Pretend She's Here(16)

“Your namesake’s convent is in the charming town of Gaillac, near Toulouse,” Mame said to me once. “It’s in an absolutely marvelous wine region, with this incredibly romantic hotel built straight into a cliff, like a luxurious limestone cave. When I was there, I ate snails and wild boar and drank Gamay and walked through misty vineyards under a full moon.”

“What kind of apparition did St. Emily see?” Lizzie asked.

“Probably the Virgin Mary,” I said. “That’s the usual.”

“Huh,” Lizzie said. She was amazed and impressed. Congregationalists didn’t much go in for miracles and mysticism. It was a testament to our bond and best-friendship that Lizzie did her history project on the Reign of Terror because St. Emily was born in 1797, right in the midst of it.

I told myself that Lizzie wouldn’t recognize her own mother’s behavior right now. She would hate what she was doing to me.

But would she? Would Lizzie take my side or be on her mother’s?

Family was family, and blood was thicker than water.

Wasn’t it?

But if that was true, why hadn’t my family found me yet? Why hadn’t they come for me? They were all named for saints who’d sacrificed everything without fear. I had to believe they were doing everything they could. I ran through all the possible clues they could find. The day the Porters took me, Patrick and Bea had driven right past the minivan—how could they not have spotted me? I had left my backpack by the stone wall; hadn’t someone seen me talking to Chloe? When I’d tripped crossing the street, the driver of that blue car had blasted his horn. Wouldn’t he remember?

The toll collector: If news of my disappearance had made it to Maine, wouldn’t he realize that I was the babbling girl in the back seat of that van emblazoned with a Patriots sticker?

And what about the navy-blue minivan itself, the family’s original one? Where had the Porters hidden it when they’d driven into Black Hall? Going by the license plates, they must have rented the white decoy somewhere in Massachusetts. Surely that was a clue.

But who would notice a family renting a minivan?

In my worst moments, I’d despair and wonder whether my family was even still looking for me. Asking myself that question proved how psycho I was getting, isolated in this room—of course they were, they would never stop. Would they?

I thought I really would go crazy, that I would never hear another human voice, other than Mrs. Porter’s, but that changed.

That day, when she brought me my dinner, Mr. Porter entered the room behind her. He was holding a TV.

Behind them stood Chloe holding her cell phone.

“We’re going to plug this in and let you watch whatever you want,” Mr. Porter said.

It seemed weird and made me feel suspicious. I hadn’t mentioned TV or really even missed it. I’d had too much else on my mind. Besides, all I craved was my cell phone. Before the Porters took me, I’d had it with me always, and I sometimes felt the ghost of it in my left hand, my thumbs itching to text.

“You can watch the news,” Mrs. Porter said. “I need you to see what’s being said about you.”

“Your family has been interviewed,” Mr. Porter said. “They show the clips constantly. Anne passing out flyers at college, Bea sitting on your bed with your dog, Seamus. Your brothers searching the neighborhood. Your mother and father at the Westbrook State Police barracks, standing at a microphone in front of the cameras, begging for you to come home.”

The idea of seeing everyone, even on a screen, made my heart leap. I wanted to grab the TV out of his hands and find the news channel.

“Just one thing,” Mrs. Porter said.

“What?” I asked.

“Chloe,” she said, beckoning.

Chloe stepped forward, handed me her smartphone. It was almost too much to believe—my thumbs itched to dial my home number. But the screen was open to Gmail. My screen name was already typed into the login.

“Put in your password,” Mr. Porter said.

I nearly did—it would mean I could check my mail, send a message home. But the fact he wanted me to do that made me freeze with suspicion. I scanned their eyes for a sign that this wasn’t a trick.

“You’re going to write a message,” Mrs. Porter said. “You’re going to tell them you’ve run away. Say you’ll go back when you figure things out.”

“When you do this, you’ll be one step closer to being able to join us upstairs. To have more freedom,” Mr. Porter said.

I’d always wanted to be a playwright, to act in plays. But at that minute I couldn’t have acted to save my life. I threw the phone into the hall. It clattered against the wall. Chloe swore and stalked out, picked it up, and disappeared. Mr. Porter shrugged and followed, carrying the TV. Mrs. Porter stood beside me, looking sad and disappointed more than anything else. She touched my hair, as if with the deepest regret, and she shook her head.

As soon as she closed the door behind her, I grabbed the locked doorknob and shook it.

“Mrs. Porter!” I called. “Wait!”

I wanted to change my mind. I imagined what I’d given up—the chance to see my family on screen, all their faces, and hear their voices, feel their presence. I called and called for Mrs. Porter to come back, but she didn’t answer. No one did.

I wondered if they’d give me another chance.