There was a case study she’d read while doing her research. The daughter of a mother with severe pathological narcissism had developed a coping mechanism, called an “affectation,” to create order in a world that was disordered. She had found a way to manage the radical and unpredictable affections of her mother that included a methodical organizing of everything in her life. She kept track of things with numbers. “Three reasons for liking the piano.… Two ways I like to wear my hair.”
She also assigned a gender to everything—colors, numbers, letters of the alphabet. A was female, B was male. There was no sequential sense to the assignments—they were unique to her imagination. D, E, F, G and H were all male, for example. But then X, Y and Z were all female. Red and orange were female. Blue and green male. On and on it went, the ordering of static, benign objects and concepts to calm the storm that was stirred inside her from the faulty attachment to her primary caregiver—in that case, the mother.
The girl had not developed a personality disorder, and had gone on to have a healthy family of her own. The research concluded that she had escaped the cycle, and it posed the query as to whether this affectation had been the reason.
Abby’s thoughts shifted back to her sister, Meg. She had not escaped their mother’s wrath entirely. There had been years of drug use and men and debilitating anxiety. But she had found her way out.
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 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.