When I Was Jane

by Theresa Mieczkowski

  “The master quarters take up the entire third floor. One dormer is in your dressing room, one is in our bedroom, and one is in my study,” he says.

  I nod my head. “So you spent a lot of time here as a child?”

  “Yeah. See those?” He points to the brick steps leading to the front door. “I busted my bottom lip trying to skateboard down them when I was seven.” He sticks out his chin to show me the scar.

  “And I carved my first girlfriend’s name in that tree over there.” He gestures towards a massive weeping willow in the corner of the yard. “I wanted to redo it when we moved in and put yours…Audrey’s I mean, but she wanted us to have our own tree.”

  He hands me my crutches and leads me to a young cherry tree in the center of the yard surrounded by flowering hostas. A faint heart is carved into the bark with J&A etched inside, and a smaller heart is carved underneath with a D in the middle.

  “That’s sweet.” I trace the outline of the carving with my finger. “You did this?”

  He looks at me as if he’s about to say something but just nods.

  “Mommy!” Daisy runs barefoot across the yard wearing a two piece purple bathing suit with a tutu bottom, her wet hair stuck to her face.

  I do my best to bend down and hug her, but with the full leg cast, I can’t get low enough. She climbs up on a garden bench and throws herself around me in a hug, and I smother her in kisses.

  “Wanna watch me in the sprinkler?” she asks.

  “Whoa, careful now.” Jason laughs and peels her off of me. “Sorry about that, she’s really excited,” he says, already forgetting to act normal in the first few minutes home by treating me like a guest she’s accosted. He whispers something in her ear and smiles. Whatever he says sends her shrieking excitedly into the house.

  He puts his hand on my back and leads me across the driveway, explaining that Daisy understands that because of the bump on my head, I might be confused about where things belong in our house, so it’s OK to let her know if I can’t find something. He helps me maneuver up the steps and through the grandiose front door.

  “Surprise!” Daisy stands under a huge paper banner taped to the wall behind her. WELCOME BACK MOMMY is scrawled across it in crayon, surrounded by stickers and hand drawn pictures.

  “Oh, Daisy, I love it!” I stop to admire each detail she’s added, oohing and ahhing as she describes each sticker and names every color on the banner, one letter at a time.

  She proudly points to the Y in Mommy. “That color is fruit punch pink. Fruit punch is what we drink at fancy parties, but Daddy gives it to me at dinner when you’re not home.”

  Jason smiles and tickles her under the chin. “I don’t think Mommy forgot what fruit punch is…and thanks for ratting me out.”

  I can tell he’s trying to act relaxed, but his anxiety is palpable. If I were Audrey, I might be able to absorb some of it. But since I have no idea what part of bringing me home is bothering him so much, his uncertainty just bounces right off me. It knocks around the room for a bit like an errant ping pong ball, only to land back on him.

  I try to survey the house without making it obvious to Daisy that I’ve never seen it before. The foyer is spacious and open with a three-story cathedral ceiling. Above us, polished wooden banisters frame the second and third floors. A staircase leading to the second floor winds gradually up one wall. “How do you get to the top?” I whisper to Jason so Daisy can’t hear.

  “There’s a staircase in the back of the house that runs from the second floor to our suite and another that goes all the way up from the kitchen to the third floor through the butler’s pantry.”

  “You have a butler?”

  He laughs. “No, but my great-grandparents did.”

  “That’s a lot of stairs for someone on crutches.” At least now I have a solid excuse not to share a bedroom yet.

  “You won’t be on crutches forever.” He leans on the railing and points up the stairs. “Daisy’s room is on the second floor. And Thomas stays on the main floor off the kitchen near the exercise room. You’ll get to know the exercise room soon enough once your physical therapy begins.”

  I try to imagine myself feeling at home here. Doing laundry. Walking in with groceries and knowing where they belong. For a fraction of a second I regret leaving the hospital.

  Daisy runs back in the room and tugs on the bottom of my skirt. “I want to go in the sprinkler.”

