Pretend She's Here

by Luanne Rice

  Mrs. Morton introduced me. I stared down at Casey and felt him watching me. I knew he’d sat so close so he could see me better, so I would be more than a shadow. Mrs. Morton’s introduction echoed in my head, like I was hearing her words from far away. They reverberated, sounding distorted, as if they were coming through gauze.

  “And here, with no further ado, is Lizzie Porter to tell us what it was like to live in Europe.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Morton,” I said. My mouth was so dry my lips stuck together. I took a minute, trying to breathe the way I’d learned in theater class. Deep breaths, fill my chest, feel my diaphragm lift.

  “At the beginning of freshman year,” I began.

  I heard myself recite: I went to Paris. I lived with my grandmother in a seventeenth-century building on the Ile St. Louis. Every day I would walk to school along the Seine, and I attended classes in an old convent just off Boulevard St. Germain, where Hemingway and other writers hung out at the cafés, and I felt as if I was an expatriate, too, an American living in Paris, just like them.

  This was the script I had worked out with Mrs. Porter. I knew it almost by heart, with just enough room for improvisation—built in from remembering Mame’s stories—to sound halfway natural. I scanned the room, saw all those faces of people I was getting to know. Kids who believed I was who I said I was.

  Then I looked into Casey’s beautiful turquoise eyes, and I paused. See, once the secret is out—even to just one person, someone you trust enough to keep it from the rest of the world until you’re ready—it’s completely out there. The secret has left, and there is no getting it back.

  I steadied myself, hands on the podium.

  Casey watched me intently, nodding his head. I felt him telling me I could get through this. He was counting the hours with me—just make it till his dad returned, then we would tell, and then I could go home. I imagined this was how a prisoner feels: her last day behind bars. I read once that the last few hours before freedom are the hardest to endure.

  Carole was sending encouragement to me, too: I found her in the crowd, saw her beam at me, and touch the anchor necklace. Oh, Lizzie. That chain that hung around your neck, even to the end.

  These people, these new friends, Carole and Casey and all the other students, people I already cared about were watching me. Something in me had broken. The part of me that had been able to swallow the truth had washed away in the feelings that were storming through my chest.

  “Paris,” I said, trying to continue. “Paris in freshman year …”

  I was supposed to say more about the Left Bank, the Musée d’Orsay, going to the Gare Montparnasse to catch the TGV, the high-speed train to the southwest of France, over the Loire River, to Mame’s country house. But the lies about France wouldn’t pass my lips. Other words spilled out, ones I had no control over. The dam had burst and they came in a river, raging through me.

  “In the beginning of freshman year,” I said, starting again. “My best friend got sick. At first we didn’t know what was wrong, but she had a rare cancer. It spread so fast. There were so many tumors. She went into the hospital, and she never came out. We were almost as close as sisters, we had always spent every possible minute together, and she was so sick, and she never got better. My best friend’s name was Lizzie, and she died,” I said. “Lizzie died.”

  I started to cry, so hard the room blurred and swerved. Panicking, I looked for Casey in the front row, but he had already bounded out of his seat. He jumped onto the stage to catch me. Just as I staggered into his arms and tried not to collapse, I saw Mrs. Porter standing in the back of the hall. Her eyes and mouth were wide with shock and fury. She screamed, “No!”

  And then I blacked out.

  * * *

  When I came to, I didn’t know where I was. I was lying on a narrow bed. The walls were pale green, no windows. I heard chimes ringing, and a doctor being called over a loudspeaker. A needle was in my arm.

  A woman with kind eyes leaned over me, listening to my heart with a stethoscope. She had dark brown skin and wore a white lab coat, and underneath I saw a soft coral sweater, pearls at her throat.

  “Ah, you’re awake,” the doctor said. She looked into my eyes with one of those examining lights, taking her time, her hands gentle on my face. “You’re wearing contacts,” she said. “Let’s take them out.” And she did. I barely flinched.

  “Am I in the hospital?” I asked.

  “Yes, in the emergency room,” she said. “You came by ambulance about forty minutes ago. Do you recall that?”

