by Luanne Rice
“You’ve never been with me on this,” Mrs. Porter said to him. “I’m all alone; I feel no support at all. I need her, John.”
“I know that, Gin,” he said, trying to hug her again, and this time she let him. “But come on. I’ve done nothing but support you. I’m doing this for you.”
“Then do it all the way,” she whispered. “Believe.”
That I was Lizzie. Mr. Porter looked over the top of her head, and our eyes met. I saw terrible sadness there, almost as bad as the day of Lizzie’s funeral.
“I do. I believe,” he said. His voice sounded genuine, but the lie showed in his face.
“Okay, then,” Mrs. Porter said. “We need a plan.”
“Let’s keep her home from school today. Just till the missing girl stories die down,” he said.
“She’s brand-new at school—that would make her stand out. No, we have to continue as if nothing is wrong, nothing at all. Lizzie, you can do it, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“We’ll schedule an email to Mary and Tom,” she told me. My parents, but she couldn’t call them that. “We don’t want it to seem like you’ve written them in response to these news reports, so we’ll do it later this week. I’ll come up with something.”
I was sure she would.
“Take extra care at school,” she said. “Just as your father says, Emily’s face will be fresh in people’s minds, if they’ve been watching the news. Be on guard, sweetie.” She primped my black hair, twisted the curl around her index finger, stared into my contact-lens-green eyes. My eyebrows were finally growing back, but she fetched the kohl and filled them in some more. She darkened the beauty mark, too. Then she drew her finger along the part in my hair, examining my roots. Seeming satisfied, she nodded.
Chloe had been standing there, in the corner, the whole time. Her face was pure white, and when I looked straight at her, she turned away. We grabbed our coats and left the kitchen. She walked a few steps ahead of me out to the bus. I tried to catch up, but she picked up speed.
“I wish you weren’t here,” she said under her breath. “They fight over you, all the time.”
“I wish I wasn’t here, too,” I said.
“Before, they were just sad. Now they’re angry. Lots of people get divorced after the death of a child,” she said. “I never thought my parents would, but since you came, it seems they’re heading that way.”
“What did your father mean?” I asked. “When he said if people start looking for me again he and your mother have to ‘think about it.’ What would they do to me?”
“Shut up,” she said. “Shut up, shut up.”
It was snowing lightly, but as we stood at the bus stop, the wind picked up, and the flakes started to come down hard. I shivered, but not from the weather; I’d seen fear in Chloe’s eyes, and I thought it might be because she knew what they’d do.
I tried to calm myself. The falling snow was beautiful and made me think of Lizzie. Her favorite poets all wrote about New England—Mary Oliver, Maxine Kumin, and Robert Frost. She especially loved Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening.”
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
I wanted the lovely lines and the thought of Lizzie to soothe me, but they didn’t. My shoulders still felt like glass. The bus arrived, and from the minute I climbed aboard, I watched for recognition in every face. I couldn’t even breathe. I thought I might shatter. Sitting beside Carole, I waited for her to say something about seeing me on TV. Instead, she pulled out her phone and showed me a selfie she’d taken with Mark Benjamin—the red-haired bearded boy from Casey’s band.
“How come you didn’t text back when I sent you this?” she asked.
“Huh,” I said, peering at the photo. “We have terrible cell reception, remember?”
“Because life in the woods, right,” she said.
“The picture’s really cool.”
“It’s on,” she said.
“What is?” I felt calmer, talking about something as normal as a selfie. It made my heart slow down, and I started to breathe.
“Me and Mark. We’ve been circling each other since seventh grade, but he finally made his move. Well, actually, I did. I took this yesterday. Which you’d have known if you got my text. Which you would have if we weren’t living in the sticks.”
“I know. But seriously, you guys look good together.”
Carole grinned. “He asked me to come work at his family Christmas tree farm this weekend. Which means staying warm by the fire, oh yeah.” She winked, and I made myself laugh. “And that’s one step closer to taking me to the Snow Globe Ball, and if he doesn’t figure that out, I’m going to have to tell him the way of the world. We’re going.”
