by Luanne Rice
“They don’t take care of me. They kidnapped me, forced me into their van,” I said. “On my way home from school, in October. They locked me in a basement; they’re making me pretend to be their daughter.”
Casey frowned. “Lizzie?”
“Yes, she was my best friend, and she died of cancer, and her mother lost her mind from grief; that’s why she’s doing this …”
“I don’t care why she’s doing it,” Casey said, holding me so hard I could barely breathe. “She’s a kidnapper. They all are.”
I started crying harder then, because what he said was true, and hearing someone say it out loud made me realize what I’d been going through.
That might sound strange; you think when you’re actually experiencing something, you know it and are keeping track of what it’s doing to you. But I’d turned into stone along the way. I’d blocked out the worst just to live.
“We can call the police,” he said.
“But that’s just it,” I said. “We can’t.”
“Why? They’re criminals, L …” He started to say Lizzie, then switched to Emily and it came out Lemily.
“Even so,” I said. “I have to go along with them.”
“You can’t. You don’t belong with them. They’re hurting you already, and it could get worse.”
“Yes, much worse,” I said. “She’s told me what she will do. I’ve seen it, how close she’s come.”
“She?”
“Mrs. Porter.”
“What can she do that’s half as bad as kidnapping you?”
“Kill my mother. She has a knife … she’s going to use it.”
“What?” Shock filled his voice and face. I wondered if he even believed me. Why would he—how unreal was this to someone who didn’t live it every day?
“There’s a video,” I explained. “Mrs. Porter at the marsh with my mom. The blade is right there, pointing at my mom’s back. And I’ve seen the knife itself—she showed me that day at Jeb’s, when we first met you. She was afraid I’d talk.”
“You almost did,” he said. “I felt you wanting to say more.” Extra-sensory Casey.
I nodded. “That’s why we can’t tell anyone. She’ll go straight to my house.”
Casey shook his head. “She won’t have time. The police will arrest her right now, put her in jail. There’s no way she’s hurting your mom.”
“If I do what she says, everything will be fine,” I said, almost pleading with him. “All I have to do is go along with her. That’s all. I’m getting used to it; it’s not even that hard anymore. She feeds me; she’s letting me go to school. Even tonight—it’s a big step, letting me come here with you.”
“Do you hear what you’re saying?” he asked. “You’re making it all right. They’re criminals, and who knows what part Chloe’s playing, and you’re defending them. It’s Stockholm syndrome, Emily.”
“What syndrome?” I asked.
“That’s something when a person gets abducted or imprisoned and her mind gets so twisted from being controlled that she starts feeling grateful to the kidnapper.”
“I’m not grateful to her!”
“You just said she fed you.”
That struck me hard—he was right.
“It’s just that I’ve worked it out in my mind,” I said. “I’ll know when I can leave, when the threat is less, but it’s not right now.”
“Let me help you. Tonight.”
“You don’t know what she’s like!” I said, almost boiling over with panic because he didn’t get it; he was going to mess everything up and put my mother in more danger than she’d been in all along.
“I think I do. She’s someone who’d take a kid, lock her up, force her to be Lizzie when she’s really Emily. She’d torture your family, letting them think you ran away, not knowing where you are. That could almost kill them. Being that worried could change them forever. You’re right—it could trigger your mother to drink again.” The words tore out of him with passion that echoed my own.
“I know!” I said. “Mrs. Porter made me lie, say in the email I knew my mother had gone back to drinking. But I swear—Mrs. Porter wants it to happen. She told me my mother will get so desperate with me gone that she’ll start again. The stress will make her …”
“Start leaning on substances to cope. I get it more than anyone,” Casey said.
“She’s sober. At least I think she still is,” I said.
“I hope so,” he said. “I wanted that for my mom so badly. For all of us.”
I nodded, leaned into him. This was why I’d been able to tell him everything: Kids of addicts and alcoholics have their own special hyper-alert understanding of life, of how the world is eternally unpredictable, how you can’t count on anything to stay the same. Even ordinary, everyday safety and comfort.
“Mrs. Porter told you one true thing—your mother could drink again,” Casey said softly. “And if she did, it could end her life.”
I thought of Casey’s mom. Then I pictured the times my mother had fallen, passed out, thrown up, wept with despair. He was right.
Casey put his arm around me, began leading me back down the trail. I started to hurry, pulling him by the hand, because suddenly I couldn’t wait to call the police. I imagined them driving into the parking lot, their blue-and-red strobes flashing. But then I saw in my mind—exactly as if it was happening in real time—Mrs. Porter slowly cruising down the road, as she always did. Keeping an eye on me.
She would notice the police cars, see me and Casey being interviewed.
Then she would turn her van around and start driving south.
But that wasn’t to be—not at all. Approaching the holiday village from the back side, I saw a minivan idling outside the Christmas tree farm, white wisps of exhaust ghostly in the cold air. Mrs. Porter was at the wheel. She was already there.
“Casey,” I said, tugging his arm, stopping him from walking farther.
“Is she here?” he asked. “It doesn’t matter. You don’t have to leave with her. We’ll go through the back door, call the police from inside. She won’t know what’s happening till they have her surrounded.”
