Jane Anonymous

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

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  About the Author

  Copyright Page

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  For those brave enough to share their honest truth and the attentive listeners who really, truly hear it.

  NOW

  PROLOGUE

  Dear Reader(s),

  Before ten months ago, I didn’t know that the coil spring from a mattress could be used as a makeshift weapon, or that the rod inside a toilet tank worked just as well as the claw of a hammer.

  Before ten months ago, I never imagined that the sense of smell could be so keen—that the scent of my breath, like rotten fruit, could wake me out of a sound sleep, or that cooked rice carries a distinct aroma, like popcorn kernels heating.

  Before.

  Ten months.

  Ago.

  I’d never considered the power of light—that when one is deprived of it, illogical thoughts can gnaw like rats at the brain, keeping one up, driving one mad.

  Nor had I any reason to predict how intimately I’d come to know myself: the oily stench of my own hair, the salty taste of my own blood, and the touch of my unbathed body (the scaly layer of scabbing that would form all over my skin, and the fire-ant sensation that would crawl up and down my limbs).

  For the purpose of this memoir, you can call me Jane Anonymous. For the purpose of my sanity, I’ve chosen to do this in secret. Accordingly, all of the names in here, for both people and places, are fake. I want to tell my full story, and I can’t possibly do that if I’m paranoid about being identified. And while I’m on the topic of story, until now, I’ve never attempted to write my own. People have asked. Film agents and publishers have tried to lure me with six-figure deals in exchange for a full account of what happened during my seven months away. I’ve told them all to go to hell. I need to do this my way, on my terms.

  Maybe that makes me sound like a bitch.

  But ask me if I care.

  A year ago, at this time, I’d have sung an entirely different tune. Back then, I worried what people thought and trusted in the goodwill of others.

  But now I’m a girl who sleeps in her closet with a knife tucked beneath her pillow, trusting no one but herself.

  Everyone says that I should try therapy. But therapists have their own agendas, the least of which is to help me heal. They want to get inside my head, make me their prize-winning case study, sell the inside scoop to some gossip rag—to buy braces and prep schools for their kids. Did I mention that I’m paranoid too? (Yes, I think I did.) Anyway, I’m no one’s paycheck. I’ll get it all out here instead. And then, one day, who knows. Maybe my words will somehow help save some poor soul from making the same mistakes I did.

  Yours truly,

  Jane Anonymous

  THEN

  1

  It was raining that morning, ten months ago. I remember because I’d gotten up early, hoping to go for a run. But it was already 8:15, and I was still waiting for the weather to clear. The streets were covered in puddles, and I’d recently gotten new running shoes—purple Nikes with lime-green swooshes and thick pink treads. Funny to think about them now, that I’d been so concerned about protecting my shoes, I’d let nearly a year of my life slip away.

  Already dressed in my running gear, I turned from the window, knowing the clouds weren’t going to suddenly part. The sun wasn’t going to magically appear. The oil-stained puddles, with their spirals of blue and green, wouldn’t be evaporating anytime soon.

  I’d wanted to be on the road by eight o’nothing. There was a cute runner boy I’d been hoping to see. We had this thing where we nodded to one another each time we passed, usually by the water fountain and always around 8:30. What were the odds that he’d be running in the rain? Should I just suck it up and wear old shoes?

  I went to go grab a pair when my phone quacked with a text. From Shelley: Surprise! I’m home from Camping Hell a day early. Long story short: I rly need 2cu. Can we meet @9? Eggs & Stuff? Let’s salvage my bday disaster.

  My gut reaction? Excitement. I hadn’t seen Shelley, my best friend, in over a week. But not two seconds later, my brain took over and I remembered: I’d left her birthday present at work.

  Can we meet a little L8R? I texted back. I’m going for a run.

  Pleeeeeease, she typed, adding a bunch of frowny-face emoticons.

  I didn’t want to let her down. Her summer had sucked harder than leeches, and having to spend her seventeenth birthday on a camping trip with her show-tune-singing fam, with no cell phone reception whatsoever, was sure to have been no exception.

  Ru there? she continued to type.

  I looked at the clock. If I left now, I could open the store, grab the gift, and still have ample time to make it to Eggs & Stuff by 9:00. Cu then, I typed back.

  Mom was already up, sitting at the kitchen table in her snowflake-printed bathrobe (even though it was summer). “Hey there.” She peeked up from her magazine—Knit Wit. The cover featured a dazed-looking chicken knitting a scarf that reminded me of candy corn. “Going for a run?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Great, we can chat over coffee.”

  “Sorry, no time. You’ll have to chat with Dad.”

  “Except Dad’s still in bed—that sleepyhead.” She grimaced. “Seems our days of Sunday brunch are a thing of the past.”

  “Time to wake him up?”

  “I already tried. But he worked late last night … didn’t get in until well past midnight.”

  “I’d stay,” I told her. “But I promised Shelley I’d meet her for breakfast.”

  “She’s home already?”