  Dottie lumbers in after her, fanning herself. “I may go in the sprinkler with you, Daisy. And welcome home, Mrs. Gilbert. I think this job change is agreein’ with me already, don’t you? Miss Daisy is keeping me busy.” Dottie models a plastic crown and strands of fake pearls and dress up necklaces.

  I smile, relieved to see her. Things would be much more awkward without her here as a buffer. I follow Jason across the foyer, past a library tucked behind glass French doors, and down a hallway adorned with oil portraits.

  “All the Gilberts, from my great-grandparents to Daisy,” Jason says, pointing to the paintings. He guides me towards the back of the house to a kitchen and living area. Skylights and glass doors surround the entire space, showcasing the wooded backyard. Outside, a large balcony wraps around the back of the house with steep stairs down to the garden below.

  Antiqued cabinets with customized nooks for dishes wrap around the perimeter of the kitchen, encircling a huge island with a professional stove in the center. A large wooden pot rack hangs over the island, displaying expensive looking cookware and hanging herbs and dried flowers. Off to one wall are double ovens next to a small beverage sink and a food prep area lined with mixers and knife blocks and walls of tools. Daisy emerges from one of the doors chewing on a cracker; behind her is a huge walk-in pantry.

  On the opposite side of the room, a long breakfast bar lined with stools stretches out from the main sink. Countertops vary from butcher block to tile to granite, and baskets filled with fresh fruit and vegetables and old metal pitchers full of flowers are spread out across them, giving the room a farmers’ market feel. Several of the cabinet doors are covered in Daisy’s drawings suggesting Audrey didn’t need her space to look like a professional showroom. I can hardly wait to get my hands on the tools and gadgets that must be hidden in those cabinets, and I try to imagine how it feels to push a rolling pin over a mountain of bread dough or chop vegetables from my own garden into a salad.

  “This kitchen makes me want to cook,” I say.

  Jason gives a half smile. “Please start soon. The takeout places are sick of me.” He sees me studying two weathered, whitewashed plaques hanging on the walls. Je fais mes courses. Ouvre pour déjeuner. “Gifts from my mother,” he says. “She spent a lot of time in here guiding Audrey through family recipes. She considers her to be the daughter she never had. I’m sure in time she’ll feel the same about you.”

  Jason speaks about Audrey in the third person more frequently now, and on a few occasions he’s even called me Jane without sounding resentful. Whenever Daisy is within earshot, he says Mommy for her benefit, but he seems to accept the idea that for now, I’m not her.

  He guides me into the adjoining living room. “Would you like to sit?” He pauses and sticks his hands in his pockets. “This is weird, right? Do you feel weird?”

  “Kind of. I feel worse for you actually,” I say.

  He helps me into an oversized chair draped in a white slipcover and lifts my casted leg onto a matching ottoman. The coffee table next to me is also white, as is almost every piece of furniture. There are accents of green from the leaves of white hydrangea blooms gathered in hurricane bowls all over the room. They pick up the light green stripes in the mostly white area rug and the pale green mats of the framed black and white prints on the wall. All the pictures are beach scenes; a few landscape shots, one of Jason and Audrey kissing as a wave crashes into them, one of Jason and Daisy sitting in the sand, one of Audrey and Daisy from the back walking down the beach holding hands. A large mirror with a distressed white wooden fr
ame is propped against the white mantle. All the woodwork is white. The lamps, the afghan thrown onto the sofa, the candlesticks on the end table; all white.

  “It’s so subdued in here,” I say.

  “Audrey has a thing for white. She finds it soothing.”

  “It reminds me of the hospital.”

  “We can add a little color if it makes you more comfortable. I’m sure Daisy would be happy to get out her markers,” he says.

  I laugh. “No, that’s probably not a good idea. But you’re lucky you have such a pristine little girl. Imagine if you had a boy. I’m sure this room wouldn’t stay white for very long.”

  Jason shifts in his seat. “So tell me why you feel worse for me.”

  “It can’t be easy to bring someone to a home they don’t remember. To try to live comfortably with a virtual stranger.”