Maybe that would have worked. If I’d caught sight of her ten seconds earlier, before Casey and I had left the darkness of the trail and entered the brightly lit perimeter of the barn, all those lights sparkling. If I hadn’t given her the chance to spot me, we could have tried his plan. But as it was, she had fixed me with her gaze. It was almost like being hypnotized.
“I have to get in the van,” I said.
“I’m not going to let you,” he said. He put his arms around me. I saw Mrs. Porter staring.
“Just for now,” I said. “Keep my secret for me, please? You’re the only person who knows. Please don’t tell anyone. Your dad …”
“He’s not home, or I would tell him. He’s doing a gig at Mohegan Sun. He’ll be back in two days.”
Mohegan Sun was a casino in Connecticut. It was in the eastern part of the state, not too far from Black Hall. My eyes scalded with tears to think of Casey’s dad so close to my family. I could be in Connecticut tonight, too. All I had to do was let Casey help me. But there was Mrs. Porter, her frozen-river eyes glaring at me, pulling me toward the van.
“Give me until then,” I said. “Till your dad gets home. To let me figure it out. To plan the right move. I have to do the thing that will keep my mom safe. I need to time it when Mrs. Porter won’t know. Please?”
Mrs. Porter got sick of waiting for me. She stepped out of the van and came toward us.
“Please?” I asked Casey as she approached.
“Emily, I hope I’m not making a mistake. Okay, I’ll go along with you, but just till my dad gets here. Promise me you’ll let us get you out of there then?”
I squeezed his hand, my way of saying yes.
“Well, hello,” Mrs. Porter said, putting on a big fake smile. “Casey, how nice to see you. It’s a school night, time for Lizzie to come home. Would you like a ride?
”
“No,” he said, no hint of friendliness or politeness in his tone.
“All right,” she said, sounding taken aback. “Whatever you want, that’s just fine! We’ll see you back on Passamaquoddy Road. Let’s go, Lizzie.”
I hesitated, facing Casey. This was the night of so many things: my telling him the truth, his telling me about his mom, my first real kiss. I wanted to stay with him another minute, hold him, kiss him, make sure he was going to keep his word. But Mrs. Porter grabbed my arm firmly and tugged.
In the van, even before we left the lot:
“What did you say to him?” she asked.
“Nothing! Why?”
“The way he spoke to me. I saw that cold look in his eyes. As if he knows. He doesn’t, does he? Tell me exactly what you said to him! I’ll hear in your voice if you’re lying. I want to know every word!”
“We just went tobogganing, exactly what I told you we were going to do. We were tired from climbing the hill, that’s all.” I paused, then for effect, “Can’t we please go home? I’m freezing. Can I have a snack? One of your cookies?”
I watched her shoulders, tensed up around her ears, drop slightly with a sort of relief.
“Well, he was very rude,” she said.
“He just didn’t need a ride,” I said.
“I saw you holding hands. I watched him put his arms around you. I don’t like that, Lizzie. He is not the boy for you.”
Yes, he is, I thought.
“You deserve someone much better. You are a special girl. The fact he’s living in that big falling-down house with a father who cares more about music than him and a mother who overdosed … it’s damaged him. You can never count on a person like that. Just like that other mother. Who drinks herself into a stupor.”
She meant my mother. I wanted to attack her, but I held my feelings inside.
“People need a good upbringing, constant love, encouragement, to be good, to have a lovely life,” she said. “Like the way I love you, Lizzie. That’s why you are so perfect. It’s the reason you excel, the reason people always comment on your beauty, your goodness. My love is making you good.”
“I know,” I said.
“Aren’t you going to thank me?”
“Thank you.”
“Thank you … who?”
Stockholm syndrome. Kidnapped people being grateful to their abductors. “Thank you, Mom,” I said.
She gave a tight smile. We drove along the dark road, under tall pines. I closed my eyes. I felt Casey’s hand on my cheek, heard his voice. He had promised me, and I had promised him. The last lines of Lizzie’s favorite poem filled my mind:
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Promises to keep.
The things you tell yourself to make it through two more days:
Act normal.
Go to school.
Give the talk in front of everyone.
Think of Casey.
Remember the promise we made.
Two more days.
LESS than two more days.
You can do it. You only have to pretend to be Lizzie for another forty-seven hours, fifty-three minutes, and seven seconds.
All I had to do was figure out how to save my mother’s life along the way. That was all. No big deal. My head ached because I’d been awake all night trying out different versions of how I could get Mrs. Porter occupied with Something-Very-Important to distract her while, oh, I called the police on her.
Or let Casey call the police on her. For kidnapping. For taking me.
I wanted Casey to kiss me again.
To keep myself from thinking thoughts that were, really, going nowhere and just driving me insane, I rehearsed the talk I would give in just a few hours. The Lizzie Porter Magical Tour of Europe. Get through that, a half day gone, only one and a half more to go.
My mind seemed to be working only in fragments and half sentences.
At breakfast that morning, with everyone around the table, I almost felt the others weren’t there. The Porters were disappearing before my very eyes. I ate my waffles, silently rehearsing the things I would say in front of school:
I went to Paris.
