Terrified of and by the thought, she slammed the door shut, as if the thought were an intruder trying to force its way into her house.
It didn't work.
If anything, the awful feeling grew stronger, like a black weed in a white jungle, small and singular but resistant to anything with the power to kill it. This emotion, this overpowering blackness, she knew, was here to stay.
Unless something within her life changed... very soon.
***
At around nine that night, Janna lay in a bathtub full of warm, steaming water, gazing up at the drop-tile ceiling, counting the several tiny dots impregnated into each tile, trying to distract herself from her suicidal thoughts.
Three hundred and forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine, fif—
The dots seemed to multiply. She lost count. The caring left her.
Too exhausted to continue, the woman relaxed—tried to relax—and glanced at the razor blade lying on the left edge of the tub. Sure, it would do the job, but would slicing through the wrist hurt? Would it be too bloody? How deep would she have to cut to sever a vein?
Remember paper cuts, Jan? Those burned like fire when you turned the page of a book too fast. This is hacking your limb wide open!
On the right side of the tub: a large bottle of aspirin. Tylenol. The highest dosage, over-the-counter aspirins allowed by law. They would do the job, too, but what if they didn't work and she had to have her stomach pumped? That'd probably be worse than cutting herself.
Or maybe...
She closed her eyes, took one last breath, held it, and drifted underwater, where she waited to die. As soon as it became too much to bear, she'd breathe in some H2O. It wouldn't hurt, right? Suck in a little aqua, and then peace. Right? Maybe she'd meet her soul mate in Heaven.
Seconds passed. A minute.
She opened her eyes. The warm water felt hot against them.
Bubbles...
Two minutes and counting.
Air—she never knew how much she'd missed air till now, when she didn't have any.
Janna clenched her fists and kicked her feet about, splashing water, thumping against the tub with her heels. Her eyes widened, looking enormous while under the veil of water. Her lungs felt like they were going to burst. They screamed for oxygen. The room beyond her brightened, started to spin.
Three minutes.
More bubbles.
More thrashing.
A left hand knocked the razor to the floor; a right hand knocked the pill bottle into her soon-to-be watery grave with her.
I can't hold my breath anymore!
And she didn't.
She opened her airways, and water came barreling in through the wrong pipes.
It wasn't the instant, painless death she'd expected. It actually hurt. Her lungs exploded with fire as they took in what didn't belong. Panic surged through her whole body. Survival instinct kicked in.
Janna jolted upright, coughing, gasping, searching desperately for air, which she found but could not yet breathe. Then, after hoarsely expelling the water stuck in her lungs, it became easier. The panic gradually subsided. Her eyes narrowed a little. Her breaths slowly relaxed, and she told herself she would never ever consider doing something this idiotic again.
In a way, the young woman thought, her life was much the opposite of this stunt. In suicide she tried to take charge, do something, accomplish something—even if that meant her end. But in life—if you could call it a life—she didn't take charge. She didn't try to better herself, or change things for the better.
In the end, all she really did was... exist.
Chapter 3
Sleep didn't come easily for her that night, nor was it pleasant. Bad dreams came and went, came and went, too fleeting and not important enough to remember. All they did was leave bad feelings behind to haunt her in the early afternoon hours.
Something pulled her out of sleep, and her eyes flew open. They stared skyward at the drop-ceiling her father, God rest his soul, had thought would make the house look nicer. Nope. What woke me?
A smell?
A sound?
A sound!
But what sound?
Then it came again: a strong, bottom-of-the fist pound on the downstairs door.
Janna peeked at her watch: 3:07. It transitioned to 3:08.
I slept that long?!
Brushing away the thought, she got up, went downstairs, unlocked and opened the door without looking into the peephole. She decided she'd be surprised for once.
It was a nice surprise.
Her handsome, sexy new neighbor.
From close up, he was even more attractive than she'd first thought. Every feature was perfect, lulled her in.
“Hello,” the man said, his voice deep and captivating, while possessing a subtle grittiness in its timbre.
