and brothers. Patrick always gave the ball to me; in spite of the fact he teased me about being a theater geek, I was super fast. I dodged trees and boulders as if they were the other team. I heard someone behind me and wheeled straight toward the footsteps, a buttonhook move that brought me face-to-face with Mr. Porter. I caught him off guard enough that I could take that second to disappear behind a rock ledge to the left.

  He was out of breath. I heard him. Mrs. Porter, too. I had speed and being fifteen-almost-sixteen on my side. The disadvantage was the drug, because even though the chilly air and my racing heart were pushing it out of my system, I still felt I was wrapped in cobwebs. I kept thinking of my phone. Where was Chloe? I strained to listen for her, too. I wanted to have everyone’s position in my mind when I made my next dash.

  “Lizzie!” Mrs. Porter said.

  “She’s not going to answer to that,” Mr. Porter said. Then he called, “Emily!”

  My heart froze to hear my real name. I’d been half thinking they had lost their minds. It seemed beyond belief, but what other explanation could there be for taking me away from Black Hall, calling me the name of their dead daughter? But Mr. Porter had just proved he knew who I really was, and that terrified me.

  “How far can she get?” Mr. Porter asked.

  “The juice had too small a dose,” Mrs. Porter said. “I told you. I calculated body weight, I did everything but measure it out for you …”

  “I didn’t want to kill her!” Mr. Porter said.

  Their voices receded. They were walking away. I stayed still behind the boulder. I had to reach my phone. I twisted back and forth, contorting myself, trying to get my hands into my pocket, but it was physically impossible. My only choice was to stay hidden, then make a dash for it.

  The sky was very clear, and pinpricks of starlight came through the pine needles. My eyes had gotten used to the dark. I wondered what time it was. My parents and siblings would definitely be worried. Thinking about shouting at my mother before school that morning, I practically lost it.

  “I am going to Boston with Dan this weekend, period, end of story,” I had announced in the kitchen.

  “On a train, fine, but not in a car. He just got his license,” my mother had said.

  “He’s a good driver.”

  “He might be a great driver, Emily, but he’s brand new. I-95 is brutal, and Boston streets are hard to figure out unless you’re really familiar with them.”

  “He is! His brother goes to Emerson! He visits him all the time! And that’s all we’re going to do, a bunch of us, we’re going to meet up with his brother Henry and check out the theater department.”

  “That’s fine. Take the train,” my mother said.

  “We’re driving.”

  “Emily, I know you like him,” Mom had said. “He texts you, and you practically launch out of your seat. You cast him in your play, fantastic. I realize you have a crush, and that can turn your mind around. But you’re not driving on the highway with him till he’s had his license for longer than two weeks.”

  I could feel she meant it, and I felt sliced by her words. Did I really jump out of my seat when he texted? And the way she said I know you like him—as if he didn’t like me back. Probably what hurt worst was that I wondered about that very thing.

  “You just don’t want me in a car because of what you used to do,” I’d snapped. “Because you used to drive drunk!”

  “I’ll never stop being sorry for that, but it was a long time ago,” she said calmly, as if I hadn’t just verbally slapped her.

  “Dan’s not going to do that,” I said. “He would never drink and drive.”

  “That may be. But he’s not going to drive you at all,” she said. “Not to Boston.”

  I just walked away.

  “See you after school,” she called.

  “See you never,” I muttered under my breath.

  A tidal wave of panic hit me now—had my mom heard me say those words? Could she possibly think I’d run away? That I hadn’t come home because I’d said I’d see her never? She might. There’d been that other time.

  She had been sober over a year now. Since the last horrible fight that had sent her to rehab, it was rare to hear raised voices in our house. The fact was, Mom and I had both changed during that time. She had quit drinking. And I’d had to deal with my best friend’s death.

  In the weeks after Lizzie died, I’d heard the words depressed and withdrawn, shocked and mourning coming from my parents. They sent me to a therapist. I saw Dr. Ferry pretty regularly. What helped me most was writing. My most recent work, since losing Lizzie, was about death. That might sound morbid, but it wasn’t. It had made me feel better.

  I needed my mother—my whole family—so badly in that moment, I wanted to cry. But then I took that emotion and turned it around. We were the Lonergan family, close and tough, all for one and one for all. We had dealt with my mother’s alcoholism. We had rallied around her during early sobriety, attended AA meetings with her, even gone to Al-Anon with our dad. My family would work nonstop until they found me. I was sure. They would pull out all the stops. That’s how we rolled.

  We even had a motto: Faugh a Ballagh. Fighting Irish for “Clear the way.”

  I took three deep breaths of cold air. The Porters’ voices had drifted away and the forest became silent. I didn’t hear footsteps or voices anymore, and I decided to count to one hundred before moving again. Just like playing hide-and-seek. But instead of one Mississippi, two Mississippi, I silently said the full names of my family: my parents and my siblings, in order of oldest to youngest. There were so many names—first, middle, confirmation—for nine people, I figured that was almost the same as counting slowly to a hundred.

