by Luanne Rice
“Not possessive,” Carole said, shaking her head. “The way she made you switch seats with her in the car that time. So she could sit next to ‘the dear boy.’”
“She was being really nice just now,” I said.
“That dig about ‘love, break up, love again’?”
I shook my head and laughed. “Guess what?” I asked. “Casey asked me to go to Mark’s today.”
“That’s so great!” Carole said.
“You’re going, right?” I asked her.
“Oh, yeah.”
“I wish I could, but I have something I have to do at home …”
“No,” Carole said. “No way. You are not getting out of this. We are going to have too much snowy, cozy fireside fun for you to miss out. We clear on that?”
I laughed, and she took that as a yes—I had to find a way.
The bell rang. The rest of the day dragged. I couldn’t wait to get out of school, and I had the feeling I was already tobogganing—sledding down a rutted hill, my whole spirit leaping with every bump. The big question was: What would happen if I went? How far could I push Mrs. Porter? What would she say? For once, I wished it was one of her volunteer days so I could see her in the hall, try to convince her.
Lizzie’s useless phone sat in my pocket. Between the last two periods, I went to the office, made the same old lame excuse about forgetting my charger and told Mrs. Baker, the administrative assistant, that I had to call home. She pointed to a phone on the empty desk across the office—not much privacy.
“Hello?” Mrs. Porter answered.
“It’s me,” I said.
“What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just … some friends are going to Mark Benjamin’s after school. His family has a tree farm, and I’m invited to toboggan with them. I wondered if I could go.” I spoke slowly, feeling bold for even asking, considering the incident with the clock.
“That’s a good idea,” she said.
“It is?” I asked, actually shocked.
“Yes. It’s just what you should be doing. Getting into the mainstream.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“You love sledding, sweetie,” she said. Her words were nice, but they sounded as if they were coming between gritted teeth. “You always have.”
That was true. Whoever she was talking to—Lizzie or Emily—we had both loved winter sports. She might have been happy to see the smile on my face when I hung up, just like a normal kid, making plans for after school.
* * *
A bunch of us climbed onto the bus. No sign of Angelique. Casey grabbed my hand, pulled me into the seat beside him, across from Beth and Jon, two kids from our class.
“Where’s Angelique?” I asked.
“She didn’t want to come.”
“Why?” I asked.
He gave me a long, steady look. Then he slid his arm around my shoulder, and I felt his answer in my skin.
The bus meandered up and down some steep hills, over a frozen river, along a deserted road with only two houses on it, each with red barns. I’d been by here on the way home from school, and I spotted Mark’s place right away: the BENJAMIN FAMILY TREE FARM sign, and hundreds of trees, but also the most incredibly over-the-top light display I’d ever seen.
It was nearly dark by the time we got there. The big white house glowed, lined with thousands and thousands of tiny white lights. They encircled the porch rails, the window frames, the roof line, the chimney. A row of illuminated candy canes led to the barn, itself blindingly decorated with colored lights—pink, green, amber, red, blue—blinking on and off. A sign above the barn said ENCHANTED HOLIDAY VILLAGE!
A few cars and pickups were parked in the lot, and slews of little kids ran straight for the barn door. I peeked inside. As wildly bright as the outside was, indoors it was holiday on steroids.
Music jingled out, and there were at least a million white lights; illuminated angels with tall and feathery wings; two gigantic menorahs with blue bulbs; Santa Claus with a fluffy white beard sitting in a big red velvet chair; a kinara candleholder holding red, black, and green candles to represent the seven principles of Kwanzaa; and Mrs. Claus and a bunch of elves passing out cups of cocoa and hot cider and plates of sugar cookies. Two black Lab dogs with fake antlers on their heads slept by a wood stove in big soft plaid beds.
“That’s usually my job,” Carole said, pointing at the elves and Mrs. Claus. “On days I work here, I’m on cookie duty.”
“I thought you sold trees,” I said.
“Consider me support staff. I’m not the stand-in-the-cold-wearing-a-big-husky-jacket type. So I get to play with the kids while their parents decide on the perfect spruce.”
Electric trains ran in two directions along the perimeters of the floor and the ceiling. Behind snow-frosted windows were illuminated tableaux: one of antique dolls in beautiful gowns, another of white mice sitting down to a feast, and—my favorite—four teddy bears at a tea party.
“That one was my mother’s,” Casey said, coming to stand beside me.
“You mean one of the bears?”
“All of them. She designed that window. Before she died, she and Mrs. Benjamin were best friends. Mom helped her create this whole holiday world, but the teddy bear tea party was all hers.”
I looked at the bears and wished I could touch them through the glass. Their velveteen coats were threadbare. Their eyes were old-fashioned; instead of plastic buttons, they were made of thread stitched in a circle. Their colors had faded in time and light. The bears sat at a low wooden table covered with doll-size teacups and teapot.
“She inherited them from her great-aunt,” Casey said. “So they’re very old.”
Her great-aunt—Sarah Royston’s daughter, I thought. “Nora?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“Did you play with them when you were little?” I asked.
He nodded. “Yeah, but mostly they sat on a shelf in our dining room having this same tea party, all through my life.”
