This is exactly how she looked in the pictures that got posted on the Internet—the dress, the hair, the makeup and the room. In one of the pictures, she had dropped the top part of the dress to expose her breasts. Of course, when I saw the pictures, unlike everyone else, I knew the moment they had been taken. And I knew who had taken them.
Emma never told me what happened, but I imagine it was something like this: She was mad at Hunter for putting his hand down her pants and calling her a whore all summer. She lured Mr. Martin to her room and probably asked him to take a picture of her to post on Instagram or something equally innocent. Then she dropped the dress. And Mr. Martin was tested. Finally, after all these years of watching her and envying his son for being so close to her, she was his. Just for a moment. And rather than walk away, he snapped one last picture that he would save to his phone so he could remember the moment and satisfy his urges. It’s a slippery slope, giving in to a wanting as strong as his. Even if you just give in a little.
I concluded as well that Mr. Martin would never have posted those pictures online. It served no purpose for him, and the site they went to was nothing any grown-ups had heard of.
So, I don’t know when she did it, but Emma must have told Hunter about the pictures and Mr. Martin. And Hunter retaliated by finding them and posting them online. It was all-out war, and that war would rage in our house for two more years. Until the night we disappeared.
***
It was on the third night of my return that Witt came to visit. I decided to stay with my father that night. I thought it would be a relief, but he was not doing very well and I felt myself being pulled into his emotional storm.
I know Dr. Winter spoke to him about how to speak to me. She told him not to be overly emotional when he asked me questions about my time on the island, not to sound judgmental. My father had a lot of trouble with this. I know he tried. I could see the strain in his entire body as he held back his questions, held in his agony for his daughters. The veins that ran down the sides of his forehead, and his neck, and up his forearms were popping out from beneath his skin as we sat at the dining room table eating takeout.
“You must have missed Chinese food. It was always your favorite.”
I told him that I had missed it very much.
“What about television? Did you get to watch any of your favorite shows? Did you see any movies?”
I told him some of the movies and things we watched. We had a satellite dish, and it seemed like it was not legal, because itdidn’t work all the time. I asked him if he had seen the same shows or movies.
Something about this made my father cry and leave the room. Actually, he asked me if I minded if he left the room because he had to cry. He said he would go and get us some ice cream. I thought that was considerate. But at the same time, I was mad at him. I wanted him to be stronger.
I could see Witt was barely tolerating him, the way he always did. His lack of respect for him would never go away, and I thought it was odd that this bothered my father less than Mrs. Martin choosing Mr. Martin and leaving him. But I suppose it all goes back to one of Mrs. Martin’s lessons about how everyone wants what they can’t have. I never want to want anything after seeing the damage wanting brings.
Well, maybe that’s not true. I would never stop wanting to find my sister.
Our father had always been this way. We had to see his feelings and, to a large extent, feel them as well, because that’s what normal people do, especially when they are very young and are learning how to be empathetic. He was always sorry for being weak. From crying in front of us to settling the custody case to sleeping with our mother and breaking up his family with his first wife and Witt. But I was tired of sorry. From him. From the millions of people who were watching my story and making their dumb comments on TV. From everyone who said, “I’m so sorry.” Sorry happens after something bad has happened, after people have let it happen. It had become contemptuous to me, all these I’m-so-sorries.
Being alone with Witt nearly destroyed me, pieces of me crumbling, falling to the floor, and I had no idea how to piece me backtogether. That sounds bad, but it was the opposite of bad. When my father left, when I heard the door close, I fell into Witt’s arms all at once and sobbed. He had heard my stories from the island and he didn’t ask me any questions at all. Not one. He told me everything was all right and that he would make sure it stayed that way. Witt said I could come and live with him and his wife. We talked of logistics and strategies to get through this time of finding Emma—and we would find her!—and then of the future, when the media trucks were gone and my fifteen minutes of fame were over. He was going to get me tutoring so I could take the GED and get my high school diploma. And then I would go to college if it was the last thing he did. He said these things very fast into my ears as he held me while I cried. I nodded and said okay over and over so he knew that I heard him and that I believed him. But I did not believe him. Not completely, the way I pretended to.
“What’s happened, Cass? Are you worried we’ll never find her?” Witt pulled away and looked me in the eye.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why? Has something gone wrong with the Bureau or that doctor?…”
That’s when I told him about the conversation I had overheard between my mother and Mr. Martin when they were behind the closed door of their bedroom:
Jonathan, she’s out of her mind. Did you hear what she’s saying? Talking about these people and Emma’s baby… it’s crazy talk!
So what? Don’t you see? They have to realize it on their own. You can’t be the one to tell them she’s crazy. Let them find out through their investigation. They’ll find the island, and that boatman.
What if she’s not?
Not what?
Not crazy. What if I’m the one who’s crazy?
I am not having this fucking conversation one more time! I swear to Christ, Judy… sometimes you can be so fucking stupid—
Don’t be angry with me. I’m scared. The things she’s saying—
Cass is not right in her head. End of story.
They went on to discuss all the ways I seemed “off.” I sounded paranoid. If they told Dr. Winter or Agent Strauss that I did not seem myself, the search for Emma could be diverted to a search for my sanity. This was another reason I asked to sleep at my father’s house. I needed to see myself through Witt’s eyes so I would know for sure that the Martins were wrong about me. And that even if they were right, if I had lost my mind, that no one would believe them and they would keep looking for my sister.
Witt laughed a little bit. It was not because he was happy or found any of this funny. It was the laugh people have when they are thinking about vengeance.