  “No,” I said.

  “What is the last thing you do remember?”

  I blinked, trying to clear my mind. A bag of clear liquid hung over my bed, a tube drooping down and flowing into the needle in my arm—an IV drip, just like Lizzie’s. “What’s that for?” I asked.

  “We’re just making sure you’re not dehydrated,” she said. “I’m Dr. Dean.”

  “Carole’s mom,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Carole is out in the hall with Casey Donoghue and Mark Benjamin and your family. They’re very worried about you, along with everyone else. Now tell me, what is the last thing you remember?”

  It all came back, and with the memory, my eyes filled with tears that ran down my cheeks, hot and salty, into my mouth. I’d been honest. I’d been unable to help myself—nothing in the world could have made me tell the lie with Casey sitting right there, knowing my real identity—and the truth had just burst out of me. It was all over: The nightmare had ended. No matter what happened, the truth was out. And in spite of that relief, all I could think of was the knife, Mrs. Porter keeping her word, driving as fast as she could to Black Hall right now.

  “What family is out there?” I asked.

  Dr. Dean was focused on shining the light in my eyes.

  “How much time has passed since I fainted?” I asked, pushing her away as I struggled to sit up. Dr. Dean touched my shoulder, very tenderly pressed me back onto the gurney.

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said. “We’re taking care of you now.”

  “You don’t understand, I have to protect …”

  “What’s going on inside you?” she asked. “Why did you say …”

  “My mother!” I said. “You have to make sure she’s okay. It’s an emergency! Please, listen to me, and …”

  “She’s fine,” Dr. Dean said. “She’s right here with you. Now, you’re safe here, but will you tell me something? It’s very important. Why did you stand on the stage and say ‘Lizzie died’?”

  “She’s very metaphorical,” came the voice. I felt poison dripping into my veins, instant horror. “She’s a poet, my girl, and when she left for Europe, she got a little dramatic.” Mrs. Porter stepped out from behind Dr. Dean.

  “It was more than a little dramatic, Ginnie,” Dr. Dean said.

  “Well, I’m sure she’s still affected by that virus. It was a fever—you know how fevers can be. I’m going to wring my brother’s neck for saying she was well enough to return to school. I should have had you check her out first.”

  “Why did you say that?” Dr. Dean asked, looking directly at me. “That ‘Lizzie died.’ What did that mean?”

  Mrs. Porter didn’t give me a chance to answer. “Well, clearly she meant—in her poetic way—so the new one could be born—otherwise, how could she have left home, to go away in the first place? We’re such a close family. Her dad, Chloe, and me. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

  “Is that true?” Dr. Dean asked me. “Is that the reason you said ‘Lizzie died’?” Her expression was concerned.

  “Of course it is, Pamela,” Mrs. Porter said. “You know, when I first met you, how terribly I longed to have Lizzie come back from Paris. I almost couldn’t bear having her gone from home, but I had to stay brave so she could have the time of her life. That Xanax prescription, hello.”

  “Is that what you meant?” Dr. Dean asked me.

  Mrs. Porter’s eyes were cold steel. They
bored into me, pure rage.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Carole said you were very emotional, up there, starting to give your talk,” Dr. Dean said.

  “I shouldn’t have let her go to school this morning,” Mrs. Porter said, placing a hand on my forehead. “She said she had a stomachache, but she’s such a good student, missing a day just isn’t something she does.”

  “Ginnie,” Dr. Dean said. “I’m going to ask you to step out of the room.”

  “She’s my daughter, Pamela. I don’t like your tone.”

  “Be that as it may, I need to speak to this girl alone.”

  Mrs. Porter glared at me. She squinted her eyes, tapped her pocket. The knife pocket.

  “Please leave the room, Ginnie,” Dr. Porter said.

  My heart should have soared, but it didn’t. It was a dead thing in my chest, and my blood was a frozen river. I lay still, staring at the ceiling. I knew Mrs. Porter was hovering just outside the door. Or maybe she was on her way to the car, her knife sharpened and ready.