  Dad—Thomas Francis Aquinas Lonergan

  Mom—Mary Elizabeth Rose Lonergan

  Tommy—Thomas Francis Aquinas Lonergan, Jr.

  Mick—Michael Joseph Aloysius Lonerga
n

  Anne—Anne Agatha Anastasia Lonergan

  Iggy—Ignatius Loyola Lonergan

  Pat—Patrick Benedict Leo Lonergan

  Bea—Beatrice Felicity Michael Lonergan

  And me—Emily Magdalene Bartholomea Lonergan

  Just thinking the names filled me with power and strength. When I was done, the only sounds I heard were wind in the trees and the occasional rush of a passing car or truck. Instead of running, I crept away.

  I kept wrenching my wrists against the sharp, tight bonds, trying to free my hands. The plastic edges cut into my skin. It hurt, and my wrists were bleeding, but I didn’t care. My phone was so close, but the ties refused to loosen, and I couldn’t get my fingers into my pocket. When I had more distance between me and the Porters, I would find a sharp rock and saw the ties off, and then I would call.

  Pine boughs hung low. I ducked beneath them. Needles tickled my face and the top of my head. I heard blood rushing in my ears, my heart beating so hard. The taste of poison was in my throat. I didn’t want to circle back to the highway right away, in case the Porters were close by and still looking for me. They probably were.

  Had they driven away yet? Or were they waiting at the minivan, thinking I’d get scared or tired in the woods and give up? I nearly snorted. No member of the Lonergan family gives up. Thinking of my clan again gave me even more courage, so I started to run, sure of my feet and overflowing with confidence and fire.

  “Emily.” The voice was quiet.

  I stopped short, swallowing my breath. It sounded like Lizzie. Had her ghost come to help me? But no. There, sitting on the side of a steep hill, was Chloe.

  “You have to come back with me,” she said in a low voice. “Back to the van.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “I’m going home.”

  “They won’t let you.”

  “Don’t tell them,” I whispered. “Just let me go.”

  “I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking, as if she felt sorry.

  I stared at her—she was just Lizzie’s little sister, she wasn’t going to stop me—and took off in a blazing sprint, as if I was racing the fifty-yard dash. I heard her shout, “Mom, Dad, over here!”

  That didn’t matter. I was on my way, up the hill, feinting around boulders and trees. Chloe was the least athletic person I knew. Lizzie and I used to encourage her, work with her to up her game so she wouldn’t embarrass herself on the field. I wasn’t exactly sporty, but theater can be pretty physical, so I stayed in shape.

  I scrambled up the ledge, hoping there wasn’t a cliff in my future, and there wasn’t—just another stretch of pine trees with a row of house lights beyond the ridge. My salvation: Someone there would call 911 and this nightmare would be history.

  “Yes!” I said. I put on the speed, and with all that adrenaline, I missed the narrow crevice.

  My foot got caught in the rock. I tried to put out my arms to catch my balance, brace my fall, but my hands were still snagged behind my back. I went down hard, my ankle twisting so violently, I cried in pain. My head smacked the ground.

  I would have kept going. I would have crawled to those houses, I swear. But I saw purple sparkles behind my eyelids and everything went black.

  * * *

  The next thing I knew, I was in someone’s arms, being carried like a baby toward the van, shoved into the back seat, buckled up.

  “Her head’s bleeding,” Chloe said. “We have to take her to a hospital!”

  “We’ll be home in half an hour; we’re almost there,” Mrs. Porter said. I realized that she was now in the back seat beside me, Chloe up front. My head throbbed, but my ankle hurt even worse.

  The Porters, like my family, always had a first-aid kit in their car. Mrs. Porter clicked the plastic box open.

  I felt her hands on my left temple, dabbing at a very sore spot with a piece of gauze. Then I smelled alcohol and felt the sting. She was cleaning the wound. I remembered that she was a nurse. When Lizzie and I were little, Mrs. Porter had worked at our school. Then she got another job, working privately for people who were sick at home. She said it was better because she had more time for Lizzie and Chloe.

  “Okay, ten minutes to the exit,” Mr. Porter said.

  “Got it,” Mrs. Porter said, carefully taping a bandage to my head.

  “Give it to her,” Mr. Porter said.

  “Not with a head injury,” Mrs. Porter said.

  “You want to get caught?” he asked sharply.

  “No,” she said after a few seconds.

  “If we hadn’t stopped for that bathroom break, we’d have gotten through the toll and been home safe by now,” he said. “Just do it, Ginnie!”

  I heard her rummaging in the kit. A bottle clinked. I turned my head, saw her lift a small vial in front of her face, insert a syringe into the rubber cap to withdraw liquid, and lightly pump the plunger so a tiny clear stream squirted into the air.

