Jane Anonymous

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  THEN

  38

  “It’s time, Jane.”

  Time? For what?

  Someone squeezed my hand? “Jane? You’re freezing.”

  It was Mason’s voice.

  My body twitched.

  My eyes fluttered open.

  I lay on the floor, by the hole. Mason cradled my hand in his grip.

  “It’s time,” he said again. “I found a way out.”

  Wait, what?

  “I would’ve come sooner,” he said, “but that guy came into my room with a baseball bat while I was in the shower.”

  “What?” I moaned. It was too much to process.

  “I tried to fight back, but I was totally unprepared.”

  “Mason…” I curled my fingers inside his.

  “The first blow was the worst—right to my ribs. I heard a loud pop, thought I was going to die right there, that he was going to beat me to death. I kept wincing and gasping, huddled on the floor, unable to fight back.”

  Mason went silent for seconds—at least I think he did, but maybe I’d fallen asleep between words.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  My stomach wrenched; if there had been anything left inside, it would’ve erupted once again.

  “Jane?”

  My legs felt wet. Had he asked me another question? Did I have an accident in my pants? He continued to talk—something about the window, but I only caught a piece of it, the part about a broken bar. My heart palpitated, and my teeth began to chatter.

  “Jane? Shit, your hand is like ice.”

  I could feel the tears in my eyes, like hot dripping wax.

  “Can you walk? Do you think you’d be able to sneak through walls? How about if I get you something—some medicine? A pain reliever? I still have some stuff from the time I got sick—antacid stuff I got with my star points.”

  I closed my eyes. The room started to spin.

  “I’ll be back,” he said.

  I’m not quite sure if he said anything else, because my world faded to black, and I drifted off to sleep.

  THEN

  39

  When I woke up again, Mason was there. His fingers clasped mine. I didn’t have the strength to clasp his back. At first, I assumed I’d only nodded off for a few moments and that he hadn’t yet left.

  But then he said, “I’m sorry it took me so long to get back here. I barely slept last night. That guy’s been lingering outside my room. It’s got me completely paranoid.”

  I was paranoid too. What if that guy came into my room? What if Mason didn’t visit me again for days? I also worried about my temperature. How high was it? At what point did the brain start to fry?

  He let go of my hand and slid a plastic container through the hole. Inside were some pale pink disks, the size of half-dollars, and a handful of white pills. “That’s the pain reliever from the migraine I had during my second week here, and some antacids from that stomach bug I got. I took a couple of the pain pills. They didn’t kill the migraine, but they definitely helped. I didn’t touch the antacid because it smelled like mint and I have an allergy. Next time I get abducted and sick, I’ll remember to specify: non-mint antacids. Live and learn, right? Do you have some water?”

  I reached for the bottle and popped a pain pill into my mouth. I drank it down, desperate for relief.

  “I think you’re supposed to let the antacid dissolve in water.”

  “What if I puke up the water?”

  “Silly rabbit. That’s the whole point of an antacid—so you don’t puke. I need you to get better.”

  “And what if I don’t?”

  “Don’t think like that. You will get well, and as soon as that happens, we’re out of here. I’ve found us a way out, but you’ll need your strength for climbing, jumping, scaling…”

  “I’m scared,” I admitted, able to hear the fear in my voice: a deep and scratchy wobble.

  “I’ll stay until I know you’re okay.”

  “I don’t want you to get caught.”

  “I care more about you than I do about getting caught. Hopefully, between the antacids and the pain pills, you’ll get some relief. If not, I’ll demand you get help. I’ll bust down the wall, even if it means sacrificing myself.”

  I tried to break the antacid with my fingers, but I didn’t have the strength. My muscles quivered. My joints ached. I popped the disk into my mouth and crumbled it with my teeth, then spit the pieces into the water and watched them dissolve—like a snowstorm, only pink. I drank the liquid. It smelled like peppermint but tasted like liquefied chalk.

  Mason placed his hand, palm open, through the hole. “I’m going to stay here while you sleep. Just in case.”

  “In case…?”

  “Don’t worry. Just focus on getting well.”

  “No. Tell me.”

  “Nothing. It’s just, like I said, I had the pain med, but I never tried the antacids. I’m sure they’re fine, just like the capsules were fine. But I like to be extra cautious, okay?”

  Not okay. My heart filled with panic.

  “Look, if he’d wanted to drug or poison either one of us, he could’ve done so a hundred times over by now. I mean, think about it—the guy prepares all of our meals.”

  I was too tired to talk. And so, I curled up on the floor, with my hand pressed in his palm, closed my eyes, and waited for the effects.

  THEN

  40

  That night, a tiger-striped spider wove a web shaped like a heart. I fell into the heart like falling down a well—only this well was bursting with pastel-pink snow. At the bottom, I found a stationery store, with aisles upon aisles of paper and pens.

  I started collecting notebooks in my arms, unable to find a carriage. The covers smelled sweet, like peppermint candy. I put them in my mouth because they kept slipping out of my hands. The paper melted against my tongue and tasted like sticky buns—like the kind at Chico’s Bakery.