“What made your mother and Mrs. Benjamin do this?” I asked, gesturing around to the holiday displays.
“The tree business wasn’t doing that well,” he said. “Local families always bought their trees here, but this is such a small town. My mom had the idea of pulling people in from far away. Now just about everyone in Maine makes a trip here to see the display and, while they’re at it, buy things.”
“That was really smart of her,” I said. “And she was a good friend.”
“My mom was both,” he agreed.
“I’m sorry you lost her,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said. “She was the best, and losing her was the worst. She took amazing care of me, and I wish I could have done better for her.”
“What do you mean?”
We just stared at the bears for a while before Casey answered. “She fell one night—in the dark, a dumb thing, taking the garbage out. My dad was away, I should have done it, but she wouldn’t let me—she was always afraid I’d bump into something. Anyway, she twisted her ankle really bad, and it turned out she had a hairline fracture. They gave her oxycodone at the clinic.”
“Painkiller?”
“Yep. She was only supposed to take it for a few days.”
My heart skipped. I already knew what he was going to say.
“She told the doctor the pain wasn’t going away so he refilled the prescription. And then again, and then I’m not sure how she kept getting them, but she did.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, feeling a pit in my stomach.
“One day she took too many. She never woke up.”
“Casey …” I said, my mouth dry.
“I tried to stop her, all along. I’d find her pills, throw them out. But she’d always get more.”
“I …” I began, looking for the words. “My mother drank. We used to hide her bottles. It was so hard to see her checking out—she was awesome till she took that first drink of the day, then it was pure obl
ivion.”
“I had no idea,” he said. He thought I was talking about Mrs. Porter. I’d never even seen her have a glass of wine. He held my hand.
“Yeah. The minute she drank, she just … went away,” I said.
“My mother did, too, with the pills,” he said. “I would have done anything if she’d quit.”
“But that’s the thing about addiction,” I said. “There’s nothing anyone can do until the person wants to stop. They have to do it on their own.”
“My mother couldn’t,” he said. He blinked, looking at me.
“Do you get mad at her?” I asked.
“How do you know?”
“Because she didn’t stop. You wanted her to, begged her to, but she didn’t. It’s a disease; we know that, but still. It took her away. It took mine away, too. I was so angry all the time.”
“Me too,” he said. “When she’d be high, she’d cry. She’d say she hated herself, ask me to forgive her. She’d get all maudlin about stuff like I’d never get a license, I could never play on sports teams. As if I cared. But it started to feel she was looking for excuses for why she was using.”
“But she taught you to play guitar,” I said. “And she trained you to keep bees.”
“Toward the end, she never thought that was enough. There was nothing I could do to stop her, or help her,” he said.
“You both look so happy in that picture in your kitchen. All I see is love,” I said, meaning it more than one way.
“That’s all I see, too,” he said.
He was staring straight at me. It pierced my heart, told me he felt the same way.
Suddenly the cheerful scene around us felt too noisy and close. We walked outside into the clear, cold air. I wanted to be alone with Casey—there was so much I wanted to say to him—but all the others were waiting for us outside the barn. Mark had gotten out the toboggans.
My mind buzzed. We all started marching along a trail into the pine forest, up a steep hill. It was so dark in the trees, a few kids snapped on their phone flashlights. But Casey seemed to know where he was going without light. He and I held the same cord, pulling our toboggan behind us. I stumbled on a rut, and he caught me.
“I know the way,” he said. “I’ve been coming here since I was five. I know every bend, every tree. You’ll be fine—don’t worry.”
Implicit in those words was that he was protecting me. In another place and time, I might have bristled; I’d always thought of myself as strong woman personified, the tough younger sister of a big Irish clan. But everything I’d been through had made me feel insecure and threatened, and it felt good to have Casey there for me.
When we got to the top of the hill, we stepped out of the woods into a big clearing. There was a rustic hut, and someone had already lit a bonfire. It crackled and sparked, orange flames shooting straight up into the star-filled sky. The other side of the hill gave onto a long, wide slope. Looking around in a 360-degree circle, there was not one house visible. There were no streetlights. This was the wilderness, the most peaceful place I’d ever been.
“Who’s first?” Mark asked.
“We’ll go,” Beth said. She and Jon piled on, shoved off, and we heard their shrieks of exquisite terror and delight as they went sliding down. They disappeared below the last ridge, and then came Hideki and Roxanne, a girl who was a senior.
Mark, Carole, Casey, and I stood by the fire. I took off my gloves to warm my hands. I watched Mark put his arms around Carole, standing in the dark circle just outside the glow.
“Want to take a run?” Casey asked me.
“Sure,” I said.
We maneuvered our toboggan onto the hill’s crest. I settled on the hard wooden seat, and Casey sat behind me. His legs were tight around my hips. We braced our feet on the curved piece in front. Then we both used our hands to shove off, and we went flying down the slope.