Janna couldn't respond. Her voice box refused to work, and her mind refused to process any sort of logical thought. She was lost somewhere in those aquatic blue eyes.
“Uh, Miss? You okay?”
She came out of her head-over-heels daze, but she didn't know how. Her heart fluttered like a butterfly's colorful wings.
“Yes, I'm okay.” Am I drooling on myself?
“Anyway, I just moved in across the street. Name's Baron.”
What do I say?
“Oh. I'm Janna. Nice to meet you.”
They shook hands. His was slightly rough and dry; hers was very soft and sweaty.
“Anyway, I was wondering if you had a lawnmower I could borrow... that's something I forgot at my old place, and as you can see, the grass needs cut pretty bad.”
Yeah, Baron, you can borrow MY lawnmower ANYtime.
Shit, I hope I didn't say that out loud!
“What?”
Baron giggled. His smile was flawless. “Lawnmower??”
“Oh, sorry. I'll go back around and get it. Meet you around the side.”
“Great, thanks.”
He turned and jogged down her three porch steps, his small, cargo-pants-sheathed tush jiggling as he went. Janna felt her hormones race through her body, flowing to places she didn't know existed. Places she thought had stopped functioning a while ago. She shut the door before it became too much for her to control.
“Please! Just this once! If you exist, God, please don't let him be married to that bimbo I saw yesterday. I know I don't pray much or go to church often, but I will if You let this happen!”
Tears filled her eyes. Warmth filled her soul. And just last night, she'd tried to off herself.
I must be crazy!
When she'd been with Ben, she kind of felt this way, but to a lesser degree. He was someone with whom she had to learn to acquire feelings for. Now it was much stronger, powerful, and the only thing she knew about him was his name. Baron. Baron and Janna. Sounds good to me. She knew she was getting so far ahead of herself she might end up in the next decade. But there were some emotions with certain people that were impossible to control, ignore, or figure out. This was one of them—a connection to another human being beyond the scope of science, philosophy and physiology.
However, a connection was useless unless both people felt the same way.
His ring! A wedding band. I'll check his hand for it when I meet him outside!
If I can make it out there without having a meltdown first.
She looked down at her own hands. They were trembling, unwilling to stay still. Her weak legs didn't want to move.
Still, she made it through the messy kitchen, through the clothes-cluttered laundry room, and out the back door into a patch of bright, eye-burning sunshine. Today felt more like an August day than an October day, warm, crisp, alive with the sound of birds and children playing.
Her backyard was small, L-shaped, the grass a boringly pale shade of green. It was encircled by rich, dark-green shrubs, with a small Rubbermaid utility shed situated by the back corner where, beyond, the alley opened out to the side street.
She went to the sto
rage unit and got the mower, but she didn't remember wheeling it around to the sidewalk to Baron. He stood on a cracked slab, with his hands in his pockets and his attention going from two kids biking down the street to a Firebird cruising up the street. There didn't seem to be a care in the world in him. The guy just seemed so free, so easy-going, so majestic. The glimmering sun made this appear more so.
“Awesome, Jenna, thanks.”
“Janna.”
“Oh, okay. Janna. I'll give you a couple bucks for fuel when I bring it back.”
“No, don't worry about it.”
Her eyes were drawn to his like a magnet. His didn't deviate much from hers, either. They held visual contact briefly, until she got so uncomfortable she couldn't stand it. Somehow, out came a stupid little joke. “Well, have fun cutting grass.”
Those dimples, those apple-cheeks sparked to life again.
“All right, thanks again. I'll return this as soon as I'm done. Shouldn't be but half an hour.”
His hands came out of their pockets. Grabbed hold of the lawnmower. Janna had forgotten about checking for a ring—the thought slipped her mind. She watched the heartthrob turn and walk away, pushing her mower, taking a piece of her with him. For a second, an everlasting second, which happened to every human who'd ever existed on the planet, whether they realized it at the time or not, nothing could be better. The world could have stopped. A war could have ensued in the background. People could be dying horribly, screaming, bleeding and wailing in pain.