  I brought the notebooks to bed and snuggled the pages like a blanket. The spiral wires pulled the ends of my hair. Spines pressed against my back. Crumpled pages nestled my neck like a pillow. And, meanwhile, a snow squall of pink loomed above my head, helping me sleep, easing my pain.

  “I love you,” said the spider.

  My heart swelled. “I love-love-love you right back.”

  NOW

  41

  Unable to sleep, I wander down the hallway to peek into my parents’ room. The soft glow of the night table lamp shines over the vacant bed, as well as the spill on the floor: cards and letters, strewn on Mom’s side of the room like a paper carpet. After I went missing, people sent my parents notes of sympathy and encouragement. Mom keeps these notes in a pillowcase and reads them over and over, as though still looking for consolation for the daughter that remains at large.

  I cross the room, seeking consolation too. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I fish a letter from the heap.

  Dear John and Mary,

  I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am about the news of your daughter. I know what you’re going through because my son went missing two years ago.

  He was taken from a restaurant, during a mommy-and-son lunch that was supposed to have been a treat. He went to the restroom and never returned. He was nine years old at the time—maybe too young to be allowed to go off on his own. Not a day goes by that I don’t blame myself for allowing him.

  Some nights, just as I’m nodding off to sleep, my brain reminds my heart that Nathanial’s still missing and I wake up with a viselike tightness in my chest—my body’s way of telling me that I don’t deserve to rest.

  People tell me it wasn’t my fault, but that doesn’t help to fill the hollowness inside me. I won’t ever be whole without my Nathanial.

  For now, I go through the motions of life, often surprised to find that people are still living theirs—that the world didn’t just stop on the day that Nathanial disappeared.

  I don’t say any of this to make you feel worse. I say it so you
know that you’re not alone in your pain. I hope that’s helpful, at least on some level.

  Please know you are in my prayers.

  Liza Stone,

  Small Town, Michigan

  I run my fingers over the words, able to relate (at least, somewhat). But still there’s a part she doesn’t get: If Nathanial ever were to come back, he’d only be back in body. Dead or alive, his spirt is long gone.

  I return the letter to the pile and go downstairs. Mom’s sitting in the living room with her back toward me.

  The TV isn’t on.

  Music doesn’t play.

  The house is completely silent except for the cracking of the chair as she rocks back and forth. A glass of something golden sits on the table beside her. The graphic on her nightgown—the big balloon heart—peeks through the slats of the chair. She’s got the nightgown on backward.

  “You’re still up,” I say, standing just behind her, making my presence known. “Is Dad home?”

  “He’s working.”

  “It’s after eleven.”

  “He’s always working. You should know that by now. It’s his drug of choice.” She swivels to face me. A doll sits in her lap—Pammy, my childhood doll.

  Mom strokes the doll’s hair like the mane of a cat. Pammy’s eyes are as green as ever, despite being closed up in a box. A patch of freckles bridges her nose and cheeks. When I was little, Mom used to say that Pammy looked just like me—that we were like two inseparable sisters.

  “Look familiar?” Mom asks.

  “Why do you have her?”

  “After you went missing, the detective asked your dad and me to gather as much information about you that we could find. Your bedroom had been well-scavenged territory, but no one had looked in the basement, so I made that my mission and went through countless bins and boxes. I found Halloween costumes from when you were little: Wonder Woman, Amelia Earhart … I also found your old cook set with the plastic food, and your collection of Polly Pocket dolls … Pieces of you that I could never let go of, including Pammy here.”

  I picture my mother sitting on the floor in the basement, trying to assemble all of the pieces—to make sense of my disappearance.

  “I’d sit here, with Pammy in my lap, at the end of most nights,” she continues. “And I’d tell myself that you’d be home soon.”

  I move closer, able to recognize Pammy’s smile. There’s just a peek of teeth. A chip of paint is missing from her bottom lip from when she fell out of my bike basket. “Did you really believe I would be?”

  Mom hums instead of answering, snuggling Pammy close—the tune from The Sound of Music. The tags of her nightgown stick out the front, right at her neck, jabbing into her skin.

  “Mom?”

  She nods to the table by the entryway. “You got some mail—something from Jack—maybe an invitation.”

  But she isn’t beaming this time.

  Her face shows no expression.

  It’s as if she has zero expectation, which somehow makes things worse.

  She turns her back to face the wall again, takes a sip from the golden glass, and then continues to rock and hum.

  I grab the envelope, go up to my room, and close the door behind me. With my back pressed firmly against the door panel, I breathe in and out, but it doesn’t help. The air doesn’t seem to be coming quickly enough.

  I crawl beneath the table and wrap myself around a leg. A box of Kleenex sits at my feet. I pluck out all ninety-six tissues and count them four times before remembering Jack’s card. I tear it open.

  Dear Jane,

  It was really good to see you the other day. I’d been wanting to visit since the moment I heard you were back. So many times, I’d drive by your house, tempted to stop by, but I wanted to give you time.

  I remember needing time after Becky died. Once word had spread that she was gone, so many people came around to offer their support, but I couldn’t even tell you who they were now. I was too busy processing what her death meant for me at that time—no more blanket tunnels connecting our rooms. No more food fights at the dinner table. No more listening to her nag me for the last piece of cake. I would never have to compete for the TV clicker again. But I would never get to hear her say my name again either.