  He smiles. “You aren’t exactly a stranger. I’ve seen you naked.”

  “First of all, you’re a doctor and you see plenty of people naked; that hardly defines who’s a stranger. But you have to admit, it’s going to be even more awkward for us now that we’re home.” Unless I point these things out to him, unless I state the obvious up front, he’ll either just wait around for me to remember who I am or try to pick up where Audrey left off.

  “Perhaps. But maybe having Dottie here with you and having the place to yourself every other week while I’m at the hospital will make you more comfortable.” He looks at me for validation, but I don’t respond.

  “Also, they’ll be sending counselors over from the hospital to meet with us to develop coping strategies,” he says.

  “Us?”

  “You alone, me alone and on occasion, us together. Then maybe once or twice with Daisy to make sure she isn’t interpreting anything negatively.”

  “So a psychiatrist, you mean? To see if I’m progressing correctly?”

  “Nobody’s judging you. There’s no way to do this correctly.” This must be how he sounds when he’s trying to deliver news to one of his heart patients. “Dr. Patel wants to make sure that you have adequate coping strategies so you don’t become disconnected,” he says.

  “How can I be any more disconnected than I already am? I have absolutely no memory of my life.”

  “He’s concerned that you still insist on being called Jane. He thinks it would be better for you to accept that you’re Audrey.”

  Jason doesn’t need to tell me what Dr. Patel thinks. I’m perfectly aware he believes I’ve commandeered Audrey’s brain. I take a deep slow breath and exhale. My lung still hurts. Any time I have this conversation, I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

  “I understand, I think,” he says. “But he doesn’t. Maybe you should just tell him what he wants to hear so you don’t feel pressure to conform and he doesn’t feel pressure to get you more psychiatric help.”

  “I guess so. You mean lie?”

  “Not lie, exactly. Just try to lay off the ‘I’m so angry at Audrey’ stuff. Then maybe you won’t have to talk to the counselors right away.”

  “And how do you feel about it? Do you want me speaking to those people?”

  Jason looks at the floor. “These are my colleagues, Jane. I don’t want them to know personal details about our private life.”

  I stare at him. He appears so ordinary, dressed in plaid shorts and a golf shirt. He should be outside playing with his daughter or on a picnic enjoying the summer day. But instead, he’s talking about psychiatrists and showing the stranger who woke up in his wife’s body around the house she doesn’t remember.

  “See, this is why I feel bad for you. You should be out enjoying your life and not going through this,” I say.

  “You are my life. This is what people do for one another; this is marriage. We have to work this through for our family.”

  Fed up with the conversation, I rest my head on the pillow behind me and stare up at the ceiling, pressed tin tiles with impressions of fleur-de-lis. “Cool ceiling.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you pick this out or did she?”

  “I did,” he says impatiently.

  “I don’t know what to say, Jason, and that’s why I feel worse for you. I’m the one who doesn’t remember and therefore has no connections.” The words just slip from my mouth unprotected. There’s no use in trying to sugarcoat anything at this point. “But you still have all the feelings associated with everything. You see the big picture; I can only see my own small piece. I don’t know what I feel about having to keep a family together, because I don’t remember having a family.”

  A disturbed expression passes over his face. “So what are you saying? You want a divorce?”

  “No. I’m not making any decisions. We’re not supposed to be doing that yet.”

  “Fuck the goddamn rules. Patel doesn’t get to manage my marriage. Do you want a divorce? Do you want to start over in a new life?”

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  “Well you’d better make up your mind soon,” he says, “because I have a daughter to worry about, and she needs a mother. We can’t have you come home only to get up and leave again. She’s been traumatized. She’s wetting her bed. She’s been through too much for someone her age.”

  “I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her,” I say.

  Jason throws his hands in the air in frustration. “Then you need to decide if you’re going to give this a fighting chance. Not just pretending you belong here, but actually keeping your mind open to believing it.”

  “But if all you’re worried about is Daisy, then you should know I’ll always try to be a mother to her.”