But, just for a second, none of that mattered. It all ceased to exist, replaced by an almost supernaturally divine feeling free from every tainted, unruly thing. Nothing, not even God Herself, could take that away from her.
***
She watched him cut grass from her living room window. Watched him sweat, stretch, and struggle to mow his overgrown lawn. Baron just wouldn't leave her thoughts alone.
Dammit! Why didn't I look at his hands? I don't remember feeling a ring when I shook his hand, but it could have been on his other.
What if... what if that bimbo was only his sister, a relative, or a really good friend? Someone he could relate to in every way but romantically? Sensually? What if it was someone he kind of knew just helping him get situated in his new place? If that was the case, the girl wasn't a bimbo; she was just a nobody.
Janna knew she had to pretty-up before he returned; hide the truth of her appearance and hopefully fool the onlooker.
She ran upstairs to do just that.
The bathroom, a small square with a child-sized sink, a glutton-sized clawfoot tub, and an average-sized throne, was at the top of the stairs, across the hall from her room. Lights burst on in the room as she entered and flicked the switch. Overhead bulbs and vanity bulbs illuminated the dove-colored walls with almost eye-melting brightness. She went to the mirror, make-up bag in hand. Instead of using one tool at a time, Janna flipped the bag upside-down, dumping the contents into the sink. Eyeliners, lipsticks, foundations, sponges, mascara, eye-shadow, and a few other useful things joined each other in one cluttered heap.
First, she put on the foundation.
Second, the mascara—just a tad.
Eyeliner, third.
Then rouge.
Lastly, red wine lipstick.
For a good three minutes, she gazed at her transformed reflection in the mirror. Best—and fastest—make-up job she thought she'd ever done. She looked positively striking, if she did say so herself. Everything stood out colorfully, beautifully, masterfully. Rosy cheeks. Plump red lips. Smooth, soft completion. Outlined almond eyes. There was no way he would be able to look away.
Shit!
It just occurred to her. Like a lightning bolt strike, it struck her. She felt absurdly foolish, blinded by her chaotic wave of emotions. What would he think when he saw her like this? After he mowed his grass, he would come back and see her suddenly all dolled up like some prostitute? Yeah, that's what I look like, a freaking hooker! A good-looking one, sure, but that's not what I am, and that's not what I want him to make me out to be.
In a rush, she wet a rag, dabbed it in soap, and scrubbed every bit of beauty enhancement off her face. In the end, here she was, reduced to a plain, average-looking dork with flat cheeks; big, ugly lips; dark, insignificant eyes; and a slightly hooked nose. Far different from the stunning prostitute just a moment ago. This version of Janna wasn't attractive in the least, in her eyes. Not attractive enough to smile. Not attractive enough for anyone to love. Just another throw-away face bound for the garbage dump.
Really, even if he isn't married... what are my chances with him? Hitting the Powerball would be easier.
She wanted to wallow in self-pity, but the knock on the downstairs door prevented her from doing that. For now.
***
“Hello,” she said bleakly, opening up the front door a moment later.
“All done. Didn't much enjoy the mowing, but I tried to.” He laughed. It drew a smile from Janna, who fought to suppress it. She also fought to swallow her feelings for this man and move on.
But nature would not let that happen.
Reflexively, without even thinking, she glanced down at his hands—they gripped the handlebar of the lawnmower—and saw no wedding ring. No imprint of where one might have been if he'd taken it off, either. The guy was not married.
Unless that bimbo was his girlfriend. That still presented a problem. Just not such an imposing one.
“Well, anyway, here's five dollars for gas,” he said, handing her an Abraham Lincoln. “And it was nice to meet you, Janna. Maybe we—“
She couldn't hold her tongue or repress of feelings any longer. Either something came out or she'd explode from the inside. “Baron?”
“Yes?” He blinked those candy eyes.
Oh, damn, now what do I say? Should have kept my big mouth shut!
