Reeve changed gears as fast as a race car. “We could talk about it again tomorrow, Janie and I,” he suggested brightly. “It was probably enough shock to skip school all week.”
“I think not,” said Reeve’s father.
Inside the Shieldses’ house, the phone began ringing. “It’s Megan,” said Mrs. Shields. “Or Lizzie or Todd. We called to see if you had run away to one of them.”
Reeve stared at his mother. “Megan’s in California,” he said.
The adults nodded. “So is Hannah, presumably,” said Janie’s father, looking old enough for canes and nursing homes.
“Oh, Daddy!” cried Janie, hurling herself on him, as if she were three years old instead of nearly sixteen. But I’m not nearly sixteen. Jennie Spring on the carton has a different birthday altogether. She’s six months younger than I am. “I’m not going to join some creepy cult. I’m not running away. Daddy, I’m sorry,” Janie linked arms with her elderly father and trembling mother.
Her parents made a sandwich around her. They were both taller, and she was tucked between them like a child. “We don’t know where Hannah is. We don’t even know if she’s alive,” said her mother, weeping afresh. “Cults went out of fashion. I haven’t seen any Hare Krishna in years.
Hannah could be wasting away on some forgotten commune in California or she could be a bag lady in Los Angeles. Who knows?” Her mother rocked Janie back and forth, but she was really rocking herself, or baby Hannah. “You promised last night we wouldn’t have to go through this again,” said her mother. “And twelve hours later it began.”
Her mother’s voice changed to begging. Don’t hurt me, Janie. “Janie, please,” said her mother. Raw, bleeding.
Mr. and Mrs. Shields and Reeve went in to tell Megan, Lizzie, and Todd that the lost had been found.
Janie helped her parents inside. Consoled them. Made promises. She knew that she would never talk about New Jersey to them. They could not endure it.
New Jersey. What a nice, catchall phrase for the mess that had erupted in her life. It rounded up the chaos into a neat rectangle below New York, leaning onto Pennsylvania and waving out over the Atlantic Ocean. “I’m sorry,” she said again. She began crying harder than her mother.
And her mother, being motherly, recovered somewhat. “Don’t cry, honey. It’ll be all right. I love you. Daddy loves you.”
Her father stared at the wall, his jaw clenched to prevent weeping. His eyes were saddest, laden with grief he chose not to shed. And whether he was thinking of Janie next to him, or Hannah gone forever, she did not know.
Think of me, Janie thought. I’m your daughter.
The nightmare came like mud: thick. Oozing filth. The mud hung on to her feet and her brain. It was filled with reaching hands and cackling laughter. Car wheels spun in the mud and fingers pointed. Janie ran but her feet did not move. Trucks tried to run her over, and when she screamed for help, her parents were busy with other things.
She woke up. The bed was drenched with her sweat. What time is it? thought Janie, groping for the clock. If only it could be dawn, so she could go downstairs and start coffee, be done with this horrible night.
But it was two A.M.
She wept briefly. Her mother had said, “We love you. It’ll be all right.” But did love conquer all? Could love conquer the theft of a child?
It will never be all right, she thought.
She did not turn on the lights. The room was entirely dark except for the faint-blue glow from the digital clock. Yet she knew every object in the room; everything around her was normal. She did not feel kidnapped. She felt chosen. Adopted. Needed so desperately by Frank and Miranda that perhaps they didn’t even know what they’d done to acquire a second daughter. Temporary insanity.
But if it came out, thought Janie, it would be permanent insanity. For all of us.
New Jersey must vanish. Jennie Spring must never be.
She resolved to be Janie Johnson with all her heart, mind, and soul.
She fell asleep feeling better but the dreams came again, and this time they were of falling. Bottomless falls. Evil below. Evil above. When she woke up, she was hanging on to the pillow with a grip so tight she had ripped the lace trim off the pillowcase. She went silently into the guest room and retrieved more pillows, which she arranged around herself in bed like walls. Huddled in a white percale fortress, she managed to sleep a couple of hours.
