It was the aspect of her research that had most fascinated her—the cycle of the illness and how children escaped it. It was as if the human soul within them was fighting to the bitter end to survive, to find a way to hold on to this instinct to love and be loved—because that was the very thing that got lost with this illness. Some developed OCD traits like Meg, controlling other aspects of their lives to replace the chaos with the parent.
Others sought out adult relationships that were codependent—the spouse they knew would never leave them, or serial relationships where they could conquer and move on, proving to themselves over and over that they had the power to get what they needed from other people. The serial monogamist, the playboy, the “slut” (though Abby so hated that word). Meg had done all of these, the counting of things, then the cycling through men when she was younger, then settling down with a man who worshipped her.
And what had Abby done to escape? Meg would say she rejected things that were too feminine, things that represented their mother. Makeup, short skirts, high heels. She would say that Abby lived behind an invisible shield—that she didn’t let anyone in who could hurt her or disappoint her.
But Abby had a rule against self-diagnosis, so she let these thoughts pass through her as she always did.
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 lookingfor 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 likeIt’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 ofWitt, 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, howthat girlhad 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 thenews 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. Ihad 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.
