Jane Anonymous

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

“Where’s Mason?” I asked, noticing others were there too: Mom, Dad, Agent Brody, a nurse, and some other woman. Who was she?

  Agent Thomas nodded to the nurse. Somehow, he knew that was his cue to leave.

  “I can stay,” said the woman, flashing an awkward smile. She wore a name badge I couldn’t read, as well as a navy-blue suit that didn’t quite fit; pants and sleeves too short, a blouse that hung too low.

  “Would you like it if Ms. Davis stayed in the room?” Agent Thomas asked me.

  I shook my head. Who was Ms. Davis? I wanted them all to go. Why were they even there? And why was the light so bright?

  Dad: “I’m going to take a walk.”

  Mom: “I’ll stay.”

  Ms. Davis: “I’ll stop by a little later to check in.”

  Special Agent Thomas took her usual seat by my bed, while Mom sat in the corner, and Agent Brody took notes by the door.

  How many more times?

  Would we have to repeat.

  This same scenario.

  Before they would tell me about Mason?

  “Did you find him?” I asked.

  “We found some other things,” she said.

  “What other things?”

  “Audio equipment. The voices we believe you heard while in captivity were from audio clips of people screaming … from horror movies and Halloween-centric playlists. We’ll have you verify to be sure, but—”

  “Wait, what?”

  “It seems you were the only one in captivity.”

  “Aside from Mason.”

  “As I said before, we couldn’t find evidence that anyone, except for you and the suspect, were in that house.”

  “Have you looked for fingerprints inside the air ducts? I didn’t think so.” Why were they wasting my time?

  “We found something else.” She pulled a photo from her folder: a picture of the emerald bracelet—the one the monster had pretended to buy. Beside the bracelet was a silver box and a purple ribbon.

  “Have you seen this before?” Agent Thomas asked.

  “It’s from Norma’s Closet.”

  “It was in the suspect’s office. We found the bracelet wrapped up on his desk.” She showed me a photo of the tag attached. It had my name written across it, as well as the words Love always, Mason.

  “How did Mason get this bracelet?”

  “The suspect’s name was Martin Gray.”

  Agent Thomas pulled out another photo: a picture of the guy who took me, the one from Norma’s. The photo only showed him from the shoulders up, but still I recognized his dark brown eyes, his wavy hair, and his squarish chin.

  “Do you recognize this man?” she asked.

  “That’s him,” I said.

  “The man who abducted you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Martin Gray was twenty-four years old, had one prior felony, and owned the house where you were being kept. Was that day at Norma’s the first time you ever saw him? Or might you have seen him sometime before that?”

  I shook my head. “I’m not really sure.”

  “Are you saying that you may have seen the suspect prior to the day he took you?”

  “I’m saying that I’ve racked my brain—for the past seven months—trying to remember if I knew him from someplace or saw him somewhere … But I just don’t know.”

  “We’ll have more pictures for you to look at. Maybe one of them will jog your memory.”

  Did I even trust my memory?

  “The house had been passed down to the suspect when his father died years ago,” she continued. “According to a neighbor, the mother left some years before that. We’re still trying to create a timeline and find the mother’s whereabouts. It seems things went downhill shortly after her departure, when the father started drinking.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “The house had been a working farm at one point,” Agent Thomas said. “The owners had supplied eggs and honey to local farm stands and suppliers. They’d also sold produce and baked goods. Does any of this ring a bell?”

  “No,” I lied. They’d gotten things wrong, twisted all around.

  “In the suspect’s office, we found more items: pictures of you, some poetry you’d published in the school’s literary magazine.” She read from a list. “There was also a green scarf, a pair of mittens, a red hair comb … We’d like to see if you can ID some of the items.”

  “A green scarf,” I said, thinking aloud, remembering having lost a cashmere one, the color of spearmint. I had a red comb too, but I was pretty sure it was in my running bag, back home.