  “Tell me what happened,” Dr. Dean asked, pulling a stool close to my bed, sitting down beside me. “There’s no one else here. Now, I don’t think you would have said ‘Lizzie died’ just to express how it felt to leave home for a year abroad. That doesn’t sound right to me.”

  I was stunned and dizzy, listening for Mrs. Porter outside the curtain.

  “Are you depressed?” Dr. Dean asked. “Depression is not unusual among high school students—it can happen to anyone, really, and there’s nothing to be ashamed of if you have it.”

  “I’m not depressed.”

  “Have you been thinking of hurting yourself?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “No suicidal thoughts?”

  “No!”

  “Have you taken anything today?” She peered into my eyes. I didn’t have to ask what she meant: The school nurse’s office both here and at home were full of posters and pamphlets about the opioid crisis. I thought of Casey’s mom and nearly cried.

  I shook my head. “I don’t take drugs.”

  “Then it’s something else. Tell me.”

  Her voice was gentle but insistent. She was ready to believe me, whatever I told her. I stared into her eyes. They reminded me of Carole’s.

  “Your eyes are blue,” she said. “But you wear green contacts.”

  “I like green eyes.”

  “Why did you say Lizzie died? Isn’t that your name? Are you telling me you’re not Lizzie?”

  I heard the curtain rustle and knew Mrs. Porter was pressing close, hearing every word. Knowing she was right there removed every choice. This was how I sold myself out. This was the moment I dug a hole, so full of mud and stones and worms and slugs, that I would never get out, that I was buried, part of the earth now, that I would never see light again.

  “My name is Elizabeth Porter,” I said, my voice an ugly croak.

  “Why did you cry onstage, Elizabeth? Why did you say ‘Lizzie died’?”

  “You heard my …” Gag. “Mother. I can be dramatic. And she’s right. I had a stomachache this morning. I didn’t feel good. Something just came over me—I got scared, in front of all those people.”

  “I can get someone for you to talk to. It might be a good idea.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A counselor. A therapist.”

  I shook my head. “But I’m fine.”

  “Girls don’t just pass out for no reason,” she said.

  “I didn’t have breakfast. Because of my stomach. And I was so nervous …”

  She checked the drip going into my veins. The bag was pretty much empty. She wrote some notations on a chart. “Your temp is normal,” she said. “And your other vital signs are fine. I’d like to keep you overnight.”

  I nearly moaned. “I’m fine,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “I just want to go home.”

  She stared at me as if she knew I was lying. Had she seen the news with my story featured? Were there bulletins and alerts, did people at the hospital keep up with missing children? Was she recognizing me even at this moment?

  But she didn’t, or she wouldn’t have smiled. Seeing her capitulate, give up her suspicions and decide to believe me, made me feel that Emily really died. And she was never coming back.

  “I’m going to release you, Lizzie. But I’m worried. I want you to see a therapist. That’s the price of my letting you go home now. I’ll give your mother some names. And you’re going to come to my office in a few days for a checkup.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “And don’t skip breakfast anymore.”

  “It’s the most important meal of the day,” I said.

  Mrs. Porter was waiting outside the exam room for me. While Dr. Dean signed my discharge papers, Mrs. Porter removed Carole’s CD necklace from my neck. I felt her cool fingers undo the clasp, then replace it with the anchor chain she’d obviously taken back from Carole. She supported me, arm around my shoulders, just like a loving mother, as we walked past my friends. Without a word, she handed Carole her necklace.

  Casey reached out, to brush my fingers with his, but I kept my hand in my pocket. I was shaking so hard, I couldn’t let myself look at him. I would have flown into his arms if I had.

  I stared straight ahead as I walked out the hospital door, through the parking lot, into the minivan, into what felt like the end of my life.

  It was easy for them to keep me home from school. Mrs. Morton and the entire administration thought Lizzie was obviously sick, and she needed to rest and recuperate.

  Mrs. Porter locked me in my room. She didn’t come downstairs once. They didn’t feed me for an entire day. The steeple clock’s chimes reminded me.