  “Yes, so I need to get her birthday present—stat.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. I have plenty of gifts.”

  I didn’t want to argue, but when it came to gift-giving, my mother and I were from two entirely different planets. While she resided on Planet I-got-this-on-sale-but-have-no-real-use- for-it-and-so-it-goes-into-an-already-overflowing-bin- of-tacky-random-stuff, I lived on Planet My-friends-are-my-family-and-so-each-gift-has-been-carefully-hand-selected.

  Still, Mom popped up from the table and bounded across the kitchen, en route to the linen closet, where she stored her trove of “treasures.” The idea of turning over some of the stuff in her stash was evidently far more enlivening than the dark-roasted coffee beans my dad had imported from New Guinea.

  She came back a few moments later with a bin full of her finds and pulled out a baseball cap with melon-patterned fabric. “This would look adorable on Shelley, with her heart-shaped face.”

  What melons had to do with hearts, I had absolutely no idea. Mom could sense my inner snub and dove back into the bin, producing a snowball-maker (!), faux-fur glovelettes, and a turquoise watch that screamed old lady.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom asked, reading the repulsion on my face.

  I bit my tongue in lieu of commenting. “I already bought a gift. I just left it at Norma’s. Can I borrow the car to go pick it up?”

  Mom gazed out the window, and t
he corners of her mouth turned downward. She has this weird hang-up about letting me drive in rain or snow (not to mention fog, slush, sleet, hail, and darkness).

  “You could bring me yourself,” I suggested, fairly confident she wouldn’t take the bait. “As long as you’re okay with waiting while I wrap the gift, and then driving me to Eggs & Stuff right after. I can text you to pick me up, unless of course you’d be willing to drive Shelley and me to the mall or a movie aft—”

  “Take the car,” she said, cutting me off. “Just drive carefully.”

  “Thanks,” I perked, snagging the keys from the hook.

  When I finally made it home, nearly seven months to the day later, my pretty purple running shoes—with the lime-green swooshes and the thick pink treads—were still fully intact, sitting in the hallway closet, spared from the wretched rain puddles.

  While I, on the other hand, was far beyond repair.

  Nearly broken.

  In every.

  Way.

  NOW

  2

  When I wake up this morning, I find my mother staring back at me.

  On the floor.

  Lying by my side.

  In the middle of the hallway, right outside her and Dad’s room.

  She reaches out to touch the scars on my hand—dark pink lines extending from my knuckles to my wrists like broken spiderwebs. Her blue eyes are illuminated by the soft glow of my flashlight. She starts to hum—one of the songs from The Sound of Music—just like she used to when I was little, when I’d crawl into bed between her and Dad after having a bad dream.

  A puffy comforter covers me. She obviously did that. I only brought my pillow and the cold sheet from my bed.

  How long has she been here, watching me sleep? I want to ask her, want to give some explanation as to how I got here too. My closet just didn’t feel secure enough last night.

  Once she pauses from singing, I open my mouth to explain, but I can’t find the words.

  “Sleep now,” she whispers, tucking her arm beneath her head. No pillow or blanket for her, just skin, bones, and the thin layer of her cotton nightgown against the cold, hard wood. “Tomorrow is a new day.”

  Except I don’t want to think about tomorrow. I want to stay in the space between days—the space where I don’t have to worry about letting people down or saying the wrong thing.

  The space with no expectations.

  THEN

  3

  The streets were quiet that morning, ten months ago. Maybe because of the rain—all of those ankle-deep puddles that’d delayed me from running. The clouds kept the sky dark; I remember because the streetlamps shone brightly, painting long white stripes across the rain-soaked pavement.

  I pulled into the back driveway of Norma’s Closet, the clothing boutique where I worked. Norma, the owner, had given me my own set of keys two months before, having deemed me trustworthy enough to open and close the store on my own.

  I entered in the rear door, able to smell the honeycomb candles she’d been trying to push—a surprisingly musty scent. Norma is really sweet, but she has all of these lame ideas for impulse buys at the register, the candles included, and so we’d been left with six bulky crates that took up valuable floor space.

  I closed the door behind me and flicked on some lights. I’d been keeping Shelley’s gift on a shelf behind the register for at least three weeks, telling myself to bring it home. Why I never had—despite the fact that it’d already been paid for—can only be chalked up to pure procrastination. Now it’s extra ammo I use against myself.

  I opened the box. Inside was a sterling silver bracelet with amethyst crystals and a dangling star charm. Amethysts were Shelley’s favorite, not only for the purple color but also for their supposed ability to repel negative energy. Shelley was also into stars—gazing at them, wishing on them … Whenever we’d come home from a late night out, she’d look up at the sky and comment on the celestial patterns.

  Her card had a star too—on the front, metallic pink against a sparkling black background that reminded me of the night sky. I’d already written my message inside:

  Dear Shelley,

  I’ll never forget that day, thirteen years ago, when you and your mom knocked on our front door, as the new neighbors in the ’hood, looking to make friends. You asked me if I wanted to play, showed me your collection of slime balls, and my life was forever changed.

