by Lisa McMann
Janie snaps awake and sits up with a gasp, disoriented.
Sits there, sinking back into the pillow, trying to get her heart rate back down to normal.
Thinking.
Hard.
Harder.
And then she pads over to the computer and waits in the cool dawn for it to boot up and connect to the Internet.
Looks up Morton’s Fork again. Why won’t Morton’s Fork just go away? Why do I keep running into this stupid concept? I know, already. Seriously. I. Get. It. I get it more than Henry ever got it.
She finds it. Paraphrases under her breath. “A totally suck-ass choice between two equally terrible outcomes. Okay, okay. Right? I KNOW this.”
She thinks about it more, in case she’s missing something.
Thinks about Henry.
Henry’s Morton’s Fork was obvious. He chose isolation over the torture and the unpredictable nature of being sucked into dreams. That was his choice. That’s what he knew.
Equally terrible.
Yes, Janie could argue that his options were equally terrible. It’s a crapshoot. He could have gone either way.
She thinks of Martha Stubin. About how, when she was young, her Morton’s Fork was exactly the same as Henry’s, and she’d chosen the other path. She didn’t know, at the time of her choice, what would happen to her. But then, she became blind and crippled.
Which adds a factor. And it makes Janie’s Morton’s Fork different.
Janie has the most information of all of them.
Still, this is not news. She’s had all this information since the green notebook.
Equally terrible.
The term niggles at Janie’s brain and she begins to pace around the little house, the wood floor cool and smooth on her bare feet.
She opens the refrigerator and stares into it, not really seeing anything inside, and thinks about her options.
Argues with herself.
Yes, it’s equally terrible. Leaving Cabe and society to go live in a shack, alone? Yeah, that feels pretty terrible. As terrible as becoming blind and crippled? Sure.
Isn’t it?
But what if Cabe wasn’t a factor?
Isolation. Going off to live alone—hermits do it. Monks do it. People actually choose to do that. To isolate.
No one in his right mind chooses blind and crippled—not after really thinking about it, like Janie did. Martha didn’t choose it—it just happened. She didn’t know it would happen. No one would ever choose it.
No one.
Unless the only alternative is equally bad.
She’s thinking. Thinking about Henry. How he lived. How he died. About how he grew calm, finally. After. Only after he got sucked into Janie’s dream.
“There is no best,” he’d said during his dream earlier. Holding his head. Pulling his hair out. But he was talking about his version of Morton’s Fork. His choice. Janie knows Henry couldn’t have known the true choice—he didn’t know about Miss Stubin and her blindness, her hands. He still doesn’t know, probably, unless she told him. After.
7:03 a.m.
Janie’s brain won’t let it die.
Because what if?
What if Henry’s brain problem actually wasn’t a real illness, like a tumor or aneurysm, that normal people have?
What if . . . what if it was a consequence?
The migraines, the pain. Pulling his hair out. As if there was so much pressure.
From not using the ability.
Pressure from not going into other people’s dreams.
So much pressure, parts of his brain exploded.
“Noo-o,” she says softly.
Sits there, frozen.
In shock.
And then she drops her head. Rests her cheek on the desk.
Groans.
“Shit, Henry,” she says softly. She sighs and closes her eyes, and they begin to sting and burn. “You and your Morton’s fucking Fork.”
THE LAST DAY
Thursday, August 10, 2006, 7:45 a.m.
Janie still sits at Henry’s desk. In shock. Denial.
But deep down, she knows it’s true. It has to be. It all makes sense.
Can’t believe it all comes down to a totally different choice than what she—and Miss Stubin—had thought all this time.
Not between isolation and being blind and gnarled.
But between being blind and gnarled, and isolating until your brain explodes.
“Gaaah!” Janie shouts. That’s one great thing about this little house out in the middle of nowhere. She can shout and nobody calls the police.
She slumps back in the desk chair. Then slowly gets up.
Falls on the bed and just lies there, staring at the wall.
“Now what?” she whispers.
No one answers.
9:39 a.m.
She gets up. Looks around the little shack. Shakes her head.
Sorry.
So very sorry.
And now, looking at a fresh set of equally suck-ass options, a true Morton’s Fork, she realizes that she has a new choice to make.
She sits cross-legged on the bed, pen and paper in hand, and lays it all out. Pros and cons. Benefits and detriments. Suck versus suck.
Miss Stubin’s life, or Henry’s?
Which one does Janie want?
“No regrets,” Miss Stubin had said in the green notebook. But she didn’t know the truth.
“There is no best,” Henry had said in the dream. He didn’t know either.
Janie, alone in the world, is the only one who knows the real choice.
10:11 a.m.
She calls Captain.
“Komisky. Hey, Janie, how you doing?”
“Hi, Captain—okay, I guess. You have time to talk today?”
“One sec.” Janie hears Captain’s fingernails clicking on her computer keyboard. “How’s noon? I’ll grab takeout, we can have lunch in my office. Sound good?”
“Sounds great,” Janie says. She hangs up.
Feels the butterflies in her belly.
