by Wendy Walker
She felt tired. The dog was at her feet, and she joined him on the floor. Glass in hand, the dog now in her lap, she closed her eyes and let her mind continue to wander, back now to Cass and her counting of things. Was that how she escaped her mother? That, and attaching to Emma as if Emma were her mother? It wasn’t perfect—Emma had been cruel at times, indifferent at other times. But it had been something.
And what about Emma? What if Emma had not escaped? What if the things Abby knew about Judy Martin were the tip of the iceberg? What if escaping the cycle had been impossible for Emma, the “chosen” child who took the biggest emotional blows?
God, was she tired—tired, and now buzzed from the scotch. She could hear Leo’s voice as they wrapped up the day: “We’ll find her, kiddo. We will find Emma.” But what if they couldn’t? What if they went round and round again, not seeing the truth?
Something didn’t feel right about Cass’s story—the one she was telling and the one she wasn’t.
Leo’s voice faded. She was now wishing he were sitting beside her, his arm around her shoulders, his voice so calm, whispering that everything was going to be okay, that this would not be like last time, that they would find Emma—even though she wouldn’t believe him. She could pretend to. For one night. For a few hours of peace. She could pretend.
She let her head fall back against the wall and closed her eyes.
NINE
Cass—Day Two of My Return
I slept for just four hours and twenty minutes the first night after my return. I awoke from a disturbing dream and was unsettled, and from then on my mind would not rest. It made me angry because I knew what I had to face on the second day.
In the dream, Bill was holding the baby over the edge of the dock. She was crying, her voice like a knife cutting into me. He let go and I watched her disappear into the cold, black water. That sweet, precious baby with the curly blond hair and big blue eyes. That innocent child. Her crying had stopped as fear turned to terror, paralyzing her little body. The moment her skin felt that water, she froze—from her eyes to her feet—nothing moved. She couldn’t even reach out with her arms to take hold of Bill as he pulled away, leaving her to die.
I awoke to a rage so powerful, I thought it would explode from my chest and incinerate us all. Burn the house to ground with everyone in it. Me. Mrs. Martin. Mr. Martin.
I took a pillow and pressed my face into it as hard as I could and I screamed things I would not want anyone to hear. Hateful, violent things. And I knew then that I would never stop looking for Bill and Lucy Pratt even if the FBI did. I would find them and I would make them pay.
But then I lay still, the pillow in my arms, and I made myself remember about how Emma would hold me just like I was holding this pillow. I tried to hear her voice. We’ll go wherever we want and we’ll never let her in. We won’t even care anymore. I felt myself begin to calm, even though I knew none of that could be true anymore. I could not leave this house until they found Emma.
Mrs. Martin knocked on my door at eight o’clock. I said I was awake and would be down after I had a shower. She told me she had found some clothes that might fit me and she would leave them in the bathroom. She made sure to tell me that they were her clothes from a few years back when she’d put on some weight from all the stress of losing her daughters. She’d found an old pair of Hunter’s sneakers that looked like my size. Her feet were smaller than mine, so the sneakers would have to do until she could take me shopping.
We went to the doctor at nine o’clock. His name was Dr. Nichols, and he had been my pediatrician for my whole life before I disappeared. My mother thought I would be comfortable with him, and she was not wrong about that, except that I was a woman now and so I would not let him examine me below the waist or touch my breasts. Because an agent came with us who wanted all kinds of tests done, I let them draw blood. I promised to find a gynecologist and let her examine me, but I was not ready for that now. I told the doctor about my cycles to reassure him that everything was in order, and he was satisfied and willing to give me a clean bill of health pending all the blood test results. He gave me some shots that I needed and then we were done. The agent was not satisfied, but I was a grown-up now and they couldn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do.
We went back to Mrs. Martin’s house right after the doctor. My father was waiting there. So were Dr. Winter, Agent Strauss, and the woman who was supposed to draw the sketches of Bill and Lucy and the boatman.
