See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

  Mom is definitely on her game today. Which is good. That’s what I wanted. But that means I actually have to tell her what’s going on. I have to say it out loud, then hear her response. And Lord knows she’s going to have a lot to say—

  You can do this, Jane.

  You need help working through this.

  You can’t smash cars for the rest of your life.

  I inhale a shaky breath through my nose.

  I am a strong, capable woman.

  I can do anything I set my mind to—

  “Dan’s gay,” I blurt out before I lose my nerve. She rips her gaze away from the TV and fires it directly onto me. “He’s been cheating on me with men for almost our entire marriage. And now he has to bring in a ton of money for the hospital, or they’ll shut down all the specialty departments, but the people who have the money are super conservative and will only give their money to someone who fits the picture-perfect family mold, so I can’t tell anyone. And I don’t know what to do because I’m just living a big lie now. I don’t even know who I am anymore. I feel like I’m dying inside—”

  Dying inside?

  The words sound a little dramatic against my ears, but . . . shit. They’re true! That’s exactly how it feels. Like someone’s laced my veins with acid, and little by little I’m slowly being eaten alive. All the things that make me who I am are disintegrating, one cell at a time.

  “I don’t know what to do!” I go on, emotions starting to strangle my words. I push myself off the love seat and start pacing the floor, Mom’s wide eyes tracking every step while she remains uncharacteristically quiet. “I love my life—I mean, not the cheating-husband part, but the rest of it is good. You’re here in this great facility where the people care about you, and I get to pick Avery up from school every day and go to all her games and be on the PTA. How can I run the risk of losing that?” I throw my hands up, the question hanging in the air for a nanosecond before I continue. “She’s my entire world! Everything I’ve done—every decision I’ve made—was so that she could have the life she has. But ugh!” I blow out a pained grunt, fisting my hands in front of me. “I can’t keep living like this. I’m so mad all the time. I just want to hit things! I want to punch people and scream and just . . . aaaagh!” I shake my fists, teeth clenched in frustration, and anger, and—“I don’t know what to do!” I turn to her, chest heaving beneath my frantic breaths. “Do I get divorced? Do I stay with him? What should I do?”

  She blinks hard, understandably startled.

  Alzheimer’s patients sometimes have a hard time keeping up with conversations—even on good days—and I just dumped a mountain of words on her. That, and I asked her for advice. It’s been a lifetime since I did that . . .

  “Mom,” I say, making my way back to the love seat. “I know I don’t ask for your help very often, but I need you to tell me what to do. I’m going crazy trying to figure it out by myself. I need your help. Please, tell me what to do about Dan.”

  She adopts one of those broken smiles that assures me she’s empathizing with my pain. A smile I’ve never seen her offer before but one I’m beyond grateful for now. She reaches for my hand and, with a thoughtfully tipped head, says, “I’m sorry, dear. Who is Dan?”

  Who is Dan?

  My heart flops to the floor.

  No.

  No!

  Not now.

  Not after what I just told you!

  Not when I need you the most!

  My chin starts to quiver, and through a quickly tensing jaw I say, “My husband, Dan. The doctor. The tall doctor with blond hair and blue eyes . . .”

  “Oh. Right.” She’s nodding like she’s made the connection, but it’s obvious she hasn’t. She doesn’t have a clue who Dan is. And based on past experience, I know that she doesn’t remember who I am or what I’ve just shared with her either. That’s the thing about Alzheimer’s: it doesn’t operate on a set schedule, no matter how crucial the timing.

  A fresh surge of anger swells through my pores, forcing me to stand up and head for the door before I start screaming at her and her fucking unfair disease.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay awhile longer?” she calls out to me, completely oblivious to the last three minutes of her life. “The Love Boat’s on. It’s a good one. Tom Hanks is the guest star. And I’ve got lots of goodies to snack on.”

  She springs off the love seat and hustles into the kitchen, where she pulls a Costco-size bag of Skittles from the cupboard. She offers it to me with an encouraging smile.

  Tears prick my eyes, and I give my head a little shake. “No thanks. I prefer chocolate.”