I went to Rome.
In London …
On the way to Brussels …
I did not tell the Porters that today was the day of Lizzie’s travelogue. I kept that to myself. I didn’t want to hear a million reminders from Mrs. Porter. It wasn’t one of her scheduled volunteer days, and the last thing I wanted was for her to show up at school, to make sure I was saying everything just right.
I told myself I was looking forward to this. I wasn’t nervous to talk in front of everyone: I loved theater, standing on a stage, acting in plays. I had read, or at least looked through, all the travel guides Mrs. Porter had given me, tried to memorize the notes she had made. But mostly I remembered and dreamt of the wonderful stories Mame had told Lizzie and me about visiting Hubert in France. This wasn’t real life; I was acting, I was playing a role.
Give the talk, another half day gone. One and a half left, then I’d go home.
All I had to do was figure out how to save my mom’s life.
That was all. Just that one thing.
* * *
Casey wasn’t on the bus. I panicked. Was he mad at me for not doing what he’d wanted? Did he resent my making him promise to do it my way? Being so on edge made me realize this was different: I had crossed a border. I was in another mode from being Lizzie. Casey had gotten me hoping, wishing, believing I might actually make it back to my family.
But where was he?
* * *
I went to homeroom. First-period geometry. Second-period English. Third-period colonial American history. Lunch.
Carole and I sat together. I ate my chicken Caesar salad without tasting it. She had packed her own lunch.
“Almond-and-apricot Kind Bars somehow have the power to completely transform me into a good mood and all-around better person within two seconds, honestly,” she said. “I have an extra.” She pushed it my way.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“This is not natural,” she said. “No one says no to a Kind Bar.”
“I’m not that hungry.”
“Freaking out about the talk?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, do I detect butterflies of love?”
“What?” I asked.
“From last night. You and Casey conveniently disappeared in the middle of the soiree. Nothing like being ice cold on a toboggan run to get the blood flowing, am I right?” She smiled. “You have to tell me.”
I was supposed to confide in her, to tell her about the kiss, but I couldn’t. Where was Casey? I was half frozen with fear. What if he’d taken matters into his own hands, called the police on Mrs. Porter? He had no idea who he was dealing with.
Finally, it was time to head to the assembly. Carole and I finished eating, and we walked down the hall together.
“You don’t seem okay,” she said as we approached the auditorium.
“I’m fine.”
“It’s a big deal, speaking to the school. I know you must be nervous.”
She was wearing an oversize white wool sweater and black leggings, her pale blue Uggs, and a gold chain with her initials on it: CD. Standing there in the hall, she unclipped her necklace.
“We’ll trade, just for the assembly,” she said. “You wear mine, and I’ll wear yours. It’ll make you realize I’m right there with you.”
That made me feel better. “Thank you, I love that,” I said, glowing.
“Well, it’s just in case you turn shy telling those stories about parties on the yacht.”
“Ha-ha,” I said.
Almost instantly my palms turned sweaty. I reached behind my head, swept my hair away, but my fingers slipped on the clasp of Lizzie’s anchor necklace.
Carole undid it for me. Then she slid her CD chain around my neck and made sure it was fastened right. She carefully put on my necklace.
I stared at Lizzie’s gold anchor nestled against Carole’s sweater and tried to swallow. Walking down the hall, my thoughts began to swirl. I felt unsteady and actually bumped into her.
“Oops,” I said. “Sorry.”
“You’ll do great,” she said, giving me a big hug. She opened the auditorium door and let me walk in ahead of her.
Like all of Royston High, the large room made me feel I had stepped back in time. The stained glass windows glinted with red-and-blue light, and the dark walls with their intricately carved mottos and motifs climbed to heavy beamed ceilings. Delicate cat etchings were placed beside every door, even in here.
I thought of Sarah Royston, of how she had cared so much about girls who were far from home, who had lost their way. At that moment, I felt no one had ever lost her way more than me.
Carole took a seat on the aisle, and I walked toward the stage. All the kids I’d met and was starting to know filled the chairs. I spotted Mark and Hideki, Angelique and Beth, nearly everyone from my class. Chloe sat with Mel, Junie, and a cluster of other middle school kids. With every step I took, I felt I was disappearing down a tunnel. I told myself I was entering Lizzie Land. I felt weird because I was shedding all my Emily-ness to get through this.
Mrs. Morton stood on the stage, beaming as I approached. Suddenly there was Casey—he was sitting on the aisle, second row. He grabbed my hand as I walked by.
“Where were you?” I asked.
“I missed the bus,” he said. “I stayed awake all night thinking about you, about everything, and I overslept.”
“You kept the promise?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, giving my hand a firm squeeze. It flooded me with relief, but that feeling lasted only a few seconds.
I climbed the stairs up to the stage. I pushed memories away from my mind—rehearsals and performances of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, The Crucible, and Ghost Girl. That had been Emily. I tried to channel Lizzie, the times she’d read her poems in English class and, once, in a state poetry contest. I gazed out at everyone. My eyes found Casey again. His half smile looked worried. My stomach clenched.