Pretend She's Here(59)

“What syndrome?” I asked.

“That’s something when a person gets abducted or imprisoned and her mind gets so twisted from being controlled that she starts feeling grateful to the kidnapper.”

“I’m not grateful to her!”

“You just said she fed you.”

That struck me hard—he was right.

“It’s just that I’ve worked it out in my mind,” I said. “I’ll know when I can leave, when the threat is less, but it’s not right now.”

“Let me help you. Tonight.”

“You don’t know what she’s like!” I said, almost boiling over with panic because he didn’t get it; he was going to mess everything up and put my mother in more danger than she’d been in all along.

“I think I do. She’s someone who’d take a kid, lock her up, force her to be Lizzie when she’s really Emily. She’d torture your family, letting them think you ran away, not knowing where you are. That could almost kill them. Being that worried could change them forever. You’re right—it could trigger your mother to drink again.” The words tore out of him with passion that echoed my own.

“I know!” I said. “Mrs. Porter made me lie, say in the email I knew my mother had gone back to drinking. But I swear—Mrs. Porter wants it to happen. She told me my mother will get so desperate with me gone that she’ll start again. The stress will make her …”

“Start leaning on substances to cope. I get it more than anyone,” Casey said.

“She’s sober. At least I think she still is,” I said.

“I hope so,” he said. “I wanted that for my mom so badly. For all of us.”

I nodded, leaned into him. This was why I’d been able to tell him everything: Kids of addicts and alcoholics have their own special hyper-alert understanding of life, of how the world is eternally unpredictable, how you can’t count on anything to stay the same. Even ordinary, everyday safety and comfort.

“Mrs. Porter told you one true thing—your mother could drink again,” Casey said softly. “And if she did, it could end her life.”

I thought of Casey’s mom. Then I pictured the times my mother had fallen, passed out, thrown up, wept with despair. He was right.

Casey put his arm around me, began leading me back down the trail. I started to hurry, pulling him by the hand, because suddenly I couldn’t wait to call the police. I imagined them driving into the parking lot, their blue-and-red strobes flashing. But then I saw in my mind—exactly as if it was happening in real time—Mrs. Porter slowly cruising down the road, as she always did. Keeping an eye on me.

She would notice the police cars, see me and Casey being interviewed.

Then she would turn her van around and start driving south.

But that wasn’t to be—not at all. Approaching the holiday village from the back side, I saw a minivan idling outside the Christmas tree farm, white wisps of exhaust ghostly in the cold air. Mrs. Porter was at the wheel. She was already there.

“Casey,” I said, tugging his arm, stopping him from walking farther.

“Is she here?” he asked. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to leave with her. We’ll go through the back door, call the police from inside. She won’t know what’s happening till they have her surrounded.”

Maybe that would have worked. If I’d caught sight of her ten seconds earlier, before Casey and I had left the darkness of the trail and entered the brightly lit perimeter of the barn, all those lights sparkling. If I hadn’t given her the chance to spot me, we could have tried his plan. But as it was, she had fixed me with her gaze. It was almost like being hypnotized.

“I have to get in the van,” I said.

“I’m not going to let you,” he said. He put his arms around me. I saw Mrs. Porter staring.

“Just for now,” I said. “Keep my secret for me, please? You’re the only person who knows. Please don’t tell anyone. Your dad …”

“He’s not home, or I would tell him. He’s doing a gig at Mohegan Sun. He’ll be back in two days.”

Mohegan Sun was a casino in Connecticut. It was in the eastern part of the state, not too far from Black Hall. My eyes scalded with tears to think of Casey’s dad so close to my family. I could be in Connecticut tonight, too. All I had to do was let Casey help me. But there was Mrs. Porter, her frozen-river eyes glaring at me, pulling me toward the van.

“Give me until then,” I said. “Till your dad gets home. To let me figure it out. To plan the right move. I have to do the thing that will keep my mom safe. I need to time it when Mrs. Porter won’t know. Please?”

Mrs. Porter got sick of waiting for me. She stepped out of the van and came toward us.

“Please?” I asked Casey as she approached.

“Emily, I hope I’m not making a mistake. Okay, I’ll go along with you, but just till my dad gets here. Promise me you’ll let us get you out of there then?”

I squeezed his hand, my way of saying yes.

“Well, hello,” Mrs. Porter said, putting on a big fake smile. “Casey, how nice to see you. It’s a school night, time for Lizzie to come home. Would you like a ride?”

“No,” he said, no hint of friendliness or politeness in his tone.