  CHAPTER 15

  MONDAY

  10:00 am “Meeting” in the city

  1:30 pm Phone call with fundraising team (Listen to Your Heart Gala)

  3:15 pm Avery pick-up

  3:30 pm Avery practice—Mann Field

  5:45 pm Avery piano

  7:00 pm PTA meeting—Multipurpose Room (gluten-free holiday bake sale)

  I stare down at my schedule and scowl. It’s bad enough that it’s another busy day, but I’m also running on very little sleep, which is going to make accomplishing each one of these tasks that much harder. Thanks to yesterday’s disappointing visit with Mom, I tossed and turned all night, racking my brain for someone else to confide in, but I kept coming up frustratingly short.

  Obviously, all the second wives are off the table. Even if their husbands weren’t Dan’s colleagues, not one of them can keep a secret to save her life. Except for Heather, though I’d venture to say those ecstasy tablets won’t buy me her confidence as much as they would a severe tongue-lashing for dipping into her stash. And while Julie seems like the obvious choice, given her nonexistent relationships with anyone in Dan’s circle, she relies way too much on my marriage to be impartial. Besides that, her own disastrous love life assures me she wouldn’t offer very sound advice anyway.

  By three o’clock this morning, the only thing I’d determined was that not only is my entire world crumbling, but I don’t have one person I can ask to help me pick up the pieces.

  I pick up a large coffee (with a double shot!) on my way into the city, along with what I hope is a gum-able breakfast sandwich for my homeless friend at the crosswalk. His funny signs and chipper greetings always bring a smile to my face; I could use one of those today. The pit stop makes me tight on time, so I hightail it through the parking lot and toward the street, my shoulders slumping when I see that the corner near the crosswalk is empty. Darn it.

  My mood continues to spiral down the toilet when I make my way through security and, despite a whole lot of unsubtle searching, don’t see Chavez anywhere in the lobby—not that he said he’d be here; I guess I just assumed, or maybe I hoped . . .

  Get it together, Jane!

  You’re not here for a prom date.

  Get your ass upstairs before you’re late!

  With a righting headshake, I hoof it up the stairs and into the classroom with just a minute to spare. I take my usual seat opposite Iris and next to Burty—or where Burty should be sitting. She’s not here yet.

  “Good morning, ladies. I hope you all had a good break,” Bates barks out as she starts circling the group to review our journal entries.

  Since we didn’t meet the day after Thanksgiving, we had to do two entries in preparation for today’s class. The first one I bullshitted per usual:

  PROMPT: WHAT ARE YOU MOST LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS THANKSGIVING?

  ANSWER:

  Baking! I’ve always loved to bake, especially Thanksgiving pies. And my daughter loves it too. We’ll spend the whole day baking together. We’re like Martha and mini Martha. We should have our own show!

  But the second one I actually answered honestly. Mostly because it was the only good thing that happened to me over the break, but also because I thought it might serve as a little jab to Bates, to get back at her for the way she treats me. At three thirty this morning, it felt like a pretty solid plan, but as I l
ay the notebook out for inspection, I’m not so sure that was the best move.

  She comes to an obvious stop behind me, heavy breaths falling over my shoulder like shrapnel looking for a place to land.

  PROMPT: WHAT WAS THE BEST PART OF YOUR LONG WEEKEND?

  ANSWER:

  Spending Thanksgiving night with Chavez. He swings his bat hard and bakes a damn fine pie.

  I shift against the metal chair, angling my head a bit so my hair falls away from my face to obscure her view—

  “Uppph . . .”

  The sound she makes is somewhere between a whimper and a growl and follows her as she carries on around the circle, her boots slamming against the floor much harder than usual.

  I quickly slap my notebook shut while hanging my head in regret.

  Dumb move, Jane.

  Very dumb.

  “So, I guess Burt Reynolds is a no-show,” Bates grumbles as she finishes her rounds. “Anybody heard from her?”