“The Snow Globe Ball?” I asked.
“Yes, the high point of the long, miserable winters we get up here. Man, do I miss Boston. Why, oh, why, did my mom think she had to be a rural doctor and drag me along with her?”
I wasn’t the only one to have been relocated here against her will. I felt like saying that moving someplace was a little different from being kidnapped, but I held back.
“The dance planning committee meets after school today,” Carole said. “You should come—it’s fun.”
“I’ll miss the bus,” I said, imagining what would happen if I got home late.
“We can catch a ride with Casey’s dad. He doesn’t go to an office, so he usually drives when he’s home and there’s an assembly or some activity—he’ll beat the bus. See you at the meeting, okay?”
“Will Casey be there?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “His band will be playing at the dance. Mark’s in it, too. They’re great, and they’ll probably do a song or two this afternoon. You’ve got to hear them.”
“Sounds really cool,” I said, wondering why I didn’t mention I’d already heard them before. Keeping secrets had become second nature, even ones that didn’t actually seem to matter.
* * *
In English class, I was chosen to read my paper. I had done it on Book Four of The Faerie Queene, how Wizard Busirane had kidnapped Amoretta on her wedding day so she couldn’t be with her new husband, Scudamour. It was my subversive cry for help: What would everyone think to know that I myself had been kidnapped?
The wedding theme also reminded me of Lizzie. She and Jeff were not officially married. I hadn’t had time to sign up online to become a certified ordained minister. But we had performed a ceremony, and the memory filled my mind the entire time I stood in front of the class.
We had chosen the day and time according to when Lizzie’s parents would be busy. I knew they had a conference with her team of doctors that afternoon, so Jeff had driven me up to the hospital in Boston, and we entered Lizzie’s room. He brought bouquets of white roses—a big one for Lizzie, a small one for me, her maid of honor.
“Hurry,” he said as soon as we saw her. She looked shockingly worse than she had the day before.
“I will,” I said. I hoped my voice would work. My face was already soaked with tears.
Lizzie in her white cotton nightgown, its collar and cuffs made of delicate lace, her arms, so pale and translucent they looked almost blue, pierced by needles, tubes twirling down from the pole above her hospital bed. Jeff in his father’s tuxedo jacket, the one Jeff had worn to the Full Moon Dance. He clasped her hand. She was too weak to squeeze his. They gazed at each other, their eyes liquid.
“Do you, Elizabeth Porter, take this man, Jeffrey Woodley, to be your husband, to have and to hold, through sickness and health, until …” I couldn’t say the next part. Until death do you part.
“I do.” Lizzie’s lips moved, but no sound came out.
“And do you, Jeff Woodley, take this woman, Elizabeth Porter …”
“I do,” he said. He didn’t even let me finis
h. Lizzie was coughing. They had put her on morphine the night before, and she kept drifting in and out of consciousness.
“Then by the power vested in me by best-friendship, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Jeff leaned down, tenderly kissed Lizzie on the lips. He slid the silver ring he had bought onto her finger. She had lost so much weight, she was skin and bones, so the ring was loose on her finger. He crouched beside the bed, holding Lizzie in his arms for a long time. I stood back, turned toward the window, giving them privacy.
When we’d been there half an hour, I checked the time. Lizzie’s parents would be finishing up with the doctors, so it was time for us to go. Jeff lingered, unable to let go of her hand. He stroked her ring with his thumb.
“You have to take it,” Lizzie said.
“The ring?” he asked, sounding shocked. “But it’s yours; it’s our wedding band.”
“My mother will see it.”
“I don’t care. I want everyone to know,” Jeff said.
Her eyes welled with tears. “You don’t understand. It will make things worse for me, for everyone. Please, just do what I ask.”
“But I need you to wear it,” Jeff whispered. “So you know I’m with you. Forever.”