And then.
She shakes her head and starts packing.
Packing up the things that she brought over here, smashing them into her suitcase to make it all fit. Hoping to carry it all in one load.
She’s going back home.
If it weren’t for Cabe, she’d probably just risk it. Stay isolated. In case she’s dead wrong about what really happened to Henry.
But she’s pretty sure she’s right.
It’s a gut thing.
So.
There it is.
Janie grabs a handle shopping bag from under Henry’s sink and fills it with all the stuff she couldn’t fit in her suitcase. Shakes her head from time to time.
Still can’t believe it.
Before she leaves, she calls Henry’s landlord to let him know that Henry died. Then, she closes down Henry’s online shop for good, schedules a pickup for the last remaining item, and leaves the snow globe gift outside with a sign so Cathy doesn’t miss it.
She sets her suitcase down. Closes the door behind her, leaving it unlocked, just as she found it.
Takes a deep breath of country air and holds it in, lets it out slowly.
Glances at the certainly potent sun tea, still resting on the station wagon’s hood.
Picks up her suitcase. And sets off.
Crunches down the gravel driveway like a homeless person, carrying all her crap.
Doesn’t look back.
When she gets home, she puts her things away in her room, and from the bag she pulls the shoe box, all the letters untouched. Janie, medal pinned to her backpack and ring on her thumb, carries the box to the kitchen and sets it on the counter next to the lure of Rabinowitz’s fruit and cake.
1l:56 a.m.
Janie greets the guys as she makes her way through the department to Captain’s office. She stops at Rabinowitz’s desk to thank him again for the sweets, but he’s not there. Janie smiles and scribbles a note on a
piece of scratch paper instead.
Then she knocks on Captain’s door.
“Come!”
Janie enters. The smell of Chinese food makes her stomach growl. Captain is setting out paper plates and plastic forks. She opens up the food containers and smiles warmly. “How are you?”
Janie closes the door and sits. “Oh, you know,” she says lightly. “Crazy as usual.” She takes the napkins and peels one off the small pile, setting it next to Captain’s plate.
“Help yourself,” Captain says. They dish out food.
It feels awkward, the silence, just the two of them. Eating. Janie fingers the new ring on her thumb and accidentally dribbles brown sauce from chicken cashew nuts on her white tank top. Tries desperately to clean it with her napkin before it sets.
Captain reaches into her drawer—the drawer that seems to have everything anyone could possibly need—and pulls out an individual packet of Shout Wipes. Tosses it to Janie.
Janie grins and rips it open. “You have absolutely everything in that drawer. Snacks, Steri-Strips, food stain wipes, plasticware . . . what else?”
“Anything and everything a person needs in order to live for several days,” Captain says. “Sewing kit for button emergencies, hair clips, toiletries, screwdriver set, SwissChamp Army Knife and no, you may not borrow it, it’s the super-expensive one. Let’s see, dog whistle, dog treats, police whistle, anti-venom, EpiPen, water bottles . . . and the traditional mess of rubber bands, paper clips, and outdated postage stamps. A few pennies.”
Janie laughs. Relaxes. “That’s amazing.” Takes a bite.
“I was a boy scout.” Captain’s serious face never wavers.
Janie snorts, and then wonders if Captain wasn’t joking. One never knows with her.
“So,” Captain says. “We have a lot of catching up to do.” She adds cream to her coffee. “My brilliant assessment is that your little family emergency last week had something to do with your father dying. True?”
“True,” Janie says.
“Why in hell did you not tell me what was up before?”
Janie looks up sharply. “I—”
“We are family here, Hannagan. I am your family, you are my family, everybody here is a member of this family. You don’t dis your family. You tell me when something big like this is happening, you hear me?”
Janie clears her throat. “I didn’t want to bother you. It’s not like I even knew him. Well, not really. He was unconscious the whole time.”
Captain’s sigh comes out like a warning blast from a steam engine. “Stop that.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank God Strumheller had sense enough to tell me about the funeral, or you would have been toast.”
“Yes, sir.” Janie’s losing her appetite. “I’m sorry.”
“Good. Now, your father. Let’s talk about him. He was a dream catcher too?”
Janie’s jaw drops. “How did you know?”
“You said so in your testimonial. Between the lines. You said he had issues that people wouldn’t understand, but you understood, or some such thing. Normal folk wouldn’t have guessed what you really meant.”
Janie nods. “I didn’t intend to say that—it just came out. But yeah, he was an isolated dream catcher.”
“Ahh, isolated. Like what you’re considering. Well, no wonder we didn’t know about him,” Captain says. “How did you find out?”
“I went into his dreams.”
“Oh?”
“Uh . . . yeah. Found out some interesting stuff.”
“I’ll bet. And how did you know his UPS driver, Ms. Hannagan? Seems a bit odd that you’ve never spoken to your father, but from what she said in her testimonial, you apparently had a previous conversation with this lady in brown.” Captain takes a bite of her lunch. “What’s that on your thumb? Looks like high school bling right out of the eighties. Mm-hmm. Don’t answer that.”