  I raise my head, not surprised to find Donna, Lina, and Angel shrugging and shaking their heads with disinterest, and Maya’s too busy eating her nubby thumbnail to even hear the question, but it’s the expression on Iris’s face that gives me pause. She looks . . . worried.

  “She’s sick,” Iris answers Bates. “She caught something over the weekend. Thought she’d be well enough to come in today, but apparently she’s still under the weather.”

  Bates sighs while Lina mutters, “I reckon she done ate some bad turkey,” in a rude, Gomer Pyle–sounding southern accent.

  Angel stifles a laugh while Donna rolls her eyes and mumbles, “Bad turkey’s no joke.”

  “Well, she can’t come back without a doctor’s note,” Bates continues, easily buying into Iris’s story. But I’m not. Something’s off here. As a well-versed liar myself, I can feel it. “That’s the rule. You miss class, you have to have a doctor’s excuse or you’re out.”

  “Yeah, she knows,” Iris says. She offers Bates an affirming smile, then slowly shifts her attention to me. Her dark gaze locks onto mine the way it has countless times before, but today it doesn’t offer me even an ounce of peace. It just makes my nerves stand on end.

  My eyes narrow, and I slowly raise my palms, silently questioning what’s got her so upset.

  She gives her head a slow shake while worry lines splinter out from the corners of her eyes. My chest grows painfully tight. I know those lines well. I’ve seen them a thousand times in my own reflection, anytime I’m worried about Avery.

  I glance at Burty’s empty seat, then turn back to Iris. I give her a little nod. I have no idea what I’m committing myself to, but whatever it is—whatever she knows about Burty—I want in.

  “. . . he’s holding her baby hostage. Says he’s got her locked in the bedroom. Didn’t even let her out to feed her breakfast—”

  Iris called Burty the second Bates released us from class, and now she’s relaying to me what Burty’s saying to her as we race across the street and toward the parking lot to my car.

  “He locked her in the bedroom?” I growl over winded breaths. “What the hell is wrong with him!”

  “It’s okay, honey.” Iris is talking to Burty again, her tone so much calmer than mine. “We’re coming to get you. Jane’s going to drive us. We’ll be there in just a few minutes. Just try to stay calm—”

  Heart racing, I unlock the car doors with a smack to the key fob, then climb into the driver’s seat while Iris hops in on the passenger side. She didn’t ask if I wanted to drive, just told me I was going to. Which is fine. I want to help.

  “—your little girl’s going to be okay,” she goes on while I start the engine and peel out of the parking space. Where am I going? I don’t know where I’m going! “She’ll be okay. You just stay as calm as you can so you don’t upset her, okay? We’re on our way, Burty. We’ll be there soon.”

  The second she ends the call, I scream, “Where am I going?”

  “Hang a right at the station, then left on Baltimore. We’ll take that for a couple of miles, then turn right on Quigley.”

  Hands strangling the wheel, I follow her instructions and barrel out of the lot and down the street.

  “Watch your speed. There are cops everywhere around here,” Iris reminds me as I blow by the police station.

  “Right. Sorry.” I ease off the gas a smidge. “I can’t believe he’s doing this.” I cast her a horrified look. “How can he lock a child in the bedroom? That’s abuse!”

  She shakes her head, the same worry in my voice evident on her face. “I don’t know. He’s clearly got some mental health issues.”

  “Should we call the police? Or . . . CPS or someone?” I ask.

  “Let’s just get there and then figure out what to do. He’s unstable. We don’t want to escalate the situation unnecessarily,” she says, not even a waver in her tone. “Once we get a lay of the land, we’ll have a better idea how to proceed.”

  I have zero doubt that Iris is as upset as I am, but you’d never know it by her levelheaded comments and even tone.

  “How are you so calm right now?”

  “I was an army field nurse for six years and then worked in the ER for twelve,” she says, prompting my jaw to sag in disbelief. Iris, charged with petty theft, is a nurse? I mean, it makes sense, given some of the comments she’s made during class, but how on earth does a nurse end up being charged with petty theft? “Believe me, I’ve dealt with way worse drama than a crazy, cheating boyfriend.”

  I gasp. “Is that what happened? He cheated on her?”