  None of this is to say that our experiences are the same. The death of a sibling is completely different from what you’ve been through. But I’m hoping you can still relate, at least a little, because loss is loss, and you lost seven months.

  Another reason I bring up Becky is because after she died, nothing was the same. My parents were physically present, but emotionally they’d been washed out to sea. Meanwhile, everyone wanted to fix me—to take me to parks, to toy stores, or out for ice cream—basically, to help fill the hole. But whole was with Becky, and there was no shiny thing that could ever take her place.

  Anyway, the fact is, I don’t know what you’re going through, and maybe I’m wrong to compare anything. But I’m here if you want to talk. I’m also here if you don’t. We can just get together and breathe. Or you can call me and breathe too. I promise not to hang up. Feel free to send me breathing texts while you’re at it.

  Lastly, if you’ve made it this far (without pitching this letter in the garbage), I want you to have my number (in case you don’t have it stored somewhere). I hope to breathe with you soon.

  Love,

  Jack

  His number is scribbled at the bottom. I store it in my phone and open a text box.

  Me: Hey, it’s Jane.

  Me: I got your letter.

  Jack: Glad to hear.

  Me: Thank u.

  Jack: No problem.

  Me: Some of the things u said …

  Jack: What?

  Me: I don’t know.

  Me: Maybe we can breathe together sometime.

  Jack: Anytime. U name it.

  Me: OK, so you have my # now.

  Jack: Yes. Saving.

  Me: Good night.

  Jack: Night, Jane.

  NOW

  42

  The following morning, I head out for a run. But instead of speeding by the animal shelter, I stop and go inside.

  “It’s so great to see you,” Angie exclaims.

  I clench my teeth, waiting for her to ask me about my seven months away, but instead she hands me a bag of catnip and tells me to come see the renovated cat lounge.

  I follow behind her, thinking how the word renovated applies to pretty much everything since I’ve been back. My favorite movie theater burned down five months ago. Two new restaurants opened up in Maybelle Square. Jay and Lexie are back together on Proctorville, my favorite show. And Ms. Lacey, my fifth-grade teacher, the woman who taught me all about free verse and sonnets, passed away while I was gone. I never got to say goodbye. Even Angie’s hair: it’s gotten so long, way past her shoulders. I remember the day she cut it short, right over the trash barrel by her desk, using everyday scissors and the mirror app on her phone.

  “Well?” Angie asks, standing in the doorway of the cat lounge.

  I peek inside. A network of climbing shelves, made to look like branches, forms a maze all over the walls. Patches of cheetah-print pop from the floor and cat beds.

  “It looks great,” I say, spotting Lemon, the resident shelter cat, perched high up on a shelf against a nest of painted leaves.

  Lemon lifts her head when she sees me and climbs down three levels of branches, stopping just inches from my feet. I pick her up. She’s bigger than I remember; her back paws dangle past my hips. But her purrs are the same—deep and palpable; I can feel them against my chest. Lemon rests her head on my shoulder, just like old times, as if I’ve never been away. Somehow, I’m still the same old Jane to her.

  “Come on,” Angie says. “There’s someone special I want you to meet.”

  I reluctantly put Lemon down and follow Angie into the dog wing. She leads me to the cage at the very end. Inside is a medium-sized dog with patches of brown, white, and black. Its snout
is pointed like a Doberman’s, but it has the blue eyes of a collie, the fluffy tail of a Siberian husky, and the wrinkles of a shar-pei.

  “What did I tell you?” Angie asks as though reading my mind. “She’s a total mutt. But I have a feeling you two will be close.”

  As if on cue, the dog starts to bark: thick, hungry yaps.

  “What’s its name?” I ask.

  “Her name,” Angie corrects me. “And I thought I’d leave that up to you, Dog Whisperer.”

  “What if I’m not ready to come back?”

  “Better get ready, then, because this dog needs you, and I know you wouldn’t want to let her down.”

  I know what Angie’s doing. It’s so obnoxiously transparent—as if taming this dog will somehow give me a sense of purpose, a reason not to fade into the four gray walls of my room.

  I squat down to meet the mutt’s eyes. Its tail sticks straight out, and it continues to bark, as though it wants to rip me to shreds. But little does it know, I’m already in tiny bits.

  “She arrived approximately twenty pounds underweight,” Angie says. “With a burned hind leg and an infection in her eye.”

  I can see the burn. The hair above the knee has been shaved away. “Where did she come from?”

  “Not the happiest of situations, but nothing we have to get into right now.”

  Translation: The dog has been abused. We’ve seen it countless times before: animals coming from the Land of Deplorable Situations, left outside in frigid temps, tied up in basement cellars, and caged without food or water. The one difference now: I’m from the Land of Deplorable Situations too.

  I move a little closer to show it that I can. The barking intensifies like rapid gunfire, but it doesn’t bother me one bit, because part of me wants to bark too.

  “So what do you say?” Angie asks. “Think we can work out a schedule?”