See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

  Regret swells in my chest, forcing me to clear my throat before I can answer.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you—”

  “Well, you did. It was obvious you were upset. I didn’t like you driving in that frame of mind. And then when you didn’t call me back . . . you just sent that short text . . .” His voice trails off beneath a pained expression that instantly magnifies my guilt. “Is everything okay at home?”

  Things are far from okay at home, but I still say, “Yes, everything’s fine,” because I know that right now he’s asking that question as a concerned cop, not as the guy I almost had sex with.

  “So, what happened?” he presses. “Did I come on too strong? Did I make you feel uncomfortable—”

  “Oh god, no!” I quickly grab his forearm, hoping to stifle his unwarranted concerns. “It wasn’t you at all. I was the one who started everything.” His gaze travels down to my hand, and despite how good his skin feels beneath mine, I pull it away, dropping my head in the process. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” I finish quietly.

  “Then what was it? What happened?”

  Just tell him the truth, Jane.

  Just be honest.

  I heave a deep breath and slowly raise my head to look at him. The explanation I spent hours rehearsing flits through my thoughts but doesn’t land anywhere. It can’t. The confusion in his eyes makes it impossible.

  “I—um. I wasn’t myself the other night,” I bumble weakly. “I . . . I shouldn’t have done that with you.”

  He stares at me for a long beat before a big knot slides down his throat. “Why not?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Because you’re still married?”

  I shake my head, pained by the answer I know I need to give but don’t want to.

  “Then what is it?” he asks again.

  My stomach churns with regret, forcing me to shift my stance as I scour my brain for Iris’s sage words. “My life is, um—it’s . . . shit—I’m shit. I’m a shit show,” I sputter. “And even though I like being with you and spending time with you, I’m not sure that”—I swallow hard, fisting my nervous knuckle at my side—“I just . . . I don’t know if what I’m feeling for you is—”

  From over his shoulder, I see Officer Bates suddenly emerge from behind the information desk. Our eyes lock for a split second before she turns away from me and heads up the stairs, a scowl working her jaw.

  Dammit.

  Now she’s going to be primed to give me more hell than usual. Especially if I’m late—

  “If what you’re feeling for me is what?” he prods.

  I turn back to him, desperately wishing the words I’m about to say will make sense to him but fully aware that they won’t—because they hardly make sense to me. “I’m just . . . I’m not sure if what I’m feeling for you is real, or if I’m just using you because you’re something different—”

  “Oh.” His shoulders sag, and he drops his head.

  “That’s not to say I don’t like being with you,” I quickly add. “I do. It’s just . . . god.” I scrub an anguished hand through my hair. Think, Jane. THINK! “I hardly know which way is up right now. I don’t trust myself with anything, and I don’t want to get involved with you if I’m not sure—”

  “Nah, I get it.” He cuts me off with a raised palm.

  “What?” I reel back, startled by the insistence in his voice. “No. There’s more to it. There’s a lot more about my life you don’t know. My husband is a very important doctor. All kinds of people are relying on him—”

  “I don’t need to know,” he says, now raising his other palm so his hands are splayed out in a very definitive stop gesture in front of him. A stark contradiction to the position his hands took with me on Saturday. “I know how divorce works. And I know how important doctors are. One saved my life, remember?”

  “Yes, of course I remember. But there’s so much more to it for me,” I counter, pained by the resolve in his voice. He’s writing me off without knowing all the facts. I at least want him to know why I’m in such a tough position. “In a few months, I’ll be able to file for divorce and I think—well . . . I mean, I hope that by then I’ll have a better idea of where I am—how I feel about you—”

  “Jane, it’s fine.” He locks his cold gaze onto mine. “I understand that you need time to work through your stuff, and I seriously hope that you can because what your husband is doing to you is pretty messed up, but I’m not going to wait around while you figure things out.”

  Now my shoulders sag.

  That’s not what I was suggesting.

  Was it?

