Pretend She's Here(36)

“So, you sound like you’re Catholic, too. What’s your confirmation name?” Casey asked me.

“Emily,” I heard myself say—a lie, because it was really Bartholomea. But I found myself wanting him to know at least a vestige of the truth, of who I really was.

“That’s pretty,” he said. “I’ll have to write a song about an Emily.”

I nodded, my palms sweating and my heart skittering.

“Well, I’d better get back,” I said, hoping he didn’t hear my voice quavering.

“I’ll see you soon,” Casey said.

I turned to leave, then stopped and faced him. “Where did the bees go that winter?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” Casey said. “Somewhere warm, I hope. A wildflower field. Hives kept by someone who loves them.”

He picked up the mandolin, and as I ran through the yards between his house and the Porters’, I heard him strumming and plucking a happy, skipping tune, singing these words:

Hey, Emily,

You talked to me,

And now you’ve walked away.

Hey, Emily,

Come back to me

And sit again someday.



I stopped under a sycamore tree, its trunk scrappy with bark that looked like torn paper. I listened to him play, amazed that he could write those words so quickly, waiting to hear the next verse. But there was only an instrumental; he must have been working the lyrics out in his mind.

Mrs. Porter stood in the kitchen door, watching me. I forced myself to wave and I started to run again, as if I actually wanted to get back “home.”

Home. I realized that Thanksgiving was coming, and the following Monday I would go to school. It would be my first Thanksgiving without my family.

I wondered how I could possibly find anything to feel thankful about.

Before I entered the Porters’ house, I glanced back toward the beehives. They had reminded Casey’s mother of home; she had brought a little Kerry here to Maine. She’d taught Casey the skill she’d learned as a young girl, and Casey didn’t have to tell me that the reason the bees went away was that she had died. I knew, from the way he talked, how close he and his mom had been.

That’s how family was supposed to be: closeness and caring no matter what.

My throat ached, and I tried to swallow past the huge, choking lump of tears. I had never felt so far away—from my family, my home, myself. I could barely catch my breath.

I wondered what had happened to Casey’s mom, how she had died.

Then I pictured the bees wafting through warm air, in a sunlit wildflower field filled with daisies and asters, brambles heavy with raspberries, clumps of wild sage and mint, with a beekeeper in a big white hat and veil, a soft Irish voice with a Kerry accent, and I could breathe again.

In an odd way, thinking about the bees, about Casey and his mother, gave me something to feel thankful about.





Going to school used to be the most normal thing in the world. Just like writing your name, tying your shoe, riding your bike: After a while, you don’t even think about it. But preparing to start at Royston High reminded me of my first day of freshman year. Then I had worried: Would I fit in? Would I make a mistake? Would people like me? Only now my worries were slightly different. What if someone figured out I was an impostor? What if I let something slip and Mrs. Porter killed my mother?

Looking through Lizzie’s closet, trying to figure out what I should wear, panicked me. I was overwhelmed by the dark and chic wardrobe. I wanted to look like myself, my actual colorful and dorky self.

“Quirky,” Lizzie would have corrected me. “Don’t put yourself down by saying ‘dorky.’”

“I mean it as a compliment!” I’d say.

“Trust me, it’s not,” she’d say.

And while I’d feel grateful that she saw me as cooler than I really was, I also felt a little offended. Most of my clothes were hand-me-downs from my sisters and in some cases brothers, but I had my own style. I assembled my outfits with care and pride. I loved to wear my cherry-print shirtwaist dress with a white patent leather belt, dark green tights, red Chucks, a baggy hand-knit Irish sweater, and a Red Sox cap.

Today, as Lizzie, I wore cropped black wool pants, a gray turtleneck, and a midnight-blue jacket with a big brass diagonal zipper. Everything was too body-hugging. Lizzie’s wardrobe didn’t include items that were not form-fitting, that were baggy enough for my comfort level.

Staring at myself in the mirror—the black hair, green contacts, and the little birthmark and perfect eyebrows—I knew I was wearing a costume. And not one that I would have ever in a million years chosen myself.

“You look lovely, sweetie,” Mrs. Porter said when I sat down at the kitchen table.

“Thanks,” I said, staring at my plate of scrambled eggs.

“Eat up,” Chloe said. “It’s a big day!”

I nearly laughed. I heard the sarcasm in her voice, but I was sure her parents didn’t. It was a sibling thing, being able to detect undercurrents. As much as I wanted my own sisters and brothers, I had to admit it was comforting at least to have Chloe.

“I’m actually not hungry,” I said at last.

“Everyone’s nervous the first day at a new school,” Mrs. Porter said. “But you need a good breakfast to keep you centered.”