Pretend She's Here

by Luanne Rice

  “Mom?”

  “She’s replying to people,” Bea said. “To anyone who posts about you.”

  Since getting home, I’d decided to close all my social media accounts. As much as I’d missed being online when I was away, I knew it wouldn’t be good for me now. “I don’t want to see what people are writing about me,” I told her.

  “Well, a lot of people are curious about you,” Bea said, scrolling. “‘How’s she adjusting to being home?’ ‘What is she saying about Chloe?’ That’s their big thing—they want a feud between you and Chloe.”

  “There’s no feud,” I said.

  Bea looked up. “Em, how can you forgive her?”

  I knew Bea was being loyal to me, but I really didn’t want to talk about Chloe. Maybe that’s why I uncovered Lizzie’s letter on the table, so she’d see.

  “Is that Lizzie’s handwriting?” Bea asked. She leaned forward to take a closer look.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m doing my project on this amazing woman she found out about. Sarah Royston. She used to own the biggest mill in Maine, and …”

  “Royston?” Bea asked. “As in the town? Where they took you?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  She frowned. “Why are you focusing on it?”

  “Not the town—Sarah. Lizzie was fascinated by her. After Lizzie died, that’s why the family moved there. It was one good thing they did—a way to honor Lizzie. And that’s why I want to do my report on Sarah. She was a major business woman in a hard-core man’s world, and she donated her house to help troubled girls …”

  I stopped short. I thought: Chloe. Maybe some of the girls who’d lived in Royston Home for Wayward Girls had been nineteenth-century versions of her, had had parents who’d committed crimes, leaving them with nowhere to go.

  Bea leaned forward. “Em! Put that place and those people out of your mind! Royston and the Porters, just forget about them!” she said.

  “Forget about them?” I asked. “You think I can?”

  “I swear it would be better if you ripped up that letter and did your project on shipbuilding in Black Hall, something nice and local and so what if it’s boring? At least it won’t traumatize you,” Bea said.

  “What traumatizes me is not thinking about it,” I said. “Pretending it didn’t happen. Why can’t you understand that? And can’t you let me have my own feelings about Chloe?”

  I glared at Bea, and my heart fell. Tears were running down her cheeks. She took my hand.

  “I’m trying,” Bea said. “But you don’t know what it was like. Missing you. Worrying every minute that you were never coming home. That you were dead.”

  “Oh, Bea,” I said. I hadn’t thought of it from her perspective, not like this.

  “When we found out you were alive, I was overjoyed. But once it came out that the Porters had taken you, and everything they did to you, I went crazy. I want them to pay for what they did to you—even Chloe. And it kills me that you’re doing a report on Royston—to me, it’s the worst place on earth.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said. “For not realizing what it was like for you.”

  She wiped tears from her cheeks. Then she reached over, stroked my head. “Even your hair,” she said. “They changed the way you looked. They tried to make you into someone else. Every time I look at you, it reminds me of what they did.”

  I looked at my reflection in the convex apiary window. She was right—my hair was two distinct colors: my own, and the black dye. The police and my parents had taken plenty of photos documenting all the Lizzie-isms—the hair, the mole, my eyebrows, the green contacts, so I didn’t have to worry about preserving the evidence or anything. But it was taking forever for my hair to grow out.

  “I want to cut the black part off,” I said.

  “Then the rest will be really short,” Bea said.

  “I don’t care,” I said. “Will you do it for me?”

  She began to smile. “Seriously?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, when we get home.”

  “No, now,” I said.

  Bea stood up and ran out of the room. She came back a few minutes later with a pair of scissors.

  “Go for it,” I said.

  And it was strange, but as soon as she started to snip, I began to feel really anxious. I heard the scissors clicking—sharp object alert. Bea caught the clumps of hair as they fell. I’d always had long hair, below my shoulders, and it suddenly felt so light and weird. I checked my reflection again. She had gotten about halfway through.