“I do know that,” she said. “I love you, my husband.”
Then she looked to me, reached out her hand. I took it, and we stared at each other for a long time. “Give it to him,” she said.
Then, because Jeff was unable to do it, I gently removed the ring from her finger and pressed it into Jeff’s hand.
His face was in a knot, his shoulders tense. As big as the ring was on Lizzie, it was too small for him. He slipped it into his pocket. Then he knelt by her bed again, holding her. They stayed that way a long time, until Lizzie closed her eyes and went to sleep.
We left the white roses. Lizzie’s room was full of flowers already anyway. Who would notice two more bouquets?
That was the last time I saw Lizzie. Every time I thought about it I had to bow my head, fight away the grief and disbelief. I shuddered, remembering how I’d thought there would be another time, at least one more chance to tell her I loved her, to hug her and hug her, to hold on to her for a little longer.
Carole had said she was from Boston, and her mother was a doctor. Could her mom have worked at Williams Memorial? Could she have treated Lizzie, maybe even seen me visiting?
Ms. LeBlanc obviously couldn’t tell my mind wasn’t on my paper, because she gave me an A for the day. Roberta Alfonso and Laurel Jones told me I’d done a good job. There I’d been, standing right in front of the class the same day my face had been all over TV, but no one thought I was anyone but Lizzie Porter.
And I’d spent the whole class remembering her, my best friend.
* * *
I nearly didn’t go to the after-school meeting, but at the last minute, I saw Casey walk into the assembly room. He was carrying his mandolin case. I could hear the others warming up, so I followed him in.
The intricately carved wood-paneled walls reminded me of Gillette Castle. Apparently this room had been a chapel in Sarah Royston’s day. Photos of past Snow Globe Balls hung around the room. About ten kids sat at a long banquet-like table. Roberta waved and gave me a warm smile. Carole had saved me a seat.
“Thanks,” I said.
At the sound of my voice, Casey turned. “Emily?” he said.
My heart nearly stopped. “Lizzie,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “It’s just, I wrote that song, and it reminds me of you.” But he had a quizzical expression on his face, as if it was more than that.
“Oh, this lady is your inspiration for your new tune?” the bearded guy—Mark—said, walking over. The dark-haired guy who played guitar walked alongside him.
“I’ve been wanting to meet you,” the ethereal-looking girl said to me, her copper hair tumbling down the back of her long, dark red brocade dress.
“Well, you’re an exalted senior,” Mark said to the beautiful girl. “Lizzie’s a sophomore with the rest of us. Lizzie, meet Angelique Millet. You already know Casey, and here’s our guitar player, Hideki Sano.”
“Hi,” I said to the three of them. “I’m looking forward to hearing you play.”
“Casey says you already have,” Angelique said. Her gaze seemed indolent, but behind her green eyes—Lizzie-green, the color of my contacts—I thought I saw something sharp.
“Well, yes, I mean, hear you again,” I said, stammering. “You guys are great.”
“I feel massively spoiled I get to play with such dope musicians, my fam-band,” she said.
“Spoken by the legendary fiddle goddess,” Mark said.
Angelique smiled. “Well, nice to meet you, Lizzie. We’re going to whip up some magic just for you. Get ready.”
She, Mark, and Hideki headed toward the front of the room and picked up their instruments.
“Your voice,” Casey said, hanging back with me, fixing me with those turquoise eyes.
“What about it?” I asked.
“You sound different.”
“I’m the same as ever,” I said.
“I don’t know. It’s like all of a sudden you’re someone else.”
I felt a jolt. Was it possible he’d had the TV on that morning, heard me speaking on the Gillette Castle video with Iggy and Bea? I wanted it to be true, but even more, I felt terrified that it could be. Mrs. Porter saying I don’t care if I get caught echoed in my mind.
“I’m not someone else,” I said.
“Okay,” he said, sounding unconvinced.
I instantly changed the subject.