  At first I wasn’t hungry. Even if I had been, I wouldn’t have given them the satisfaction of eating. I did feel a certain agony, though. I worried that I’d pushed Mrs. Porter over the edge. She’d drive to Black Hall to stab my mother and leave me to rot in this cinder block dungeon.

  Soon my stomach began to growl. It grumbled and gnawed, and the harder I tried not to think about it, the more I did. A few hours without food isn’t that long, I told myself. Explorers, people lost on mountains or in the woods, went much longer than that. I’d seen the movie Into the Wild with Mick and Anne, and I thought of how Chris McCandless had stayed in his bus in the Alaska bush for months, not eating.

  Then again, he wound up dying of starvation.

  My namesake, St. Emily de Vialar, deprived herself of food because the poor didn’t have enough to eat. Monks went on long fasts. In church, we said “offer it up.” Meaning: Offer up any suffering to the greater good—like world peace or finding a missing girl. I offered up my hunger to my mother’s safety. And to my family finding me. Was that selfish? I was too hungry to care.

  If I thought I had been weak and wobbly onstage, it was nothing compared with this. I started to hallucinate. I became convinced that my mom was dead, and that I was going to die here alone. I’d never see another person, never see my family. Casey must have thought my disappearance negated our pact. He wouldn’t come for me.

  By the time the door finally clicked open, I was lying under the covers, whimpering.

  “Em.”

  I rolled over, saw Chloe standing there with a bowl of soup. She walked slowly toward the bed, being careful not to spill it. She sat down beside me and waited for me to sit up.

  “Here,” she said, handing me the bowl. “It’s tomato, your favorite.”

  And it was—Emily’s. Lizzie’s favorite had been chicken and rice.

  My hand trembled as I tried to hold the spoon. When I touched the metal to my mouth, my teeth chattered so much the hot liquid spilled down the front of my nightgown. Chloe grabbed a wad of tissue and dabbed it off me.

  “Eat fast,” she said. “You need your strength.”

  I put the spoon down and used both hands to drink from the bowl. It should have tasted delicious, but it made me retch. I had to wait,
let my stomach settle, before trying again. Then I thought: arsenic.

  “Is this supposed to kill me?” I asked.

  “No,” Chloe said. “I made the soup myself. Well, I opened the can. My parents just left—they had to go to a meeting at the school, to talk about you. But I don’t know how long they’ll be gone.”

  “What about me?” I asked.

  “About what happened in the auditorium. You know, everyone’s asking, ‘What’s wrong with Lizzie?’”

  “How are your parents going to answer that?”

  She seemed agitated; she checked her iPhone. “They’ve got it all figured out. The same old thing about how traveling wore you down, and you got that virus, and you’re so drained and ‘emotionally exhausted’; that’s what they’re going to say. And they’ll say you have to get treatment, that ‘Uncle Jim’ the doctor is arranging for you to go to a hospital. They’re not sending you back to school.”

  “Then … what?”

  “They’re going to keep you in here,” she said. “Lock you in this room forever. They’ll say you’re going to the hospital to get well, and when you get back, they’re going to homeschool you. That’s the story.”

  “I can’t,” I said, trying to set the bowl on the bedside table, missing the edge, dropping it on the floor. The china shattered and the soup splashed everywhere.

  “They know you can’t be Lizzie out in the world,” Chloe told me. “You proved that when you lost it and said Lizzie died. But they still think you can be Lizzie here in the house. With us. Well, my mom does.”

  “No,” I said, staring down at the floor and the soup spreading around my feet, shaking my head. “It’s impossible.”

  “I know,” Chloe said. “Get dressed.”

  “What?”

  “Hurry,” she said, throwing some clothes at me.

  They were mine—my wonderful, comfy, non-Lizzie clothes. In a blur, I threw on my old jeans, my Martha’s Vineyard T-shirt, and my ratty sweater and green army jacket. Chloe must have pulled them out from wherever her parents had hidden them. My sweater sleeve was frayed. Lizzie would never have worn anything so shabby. Her clothes were always perfect. It’s strange the things you notice even when you’re moving fast.