  “But—”

  “No, it’s all good,” he repeats, sounding anything but good. “I wish you all the best. I really do. But I learned a long time ago—when I almost died—that our time here is too short to wait around for anything or anybody. If something feels right to me, I go for it. If I want to try something new, I do it. I trust myself enough to make those kinds of decisions, but if you don’t, then . . .” He shrugs. “Well, then there’s nothing more to say. You better get upstairs, or you’ll be late for class.”

  He storms off, disappearing down the long hallway, while I stand in the corner watching him, wishing I could undo what I just did. Wishing I’d told him more. That I’d made him understand that over a hundred jobs are depending on Dan—on us!—and our big fat shit show of a marriage.

  With heavy, regretful steps, I climb the stairs and find Iris and Burty waiting for me outside the classroom.

  “Did you see him?” Iris asks.

  I nod weakly.

  “How’d it go?” Burty asks.

  I sigh. “Horrible. I really hurt him. He doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

  Burty’s bottom lip rolls out into a pout. “I’m sorry, Janie,” she says, and then gives me a hug.

  “It was the right thing to do,” Iris says over one of her stoic smiles.

  “I know,” I sniffle. “It was just hard.”

  “The truth usually is. Come on.” She motions toward the door. “Let’s get this over with.”

  I follow my friends inside, not surprised to see that a very perturbed-looking Bates is standing at her podium with her eyes zeroed in on me, like she’s been waiting for me.

  Shit.

  “Come here, Holliday,” she instructs with a crook of her finger.

  Iris casts me a wary glance while Burty mutters, “I’m sure she just wants to see your doctor’s note.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” I reply, wishing that were the case.

  Nerves racing, I make my way over to the podium, Bates tracking each of my steps along the way.

  “You weren’t here on Monday,” she says gruffly.

  I swallow hard. “I was sick.”

  Her eyes narrow like she knows I’m lying. I shift beneath the weight of my coat.

  “Got a note?”

  “Yes. Here.” I pull the letter from my bag and hand it to her.

  She stares at it for a long, nerve-racking beat and then mumbles, “Where’s your journal?”

  My journal?

  Crap!

  My stomach flops to the floor.

  My latest journal entry was the most honest and gut-wrenching response I’ve ever written, but unfortunately it won’t meet Bates’s criteria, as it was limited to only one word. I meant to add on to it—to beef it up to at least a full paragraph—but completely forgot, given everything else I’ve been dealing with this week.

  A kind, compassionate person would accept it for what it is—trusting that writing that word was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done—but this is Officer Bates we’re talking about. She hasn’t liked me from day one, and after what just happened with Chavez—when it was obvious I was making him upset—shit! She’s going to kick me out of the class—

  “Come on, Holliday,” she urges, pulling me back to the present.

  With nervous hands, I pull the notebook from my bag and hand it off to he
r. She takes it with a grunt, then says, “Find a seat.”

  Today, the metal folding chairs are aligned in a straight row instead of their usual circle. I settle into the empty chair between Burty and Iris, clutching my bag against my chest for support.

  “You okay?” Iris asks.

  I shrug and mutter, “I don’t know.”

  “All right, ladies,” Bates says to the group. “We’re going to do something a little different today, since it’s our last class—”

  “Woo!” Angel chirps from a few chairs down, prompting Donna to chuckle over her gravelly lungs while Lina mutters, “Halle-fucking-lujah.”

  There’s no way Bates doesn’t hear them, but she continues without acknowledgment.

  “—I’ve asked a former student to stop by and talk to you about her experience in this class and how it’s impacted her life now that she’s moved on.”

  Still holding my notebook firmly in her hands, Bates lumbers across the room—boots squeaking louder than usual—and leans out into the hallway, returning a moment later with a dark-haired woman following along behind her.