  “Please,” I said.

  “It won’t hurt, Lizzie,” Mrs. Porter said, her voice soft and soothing.

  “I’m Emily,” I said.

  “You’re my sweetie,” she said. She reached behind me to roll up my sleeve. She swabbed my upper arm with alcohol. I felt the needle prick, then a slow ache in my bicep. Almost instantly, I felt light-headed. I could taste the bitter drug in my mouth. The pain in my head and ankle dulled.

  “Why are you doing this?” I asked. The medication made me feel so trapped and helpless that tears filled my eyes, splashed onto my cheeks.

  “Shhh,” she said.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked, a sob bubbling up. “Mrs. Porter, I want my family.”

  “We are your family, sweetie,” she said. She reached into a canvas bag, pulled out a black wig. She gently eased it onto my head, tucking my long, reddish-blond hair under the snug cap. I tossed my head, trying to shake it off.

  I heard the van’s turn signal, and we veered right, leaving the highway. This was the exit Mr. Porter had mentioned. Up ahead I saw a brightly lit small building in the middle of the road. A tollbooth, twenty yards ahead! The sign on top said MAINE TURNPIKE. There was a man in the booth. Mr. Porter slowed down. He lowered his window, held out his arm, the ticket in his hand. Chloe slouched down in the seat, looking out the opposite window.

  I fought the drug. I forced myself to stay alert. Mrs. Porter propped me up, an arm behind my back.

  “Help,” I said. “Help me.”

  My tongue felt thick. The words came out garbled, so I said them again, louder. “Help me!”

  The toll collector was right there, so close, I saw his mustache, his bald head, the Maine Turnpike Authority patch on his shoulder. I heard a radio playing. He was listening to a football game.

  “Please,” I said. “They’re not my family.”

  He looked inside the van. I swear he smiled right at me. Mr. Porter started to pull away.

  “Hold on,” the man said.

  “Yes, sir?” Mr. Porter said. Then, reading the name tag right on the tollbooth window, “Yes, Dave?”

  “Patriots fan?” the toll collector asked.

  “Help me help me help me,” I said. I was screaming inside, but even to my own ears the words that came out of my mouth sounded like gibberish. But I tried to lock eyes with him, signal with my expression that I was in trouble. I fought to stay conscious.

  “Yeah,” Mr. Porter said. “How do you know that?”

  “Sticker on the window,” the toll collector said.

  I could picture it, the Patriots helmet right next to the Red Sox World Series Champions oval and the Proud Parents of a Black Hall High Honors Student emblem.

  “Are we winning?” Mr. Porter asked.

  “Up by ten, just got the field goal,” the toll collector said.

  “Yeah, well, go, Pats,” Mr. Porter said, chuckling, driving away.

  As the tollbooth disappeared behind us, Mrs. Porter leaned into my face. She looked worried. She removed the wig, dabbed at the bandage. “It’s bleed
ing through,” she said. “I’ll give you stitches when we get home.”

  I was crying, talking, calling out for Bea, for my mother, for my family.

  “No one can understand what you’re saying,” Chloe said sharply. “Will you just shut up? Just stop?”

  “She will,” Mrs. Porter said, her arm around my shoulder, giving me a squeeze that was probably meant to be comforting. “She’ll be fine.”

  Then, to me, her lips against my hair, “Sleep now, sweetie. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  I slept.

  I woke up in Lizzie’s bedroom. This was surreal: Everything was exactly, I mean exactly, as she had left it. I lay in her four-poster bed, the maple posts topped with carved pineapples. Up above was the canopy that wasn’t supposed to be there—she and I had fashioned it from old lace curtains we’d found in her grandmother’s trunk in the attic. The quilt that covered me was purple paisley, and I recognized a faded stain from a sleepover when, laughing so hard at one of our Bad Movie Night selections, she spilled her hot chocolate.

  Her desk—actually her grandparents’ old enameled kitchen table—was across the room. Lizzie had gotten it when her grandmother had broken her hip and had to move into assisted living. In fact, a lot of the things in Lizzie’s room had belonged to Mame. (I’d called her grandma that, too, just like Lizzie, Chloe, and all their cousins.) The milk glass lamps on the desk and bedside table, the Seth Thomas steeple clock on the bureau, a collection of swan figurines, had all belonged to Mame.

  The bookshelves—I couldn’t believe it. Every single volume was set in the same order Lizzie had used, which was to say, no apparent order at all. Lizzie loved to read, and even though she wasn’t the tidiest person, she arranged her books according to logic that only she and I understood. Her categories were dead poets, living poets, awesome modern women writers, hot modern guy writers, non-hot modern guy writers, and British cozies. Lizzie had adopted Mame’s love of mysteries set in wartime England.

  Somehow her parents, or whoever had created this room, had either figured out Lizzie’s system of shelving her books or had transported the bookshelves intact from Black Hall.