Somewhere deeper down, she heard a little voice say: No.
“What, um... could I... do you... how...”
Just say it! Speeeak!
“Would you like to hang out sometime? Maybe watch a movie? Have a drink? Well, I don't drink, but we can have some iced tea, lemonade, even a soda.” She had finally spilled the beans. Now her stomach knotted in more places than one as she waited, dreaded, and looked forward to his response.
He paused and looked down—almost looked away. Then, the beginnings of a smile. It hurt Janna, for she knew that smile. It was a smile of flattery but refusal. It said, in not so many words: Thanks for asking me that, but I really am sorry, I'm just not interested.
Then, the actual words were expressed, possible knives toward Janna's heart: “I really do appreciate the offer. Sincerely. I actually just moved here, though, from Michigan, after a very bad break-up. It's just way too soon for me to see somebody, anybody, so don't think it's you, okay? It's not. I just came here to... start over, in a sense.”
The knives struck, penetrated, wounded.
Womp-womp-woooooomp!
A blank, thoughtless look came over Janna's face—a deer caught in highbeams. “Oh.”
“Look, I'm sorry. It's not you, it's me.” He felt so bad, he wanted to ease her apparent pain by taking the offer. But life was still too messy for another relationship.
“Tell you what. Let me settle in for a while. When I feel better, get situated, maybe we'll do something. As friends. Sound okay?”
She nodded a zombie's nod.
Across the street, a Honda pulled up to the curb. The blonde bimbo behind the wheel put the vehicle in park.
“Well, my sister's back. I'll talk to you later, Janna.”
He turned and jogged down the three steps. Broken, Janna slammed the door shut, locked it, and cried, devastated.
Chapter 4
The hurt within turned to numbness for a while, then to unquenchable desperation. She refused, utterly refused, to live the rest of her life alone. The thought of dying without anyone to hold or comfort her in her final days, put her in a reckless mood. Nine years witho
ut the love of a good man was too many. Her empty house was a virtual tomb: no laughter, no passion, no nothing. There was no way she could stand it any longer. She needed a man, and needed one now.
Her thoughts shifted to Ben Jillipi, her ex. Was he single? Taken? Available? There were worse men in the world, surely. Maybe he wasn't the best, but finding the best took modes of action she didn't have, like going out into the world, staying busy, meeting people—things that were far from easy for her. Leaving the house wasn't ever easy, not with a history of chronic anxiety and panic attacks. Besides, she didn't really want to go through the long, protracted process of dating. She had a history with Ben. He was a guy she knew.
But that was a decade ago...
He could have changed. He could have grown up. With age came wisdom—isn't that what all the old geezers claimed?
I don't know his number! I don't even know if he still lives around here anymore...
But she had a way to find out. His parents still lived in town, ten blocks away up on Chester Avenue. They'd been in the paper recently... something about domestic abuse allegations. So they still had to be there. What could it hurt? Janna would get back with her first love, and live the rest of her life happy.
***
The 2013 Denburg county phone book, which was the thickness of a magazine, had their number in it: Susan and David Jillipi. 1-401-555-7784. They were a nice couple, always had been. Only problem was that they couldn't get along with each other.
She held the phone in her hand for several minutes, wanting to call, wanting to call, but found herself unable to. Her fingers wouldn't push any buttons, and her body failed to comply with her yearning will. Fear played the part, held her back.
I'm so confused, so frustrated.
Then, a memory, from out of nowhere, exploded in her mind: Janna, at age nine or ten, danced in her backyard when she lived with her parents out on Robin's Pike, before they'd died—mom from a stroke, father from pneumonia. It was a clear, cloudless, sunny day, and the girl, that precious little girl who would grow into a damaged, dysfunctional woman—who could not even go to the grocery store without feeling faint—pretended she was getting married to a dashing, handsome prince. He slid a beautiful, glimmering ring onto her finger, kissed her, and said I do. Then he said the four magic words: I love you, Janna.
Love Thy Neighbor Page 2