  “Yep. Or at least that’s what she thought was going on when we talked about it last week. She said he’d been acting weirder than usual—having more of his ‘emotional spells’ or whatever she calls them—and he was getting harder to be around because he cries all the time. At first, she thought he was just homesick or dealing with his daddy issues or whatever, but then she saw a sexy text from some girl, and she started getting suspicious—”

  “Poor Burty,” I groan, empathizing with her plight.

  Cheaters be damned!

  “I told her she needed to confront him to find out for sure.”

  “Did she?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. Last time I heard from her was yesterday morning. She sent me a text that said . . .” She pulls the message up on her phone and starts reading it to me: “‘He’s too fitful to ask. I’ll do it later tonight. I’ll let you know what he says . . .’”

  Her voice trails off, leaving me wide eyed and wondering.

  “So, did she text you back?”

  She shakes her head. “I texted her a couple times last night but never heard anything. I was hoping maybe they were up late talking, sorting through stuff—you know how that goes.” I nod, even though I don’t know how that goes. Dan and I haven’t stayed up late sorting through anything. Mostly he’s just told me how it’s going to be, and I’ve complied. “I just figured I’d wake up this morning and there’d be something from her, but there wasn’t. And then, when she didn’t show up for class . . . damn.” She blows out a painful-sounding sigh. “I’d have driven over to check on her, but I had to drop my car off at the shop this weekend. I should’ve just taken an Uber or a cab. I knew something wasn’t right. I just knew it.”

  Iris may be field ready on the outside, but her mom guilt isn’t so easily camouflaged. She must have one of her own at home.

  “Hey.” I reach across the center console and grab her arm, and her attention. “You did everything right. You listened to her problems. You gave her good advice. You followed up with her. There wasn’t anything else you could do.”

  “There’s always more you can do.”

  “Well, I think you did a lot. I mean, you guys just met a couple of weeks ago. The fact that you’re this invested in her is pretty incredible. I’ve been friends with people for five years who wouldn’t help me as much as you’ve helped Burty.”

  She offers me a weak smile and then, in a sarcastic tone, says, “You need
some new friends.”

  I force out a little laugh because she’s obviously trying to lighten our mood, but the sentiment isn’t lost on me. She’s right. I probably do need new friends.

  “Okay, you’re going to hang a right up here.” She motions to the four-way stop in front of us.

  I turn down a street that’s lined with old, brown-bricked duplexes, the roots of towering oak trees erupting through the sidewalks in front of them.

  “She’s that one on the left”—she points across me—“with the old Camaro in the driveway.”

  I pull to a stop against the curb across the street from the house in question, heart jackhammering against my sternum. The street is so quiet right now. Other than the elderly woman walking her dog at the end of the block and the plumber unloading some equipment in the driveway over my shoulder, it’s like a suburban ghost town. You’d never know something horrible is taking place behind those walls.

  “So, what’s the plan?” I ask, eyeing the old house with trepidation. “Are we going in Van Damme–style? Kick the door down? Or maybe go through a window?”

  She levels me with a hard look. “We’re going to knock on the door.”

  My cheeks flush over a sheepish grin. Right. Of course we’ll knock. My first hostage situation has my adrenaline kicking a little harder than usual.

  Stride for stride, we make our way across the street and up the front walk toward the house. Fallen leaves crunch beneath our feet, but otherwise everything seems very calm and quiet—

  “Waaaaaaah!”

  A horrific wailing sound suddenly emerges from behind the front door of the duplex’s right side.

  I gasp. “Who was that? Was that the baby?”

  “I don’t think so.” Iris shakes her head, eyes wide with uncertainty. “That didn’t sound like a child—”

  “Noooo! No, please!”

  Another horrific cry, but this one is distinctly male.

  “That’s gotta be him,” Iris says. “Burty says he cries all the time.”

  The wailing continues like the soundtrack to a B horror movie as we scramble up the concrete steps and across the porch to the front door. Iris pounds on it with a heavy fist. “Burty?” she calls out. “Burty, honey. Are you in there?”