But there were some things, some moments in her story that were not counted or numbered, like how long she hid and waited in Emma’s car the night they disappeared. And how long Emma’s labor was before the baby finally came.
And how could she be so unemotional telling this most horrific story about watching a baby nearly dropped in that cold, black water?
Abby tried to finish the sentence. Judy Martin, the narcissistic mother who wreaked havoc on her children, leaving one a pregnant teen and the other introverted and insecure, with abnormal social instincts and obsessive–compulsive disorder.
Or maybe, something else. There were times when Cass would look into Abby’s eyes so intensely, it was like catching a glimpse of the sun. And each time it felt like she was sending Abby some kind of message in a secret code.
Was she playing her? Was she playing all of them? The question remained, and was even stronger today.
What if the sentence ended like this?
Judy Martin, the narcissistic mother who created a narcissist.
And not just Emma, but maybe Cass as well?
Abby followed them all out of the room, just behind Leo. She wanted to grab hold of him, shake him until he could help her sort out her own mind, which was spinning now, round and round like a dog chasing his tail. So many thoughts.
You know too much. Maybe Meg was right. She was so tired now, it was hard to think. She needed sleep.
You have to move forward. What did any of this matter? What Judy Martin’s narcissism did to Emma? What it did to Cass? They would find the island and find Emma, and then they would know and this would all be over.
And then Witt’s words, which kept finding their way off the page of Abby’s notes, where she’d written them three years ago.
She is evil.
Abby knew what that meant. She knew this kind of evil inside and out. She knew what made it stronger and what made it weaker. And she knew how to get inside it, to become part of the splint that held it together.
As they walked from the house to their cars, wrapping up the day and saying their good-byes, Abby could see the plan taking shape to do just that.
ELEVEN
Cass—Day Three of My Return
On the third day of my return, I awoke to three surprises. The first was that I had actually slept for more than two hours in a row. After the visit with Hunter, I could feel the exhaustion in my stomach like a sickness. Like I wanted to vomit. It was in my head as well, throbbing like a headache, but also mixing up my thoughts so that the worst of them were able sneak past the better ones and start to seem real. I needed to reset my brain so that the bad thoughts could be contained. And I needed to remove the distractions of the headache and the vomit wanting to come. The only greater obstacle to thinking clearly than pain and vomit is fear.
I took two of Dr. Nichols’s pills and had one glass of wine. I locked my door and slid the dresser in front of it. I should have done that first because I was nearly incapable of finishing the job after the pills and the wine. I lay down in the bed in the guest room and I slept for eight hours.
I did not take any medicine on the island. And I did not intend to keep taking the pills Dr. Nichols gave me after Emma was found. But until then, I would do what I had to do. As I was swallowing them down with the wine on that second night of my return, I thought that it was ironic that it was now—safe at home—that I needed the pills just to sleep, and to reset my brain so I could think.
Lucy used to say that, when she took her pills at night. I need a good night’s sleep so I can reset my brain. Sometimes your own thoughts can do you in if you don’t get rid of them.
I could see her thoughts, the ones that might do her in. The way she would stare out at the ocean gave her away. The Universe had been so unfair to her and it made her angry. It made her want justice. It made her believe she was entitled to justice. And that justice came in the form of a child. She would smile and nod to herself. Yes. I could see her thought. I deserve a child. But then her face would grow conflicted until the sadness beat down the self-righteousness. Until she began to wonder if what she was doing was divine justice, or if it was just plain crazy. And she could not afford to have that thought and still hold another woman’s child in her arms.
I knew about crazy thoughts from the island. You have no idea what it’s like to see land not that far away, to see lobster boats and yachts and motorboats just far enough that they can’t hear you or see you well enough to know what you’re doing if you were to jump up and down and make signals or fall to your knees in total despair. It makes you think that anything is better than this, even drowning in the current or freezing to death in the cold water. I had two parts inside me, like Lucy and Bill, with the one crazy part wanting something so bad, I was willing to do crazy things to try to get it, and the other part knowing it would kill me, actually physically kill me. That part of me was stronger than the crazy part. Otherwise, I think I might have died trying to leave that place.
I had other crazy thoughts on the island. Thoughts about deserving what I’d gotten. Thoughts about being an ungrateful teenager who was worthy of the disgust I had seen on Bill’s face that day on the dock. They crept in when I wasn’t looking, alongside the image of Rick’s face and the plotting of how to use this to escape. And just like the fight between the crazy part that wanted to brave the frigid water and the sane part that stayed on the land, this part of me that felt I was so wretched, I deserved what I’d gotten waged war with the part that felt worthy of seeking revenge.
When I returned home, those thoughts found their way back into my consciousness, mixing with thoughts from my childhood about my profound unworthiness. I don’t know how, but they are related, these thoughts. They must be because they felt familiar, like old friends I hadn’t seen for a while but when I saw them I remembered them well and even welcomed them in no matter how terrible they were and always had been.
And they were terrible. They made me miss Emma so much. I don’t know why. Sometimes when I hear the stories leaving my own mouth, I realize that Emma was not always nice to me. But something happens when you hold someone or when they hold you. It makes you feel better. It takes away the bad feelings of being worthless.