  “Keep going,” I said. “Make it look good for Friday.”

  “Friday?”

  “Chloe has a hearing, and I want to be there for it. To make sure she doesn’t get sent somewhere horrible. Casey is going, too.”

  Bea was silent. I waited for her to say that Chloe should stay in jail, that she didn’t deserve my support. The scissors kept snipping. I gazed at the bees. They were so still, no signs of life. But they were beautiful: tiny, perfect yellow-and-black bodies, waiting in suspended animation. Being in that cell block room had been a type of hibernation. I had been waiting to be rescued. The bees were waiting to wake up.

  “What time is the hearing?” Bea asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to ask Casey.” I paused. “Do you really think I’m crazy to want to go?”

  “I think you were driven a bit mad, being locked up and controlled. But, Em, you’re stronger than anyone I know. Do you realize that?”

  Slowly, I nodded. I’d learned that I had within myself a power I couldn’t completely understand—it was the opposite of Mrs. Porter’s cruelty and domination. I thought again of Sarah Royston. She was someone who’d had a terrible experience and made things better, not only for herself, but for girls who’d needed help.

  “It takes someone really strong to care about a person who hurt her as much as Chloe hurt you,” Bea said. “So yeah, you might be a little crazy, but I think you’re amazing, that you want to go to court for her.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You do realize one thing, though, right?” Bea asked. “It’s been hard for you to leave the house, to walk past the reporters. They’ll be all over you, once they figure out you’re going to Maine. Please be sure you’re ready for this, Emily. I don’t want you to have any setbacks—you’re doing so well.”

  She put down the scissors, leaned over to embrace me from behind. I grabbed her hands. Holding tight to my sister, I stared at the cluster of bees in the hive. They huddled together on the frame, immobile for the winter, till spring’s warmth woke them. But as I watched, a small miracle: One moved. The small striped body, the translucent wings. The bee shifted, crawled over the others. It was still full of life. Winter was just an interlude. It would end, and the bees would fly again.

  So would I.

  The next night, I waited until after dinner, until Bea and Patrick went to their rooms to do homework, to help clean up the kitchen and talk to my parents.

  “There’s something I want to do,” I said, putting away the wooden salad bowl. “And it’s very important, and I need a ride.”

  “Let’s sit down,” my mother said. She poured coffee for my dad and herself, and we all took our seats at the table.

  “There’s a hearing about Chloe’s welfare on Friday,” I said. “The Porters are obviously unfit to take care of her, and once she gets out of that Casco Bay place, the State of Maine is going to send her to a group home.”

  “It’s true,” my dad said. “The DHHS—Department of Health and Human Services—stepped in. They determined Chloe is in jeopardy—clearly, her parents are in prison—and she’s going to be placed.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “We’re keeping track,” my dad said.

  “Why?”

  “Because the case involves you,” he said.

  “And because she is a child,” my mother said. “Who doesn’t have anyone.”

  That was true, and exac
tly how I felt. I’d been worried they’d only see Chloe in the worst light.

  “She loved her parents, and just like them, she was grieving for Lizzie,” my mother said.

  “She was,” I said.

  “Parents can be the best guides in the world,” my mother said. “Or they can be the worst, and hurt their children so badly.” Her lips thinned as if she was trying to hold her feelings inside. “I know from experience.”

  “You didn’t do anything bad!” I said.

  “I can’t bear to think of how many times I almost got behind the wheel after drinking, sweetheart. And I wasn’t present—I was passing out, causing our family so much worry. You protected me, hid the bottles, tried to get me to stop. In that way, I understand how Chloe is affected by her mother.”

  “I do, too,” I said. “She was being loyal. She’s only thirteen.”

  “Emily,” my dad said. “You could hate Chloe for the part she played. But you don’t. You forgive her.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

  “We’re proud of you,” he said.

  My eyes filled with tears. “I care about her. I’m worried about what will happen to her.”

