Pretend She's Here(84)

“She has a court-appointed lawyer,” my father said, putting on his half glasses to look at his phone. “Jane Manwaring. Your mother and I will talk to her, make sure Chloe is being looked after. I’m sure Jane will be at the hearing tomorrow. We’ll make a point of meeting her, letting her know we’re all behind Chloe.”

“That won’t be enough,” I said, with that heart-sinking despair that had become so familiar. “It’s just one more horrible thing to come from the Porters. Chloe’s life will be ruined.”

“We can’t think like that,” my mother said. “After some point, we have to just trust the process. That her lawyer will fight to get her into a good place.”

I closed my eyes. I pictured a house that was clean enough, warm enough, decent enough. I imagined it full of strangers that Chloe wouldn’t know. I pictured the Royston Home, back in the day, full of wayward girls.

But Chloe wasn’t wayward. She was someone I knew. And for over two months, she had been the closest thing I had to a sister.

“We’ll let the court sort it out,” my dad said. “But one thing is for sure—on Friday, we’re going to Maine.”

*

My parents said we had to leave at 4:00 a.m. because it was a long drive and court started at 10:00. I’d texted Casey, made sure he was still going. I didn’t hear back, which seemed really strange, and it took forever for me to fall asleep. I drifted off in a whirl of emotions, so when my phone buzzed, I thought it was the alarm.

“Hello?” I said, fumbling in the dark.

“It’s me,” Carole said. “Have you heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About the fire.”

“What fire?”

“Em, prepare yourself—it’s bad. There was a fire at Casey’s house.”

My heart tore loose. “Is he okay?”

“He’s safe. So is his dad. But the house is badly damaged. They’re saying it was a spark from the wood stove.”

“Where is he now? I have to call him,” I said, scrambling to get up.

“You can’t,” Carole said. “He was in such a hurry to get out he had to leave his phone, and it burned up. It was so scary, it happened really fast.”

“Did he get hurt?”

“Not badly. My mom checked in him and his dad at the hospital. They both had minor smoke inhalation, but they’ll be fine.”

“Where are they?” I asked.

“A hotel till they can figure out what to do.”

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. There aren’t any in Royston,” she said. “Maybe somewhere on Route 1.”

“Will you tell me as soon as you find out?” I asked.

“Of course, but I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you before anyone else. As soon as he can. I just wanted to tell you before you saw it on the news or anything.”

“Thanks, Carole,” I said. “I miss you.”

“Miss you too, so much.”

I never got back to sleep. All night I veered between imagining what it must have been like for Casey, smoke billowing and fire engulfing his home, and wondering how it would feel to see Chloe again. What it would be like for her to see me.

We hit the road before dawn. My dad wore a suit, and my mom dressed the way she did for church, in charcoal slacks and a beige blazer. I wore a dark green plaid dress and my best, least scuffed Doc Martens. I kept checking my phone for a message from Casey, but there was nothing.

Once the sun came up, I watched the highway carefully, wondering if it would remind me of driving north with the Porters. But I had been drugged then, so none of it looked familiar.

We made it through Massachusetts, and the New Hampshire coastline went by fast, and as soon as we took the arched bridge over the wide Piscataqua River into Maine, I started breathing differently, faster. We were getting close.

Portland is a redbrick city. It glowed in the morning sun. GPS led us directly to the courthouse, an imposing gray granite building with columns. My dad wanted to drop off my mom and me while he parked the car, but I said no, I wanted us to stick together. From the parking lot, I could see the harbor, dark blue with whitecaps, with tankers and freighters and a big ferry boat bound for Nova Scotia.

My parents were heading toward the steps when I saw them: Casey and Mr. Donoghue coming from the opposite direction. I began to run. So did Casey. We met in the middle and he hugged me so hard, my bones melted.

“You made it,” I said. “I never thought you would, Carole told me about the fire …”

“I told you I’d meet you here,” he said. “I’d never have let you down.”

“Are you okay?” I asked, studying his face.

“Yeah,” he said. “The house is gone, so are my dad’s guitars. And my mandolin. But he and I are fine. It was really bad, Em. We were up on the second floor, and the fire was roaring in the living room. My dad wanted to save at least one guitar, he’d been sound asleep, and he wasn’t thinking straight at all. I had to literally drag him out the back door. I was afraid he’d die.” He swallowed hard.

“Pretty stupid of me,” Mr. Donoghue said. “But how am I going to support us now? Well, never mind. One thing at a time. I can always get a job flipping burgers.”