Pretend She's Here(76)

“Because I know you,” she replied. “That one time you did leave, when Lizzie helped you hide, you were giving me a message, telling me you couldn’t take my drinking anymore. And things were so different after I got home from rehab. You trusted me again. And I one hundred percent trusted you the whole time you were gone. I knew you’d been taken.” Her voice broke. “I knew someone had forced you to send those emails.”

“I would never have sent them on my own.”

“I know,” she said.

“Are you mad because I didn’t try to escape?”

“Sweetheart, no.”

“But I could have. They let me go to school.”

“You had to survive, Emily. The FBI told us the younger a person is when she’s taken, the easier it is for the kidnapper to brainwash her. The Porters held you prisoner psychologically, not just physically.”

And then she did cry, big tears running down her cheeks. She hugged me. I wanted to melt into her, but my body was stiff. That hard shell was still around me, especially hearing that I’d been brainwashed—wasn’t that something that happened in spy movies? I was smart, I had always trusted myself. But practically as soon as I got to Maine, Mrs. Porter had started to warp my thinking. And she’d succeeded.

That made me feel incredibly hollow.

“You’re going to have all kinds of moments,” Dr. Dean had said when I was still in Royston Hospital, “ones that make sense and others that don’t.”

“No, I’m going to be fine as soon as I get home,” I said.

“You’ve been through a trauma,” she said. “And your mind and body have some extraordinary, mysterious ways of protecting you from reliving it, remembering it too vividly.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“Some people block it out,” she said. “Kids who’ve been kidnapped, people who’ve been through a violent attack, sometimes try to forget that it happened.”

“No one will let me forget,” I said, lying back in the bed, my chest taped up, the IV needle in the back of my hand making it ache. “It’s all anyone wants to talk about.”

“Well, when things quiet down. You’ll see how you feel. But you might find yourself going numb. Some people describe it as going into a deep freeze. An uncomfortable stillness. If that happens, I want you to talk to someone. A counselor back home in Black Hall. Or at least your parents, for starters.”

“Okay,” I said.

“It’s serious, Emily. It might not feel that way—because, honestly, you might not feel anything. But it’s a big deal. It can cause problems later on if you don’t deal with your emotions.”

“Problems?”

“Depression is a big one. Isolation, cutting yourself off from friends, from whatever used to make you happy. Substances to keep the feelings at bay. Drinking.”

“Never,” I said. “I will never drink.”

“Just talk to someone. When you need to.”

But I hadn’t believed her, that I would need anything like that. I had thought I’d be normal, fine, ready to get on with things. But it was as if there was a big wall between me and everyone else. It was made of glass: I could see through it, hear voices, talk to them. But I felt separated from them.

A knock sounded at the door. I hung back, in the kitchen. I heard voices and finally peered into the living room. Mr. Donoghue stood there holding a battered leather guitar case. I stepped forward.

“Emily!” he said, spotting me. “I bring greetings from Casey!”

“Thank you,” I said. My heart sparked, hearing Casey’s name.

“I was passing by on my way to a gig in New York, so it seemed the right thing, to stop and see you. He wanted me to.”

I smiled, a genuine smile that I felt all through my body. Casey had kept this news to himself, not mentioned it to me.

“How is Casey?” my mother asked. “Our family hero.”

“He’d be happy to hear that. He’s, um … hard to say.”

What part was hard to say? I wondered. And why was Mr. Donoghue gazing at me while he spoke?

“He’s working on some new songs, surviving winter in Royston,” he continued.

“Speaking of winter,” my mother said. “Let me get us some hot coffee.” She ducked into the kitchen, and I heard her running water, filling the pot.

“Casey wanted me to deliver this to you,” Mr. Donoghue said.

“‘This’?” I asked, not understanding.

He handed me the guitar case. I looked at him with surprise, then laid it on the hardwood floor and clicked open the brass fasteners. Inside was a red guitar. It said Takamine on the headstock. And on a manila tag, tied to the low E string, was a note. I recognized Casey’s writing but didn’t read it yet.

“He misses you,” Mr. Donoghue said.

“I miss him,” I said.

“He’s messed up, Emily.”

“Is that what you meant before? When you said you’re not sure how he is?”

“It’s totally not your fault,” he said. “But he misses you badly.”

“How does that mess him up?” I asked.

“Not many people know what it’s like for him, since you left,” Mr. Donoghue said. “His mom was pretty much everything to him, to both of us. It’s not easy for him, me being on the road all the time, but music is how I support us. I wish I could stay home and do something normal and pay the bills. Every time I leave, I see the disappointment in his eyes. Sometimes worse than that.”