  “So are we,” my mother said.

  “I really want to see her,” I said.

  “Well, we can,” my dad said. “We’ll go to the hearing together.”

  “There’s something else,” I said.

  “What?”

  I took a deep breath. “I want her to come live with us.”

  Total silence. My parents looked at each other. Their expressions were grave. I could almost read them telepathically communicating to each other. They were certain that I had lost it, gone bonkers. Then my mother took my hand.

  “That’s not possible,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “It’s too much,” she said. “After what you’ve been through. It would be a constant reminder.”

  “Mom, the alternative is that I’ll be thinking of her in some horrible place, all on her own.”

  “You’re the best girl ever to care so much,” she said. “But your well-being comes first. As much as we care about Chloe, we can’t let her jeopardize your progress.”

  “My progress is fine,” I said.

  “She has a court-appointed lawyer,” my father said, putting on his half glasses to look at his phone. “Jane Manwaring. Your mother and I will talk to her, make sure Chloe is being looked after. I’m sure Jane will be at the hearing tomorrow. We’ll make a point of meeting her, letting her know we’re all behind Chloe.”

  “That won’t be enough,” I said, with that heart-sinking despair that had become so familiar. “It’s just one more horrible thing to come from the Porters. Chloe’s life will be ruined.”

  “We can’t think like that,” my mother said. “After some point, we have to just trust the process. That her lawyer will fight to get her into a good place.”

  I closed my eyes. I pictured a house that was clean enough, warm enough, decent enough. I imagined it full of strangers that Chloe wouldn’t know. I pictured the Royston Home, back in the day, full of wayward girls.

  But Chloe wasn’t wayward. She was someone I knew. And for over two months, she had been the closest thing I had to a sister.

  “We’ll let the court sort it out,” my dad said. “But one thing is for sure—on Friday, we’re going to Maine.”

  * * *

  My parents said we had to leave at 4:00 a.m. because it was a long drive and court started at 10:00. I’d texted Casey, made sure he was still going. I didn’t hear back, which seemed really strange, and it took forever for me to fall asleep. I drifted off in a whirl of emotions, so when my phone buzzed, I thought it was the alarm.

  “Hello?” I said, fumbling in the dark.

  “It’s me,” Carole said. “Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “About the fire.”

  “What fire?”

  “Em, prepare yourself—it’s bad. There was a fire at Casey’s house.”

  My heart tore loose. “Is he okay?”

  “He’s safe. So is his dad. But the house is badly damaged. They’re saying it was a spark from the wood stove.”

  “Where is he now? I have to call him,” I said, scrambling to get up.

  “You can’t,” Carole said. “He was in such a hurry to get out he had to leave his phone, and it burned up. It was so scary, it happened really fast.”

  “Did he get hurt?”

  “Not badly. My mom checked in him and his dad at the hospital. They both had minor smoke inhalation, but they’ll be fine.”

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “A hotel till they can figure out what to do.”

  “Which one?”

  “I don’t know. There aren’t any in Royston,” she said. “Maybe somewhere on Route 1.”

  “Will you tell me as soon as you find out?” I asked.

  “Of course, but I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you before anyone else. As soon as he can. I just wanted to tell you before you saw it on the news or anything.”

  “Thanks, Carole,” I said. “I miss you.”

  “Miss you too, so much.”

  I never got back to sleep. All night I veered between imagining what it must have been like for Casey, smoke billowing and fire engulfing his home, and wondering how it would feel to see Chloe again. What it would be like for her to see me.

  We hit the road before dawn. My dad wore a suit, and my mom dressed the way she did for church, in charcoal slacks and a beige blazer. I wore a dark green plaid dress and my best, least scuffed Doc Martens. I kept checking my phone for a message from Casey, but there was nothing.

  Once the sun came up, I watched the highway carefully, wondering if it would remind me of driving north with the Porters. But I had been drugged then, so none of it looked familiar.