  “There’s one last thing before we call this a day.” Agent Thomas took another photo from the folder: a picture of Mason’s hand.

  I recognized the scar on his thumb, his crooked fourth finger, the deep creases of his knuckles, and the honey-colored hair that sprouted from his wrist, where there was also a spray of freckles.

  My eyes welled up. “You did find him.”

  Agent Thomas shook her head. “This is a photo of the suspect’s hand, the owner of the house, the man who shot himself.”

  “No,” I argued, shaking my head.

  She looked back at my mom, which was obviously the cue; Mom came and joined me on the bed.

  “This isn’t right,” I told them. “I’m not giving up. As soon as I’m out of here, I’m going to look for Mason.”

  “For now, you should rest,” Mom said, pressing the nurse’s call switch. Time to drug me up some more.

  THEN

  57

  I spent the next several weeks in the mental health wing of the hospital, where I met a handful of therapists, all of varying age, at varying points in their careers. But still their messages were mostly the same: I’d been through a lot. The mind is an amazing coping device; it compartmentalizes the truth until we’re ready to accept it. It was okay to be angry, as long as my anger was directed at the right person. As soon as I’d direct it elsewhere—at the police, at myself, at my parents, at Shelley—the therapist would start to write.

  The nurse would soon come in.

  I’d be given more meds.

  Another day would get added to my stay.

  One morning, after group, yet another therapist came into my room. She was younger than the others, so I thought I’d give her a try. She wore red Doc Martens, in lieu of old lady nurse clogs, so I wondered if she marched to her own beat. She brought me a bottle of purple nail polish, because she’d clearly done her homework. And so when she asked me about Mason, I told her the truth:

  “I really, really miss him.”

  “What do you miss the most?”

  “The way he made me feel—like everything else could’ve been wrong in my world, and it obviously was, but he made me feel like it wasn’t.”

  “It sounds like you two really had a connection.”

  I grabbed my pillow and hugged it to my middle, relieved it seemed she believed that he existed. Not all of the therapists did.

  “Would you say that you loved him?” She scooted closer in the chair, making a scraping sound against the floor. “I ask because sometimes we feel protective of the ones we love.”

  “Okay, but obviously I didn’t protect him.”

  “Did you love him?” she asked again.

  Love? “I don’t know. I’m not really sure.” Did I? I think I did.

  “Did your relationship ever get physical?”

  “We never actually saw one another. We talked through a wall.”

  “But your file says you touched.”

  “Hands,” I clarified. “We touched and held hands.”

  “Are you sure that’s all it was?” She stared at me—hard—studying my every blink, shudder, and twitch. “I only ask because physical contact tends to imprint itself on the brain, intensifying whatever emotions we’re experiencing at the time. Experts say these imprints are even more pronounced in the female brain, explaining why some girls get particularly attached to a partner after physical intimacy.�
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  “We held hands,” I repeated.

  She continued to study me, her eyes narrowing into slits, as though I were bacteria in a petri dish about to morph into something mutant. “Have you ever been physically intimate?”

  I grabbed another pillow, subconsciously erecting a wall. “Well, I’ve dated before.”

  “And so maybe you can relate.”

  “Relate?”

  “When you’ve engaged in past relationships … with a former boyfriend, for example … did you find that your emotional feelings intensified with physical intimacy?”

  What was she doing?

  How was this relevant?

  “There’s nothing to feel ashamed of,” she insisted. “Did you and Mason ever touch beyond just hand-holding?”

  Didn’t I already answer that question?

  “Okay, let’s put a pin in that question and move on to another,” she said. “Did Mason ever engage in conversations that made you second-guess some of your other relationships?”

  “What other relationships?”

  “Those with your friends, your parents, your teachers, a boyfriend … Because it wouldn’t have been uncommon for someone like him to ask you pointed or loaded questions regarding those you care about. It would’ve been his way of trying to manipulate those relationships—to change the way you feel about them.”

