Pretend She's Here(63)

“She’s fine,” Dr. Dean said. “She’s right here with you. Now, you’re safe here, but will you tell me something? It’s very important. Why did you stand on the stage and say ‘Lizzie died’?”

“She’s very metaphorical,” came the voice. I felt poison dripping into my veins, instant horror. “She’s a poet, my girl, and when she left for Europe, she got a little dramatic.” Mrs. Porter stepped out from behind Dr. Dean.

“It was more than a little dramatic, Ginnie,” Dr. Dean said.

“Well, I’m sure she’s still affected by that virus. It was a fever—you know how fevers can be. I’m going to wring my brother’s neck for saying she was well enough to return to school. I should have had you check her out first.”

“Why did you say that?” Dr. Dean asked, looking directly at me. “That ‘Lizzie died.’ What did that mean?”

Mrs. Porter didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Well, clearly she meant—in her poetic way—so the new one could be born—otherwise, how could she have left home, to go away in the first place? We’re such a close family. Her dad, Chloe, and me. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

“Is that true?” Dr. Dean asked me. “Is that the reason you said ‘Lizzie died’?” Her expression was concerned.

“Of course it is, Pamela,” Mrs. Porter said. “You know, when I first met you, how terribly I longed to have Lizzie come back from Paris. I almost couldn’t bear having her gone from home, but I had to stay brave so she could have the time of her life. That Xanax prescription, hello.”

“Is that what you meant?” Dr. Dean asked me.

Mrs. Porter’s eyes were cold steel. They bored into me, pure rage.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“Carole said you were very emotional, up there, starting to give your talk,” Dr. Dean said.

“I shouldn’t have let her go to school this morning,” Mrs. Porter said, placing a hand on my forehead. “She said she had a stomachache, but she’s such a good student, missing a day just isn’t something she does.”

“Ginnie,” Dr. Dean said. “I’m going to ask you to step out of the room.”

“She’s my daughter, Pamela. I don’t like your tone.”

“Be that as it may, I need to speak to this girl alone.”

Mrs. Porter glared at me. She squinted her eyes, tapped her pocket. The knife pocket.

“Please leave the room, Ginnie,” Dr. Porter said.

My heart should have soared, but it didn’t. It was a dead thing in my chest, and my blood was a frozen river. I lay still, staring at the ceiling. I knew Mrs. Porter was hovering just outside the door. Or maybe she was on her way to the car, her knife sharpened and ready.

“Tell me what happened,” Dr. Dean asked, pulling a stool close to my bed, sitting down beside me. “There’s no one else here. Now, I don’t think you would have said ‘Lizzie died’ just to express how it felt to leave home for a year abroad. That doesn’t sound right to me.”

I was stunned and dizzy, listening for Mrs. Porter outside the curtain.

“Are you depressed?” Dr. Dean asked. “Depression is not unusual among high school students—it can happen to anyone, really, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you have it.”

“I’m not depressed.”

“Have you been thinking of hurting yourself?” she asked.

“No.”

“No suicidal thoughts?”

“No!”

“Have you taken anything today?” She peered into my eyes. I didn’t have to ask what she meant: The school nurse’s office both here and at home were full of posters and pamphlets about the opioid crisis. I thought of Casey’s mom and nearly cried.

I shook my head. “I don’t take drugs.”

“Then it’s something else. Tell me.”

Her voice was gentle but insistent. She was ready to believe me, whatever I told her. I stared into her eyes. They reminded me of Carole’s.

“Your eyes are blue,” she said. “But you wear green contacts.”

“I like green eyes.”

“Why did you say Lizzie died? Isn’t that your name? Are you telling me you’re not Lizzie?”

I heard the curtain rustle and knew Mrs. Porter was pressing close, hearing every word. Knowing she was right there removed every choice. This was how I sold myself out. This was the moment I dug a hole, so full of mud and stones and worms and slugs, that I would never get out, that I was buried, part of the earth now, that I would never see light again.

“My name is Elizabeth Porter,” I said, my voice an ugly croak.

“Why did you cry onstage, Elizabeth? Why did you say ‘Lizzie died’?”

“You heard my …” Gag. “Mother. I can be dramatic. And she’s right. I had a stomachache this morning. I didn’t feel good. Something just came over me—I got scared, in front of all those people.”

“I can get someone for you to talk to. It might be a good idea.”

“What do you mean?”

“A counselor. A therapist.”

I shook my head. “But I’m fine.”

“Girls don’t just pass out for no reason,” she said.