  We made it through Massachusetts, and the New Hampshire coastline went by fast, and as soon as we took the arched bridge over the wide Piscataqua River into Maine, I started breathing differently, faster. We were getting close.

  Portland is a redbrick city. It glowed in the morning sun. GPS led us directly to the courthouse, an imposing gray granite building with columns. My dad wanted to drop off my mom and me while he parked the car, but I said no, I wanted us to stick together. From the parking lot, I could see the harbor, dark blue with whitecaps, with tankers and freighters and a big ferry boat bound for Nova Scotia.

  My parents were heading toward the steps when I saw them: Casey and Mr. Donoghue coming from the opposite direction. I began to run. So did Casey. We met in the middle and he hugged me so hard, my bones melted.

  “You made it,” I said. “I never thought you would, Carole told me about the fire …”

  “I told you I’d meet you here,” he said. “I’d never have let you down.”

  “Are you okay?” I asked, studying his face.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The house is gone, so are my dad’s guitars. And my mandolin. But he and I are fine. It was really bad, Em. We were up on the second floor, and the fire was roaring in the living room. My dad wanted to save at least one guitar, he’d been sound asleep, and he wasn’t thinking straight at all. I had to literally drag him out the back door. I was afraid he’d die.” He swallowed hard.

  “Pretty stupid of me,” Mr. Donoghue said. “But how am I going to support us now? Well, never mind. One thing at a time. I can always get a job flipping burgers.”

  “Dad …” Casey said.

  My parents walked over, and they both gave Casey a big hug.

  “We’re so sorry to hear about the fire,” my mother said.

  “Thanks,” Mr. Donoghue said. “We’ll get through it.”

  “No doubt about that,” my father said, smiling. “You’re Dylan Thomas Revisited.”

  “Come on, everyone,” my mother said. “It’s time for court.”

  We walked up the big steps and into a big hall. Austere portraits of judges lined the walls. Heavy
oak doors led to the actual courtrooms and antechambers. One door was marked VICTIM’S ADVOCATE. Another said CONFERENCES. Casey and I held hands. While my parents and Casey’s dad spoke to a woman in a cherry-red suit, we leaned our heads together. His hair smelled like wood smoke.

  “Whoever would think the happiest I’ve ever felt was standing in a courthouse in Portland?” he asked.

  “Me too,” I said. “This is definitely without a shadow of a doubt the one hundred percent best thing in the world.”

  “But when we have to leave later will be the worst thing,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “My dad and I are staying at a motel right outside town,” he said. “We knew we were coming here, and our house is gone, so we figured, why not head to Portland? What I’m thinking is, why don’t we just move to Black Hall? Find a place near there so you and I never have to be apart again.”

  “Definitely!” I said. And for that moment, I let myself believe it could actually be possible. Holding Casey’s hand, electricity ran from his fingers into mine, lighting up all my bones and cells, making me feel almost too excited, as if I couldn’t quite breathe.

  “Emily Lonergan?”

  At the sound of a familiar voice, I turned. The woman had shoulder-length brown hair, and she wore a dark blue dress and black heels. She had kind, bright brown eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses.

  “Marcela Perez,” I said.

  Our family’s favorite newscaster, from back in Connecticut. It seemed so odd to see someone I’d been watching on TV most of my life standing beside me. Since my return to Black Hall, she’d been outside our house and just off school property with the other news crews, but she’d never gotten so close. I saw the same gentle, slightly sad expression she’d had on camera while reporting so many Connecticut stories. It made me shiver, to feel it directed at me.

  “I’m here to cover Chloe Porter’s hearing,” she said. “I have to admit I was hoping you might come to testify. I would love the chance to talk to you.”

  “Please leave me alone,” I said.

  “I’ll respect that,” she said, handing me her card. “But if you change your mind, just call or text. My mobile number is there …”

  Just then a group of other media people, clustered at the end of the hallway, came hurrying toward us.