  Someone like him?

  “Think about it,” she continues. “Did he ask any questions that made you reconsider someone’s character?”

  Did he?

  “It would’ve been a way for him to make you feel as though he were the only worthy, reliable person in your life,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, and…”

  I looked toward the door, desperate to leave, wanting some air. Sweat dripped down the back of my neck. “I don’t think he did that.”

  “You don’t think, but you’re not sure? Have you ever heard of something called Stockholm syndrome?”

  I had. We read a book in English class about a soldier who was taken hostage. By the end of the book, when the soldier could’ve escaped, he no longer wanted to because he cared too much about the man who’d held him captive. “That’s not this.”

  “What do you think this is?”

  I turned away, faced the wall, and grabbed a box of tissues.

  “Rome wasn’t built in a day,” she continued, “so we’ll just start brick by brick. Sound good?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said.

  Four, pluck. Five, pluck. There was no way—six, pluck—I was going—seven, pluck—to talk to that woman ever again—eight, pluck.

  When I told my mother she’d been assigned to me, had made me uncomfortable and probed into my dating history, my mother donned her superwoman cape, just like old times, and saved the day by having me released and threatening to sue, saying the woman had tried to violate my privacy.

  Before we left, I changed into the clothes she’d brought for me: purple sweats, plain cotton underwear, and a new pair of Uggs. “Thank you,” I told her on the car ride home.

  Mom filled up yet again. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just tell me whatever you want.”

  I just wanted for her not to feel my pain.

  Before she turned onto our street, she told me to keep myself hidden. “In case reporters are lingering about. I’ll pull right into the garage.”

  I did as she said, curling up on the floor of the car as she cranked the stereo loud.

  We entered the house through the interior garage door. Dad was already home. He wrapped his arms around me. A welcome sign hung on the wall behind him. For just a second, I wondered whom it was for.

  “I hope you’re hungry,” Dad said. “I’m making my famous grown-up mac ’n’ cheese.”

  The house smelled like boiled chicken. I suddenly wanted to throw up. Mom walked me up to my room, as if I were just moving in or had forgotten where it was. A basket of fresh toiletries sat at the foot of the bed. Pajamas and slippers were laid out on my changing bench. And there was an unopened bottle of water on my bedside table. But aside from those additions, Mom had kept the room looking just as it always had, with my tulip-embroidered bedcovers with the matching pillowcases, the Les Mis posters taped over my desk, and the assortment of hairbrushes lined up on my vanity. I picked up one of them, noticing my hair strands still intact.

  The book I’d been reading, All the Pretty Horses, remained on my night table with a bookmark holding my place, as had the journal I’d been using. I flipped it open. The pages were full of poetry bits and unfinished stories. I ran a finger over the last lines I’d written.

  And when my silver lining tore,

  I took your shred of hope and used it as a patch.

  I stitched the seams

  with a hanging thread

  and borrowed faith,

  using the needle

  from my wounds.

  I was no longer the poet who’d written those lines.

  No longer the bookworm who’d read the novels on the shelf.

  No longer the fashionista who’d owned the array of shoes in the closet.

  I looked at the bulletin board full of photos. Images of the old me smiled back: toasting marshmallows on a camping trip two summers before; with friends at a Mardi Gras–themed dinner; and posing with Jack at the junior prom, when I wore a coveted Tory Burch dress that my mom had surprised me with.

  I gazed in the mirror at the person staring back—dark hair, dark eyes, and dark lips from chewing at the skin—and felt as if I were wearing a costume.

  “I was careful not to move anything,” Mom said. “I wanted you to feel right back at home, like you’d never left.”

  “Thanks.” I nodded. Except I had left. I’m still “gone.” And none of these things could ever bring me back.

  “So if you’re okay for a bit, I’m going to help Dad set up dinner.”