  “This is Stephanie.” Bates motions to the woman. She’s dressed in a black cashmere turtleneck, with her dark denim jeans tucked into her over-the-calf riding boots, and I half wonder if she was arrested for stealing from my closet. “She was arrested three years ago for possession of cocaine, but I’m happy to report she’s been clean ever since.”

  Stephanie smiles with deserved pride as Maya calls out, “You go, girl!” while the rest of my classmates clap and “woot woot” their support. I join in with a smile and an encouraging nod of my own, but it’s not as heartfelt as it should be. Despite this woman’s great accomplishment, my attention is solely focused on my stupid notebook, and whether it’s going to be the catalyst that earns me a dismissal from the class, promptly followed by a stint behind bars.

  Dammit, Jane!

  A one-word journal entry? You know better than that!

  “Well, I’m really glad I can be here to talk to you today,” Stephanie starts. “Like Officer Bates said, I was given the opportunity to participate in this class after I was arrested for possession. I wish I could say that my story is unique, but I’ve been talking to a lot of women over the last couple of years, and unfortunately, it’s not.” She assumes a confident but comfortable stance against the podium, suggesting that she’s delivered this message more than a few times. “At the time I was arrested, I’d been married for thirteen years, had two kids—seven and nine then—and spent pretty much every waking hour taking care of them and about a million other things that came with it. I served on every PTA committee ever created; was room mom for both kids’ classes; played chauffeur to baseball, soccer, piano, cooking class—”

  Her comments catch my attention.

  Is she talking about her life or mine?

  “I was living the stereotypical life of a stay-at-home mom,” she goes on. “And it was great. But it was also exhausting, and more than a little stressful.” I feel myself nod. I can relate to that. “I was in the midst of a particularly bad week: my period was raging, my husband was out of town for work, both kids had huge projects due that they hadn’t even started, and I had stupidly agreed to head up the wrapping paper fundraiser at school, which, if you know anything about school fundraisers, is the worst of them all.”

  I can’t help the little chuckle that crosses my lips. That is the worst fundraiser, quickly followed by the one for See’s chocolates.

  “I was basically at my breaking point,” she goes on. “And then one of the other moms pulled me aside and offered me a little pick-me-up to help get me through.” She shakes her head over a sardonic laugh. “I knew I shouldn’t do it. I could actually see that little ‘Just Say No’ stop sign flashing in my mind”—she wiggles her fingers in front of her, emulating twinkling lights—“but everything just felt too big in that moment, so I did it. I went into the students’ bathroom with that woman, ducked down beneath one of the three-foot-tall stalls, and took my first hit of cocaine. And that was all it took. Next thing I knew, while the other moms were going to yoga after the morning carpool run, I was hiding out in parking lots, snorting coke in the back seat of my car.” She chuckles despite the weight of her confession, which allows the rest of us to laugh a little too. Not because it’s funny but because . . . wow.

  “Bless her heart,” Burty mutters.

  “Nobody in my family had a clue I was using. My husband was working crazy hours back then, so he wasn’t around a lot to notice, and my kids were, well . . .” She smirks. “They pretty much ignored me—”

  “Sounds about right,” Iris murmurs. I grin.

  “—so it was like this private little thing I had that got me through all the craziness of life, and I loved it. I did,” she admits over an unapologetic shrug. “I felt like Wonder Woman, you guys. I had so much energy, my house was insanely clean, I finally hit my goal weight . . .” She sighs. “I’m telling you, for the few months I was using, it was great. Until it wasn’t.” She pauses and offers a thoughtful look around the room. “The night I got arrested, I had overdosed. The cops found me unconscious in the back seat of my minivan in a Trader Joe’s parking lot.”

  Someone down the way—Maya, I think—gasps, “Oh my god,” while I shift uneasily in my seat.

  Apparently, a lot of life-changing events take place in grocery store parking lots.