In the morning, breakfast was desperate and silent.
Her mother drove her to school, as if Janie might escape otherwise. “Mom,” said Janie. “I promise. Okay?”
Her mother nodded shakily. “I’m staying home,” she said. “I’ve canceled everything. If you need me—if you feel upset—if you think even for a minute about running off again—Janie, promise you’ll telephone me.” It was cold with the beginning of winter and the car heater had not yet begun to warm the car, but her mother was perspiring. She looked as exhausted as if she had just mowed several acres of lawn with a push mower. She looked old.
“I promise,” said Janie. “But I’m not going anywhere except class. Today’s your hospital day. Go to the hospital.”
“It’s my tutoring day.”
“Then tutor.”
“I don’t want to tutor.”
They giggled. “We sound like two-year-olds slugging it out,” said Janie.
Her mother took Janie’s hand, turning it over, examining it, as if she might never see the hand again and needed to memorize the texture and shape.
“Mom!” said Janie. “I promise.”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Have a good day.” Janie bolted before either of them broke down.
“Earth to Jane Elizabeth Johnson, Earth to Jane Elizabeth Johnson!” trilled Sarah-Charlotte. She was elegant today: long knit skirt, heavy blouse with a wide dramatic belt, and long coppery earrings that reached her narrow shoulders.
Janie felt at least five years younger than Sarah-Charlotte. “I’m right here,” she said. “Stop making a spectacle of yourself.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Sarah-Charlotte frostily. “You are the one acting crazy.”
“What do you mean by that?” Janie tried to occupy herself unfolding a paper napkin for lunch.
“I mean you are out in space today. What’s going on in your life that you aren’t telling me about? I resent this, Janie. I mean it. What aren’t you sharing with me? There is nothing in your life that you are allowed to keep private.” Sarah-Charlotte took Janie’s napkin away. Janie said nothing. In a more irritable, more honest voice, Sarah-Charlotte added, “Your mother and father telephoned four times yesterday looking for you. Now where were you? What was going on? I can’t stand it that you didn’t tell me.”
“She’s in love,” guessed Katrina.
Automatically Janie’s eyes flew across the cafeteria to locate Reeve.
Every other kid peered or stood to see where she was looking.
“It’s Reeve!” said Jason. “I knew it. The old boy-next-door trick.”
Reeve waved at her.
“You toad,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “You’ve been doing stuff with Reeve and you didn’t call me up and tell me. Our friendship is over, Janie.”
A strange, flighty mood was keeping Janie aloft. “That’s okay,” teased Janie. “I have a replacement over there in the senior section.” She felt truly strung out, as if she were a rubber band being stretched, vibrating with pressure.
“Blow him a kiss, Janie,” said Adair. “Let’s get this romance on the road.”
Janie blew Reeve a kiss.
Reeve blew one back.
“Okay, I’m begging,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “We’re still best friends. Now I want details. All of them.”
Jason, Pete, Katrina, Adair, and Sarah-Charlotte swiveled their heads in unison and leaned forward into Janie’s face. “You may have my overcooked mushy canned peas if you tell,” offered Jason.
“You can have the bottom half of my biscuit, too,” sai
d Adair. “It’s hardly burned at all. It’s supposed to be black like that.”
Taking her thick auburn hair with both hands, Janie stacked it in a huge mop on top of her head. She waved her hair at them and said pertly, “No,” and they all giggled. Sarah-Charlotte discussed her belt instead and where she had found it and how many shops she had been to before finding the perfect one, and what the earrings had cost.
After lunch a sick heaviness settled where the silliness had been. Janie’s head began pounding. When she tried to swallow, nothing happened. Her throat thickened and went dry.
Fifth-period history the teacher passed out a list of permitted choices for the winter term project. Sarah-Charlotte said in a high-pitched, British Masterpiece Theater voice, “Shall I look into changing world opinion on the dropping of atom bombs on Japan, my dears, or shall I examine the personalities of Soviet leaders from Stalin to Gorbachev? I feel slightly faint from the excitement of it all.”