None of this happened as mundanely as I have described. By morning, the entire world knew I had returned, and media trucks lined our quiet street for half a mile past our driveway. The story was as big as when they found Elizabeth Smart, or those three women who’d been held as sex slaves for ten years in Cleveland. They took pictures of Mr. Martin’s car as he drove us to the doctor, and some of them followed us and got pictures of me walking into the office. Inside Dr. Nichols’s office, everyone hugged me and a few of the nurses cried, even the new ones who had never met me before. Dr. Nichols gave me a big hug. Then he shook his head like he couldn’t believe I was standing in front of him and he said something like It’s a miracle! I didn’t mind any of this. I smiled at everyone, not a big happy smile, but a polite, grateful smile. It was genuine. I was not happy, because I did not have Emma with me and because I did not want to be where I was. But I was grateful. With all the media would come a bright spotlight on the search for Emma. I would have dressed up like Shirley Temple and sung them a song and danced them a dance if it would have kept them interested in our story.
Everyone wanted to spin theories about what went on with Bill and Emma and me and wonder if we had been made his sex slaves and did Lucy watch. I didn’t care and I didn’t blame them. That was the only part of the Elizabeth Smart story I remembered and I don’t consider myself a bad person, and so I did not judge anyone for the things they wanted to think about.
There were also conversations, endless stories about the events in everyone’s lives since I’d been gone. My father spoke mostly of Witt, how he’d gotten married to a nice woman named Amie. He lived in Westchester and had just started working as a lawyer, like his mother. He told me about how much everyone had missed me and Emma, how devastated they all were and how they couldn’t wait to see me when I was ready. Everyone wanted to see me, of course—Witt, aunts, uncles, grandparents. Mrs. Martin said the same thing to me, about the people who wanted to see me, now that the news had spread. She was very chatty about her charity work and gossip about my friends from high school and their mothers and their affairs and divorces and financial troubles. But mostly she talked about Hunter and his girlfriend and how much she hated her, how that girl had kept Hunter from seeing them and how she only cared about the money he was making as an investment banker.
All this information left their mouths electrified by the nervous energy my return had generated. And when it reached me, every single piece, I felt the shock as it entered my brain. I don’t know how else to describe it. I wanted to cover my ears and not let any of it enter. I knew they wanted to zap me into their world, magically transform me into the daughter I would have been if I had never left, the young woman who held their history the way family does, living every mundane moment together. But I could not absorb it the way they needed me to. I felt detached, like a stranger eavesdropping on the train. I did not want to be in the present with them—not without Emma, not without justice. Until I had those things, I would not let them distract me with their stories from their normal lives.
I helped them with the sketches of the Pratts and the boatman. They also wanted to know about the man who drove the truck, so I gave my description of him as well. Agent Strauss told me that the sketches I helped make of them would be all over the news as well. It made me nervous that whatever I told the artist would become images in people’s minds and that they would search for those images as they walked down the street or in line at the grocery store or in the faces of their friends and neighbors. What if I
got them wrong?
It was a long morning. First the doctor, then the sketches, then more stories from the island. Dr. Winter spent some time alone with me. That’s what investigators do when they’re trying to build trust with you—and also when they want to see how you behave when you’re around some people but not others.
I told everyone the story of how I was punished for trying to leave that first time, when the rowboat got pulled back into the island and the boatman left me on the rocks. After all of that, there was no time for the psychological examination Dr. Winter wanted me to have and which Mrs. Martin was now asking about incessantly. I was tired and I needed to rest. Hunter was coming to visit that afternoon.
I know what people said about me after my return—that I seemed flat and unemotional. They were fascinated by my demeanor, and when we were alone, Dr. Winter told me this was because very few people have things like this happen to them, and so everyone watches very carefully to see what it does to you. She said it was like meeting a space alien. And when people watch someone carefully and then don’t see what they expect to see or what they want to see, they exaggerate the disparity.