“Mark’s guitar looks so different from Hideki’s,” I said, once again noticing the big silver disc that filled the sound hole.
“It’s a Dobro,” Casey said. “You’ll hear when we play—it makes the sound resonate, kind of sizzle.”
Then he joined the rest of the band, and they played, and I did hear the Dobro’s crisp tones as Mark played—a metal tube on his little finger sliding up and down the strings. I listened to Angelique’s heart-tugging fiddle, Hideki’s rich bluegrass tone, and Casey’s blazing brilliance on mandolin. The way he sang and coaxed joy from the strings filled me with yearning.
Hey, Emily,
You talked to me,
And now you’ve walked away.
Hey, Emily,
Come back to me
And sit again someday.
People applauded when they finished. I beamed with secret pride and tingled at the fact Casey was staring straight at me as he sang.
“It’s not exactly a holiday song, though,” Roberta said. “Shouldn’t we be thinking Christmasy for the ball?”
“It’s a love song,” Carole said, gazing at Mark. “And that’s the whole point of the holidays.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘love,’” Angelique said, laughing. “After all, in the song, Little Miss Emily walks away. Right, Casey?”
He didn’t answer. She leaned into him, and their shoulders bumped. I saw her brush his cheek with hers, and then give him a light kiss on the lips. “But I will say this,” she added, leaning her forehead against his. “You do know how to put a serious soul spin on a person’s heart.”
“Man, come on,” Mark said. “Roberta, you want Christmas songs, you got ’em. Hit it, Donoghue.”
“One, two, three,” Casey said, and then they broke into “Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.” Part of me was glad the Emily section of their program was over. And the rest of me longed, with everything I had, to have it never stop.
When the music was done and everyone was putting their instruments away, I stepped into the hall and bumped straight into Mrs. Porter.
“Well, hello, Lizzie,” she said.
“Mrs.—Mom,” I said, turning bright red. “What are you doing here?”
“Volunteering at the nurse’s office,” she said, brightly. “I signed up for two afternoons a week.”
“Did you hear the music?” I asked, my vo
ice shaking, praying she hadn’t heard the lyrics about Emily.
“No, how disappointing. But I’ll look forward to another time. Now, how about a ride home?”
“Carole said Casey’s dad could give us a ride.”
“Weren’t you going to ask me for permission?”
“Can I?”
She laughed. “I’m here now, sweetie. Let’s go.”
I went to the second meeting of the Snow Globe Ball committee, too. That first day, when Mrs. Porter had driven me back, she’d been furious that I’d have driven with Casey’s dad without asking her first. But then she said that the more she thought of it, she realized it would be more normal for Lizzie to do regular high-school-type things, like helping to plan a school event, like getting rides home with friends’ parents.
So after the second committee meeting, as Carole had promised, Casey’s father was waiting outside. He had a rusty black SUV with three rows of seats. The middle seat was patched together with silver duct tape. His smile was kind and welcoming, and he spoke with an Irish accent. He was tall, but about an inch shorter than Casey, and his style reminded me of Casey’s, too: His straight brown hair fell below his shoulders, and he wore leather bracelets on his wrists and a big silver wolf ring on his middle finger.
A bunch of us piled into the SUV. I sat right behind Mr. Donoghue, next to Casey. Our thighs brushed. It made me shiver, and I glanced at him to see if it had been on purpose. Angelique was in the seat behind, and she kept sighing as we drove along, every time Mr. Donoghue took a turn.
“The motion bothers me,” she said. “I really need to be next to a window.”
“Uh-oh, Ange is gonna barf,” Mark said. It reminded me of throwing up in the car the day I was kidnapped, and I almost gagged so hard I had to clap a hand over my mouth.
“Are you okay?” Mr. Donoghue asked, glancing in the rearview mirror. For a second, I thought he was talking to me, but his eyes were on Angelique.
“Not really,” Angelique said. “I get motion sick and do better with a window.”