  “Maybe I’m worried about myself too. Maybe I’d be willing to take you as someone else, as Jane, just to not lose you entirely. Can’t you even entertain that possibility?”

  “Of course I can. But let me get to know you first. Let me see for myself if I can feel something for you. Let me learn to trust the things you tell me,” I say.

  “Such as?”

  “Tell me why I drove my car into a tree and where you were when it happened.”

  “Jesus,” he says, closing his eyes. “I was at the hospital.”

  “Well according to Thomas, it took him quite a while to find you, and you had a long drive to get to me. So unless you were driving around the hospital parking lot for hours, then we appear to have a discrepancy in the stories.”

  Jason clenches his jaw. “The problem here is that you want to think the worst of me. I did have a long drive. I was called to the hospital upstate because a patient of mine had a heart attack while on a business trip. I got the call about your accident while I was there. And I don’t know where you were going when you had it.”

  “Funny, you’d think Thomas would know that,” I say.

  We’re interrupted by the sound of little feet running through the kitchen.

  “Mommy!” Daisy bounds in completely soaked and out of breath. “There’s a bunny in the yard! He hopped all the way over to the vegetable garden! He’s gonna eat all the tomato plants!”

  I laugh and try to get up from the chair. “It’s fine.”

  Before I can stand, Jason scoops her up like a football and runs out to the yard to see the bunny—or maybe to get away from me.

  Dottie surveys the scene from the doorway with a hand on her hip. “How’s everything in here so far?”

  I look back at her and sigh. “Really, really white.”

  ~11~

  The foundation level solarium is as spectacular as the rest of the house; one large, open room lined with glass doors that lead out to the patio and back gardens. My hospital bed is arranged next to the couch, facing the back yard where I can enjoy the view. An impressive entertaining kitchen and a full bar hug the inside wall next to a stone fireplace. Dottie has a bedroom off to the side, and there is a large bathroom down here for us to share. The only other rooms are a wine cellar, which I’m told Audrey had no use for, and a large storage area that spans the remaining footprint of the hous
e. There’s a sound system so I can listen to music, but I’m still forbidden to read or watch television until I’m cleared by Dr. Patel.

  Thomas slides open one of the glass doors. “Knock knock. Came by to say hello.”

  “Oh thank God,” I say, thrilled to have a visitor, and even happier that it's him. “I don’t suppose you brought anything for me to do.”

  “Sorry, just me.”

  “Will you play a game with me?”

  “Depends. No Scrabble.” He nods towards a pile of games Daisy had dragged out from a cupboard behind the bar. “Or anything else that requires you to concentrate on letters, numbers or shapes.”

  “No cards then? I was hoping you could teach me gin.”

  He laughs. “No. And you already know how to play gin, but you suck. Daisy could beat you.” He walks over to the bar and gets himself a beer from the fridge. “Want anything? He’s got the flavored seltzers in here that you like. And iced tea.”

  “No thanks. They’re up there eating dinner. Did you see them?”

  “Of course, I just left there. Think I’d miss out on Jason Gilbert’s famous fish sticks? I heard there was an intruder in the garden today. Daisy made me check the tomato plants. Since I was out there anyway, I figured I’d come check on you.”

  “She’s coming down in a bit to put on a show for me before she goes to bed. So that’s something to do at least. Will you stay?”

  “Stay? I’m in the show. Who do you think is playing the rabbit? We’re recreating the incident from this afternoon,” he says.

  “Does she do this a lot?”

  “All the time. And I have four days home until my shift starts, so I’m sure you’ll see me in a few more productions before then.” Thomas sits down on the sofa next to my bed. He picks up a plastic tube attached to a fat straw with a mouth piece and hands it to me. “Let’s see what you got.”

  I roll my eyes and reluctantly suck on the tube, trying to get the stupid red ball to float up. Dottie already made me do it four or five times earlier. It barely lifts off the base before I give up. The little red ball torments me; I have half a mind to take the thing apart to see if it isn’t stuck to the bottom.