The teacher ignored Sarah-Charlotte and sent them all to the library. “You’re to do preliminary research. Read articles on subjects that interest you so that you may make an informed decision about a topic you will be investigating for many weeks.”
The class charged to the library. “From the pace we’re setting,” observed Sarah-Charlotte, “you would think we actually wanted to do this.”
The librarian, Mr. Yampolski, was everyone’s best buddy. He never gave detention to boys who stood on the library tables using newspapers for wings while they played Superman. He never yelled at people who had forgotten how to use the card catalog. He never suggested you should peruse The Wall Street Journal when what you wanted to do was look at the movie stars in Teen magazine. “Hey, Janie, babe,” he said. “How’s Mom?”
“She’s great. Probably can’t wait till next summer so she can help you with inventory again.” How plausible I sound, thought Janie. Perhaps I will get used to lying, and it will turn real, the way my parents’ lies have turned real for them.
“Listen, inventory’s the light of my life since your mother started doing it with me. So what’s the term paper, kid? Lay it on me. Let’s get your reference books out here.”
Mr. Yampolski was always twice as excited about your project as you were; if you were fascinated by cowboys, he’d be sure to locate a book about cowboys in Argentina or a National Geographic article about cowboys in the Ukraine, and then he’d want to sit with you and exclaim over the pictures. There was nothing Mr. Yampolski enjoyed more than sharing knowledge.
“We’re here to look at the prom issue of Seventeen,” said Sarah-Charlotte.
Even Mr. Yampolski might have argued with that, but too many classes were pouring into the library for him to fight her.
“Why the prom issue?” said Janie. “It’s only November.”
“You’re bound to be going to the senior prom with Reeve,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “He hasn’t asked me.”
“Of course he hasn’t asked you. Boys never think farther ahead than the next meal. But you have to plan, Janie. Especially with your red hair.
You can’t wear just any color. Now what do you think of this white gown?”
“Too wedding-y,” said Adair, turning the page immediately.
“I hate sharing anything,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “Especially magazines. When you hold it, I can’t see, Adair. Let’s get all the prom issues going back as many years as the library has. Then I won’t be subjected to all this sharing. Mr. Yampolski!” she yelled.
“Sarah-Charlotte!” he yelled back.
“Do we have back issues of Seventeen?” she yelled.
“Why doesn’t anybody ever want my back issues of The New York Times?” he yelled.
“Because nobody cares about garbage strikes in New Jersey!” yelled Sarah-Charlotte, triumphant.
Seventeen lay open to a particularly repulsive dress, with layers of tacky lime-green ruffles and ribbon trim. The words “New Jersey” paralyzed Janie momentarily. She felt that the whole room had turned around and was pointing at her, silent mouths shouting, “You, you, you!” the way they would for fouls at basketball games. “The New York Times covers New Jersey?” Janie said. Her heart was pounding so hard she could actually see the vibrations of her blouse. “I thought it was for New York City.”
“You’re so ignorant, Janie,” observed Adair. “And no, you cannot appear in public in a neon-green dress. Turn the page.”
“The New York Times covers the world, my dear,” said Mr. Yampolski. “With special emphasis on news events of the greater metropolitan area of New York.”
A thin, wispy shudder ran through Janie, like a little snake tunneling. Kidnappings are news events, she thought. “How many years do we have?”
“Twenty. Microfilmed. Want some? I’m offering an especially good price today.”
“We’d rather have a good price on a prom dress,” said Sarah-Charlotte.
Soviet leaders were bound to have been doing something twelve years ago. Janie walked up to her history teacher and asked to do Stalin through Gorbachev. He was truly thrilled, as if this request meant that teaching was worthwhile after all. Janie felt guilty. She would have to do an extra-good job on the term paper now or he would suspect something. But there was no way she would look up New Jersey here at school, where Mr. Yampolski would read over her shoulder, soaking up knowledge along with her.