  “Of course, I don’t remember anything about it,” she continues. “I woke up in the hospital the next day with tubes in my arms, hooked up to machines, completely clueless. I thought I’d been in a car accident, until my husband told me what happened. I can still remember the look on his face . . .” Her voice starts to waver a bit, and she gives her head a regretful shake. “He was scared, obviously, and mad, and confused, and worried and all the things you’d imagine someone would be feeling in that moment, but what really stuck with me was how disappointed he looked . . .”

  Disappointed.

  That bravely spoken word sends a shudder of unease rattling through my bones. It’s similar to the one I wrote (I even thought of using it myself), but it didn’t convey exactly what I was trying to say.

  I cast a wary glance toward Bates, to my notebook, which she’s clutching in her hands.

  “And it didn’t stop with him,” she goes on. “My kids looked at me like that too. And my parents—god, they were the worst. Even though they were all supportive of me and got me into rehab and cheered me on every step of the way, there was always this underlying disappointment in their eyes.” Her gaze drops down to the podium. “I think that was the hardest part of it all—even harder than kicking the addiction, which wasn’t easy,” she confesses, refacing us wearing an earnest expression. “I felt like I’d let all of them down, and I didn’t know how I was ever going to make that up to them, or even go on living with myself, for having made them feel that way—”

  I swallow hard, my throat growing thick beneath the similarity of our thoughts.

  “—but then I came to this class, and everything changed.” A smile slowly starts to spread across her cheeks. “I remember how scared I was on the first day,” she says, eyeing the room nostalgically. “My plan was to come in, do my time, and get out without talking to anybody, but then somebody made us stand up and say our names and what we were charged with . . .” She casts an amused glance toward Bates.

  “I still do that,” Bates replies, grinning.

  “Yeah she does,” Lina grunts, and everyone laughs. Including me.

  “Well, believe it or not, that was the game changer for me,” Stephanie goes on. “Up until that moment, everyone in my life had been disappointed by me for what I’d done to them. Me”—she pats her chest with her palm—“Stephanie. The wife who had been sneaking money out of the vacation fund to pay for her habit. The mom who had been showing up to her kids’ games stoned out of her mind. The daughter who lied and said she’d joined Weight Watchers to explain her sudden weight loss. I did all
those things to them. But the women in my class . . .” She shrugs over a reminiscent smile. “I hadn’t let them down at all. They weren’t mad at me for anything. To them, I was just Stephanie, the lady who was charged with possession, no better or worse than any of them, and that was the most liberating feeling in the world.”

  My chest starts to swell beneath the succinctness of her words. They’re so honest and familiar somehow. Like my brain’s been reciting them, but they’ve never actually crossed my lips.

  “Now, I’m not going to stand here and tell you that I enjoyed coming to this class,” she goes on, casting a sheepish glance toward Bates, who smirks in response. “I hated talking about my personal life with a bunch of strangers, but looking back, I think it actually helped me. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been faced with a hard choice, and my mind inevitably wanders back to one of the conversations I had here. When someone called me out for the choices I made. At the time, it felt like a personal attack, but looking back I can see it was just them being brutally honest with me. And I needed that, because the people in my life were too busy being disappointed by me to tell me what I needed to hear in a way that I could hear it. Sometimes brutal honesty is the only way to be heard.”

  “Yeah, it is,” Lina mutters, as if she’s aware she’s the most brutally honest of us all.

  “And then there was that damn journal,” Stephanie goes on over a heavy eye roll that makes my classmates laugh again, but I don’t. I shift my attention back to Bates, and my notebook. “I hated that thing,” she admits. “It felt like the biggest waste of time in the middle of my busy day, but I’ll be damned if I don’t pull it out every now and then, just to be reminded of how far I’ve come. Crazy as it probably sounds to you right now, there’s a lot of good stuff in those journals.”

  “Which is exactly why we do them,” Bates replies over a firm nod. She turns her attention out to the class and raises my notebook into the air while saying, “There’s a wealth of wisdom in these pages, ladies—wisdom that came straight from you—but you have to be willing to put in the time to find it.” Her gaze lands directly on me as she says the words.