Janie grins. Her face turns red. “Yes, sir.”
“Quite the detective you are, even when you’re not on assignment.”
“I guess.”
“So. Have you made a decision? What we talked about? The isolation thing?”
Janie sets her fork down. “About that,” she says, a concerned look on her face. “I, uh . . . ”
Captain looks Janie in the eye. Says nothing.
“I was going to. I mean, I made a decision.” Janie’s having a terrible time saying it.
Captain’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“And turns out, it’s not going to work out after all.”
Captain leans forward. “Tell me,” she says quietly, but it has an edge to it. “Come on.”
Janie is confused. “What?”
“Say it. For Chrissakes, do it. Share something that goes on in that mysterious brain of yours. You don’t always have to hold everything in. I’m a good listener. Really.”
“What?” Janie says again, still puzzled. “I just—”
Captain nods encouragingly.
“Okay, I just pretty much found out that Martha Stubin had it wrong. My choices are different—either I become like her, or I become like him. My dad. He isolated. And his brain exploded.”
Captain raises an eyebrow. “Exploded. Medical term?”
Janie laughs. “Not really.”
“What else?” Captain’s voice loses the edge.
“Well, so I think I’ll just live at home, then. And, I guess, go to school as planned. I mean, it’s a toss-up—blind and crippled in my twenties, dead from a brain explosion in my late thirties. What would you choose? I guess, because I have Cabe, I’ll choose blind and crippled. If he can deal with it, that is.” Janie remembers his dreams.
“Does he know any of this? Any of it at all?”
“Er . . . no.”
“You know what I always say, right?”
“Talk to him. Yeah, I know.”
“So do it, then!”
“Okay, okay.” Janie grins.
“And once things settle down after your terrible week, and you get to feeling good about school, because you will, we’ll talk about you and your job. Okay?”
“Okay.” Janie sighs. It’s such a relief.
They pack up the remains of the lunch.
“Before you go,” Captain says, rolling her chair over to the filing cabinet and opening the middle drawer, “here’s something—if it’s not helpful to you, just toss it. I won’t be offended.” She pulls an orange photocopied paper from a file, folds it, and hands it to Janie. Stands and walks Janie to the door. “And if you ever want to talk about that, you know where to find me. Family. Don’t forget.”
“Okay.” Janie takes the paper and smiles. “Thanks for lunch. And everything.” She stands and heads for the door.
“You’re welcome. Now stop bothering me.” She smiles and watches Janie go.
“Yesss,” Janie says as she runs up the steps to the street level. One hard conversation over. Goes outside and walks to the bus stop. She opens up the orange paper and squints, reading it.
After a moment, she folds it again slowly, thoughtfully, and puts it in her pocket.
1:43 p.m.
She takes the bus to her neighborhood stop. Nobody dreaming this afternoon.
Walks to Cabel’s.
He’s painting the garage door now.
Janie stands in the grass at the side of the driveway and watches him.
Thinks about all the things that have happened in the past days. The whole journey she’s been on. The lows, and the lowers.
She thought she’d have to say good-bye.
Forever.
And now, she doesn’t.
It should feel so good.
But there’s still the matter of his dreams.
She clears her throat.
Cabel doesn’t turn around. “You’re quiet,” he says. “Wasn’t sure how long you were going to stand there.”
She bites her lip.
Shoves her hands in her pockets.
He turns
. Has paint on his cheek. Eyes soft and crinkly. “What’s up? You okay?”
Janie stands there.
Tries to stop the quivering.
He sees it. Sets down his brush.
Goes to her. “Oh, baby,” he says. Pulls her close. Holds. “What is it?”
Strokes her hair while she sobs in his shirt.
2:15 p.m.
In the grass, under the shade tree in the backyard. They talk.
About his nightmares
And her future
For a very, very long time.
4:29 p.m.
It’s all so complicated.
It always is, with Janie.
It’s impossible for Janie to know what will happen, no matter how hard she tries to figure it out. No matter how much Cabe convinces Janie that he had no idea he was having such disturbing dreams, and admits that maybe he is scared. But also that he really is dealing with things—he really is.
No matter how much they both promise to keep talking when shit like this comes up. Because it always will.
There’s just no happily ever after in Janie’s book.
But they both know there is something. Something good between them.
There is respect.
And there is depth.
Unselfishness.
An understanding between them that surpasses a hell of a lot else.
And there’s that love thing.
So they decide. They decide to decide each day what things will come.
No commitments. No big plans. Just life, each day.
Making progress. Cutting the pressure.
There’s enough damn pressure everywhere else.
And if it works, it works.
She knows one thing, deep down.
Knows it hard. And good.
He’s the only guy she’ll ever tell.
IT IS WHAT IT IS
5:25 p.m. Still the last day.
“Hey, can you drive me somewhere tonight?” Her cheeks are flushed. And she has a goddamned hickey. You do the math.
“Sure. Where?”
“Place out on North Maple.”
Cabel tilts his head curiously but doesn’t ask.
Knows she won’t tell him anyway.