When the final bell rang, she left the building immediately, climbing on a different bus from the one that went to her street. People spoke to Janie, demanding to know why she was trespassing on their bus, but she did not hear them. She got off at the town library and went inside.
The librarian there showed her how to use the many-volumed index to the Times. Showed her how to find the spool of film in its little file drawer, how to thread it in the viewing machine, how to print out the page if she wanted a copy instead of taking notes.
“Thank you,” said Janie, waiting for the librarian to leave her alone. She had read somewhere that when doctors told their patients they had cancer and were dying, the patients invariably ended the conversation by saying “thank you.” She felt the cancer of madness inside her brain, the demon of her daymares: its little fingernails scraping.
She turned to the index for twelve years ago. Looking over her shoulder to be sure nobody was watching her, she looked up “Spring, Jennie.” It was listed. It was real. It had more than one entry. Day after day they had followed the case of the stolen three-year-old.
She walked toward the microfilm drawers as if she were buying dirty magazines. Opening the shallow drawer, she read labels on white boxes until she found the right date, then took her spool of film.
Over by the window a potted tree had grown huge and lofty. Nobody had expected it to flourish in the dry library, but now nobody wanted to cut it back. Leaves hung into the science fiction books and one branch curled over the microfilm viewer. Janie ducked beneath the bright green leaves and sat on the metal stool. She wound the film on the machine, turned on the lights, and watched The New York Times appear on the screen. She had thought they would save only the important articles, like what the president was doing, but no: everything was there, from classified ads to fashion photos. She spun the knob, leaping past one day, and into another. It was difficult to focus, confusing to operate.
What if Sarah-Charlotte or Adair comes up behind me and wants to know what I’m doing? she thought.
She was out of breath. Her brain had ballooned into a misshapen thing filled with demons, while her lungs had contracted, like flat tires, and she was suffocating in the library stacks.
And then, quite suddenly, her own picture stared back at her. The same one that had been on the milk carton. No ransom has been asked for little Jennie Spring, read the caption. Hope that the three-year-old wandered away and would be found has diminished as National Guard units give up the search.
She read about the shopping mall, the lack of clues, the search. She read quotes from neighbors and police. At the bottom of th
e column, in a different typeface, it said. “Continued on Page 34.”
Janie scrolled around to page 34. A three-column photograph appeared on the screen. It was a family portrait: parents, grandparents, and children lined up, babies on laps, smiles on faces.
She closed her eyes. It’s them. If I look at them, they’ll exist. If I read page 34, I’ll know their names. They musn’t become real. Mother and Daddy are real. I don’t want New Jersey to be real.
She kept her eyes closed and fumbled for the light switch. When she had turned off the machine and the page had vanished, she rolled the film back up and put it in its box. She had to hold on to the edge of the table to find sufficient strength to stand up.
Reeve was beside her.
She stared at him, still struggling for breath.
“I followed you,” he said. “In my Jeep. I wanted to give you a ride home. I wanted you to ride with me every day. Always. And you got on the bus.”
Janie was so aware of his maleness. They had shared nothing except a kiss in the leaves and another on the sidewalk. “Are you in trouble with your parents?”
Reeve rolled his eyes. “My father wanted to know where I got the money for the trip. See, they think the first step in preventing drug abuse is preventing access to money and they knew I didn’t have much. So like a jerk I said I charged it all to American Express and my father took the motel receipt out of my wallet.”
“Oh, yikes,” said Janie. “You don’t think they’ll tell my parents, do you?”
“They promised not to. They said your mother and father have enough to worry about already.”
“Did you tell them we didn’t actually do anything?”
“Yes.”
“Did they believe you?”
“What do you think?” said Reeve. “Would you believe your seventeen-year-old son if he—”
A body came between them: thick, middle-aged, female. The librarian here was not as understanding about flirtation in the stacks as Mr. Yampolski. In a dry, sarcastic voice she said, “Are we doing a term paper? And if so, may I inquire as to the subject?”
The Face on the Milk Carton Page 10