The frosty air filled my mouth and eyes. Every bump sent us airborne, but we used our weight and balance to stay centered and not topple over. The wind rushed past us. The faster we went, Casey’s arms came around me and held me tighter. I leaned back into his chest, and my heart was thrashing so hard I was sure he felt it. We careened around a bend, instinctively tilting left as if we were one person. Then a right turn, and his arms tightened again and made me feel so thrilled I forgot to lean, and we spun out and soared into a snowdrift.
We landed in a lump, arms and legs entwined. The opposite of hurting, tickled by snow crystals. We laughed just a little at first, then hysterically. We cleared snow off each other’s faces. I’d lost my hat, and he smoothed my hair.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Great, you?”
“Better than great.”
Which, considering the fact we’d just crashed into the hillside, struck us as incredibly funny, and we both started laughing again. Then all at once the laughter stopped, I looked into his eyes, and he kissed me.
The world fell out from under me, and I was floating in space, held up by Casey’s arms. And I was holding him, too, with all my might. The smell of pine trees and crisp snow surrounded us, and we lifted above the earth. His lips were soft and the kiss was hot, and I forgot I had a body and a life—and I was part of Casey and he was part of me.
Casey took off his glove. He raised his hand, touched my cheek. His fingers felt warm.
“I wish I could see you,” he said. “Really see you. The details, the way your eyes look, every single thing, not just the shadow.”
“You already do,” I said. “More than anyone.” I had to say it; I couldn’t have stopped the words if I’d tried. “You see the real me. Not my Lizzie disguise.”
“You’re incognito?” he asked. He thought I was joking.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then who are you really?” Still joking.
“You know,” I said, my voice breaking. “You already guessed it. And I’ve been wanting to tell you you’re right.”
“Right about what?”
“You know how we talked about our mothers before? I meant my real one.”
“Your real one?” he asked, frowning.
“She’s waiting for me in Connecticut. She misses me. I’m so afraid that if I don’t return to her she’ll start drinking again. Maybe she already has …”
Casey slipped his arms around me. The smile left his face, and his eyes were suddenly solemn. I felt him realize that this wasn’t a joke, that I was being serious. My heart began to gallop. There was no containing what I felt. I heard the sound of my blood rushing. We were perfectly still, but the darkness around us seemed alive, the constellations tilting overhead.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I can’t say it out loud,” I whispered. “Something terrible will happen if I tell.”
“You’re the missing girl,” he said, saying it for me.
“Yes,” I said, and a door in my heart opened. “I’m Emily.”
* * *
I hadn’t meant to say that. The words just slipped out. Or maybe deep down I had intended to tell him—because I couldn’t stand it anymore. Keeping the truth inside was killing me.
“Why did you run away?” he asked.
That was the question that stopped me, brought me to a screeching halt against the force of reality. Should I go all the way, tell him the whole truth, ask him to help me? Mrs. Porter, my mother, the knife. My mind fought with itself over what to say.
“I …” I began.
“Your family misses you; it’s been all over the news,” Casey said. “The drinking—you were talking about your real mother. Not Mrs. Porter.”
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Don’t you want to go home?” he asked.
“More than anything.”
“This is why you’re worried your mother will start drinking again?”
I nodded.
We were still lying in the snowdrift. The sky had stopped spinning. We sat up and held each other. My head was on his shoulder; I could fee
l him breathing hard. I couldn’t bear the idea of letting go.
“I’ll help you,” he said. “Are you afraid your parents will be mad?”
“No,” I said. “Not at all. It’s something else.”
“Then let’s call them, right now. Tell them you’re okay,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone. He handed it to me. My hands were shaking. I was too overwhelmed to think straight. My fingers dialed our house number.
This is what I’m not sure about: Would I have gone through with it if the call had actually worked? I heard the line ring—I was sure of that. But then it went dead. I looked at the bars on Casey’s phone—two verging on one, one verging on zero. We were too far from any cell tower for the call to be completed.
“No reception,” I said.
“Then let’s go back to the barn,” he said. “We can call from there.”
We stood up, started pulling the toboggan up the hill. Carole and Mark zoomed by, going the other way. I barely noticed them. Bare branches overhead scraped in the wind. They clawed at the stars. I felt menace in the universe.
We crossed the clearing, entered the trail heading back to the farm. Casey held my hand.
“Why are you living with the Porters?” he asked. “Calling yourself Lizzie?”
“It’s complicated,” I said.
“Chloe acts like you’re really her sister,” he said.
“We’ve been close for a long time,” I said. How could I explain it to him? Did I even want to? The emotion of our kiss, of night sledding, of him telling me how his mother had died, then seeing the real me, had overcome what I’d known all along, what I’d been committed to do—maintain the facade, keep up the lie, not only for my survival, but for my mother’s.
“Why haven’t her parents called yours to let them know you’re okay?” he asked.
“They … the Porters … are taking care of me,” I said.
“It seems weird,” he said. “They have to know your family is going crazy. And your mother …”
“The Porters …” I began, searching for words to justify what the Porters had done, but I lost it. I heard a voice shrieking in the woods. Then I found myself holding Casey—not in a romantic way but clutching him for dear life, as if I was being swept away by a mad river. The voice was mine, crying with all the panic and despair I’d kept bottled up for sixty-seven days.