  I know I’ve said it before, but I love you like a sister. I’ll be wishing on the brightest star in the sky tonight, hoping that we’ll always be this close. Happy birthday, my forever friend.

  Much love,

  Jane

  I wrapped the box in purple tissue paper, slipped it into a bag, and tied the handles closed with curly ribbon just as a knock sounded at the door. Some guy was peeking through the glass. I pegged him to be about twenty or twenty-one, not too much older than I was.

  He waved when he caught my eye. A smile burst across his lips, like we’d known each other for years. Had we? Did he recognize me from the pet shelter where I volunteered? Or maybe he’d seen me running around town?

  I moved from around the counter and pointed at the sign. “We’re closed,” I told him.

  He clasped his hands, as if to pray, and mouthed please, please, please. “It’s my one-year anniversary with my girlfriend.” His words were muffled behind the glass. “I’m picking her up in an hour, and I don’t have a present. Please … I’m such an idiot.”

  He was handsome, admittedly, which definitely helped: tall, with deep brown eyes, plus a bit of facial scruff, like he’d just crawled out of bed. His faded green tee clung to his chest from the onslaught of rain soaking through to his skin. Droplets pelted against his face and drizzled down his neck.

  The rain made him look defenseless somehow.

  “If I screw up again, I’m done for.” He drove an invisible stake through his heart and rolled his eyes upward, feigning death.

  It was only then I noticed: His arms were covered in tattoos—tree limbs that grew from his wrists, tangling with the hair on his forearms and branching around his muscles.

  It wasn’t long before he dropped to his knees and stretched his clasped hands upward, pleading for me to open the door.

  I couldn’t help but laugh, couldn’t help but feel a pang of jealousy too, because he was here for someone other than me.

  I pulled the key ring from my pocket and unlocked the door. He smiled wide when he saw what I was doing. I smiled back. He was getting his wish. And just like that, I’d become a superhero.

  He stood up and placed his fingertips on the door, and for three awkward seconds as I twisted the key in the lock, I could feel his close proximity: a flittering in my chest, a prickly heat that spread like fever across my face.

  I peeked at him through the glass, noticing the shape of his lips; the top one was slightly fuller than the bottom. He swallowed hard—I watched the motion in his throat—and then gazed at my mouth.

  And suddenly neither of us was smiling.

  The mood had shifted.

  Nothing was funny.

  I opened the door and took a step back.

  “Thank you,” he said, closing the door behind him. “You’re really saving me here.” His voice had a rusty tone, as though he hadn’t slept in days. He smelled like the rain, a musky, earthy scent, like something we could’ve bottled up and sold at the counter to impulsive shoppers. His brown eyes locked on mine for probably longer than they should have.

  For someone with a girlfriend.

  Celebrating his one-year anniversary.

  I could tell he could sense it too—the awkwardness of the moment. He bit his bottom lip and then shifted his weight left and right on his feet. “I saw the light on in here and figured I’d take a chance.”

  I was really glad he had—was suddenly grateful for the rain and all of those new-running-shoe-wrecking puddles. “We obviously don’t open until later, but I was here picking up a gift too.”

  He smi
led again—bright white teeth, a dimple in his cheek. “So it was destiny, then.”

  I forced myself to look away, reminding myself about the girlfriend. “Do you need help picking something out?”

  He looked around the store and took a few steps toward the counter. Norma’s Closet prides itself on carrying the most trendsetting clothing in town, as well as a wide array of accessories, from must-have scarves to jewelry, hats, and handbags.

  “What does your girlfriend like?” I asked.

  “Well, she’s pretty sporty,” he said. “But she loves jewelry. I was thinking maybe a bracelet.”

  Funny that he’d pick a bracelet too. I pointed him toward the case and moved behind the counter. “Let me know if there’s anything you’d like to see.”

  “She’s pretty understated,” he said. “Doesn’t like to be too flashy.”

  “How about that one?” I pointed to a bracelet I’d been coveting since its arrival—a string of sterling silver hearts, encrusted with emeralds—but even with my discount, it was still too expensive.

  “Yes.” He nodded. “That looks like something she might like.”

  I took it out of the case and slid it across the counter toward him. He checked the price tag: $180.

  “I know. It’s a bit pricey, but those are real emeralds,” I told him.

  He ran the bracelet across his palm. The lobster clasp rested on his wrist, where the tree was rooted. “Actually, could you try it on? That’ll give me a better idea.”

  I should’ve known then—should’ve guessed that someone so desperate for a gift wouldn’t have been dragging his feet. But instead I did as he asked, slipping the bracelet on, fastening the clasp one-handed.

  It was absolutely stunning, and I could feel it on my face—the burn of pure envy heating up my cheeks. “What do you think?”

  “It’s perfect,” he said, meeting my eyes again. “I’ll take it.”