Pretend She's Here(49)
“Look at all these cars,” she said. “All the out-of-state plates.”
“Mom, we’re not on a road trip,” Bea said. Whenever our family drove long distances, we’d play a game to see if we could spot all fifty states.
“No. But a major interstate highway goes right by here, and there’s the Sub Base in Groton, with Navy people from all over the country,” Mom said. “Someone could take you, whisk you away, and we might never find you.”
“You’re really not being fair to the Navy, but we’ll be careful,” Bea said.
All I wanted was to get out of there so Lizzie and I could run to the food court and see who was there.
“We’ll watch out for strangers and creepy types,” I said.
“We promise,” Bea said, hand on the door handle, ready to bolt to meet James.
“Listen to me,” my mother said. “It’s not the suspicious-looking ones I’m afraid of. It’s the friendly Santa Claus. Or the lady with pretty blond hair, in a blue coat, with a cute puppy on a leash. Maybe even someone you know. Someone familiar, who looks nice. She’s the one who you have to watch for.”
I was pretty sure my mother had been drinking that day because when she said she’s it came out “sheez.”
Bea, Lizzie, and I finally escaped and tore into the mall.
“The lady in the blue coat!” Bea said.
“Ha-ha, that’s so random I’m crying,” Lizzie said.
“Raise your hand if buffalo wings have had a positive impact on your life,” I said.
Lizzie and I both raised our hands, and finally got to the food court, where bunches of Black Hall, Niantic, and Waterford kids had taken over tables. We sat with our friend Jordan and her boyfriend, Eric Milne, plus Tilly, Alicia, Monica Noyes, and Miguel Santos. James wasn’t there yet, so Bea sat with us.
Lizzie and I fortified ourselves with buffalo wings and cheese fries, and Bea swiped a wing. Jordan nibbled around the perimeter of a black bean veggie burger.
“When you’re a vegan and haven’t mentioned it in the last hour,” Eric said.
“You’re so ignorant it should be illegal, or whatever,” Jordan said, leaning over to kiss him.
Bea made a gag face. Jordan said or whatever constantly, and it annoyed us; it made her sound as if she was negating the thing she had just said.
Holiday music surrounded us, putting us in the mood to spend all our money on stuff. Bea’s and my lists were longer than anyone’s—no one else had six siblings.
Just as I was taking a perfect bite combination of wing and blue cheese, Bea leaned forward.
“This is not happening,” she said.
“What?” Lizzie asked.
“Do not turn around,” Bea said.
But of course we did, and carrying their trays to the table right next to us was a guy with a buzz cut and a blond woman in a blue coat.
“Is this even real life, I feel like I’m on the set of a horror movie,” Lizzie said.
“Or whatever,” Bea said, and I laughed so hard blue cheese went up my nose.
Sitting in the basement bedroom, running the email I had just sent over and over in my head, I came up with two gigantic hopes and sent the strongest, most powerful vibes I could to Bea and my mother:
1) That Bea would tell my parents how much I hated and would never under any circumstances but coercion say the phrase or whatever.
2) That Bea or my mother would remember the story about the nice, familiar blond lady in the blue coat, and even though Mrs. Porter didn’t have blond hair, we had always thought she was nice. And she was definitely familiar.
And there was a third hope, too.
It had to do with Casey. I went upstairs, pretending I wanted a snack. I took an apple and ate it while standing at the kitchen window, looking toward his house. It was much easier to see, now that the leaves were off the trees. The moon had risen, casting a ghostly glow on the big old place. Smoke wisped from the chimney, dissolving in the clear air.
The living room curtains were open, and I could see him sitting in the same spot where he had started teaching me guitar. He held the mandolin, head bowed as he picked the strings.
Was he playing the “Emily” song? Was he still trying to figure out whether he’d heard my voice on the TV? I knew I could never imagine what that was like for him. He’d said something about his other senses being sharpened. I closed my eyes and tried to pay more attention to my own. When I did, the apple tasted more intense. I felt heat rising from the radiator and warming my arms. I smelled gross beef stew cooking for dinner.
And I heard music.
Across the yards, through the window glass and distilled by the cold winter air, the strains of mandolin notes filled me. Yes, he was playing “Emily.” Yes, he was thinking of me. With my eyes still shut, I pretended that he knew exactly who I was and would save me. I hoped and wished he would help me get away without Mrs. Porter knowing.
He would help me get home.
Sunday was a double day.
That’s what Patrick called any day with the same numbers—like June 11, September 22, the 33rd day of summer, our grandparents’ 55th anniversary. He believed double days were lucky, but I didn’t feel that way. Today was the sixty-sixth day since I’d been taken.
Sending the email had given me hope, but that hope was lost this morning. My family would never notice the or whatever, and the rest of what I had written would just make them feel worse. I imagined the Porters whispering about what they would have to do to me. Mr. Porter had barely looked at me since that day of the news stories, since he’d asked his wife that question. I felt as if he wanted to stop thinking of me as a person; I was just a problem.