  While she went downstairs, I stretched out on my bed—on the pretty spring flowers, only they felt more like dried-out stems poking into my skin. I stared up at the ceiling, just as I had on so many nights too excited to fall asleep. To think I’d spent seventeen years in the spirited bubble that was my life … it took only seven months to pop that bubble. And to break that spirit.

  Into a million tiny pieces.

  Shards of mirrored glass that reflected just what I’d become: a distorted version of the person I used to be.

  THEN

  58

  During those first weeks home, it felt like something inside me had died, like my insides were decomposing as hundreds of hungry mealworms ate away at my rotting heart. I’d sit by the window, waiting for Mason to come. Only others came instead—reporters, photographers, neighbors, friends of my parents, Norma from the shop … Each time a car pulled up to the curb, I’d sit up, hoping it’d be Mason. But when the person exited the car, another bite would get taken from my heart.

  When Mom called me down from my room for meals, I’d push the food around on the plate, my stomach tangled in knots. How could I possibly eat when Mason hadn’t yet been found?

  “Can I make you something else?” Mom would ask, noticing my untouched food.

  My answer was always the same: “I’m not really hungry.”

  “But you’ve lost so much weight.”

  “I’ll take the plate up to my room.”

  And so began the procession of food trays up and down the stairs, which wasn’t as terrible as it sounds, because at least it gave me an excuse for needing a table in my room.

  Sitting behind the window curtain, I’d shrink up into a ball, wishing there were a hole I could stick my hand through. With my forehead pressed against the rug, I counted tissues inside my mind—until the room stopped spinning and I could finally control my breathing.

  I’d close my eyes, picturing the Welcome Home banner, and hear a montage of voices:

  “Are these the screams you heard while in captivity? You’re abs
olutely sure? Okay, well, these screams are from an audio track. The CD is sold commercially at novelty shops around Halloween.”

  “I made a cake to celebrate your return, Jane!”

  “Everyone is super excited to see you, Jane. Will you come back to school?”

  “It isn’t so uncommon for a perpetrator to fake a tattoo, a scar, or some other distinguishable marking.”

  “At least you’re back in time for prom, right? And as an added bonus: You managed to miss midterms.”

  “Yikes! What happened to your hand?”

  “Welcome home, Jane!”

  Welcome.

  Home.

  My first night back home, I tried to sleep in my bed, but it didn’t feel secure enough. Not with the windows. I’d bolted both and drawn down the shades. I also locked my door, even though I knew how easy it was to pick. I’d tried it as a kid—just to see if I could—using a butter knife and a bobby pin. Both worked.

  And so, I lay in bed, watching the knob, anticipating a turn, able to see a sliver of night through the window, along the side—the part the shade didn’t cover.

  I got up and took my pillow and blanket into the closet. I stretched out on the floor, among the shoes and sweaters, leaving a six-inch gap in the sliding door, so I could still peek out.

  Finally, I nodded off. But when I woke up, hours later, Mom was sitting on my bed, watching me sleep, with tears running down her face. At first, I assumed they were tears of joy—that she was so happy to have me home.

  I sat up and slid the door open wider, about to tell her about my sleep—that I’d managed to somehow get at least a couple of hours of rest. But before I could, Mom’s hand flew to her face.

  “What did he do to you!” she cried, shaking her head, unable to look at me: the daughter who could no longer sleep in a bed.

  On Easter Sunday, my relatives came: my three grandparents, two aunts, an uncle, and four cousins. The adults played it safe, talking about the chilly weather, Uncle Pete’s Tokyo trip, and some new cooking show that Grandma Jean would’ve loved. None of them mentioned my time away, which somehow made things more awkward.

  While my male cousins mostly ignored me, opting to play basketball on the street, I remained inside with Jenny, who’d just turned seven. We played gin rummy on the living room sofa while the adults looked on from the dining room table. Mom did lots of soft-talking, while Dad made sure everyone’s wineglass was full with a batch he’d made himself.