I don’t think I was flat. I had cried, and for long periods of time. I was so upset that Dr. Nichols gave me some pills to calm my nerves. I have never been able to show my feelings like Emma, on the outside. But that does not mean they are not stirring inside me. By the time I finally escaped, I think my feelings eclipsed anything Emma had ever felt. I could feel the scream inside me. I had felt it that morning when I had to cover my mouth with a pillow so no one would hear it. I contained it only out of fear for what it might do if I let it out. I did my best to think calmly and choose calm words.
After I told the story of the first time I tried to escape, I had to leave the room. I lied and told them I needed some water, but really I needed to let the rage finish what it was doing and leave my body. I didn’t want them to see it.
Hunter came to the house in the late afternoon. I was in the bed in the guest room when the car came down the driveway. I was not asleep. I could not sleep. But I was exhausted. It’s one thing to imagine doing something, like a marathon or doing one hundred sit-ups. But when you’re actually in it, trying to do it, it’s then you realize that you had no idea how hard it would be. And that maybe it wasn’t possible at all.
That was how I felt that second afternoon in the guest room as I waited for Hunter and his girlfriend to arrive.
My father had wanted me to see Witt and his wife that same day. But my mother made the arrangements with Hunter and I had agreed. I needed to see him, even though I was dreading it. I needed to see him with my own eyes.
“Cass!” I heard my mother call from the bottom of the stairs. “They’re here! Come down, sweetheart!”
I lay still and listened to the sound of her fake excited voice as it trailed up the stairs from the living room. I could no longer make out the words, but I knew what she was saying because she was using the tone she always used when she was thinking mean things but saying nice things. I felt myself judging her, but it was not satisfying the way it had been when I was younger and free of the guilt that now made me a hypocrite. I would get out of this bed and brush my hair and gargle with mouthwash and put Mrs. Martin’s fat clothes back on my body. I would go downstairs and give him a big hug and shake his girlfriend’s hand and have some tea. I would smile as I thought my own mean things and said my own nice things. I had been thinking mean things for many years. They surely would not leave me just to ease my conscience.
Hunter looked different from how I remembered him. His face had become more angular, nose, cheekbones, brow all more pronounced. His hairline had receded a bit. And he was muscular, strong. My mother told me he had started lifting weights at his fancy sports club. She said it was probably a cover story he used so he could cheat on his girlfriend, but I could see from the size of his arms that some of his story must be true. Mrs. Martin had to believe this because this woman was very beautiful and very young. She had long, luscious blond hair and chiseled cheekbones and deeply set eyes and a big pouty mouth. Mrs. Martin was not the most beautiful woman in the world when Hunter’s woman was around. So she had to concoct her theory about Hunter cheating on her. She had to believe that Hunter didn’t really love her.
Hunter walked to me from across the room. His head was tilted slightly and his face was scrunched up like he was about to cry. It was the face people make when their child loses the spelling bee, or falls off a horse, or scrapes a knee on the sidewalk.
“Cass! My God!” he said.
I did not move. I took a long breath and held it firm as he wrapped his new strong arms around me and rocked my body back and forth.
His girlfriend pounced upon us, and I could see in an instant why my mother hated her.
“I’m Brenda.” She said this while Hunter was still hugging me. She said it so he would stop.
I pulled out of his embrace to greet her, and when I did I felt the hesitation. He did not want to let me go, which I found strange. He had never once hugged me like that.
“It’s so horrible, Cass, what happened to you and Emma. And Emma’s still there! It’s just too terrible to even think.”
I repeated just some of the story while we sat in the living room drinking tea. I knew Mrs. Martin had told Mr. Martin, and Mr. Martin had told Hunter most of what I had told them in my interviews. Hunter kept shaking his head like he didn’t believe this had happened and like it was the most horrible thing he had ever heard.
