Pretend She's Here(26)

I waited as long as I could. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

She had said “ready,” and I swore I never would be. But she had told me about her need to keep me, and I had seen how close she’d gotten to my mother. Nearly every night now I dreamed of a knife slashing through skin and bone. I fought hard, my muscles burning as I grabbed, slapped, and punched to defend my mother. I turned the weapon on the attacker.

The news stations stopped running my story. I flipped through the channels obsessively, hoping for a glimpse of my family, some indication they were still looking for me, that they still believed in me. After a while, the reporters moved on to other dark news: a six-year-old boy accidentally shot by his thirteen-year-old brother, the discovery of a human trafficking ring in a small Maine town, a search for two teenage hikers missing on Mount Katahdin.

The steeple clock chimed six. Was it morning or night? She hadn’t come down with breakfast yet, so it had to be morning. My head felt foggy. In my dreams, I felt so alive. I was doing something, fighting back. When I woke up, I felt deadened. Numb, going through the motions. I felt the way my family had looked on TV: in shock, helpless, with no hope left.

I washed my face and changed out of Lizzie’s nightgown into some of Lizzie’s clothes—jeans and a T-shirt. I tried the doorknob. Somehow I knew it would open, and it did. My legs felt heavy. I heard my feet clomping up the wooden stairs.

There was a moment, just a few seconds, when I could have changed my mind. I stood on the top step, my hand on the brass doorknob that opened onto the kitchen. I knew that by walking through that door, I would be agreeing to the Porters’ way, entering their world. I would be leaving a big part of myself behind—I just didn’t know how big.

I opened the door.

Mrs. Porter was cooking eggs. Chloe was making toast. Without a word, I sat in the empty chair at the round kitchen table with bright yellow place mats. I noticed there were four place mats, as if the family had been expecting me. Mrs. Porter beamed at me.

“Good morning, Lizzie,” Mrs. Porter said.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Orange juice?” Mr. Porter asked. But he just sat where he was. His face looked blank—or was that a tinge of annoyance behind his eyes? I got the sudden feeling he didn’t want me there.

“She knows where it is,” Mrs. Porter said. “Help yourself, sweetie.”

I went to the refrigerator. I was moving in slow motion, sleepwalking. I took out the carton. I stood in front of the cabinets and automatically opened the one that held the glasses. I poured the juice. A tiny bit slopped onto the shiny green stone countertop, and I wiped it with a sponge.

We ate. The scrambled eggs were fluffy and perfect. I buttered my rye toast and smeared it with pear preserves. I knew they were homemade. All through the year Mrs. Porter made fresh preserves with fruit that Lizzie, Chloe, and I would pick at local orchards. I concentrated on every movement I made. Now I am taking a bite of toast; now I am having a sip of juice.

“This is a special day,” Mrs. Porter said.

“I thought we decided we would not treat it as remarkable,” Mr. Porter said. “What is so unusual about our ‘older daughter’ joining us for breakfast?”

Definitely air quotes around older daughter.

“You are so right,” Mrs. Porter said. “But I am in a celebratory mood. Look out the window! Bright sunshine, blue sky, and that maple tree! The leaves were flame red just two weeks ago, Lizzie! They’ve mostly fallen now, if only you had come up a few days ago, but there are still a few on the branches. Remember when you were little and you used to gather autumn leaves, and we’d iron them between sheets of wax paper?”

“With melted crayons,” Chloe said.

“Stained glass,” I said. That’s what Lizzie had called it. We would hang the colorful squares in our windows, and the sun would shine through and splash red and orange light on the floor.

“Let’s go leaf peeping,” Mrs. Porter said. “It’s the weekend!”

“Mom,” Chloe said. “I have Saturday study with Mel and Junie.”

“Besides, the foliage is gone,” Mr. Porter said. “This is Maine, not Connecticut. You can see for yourself, Ginnie—the damn trees are practically bare.”

“I feel like a ride,” Mrs. Porter said, smiling but with that now-familiar sharp edge in her voice. “Don’t you, Lizzie?”

“Yes,” I said.

“It won’t kill you to miss one Saturday,” Mrs. Porter said to Chloe. “You’re smart, you can figure it out without Mel and Junie. We’ll go to the cider mill.”

They gave me one of Lizzie’s jackets to wear, and together we left the house. Walking outside, I gulped fresh air. It tasted so good. My first non-basement, non-house air in nearly a month. I drank it in, blinking at the bright light. My eyes hurt to look at the sky. I was like a cave creature, dragged out of the darkness.

This was my first time seeing the house from the outside: a small saltbox with silvery shingles, white shutters, and a dark green door. There was a brick chimney, and tidy curtains hung at every window. It looked nice. No one would ever guess it was a house of horrors. Now that I was out, I vowed I would never go back inside.

I wouldn’t. No matter what, I would never return to that basement. The old Lonergan spirit rippled through me, made my blood race and my muscles come to life. My legs felt like springs. Before the end of the day, I would escape. Whatever it takes, I told myself. That was my mantra and battle cry. Whatever it takes, whatever it takes, Faugh a Ballagh, Emily. Emily, not Lizzie.