Pretend She's Here(83)

“What time is the hearing?” Bea asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to ask Casey.” I paused. “Do you really think I’m crazy to want to go?”

“I think you were driven a bit mad, being locked up and controlled. But, Em, you’re stronger than anyone I know. Do you realize that?”

Slowly, I nodded. I’d learned that I had within myself a power I couldn’t completely understand—it was the opposite of Mrs. Porter’s cruelty and domination. I thought again of Sarah Royston. She was someone who’d had a terrible experience and made things better, not only for herself, but for girls who’d needed help.

“It takes someone really strong to care about a person who hurt her as much as Chloe hurt you,” Bea said. “So yeah, you might be a little crazy, but I think you’re amazing, that you want to go to court for her.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You do realize one thing, though, right?” Bea asked. “It’s been hard for you to leave the house, to walk past the reporters. They’ll be all over you, once they figure out you’re going to Maine. Please be sure you’re ready for this, Emily. I don’t want you to have any setbacks—you’re doing so well.”

She put down the scissors, leaned over to embrace me from behind. I grabbed her hands. Holding tight to my sister, I stared at the cluster of bees in the hive. They huddled together on the frame, immobile for the winter, till spring’s warmth woke them. But as I watched, a small miracle: One moved. The small striped body, the translucent wings. The bee shifted, crawled over the others. It was still full of life. Winter was just an interlude. It would end, and the bees would fly again.

So would I.





The next night, I waited until after dinner, until Bea and Patrick went to their rooms to do homework, to help clean up the kitchen and talk to my parents.

“There’s something I want to do,” I said, putting away the wooden salad bowl. “And it’s very important, and I need a ride.”

“Let’s sit down,” my mother said. She poured coffee for my dad and herself, and we all took our seats at the table.

“There’s a hearing about Chloe’s welfare on Friday,” I said. “The Porters are obviously unfit to take care of her, and once she gets out of that Casco Bay place, the State of Maine is going to send her to a group home.”

“It’s true,” my dad said. “The DHHS—Department of Health and Human Services—stepped in. They determined Chloe is in jeopardy—clearly, her parents are in prison—and she’s going to be placed.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“We’re keeping track,” my dad said.

“Why?”

“Because the case involves you,” he said.

“And because she is a child,” my mother said. “Who doesn’t have anyone.”

That was true, and exactly how I felt. I’d been worried they’d only see Chloe in the worst light.

“She loved her parents, and just like them, she was grieving for Lizzie,” my mother said.

“She was,” I said.

“Parents can be the best guides in the world,” my mother said. “Or they can be the worst, and hurt their children so badly.” Her lips thinned as if she was trying to hold her feelings inside. “I know from experience.”

“You didn’t do anything bad!” I said.

“I can’t bear to think of how many times I almost got behind the wheel after drinking, sweetheart. And I wasn’t present—I was passing out, causing our family so much worry. You protected me, hid the bottles, tried to get me to stop. In that way, I understand how Chloe is affected by her mother.”

“I do, too,” I said. “She was being loyal. She’s only thirteen.”

“Emily,” my dad said. “You could hate Chloe for the part she played. But you don’t. You forgive her.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”

“We’re proud of you,” he said.

My eyes filled with tears. “I care about her. I’m worried about what will happen to her.”

“So are we,” my mother said.

“I really want to see her,” I said.

“Well, we can,” my dad said. “We’ll go to the hearing together.”

“There’s something else,” I said.

“What?”

I took a deep breath. “I want her to come live with us.”

Total silence. My parents looked at each other. Their expressions were grave. I could almost read them telepathically communicating to each other. They were certain that I had lost it, gone bonkers. Then my mother took my hand.

“That’s not possible,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s too much,” she said. “After what you’ve been through. It would be a constant reminder.”

“Mom, the alternative is that I’ll be thinking of her in some horrible place, all on her own.”

“You’re the best girl ever to care so much,” she said. “But your well-being comes first. As much as we care about Chloe, we can’t let her jeopardize your progress.”

“My progress is fine,” I said.