I had gone over in my mind what it would be like when I saw Hunter again, the same way I had done for my mother and my father. For everyone. I had a lot of time to think about my reunions. None of them would be the way I expected them to be. I suppose that’s normal. First kisses. Graduations. Weddings. Sports victories. They never feel the way we think they will, and they never go quite the way we dream about them. Still, I was just as shocked by Hunter’s reaction as I was when Mrs. Martin didn’t recognize me on her doorstep.
Hunter had been obsessed with Emma right from the start. But because our families had become related, it was forbidden, and that made it unbearable for him.
I was not the only one who could see it lurking in his eyes. Witt had seen it as well, though he and I never discussed it. I just knew by the way his back got straighter when he was around Hunter; the way his light disposition disappeared along with his sense of humor. They did not have occasion to be together often. Sometimes our father would send Witt to pick us up at our mother’s house when it was our weekend with him. And sometimes Hunter would be there on those weekends. Other times Hunter would pick us up from our father’s house, especially in the summers, and he would see Witt when he did.
The summer after Emma had sex with that boy, Joe, from Hunter’s school—when I was thirteen, Emma was fifteen, Hunter was seventeen, and Witt was a junior in college—we were all home for the last two weeks of August. Hunter was working as a caddy at our club. Witt was volunteering for a political campaign for some local senator and living with our father. Emma and I were back from summer camp in Europe and getting ready for school. Emma had started dating a boy from our country club, and Hunter was relentless in his ridicule of him. I think what happened with Joe the spring before had not helped. Hunter’s jealousy grew like the weeds in Mrs. Martin’s garden.
He and Emma fought almost every day, but then they would get drunk together and watch movies in the finished part of the basement. Sometimes they would sit very close, and Emma would rest her head in his lap. One night, Mr. Martin came downstairs very quietly. I was sitting on the floor on some pillows. Emma and Hunter were on the couch together, with her head in his lap and his hand stroking her hair. We were watching The Shining, which we had seen countless times but which still held our attention. Mr. Martin stood there looking at them for a long time. They didn’t see him but I did, and I waited to see what he would do, to see if what they were doing was wrong enough for Mr. Martin to put a stop to it. But he
didn’t stop it. He just watched it, and then he left without them even noticing.
I remember thinking that maybe I was the one who was crazy. Maybe it was normal what they were doing, and the worst possible thought—maybe I was jealous that Hunter loved Emma more than he loved me. Maybe it was just like with our mother. I didn’t even like Hunter. Still, maybe I was just a petty little sister who had to want everything her sister had. I ran upstairs and smoked one of Emma’s cigarettes out my window and hated myself. Then I cried in my bed and hated myself more until I fell asleep.
The next week, there was a huge fight between my father and Mrs. Martin. One of the mothers from our school had called them both to tell them that there were pictures of Emma on the Internet. It was some new Web site all the kids were using because it wasn’t owned by a large company that had to be careful about stuff like naked pictures and swearing. Kids were using it to say mean things about other kids, and about teachers also. The school told us we were forbidden to visit that site, but they never checked our phones or laptops. The pictures of Emma showed her posing in a black dress. She was acting sexy in all of them, pretending to undress by pulling a strap off her shoulder.
Then, in one of them, the dress was at her waist and you could see her naked breasts. She looked like she was laughing in that picture.
My father asked Emma who had taken the pictures, and she said it was one of her friends and they were just fooling around. Because Emma was a minor, my father was able to get the police involved, and the people who ran the Web site gave them all the information they had. They traced the IP address. The pictures had been uploaded from a computer at Mrs. Martin’s house, and they were posted before Hunter left for school.
We all knew Hunter had done it and we all knew why. My father was out of his mind with rage and he said he was going to fight for custody again. My mother told him Good luck, asshole! but then she called her lawyer just in case. My parents called each other almost every day while this was going on, screaming and yelling, assigning blame for this and that. It was all just noise up in the clouds.