Pretend She's Here(62)

This was the script I had worked out with Mrs. Porter. I knew it almost by heart, with just enough room for improvisation—built in from remembering Mame’s stories—to sound halfway natural. I scanned the room, saw all those faces of people I was getting to know. Kids who believed I was who I said I was.

Then I looked into Casey’s beautiful turquoise eyes, and I paused. See, once the secret is out—even to just one person, someone you trust enough to keep it from the rest of the world until you’re ready—it’s completely out there. The secret has left, and there is no getting it back.

I steadied myself, hands on the podium.

Casey watched me intently, nodding his head. I felt him telling me I could get through this. He was counting the hours with me—just make it till his dad returned, then we would tell, and then I could go home. I imagined this was how a prisoner feels: her last day behind bars. I read once that the last few hours before freedom are the hardest to endure.

Carole was sending encouragement to me, too: I found her in the crowd, saw her beam at me, and touch the anchor necklace. Oh, Lizzie. That chain that hung around your neck, even to the end.

These people, these new friends, Carole and Casey and all the other students, people I already cared about were watching me. Something in me had broken. The part of me that had been able to swallow the truth had washed away in the feelings that were storming through my chest.

“Paris,” I said, trying to continue. “Paris in freshman year …”

I was supposed to say more about the Left Bank, the Musée d’Orsay, going to the Gare Montparnasse to catch the TGV, the high-speed train to the southwest of France, over the Loire River, to Mame’s country house. But the lies about France wouldn’t pass my lips. Other words spilled out, ones I had no control over. The dam had burst and they came in a river, raging through me.

“In the beginning of freshman year,” I said, starting again. “My best friend got sick. At first we didn’t know what was wrong, but she had a rare cancer. It spread so fast. There were so many tumors. She went into the hospital, and she never came out. We were almost as close as sisters, we had always spent every possible minute together, and she was so sick, and she never got better. My best friend’s name was Lizzie, and she died,” I said. “Lizzie died.”

I started to cry, so hard the room blurred and swerved. Panicking, I looked for Casey in the front row, but he had already bounded out of his seat. He jumped onto the stage to catch me. Just as I staggered into his arms and tried not to collapse, I saw Mrs. Porter standing in the back of the hall. Her eyes and mouth were wide with shock and fury. She screamed, “No!”

And then I blacked out.

*

When I came to, I didn’t know where I was. I was lying on a narrow bed. The walls were pale green, no windows. I heard chimes ringing, and a doctor being called over a loudspeaker. A needle was in my arm.

A woman with kind eyes leaned over me, listening to my heart with a stethoscope. She had dark brown skin and wore a white lab coat, and underneath I saw a soft coral sweater, pearls at her throat.

“Ah, you’re awake,” the doctor said. She looked into my eyes with one of those examining lights, taking her time, her hands gentle on my face. “You’re wearing contacts,” she said. “Let’s take them out.” And she did. I barely flinched.

“Am I in the hospital?” I asked.

“Yes, in the emergency room,” she said. “You came by ambulance about forty minutes ago. Do you recall that?”

“No,” I said.

“What is the last thing you do remember?”

I blinked, trying to clear my mind. A bag of clear liquid hung over my bed, a tube drooping down and flowing into the needle in my arm—an IV drip, just like Lizzie’s. “What’s that for?” I asked.

“We’re just making sure you’re not dehydrated,” she said. “I’m Dr. Dean.”

“Carole’s mom,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “Carole is out in the hall with Casey Donoghue and Mark Benjamin and your family. They’re very worried about you, along with everyone else. Now tell me, what is the last thing you remember?”

It all came back, and with the memory, my eyes filled with tears that ran down my cheeks, hot and salty, into my mouth. I’d been honest. I’d been unable to help myself—nothing in the world could have made me tell the lie with Casey sitting right there, knowing my real identity—and the truth had just burst out of me. It was all over: The nightmare had ended. No matter what happened, the truth was out. And in spite of that relief, all I could think of was the knife, Mrs. Porter keeping her word, driving as fast as she could to Black Hall right now.

“What family is out there?” I asked.

Dr. Dean was focused on shining the light in my eyes.

“How much time has passed since I fainted?” I asked, pushing her away as I struggled to sit up. Dr. Dean touched my shoulder, very tenderly pressed me back onto the gurney.

“Don’t worry about that,” she said. “We’re taking care of you now.”

“You don’t understand, I have to protect …”

“What’s going on inside you?” she asked. “Why did you say …”

“My mother!” I said. “You have to make sure she’s okay. It’s an emergency! Please, listen to me, and …”