Pretend She's Here(60)

“All right,” she said, sounding taken aback. “Whatever you want, that’s just fine! We’ll see you back on Passamaquoddy Road. Let’s go, Lizzie.”

I hesitated, facing Casey. This was the night of so many things: my telling him the truth, his telling me about his mom, my first real kiss. I wanted to stay with him another minute, hold him, kiss him, make sure he was going to keep his word. But Mrs. Porter grabbed my arm firmly and tugged.

In the van, even before we left the lot:

“What did you say to him?” she asked.

“Nothing! Why?”

“The way he spoke to me. I saw that cold look in his eyes. As if he knows. He doesn’t, does he? Tell me exactly what you said to him! I’ll hear in your voice if you’re lying. I want to know every word!”

“We just went tobogganing, exactly what I told you we were going to do. We were tired from climbing the hill, that’s all.” I paused, then for effect, “Can’t we please go home? I’m freezing. Can I have a snack? One of your cookies?”

I watched her shoulders, tensed up around her ears, drop slightly with a sort of relief.

“Well, he was very rude,” she said.

“He just didn’t need a ride,” I said.

“I saw you holding hands. I watched him put his arms around you. I don’t like that, Lizzie. He is not the boy for you.”

Yes, he is, I thought.

“You deserve someone much better. You are a special girl. The fact he’s living in that big falling-down house with a father who cares more about music than him and a mother who overdosed … it’s damaged him. You can never count on a person like that. Just like that other mother. Who drinks herself into a stupor.”

She meant my mother. I wanted to attack her, but I held my feelings inside.

“People need a good upbringing, constant love, encouragement, to be good, to have a lovely life,” she said. “Like the way I love you, Lizzie. That’s why you are so perfect. It’s the reason you excel, the reason people always comment on your beauty, your goodness. My love is making you good.”

“I know,” I said.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you … who?”

Stockholm syndrome. Kidnapped people being grateful to their abductors. “Thank you, Mom,” I said.

She gave a tight smile. We drove along the dark road, under tall pines. I closed my eyes. I felt Casey’s hand on my cheek, heard his voice. He had promised me, and I had promised him. The last lines of Lizzie’s favorite poem filled my mind:

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.



Promises to keep.





The things you tell yourself to make it through two more days: Act normal.

Go to school.

Give the talk in front of everyone.

Think of Casey.

Remember the promise we made.

Two more days.

LESS than two more days.

You can do it. You only have to pretend to be Lizzie for another forty-seven hours, fifty-three minutes, and seven seconds.

All I had to do was figure out how to save my mother’s life along the way. That was all. No big deal. My head ached because I’d been awake all night trying out different versions of how I could get Mrs. Porter occupied with Something-Very-Important to distract her while, oh, I called the police on her.

Or let Casey call the police on her. For kidnapping. For taking me.

I wanted Casey to kiss me again.

To keep myself from thinking thoughts that were, really, going nowhere and just driving me insane, I rehearsed the talk I would give in just a few hours. The Lizzie Porter Magical Tour of Europe. Get through that, a half day gone, only one and a half more to go.

My mind seemed to be working only in fragments and half sentences.

At breakfast that morning, with everyone around the table, I almost felt the others weren’t there. The Porters were disappearing before my very eyes. I ate my waffles, silently rehearsing the things I would say in front of school: I went to Paris.

I went to Rome.

In London …

On the way to Brussels …

I did not tell the Porters that today was the day of Lizzie’s travelogue. I kept that to myself. I didn’t want to hear a million reminders from Mrs. Porter. It wasn’t one of her scheduled volunteer days, and the last thing I wanted was for her to show up at school, to make sure I was saying everything just right.

I told myself I was looking forward to this. I wasn’t nervous to talk in front of everyone: I loved theater, standing on a stage, acting in plays. I had read, or at least looked through, all the travel guides Mrs. Porter had given me, tried to memorize the notes she had made. But mostly I remembered and dreamt of the wonderful stories Mame had told Lizzie and me about visiting Hubert in France. This wasn’t real life; I was acting, I was playing a role.

Give the talk, another half day gone. One and a half left, then I’d go home.

All I had to do was figure out how to save my mom’s life.

That was all. Just that one thing.

*

Casey wasn’t on the bus. I panicked. Was he mad at me for not doing what he’d wanted? Did he resent my making him promise to do it my way? Being so on edge made me realize this was different: I had crossed a border. I was in another mode from being Lizzie. Casey had gotten me hoping, wishing, believing I might actually make it back to my family.