Janie Face to Face

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Father John had not managed to confiscate every cue card. Todd was waving his sign around. It was white poster board, with scalloped edges. It must have been Lindsay’s creation, because Todd wouldn’t know a decorative edge if it cut him. In fat bright blue marker, it said JENNIE.

  Sarah-Charlotte poked the bride. “Janie Johnson, aka Jennie Spring, will exist for eleven more minutes.”

  She meant eleven more minutes until she had another name.

  But it sounded as if Janie had eleven more minutes to live.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Kathleen had expected to be the outsider among the bridesmaids. But they drew her in, and made sure she was part of everything. She didn’t want to break away, it was such fun, but she said softly to Stephen, “I should be seated before the mothers, because they’re always last. Do you want to take me to my pew?”

  He held out his elbow.

  She took it.

  The formal gesture and the stately pace brought her close to weeping.

  She genuflected before she slid into her pew, lowered the kneeler, and sank down.

  Take care of Janie and Reeve, she prayed. Take care of all this family. Bring them joy instead of sorrow. And if You have extra time, make Stephen realize that I would be a fine member of the same family.

  She tilted the kneeler under the pew and sat back.

  I’m not going to end up going to church again, she told herself. I’m done with all that. It’s just that weddings are sentimental. I got carried away.

  The bridesmaids lined up.

  Jodie had chosen their gowns well. They all looked lovely in the short crisp blue dresses, everyone pencil-thin except Lindsay. The cut of that dress would make its own announcement. Janie hoped Mrs. Shields would be thrilled when she saw Lindsay, so thrilled that she would transfer her energy from Reeve and Janie to being a grandmother.

  The florist passed out bouquets. Hers was beautiful. Just what Janie would have chosen if she had chosen.

  “Zhany,” said her father.

  She knelt beside Frank. “Daddy, you look so handsome in your tuxedo and your sky-blue tie. You’re a perfect father of the bride.”

  “I uv you,” he said.

  She dried her eyes on his tie, leaving little mascara tracks in the blue silk.

  Her cell phone rang.

  “Turn that off!” said Jodie, laughing. “I’m the maid of honor, and I say no more phones!”

  “It isn’t bride and groom anymore,” observed her New Jersey dad. “It’s bride and phone.” He looked fabulous in black and white. Janie thought of the wonderful photos they would have.

  The phone call was from the Harbor. Why would they call? Her parents were here.

  “We should have put a teeny little cell phone in the hands of the little sugar couple on top of the cake,” said Lizzie.

  “Hello?” said Janie into the phone.

  “Janie?” It was Grace. The front-desk lady. Janie was touched that Grace would call to give best wishes on her wedding day.

  The wedding march began.

  Lindsay was shortest and first. “I’m off!” she whispered, giggling. “See you down there!”

  “Janie,” said Grace urgently, “a woman just arrived who says she is Frank’s daughter.”

  Frank’s daughter, thought Janie Johnson. Her body seemed to lose shape. She became remarkably solid.

  “She knew where their room was and everything, so I let her go up, but I’m sort of frightened. I didn’t know Frank and Miranda had a child from a previous marriage or whatever. She’s certainly never visited before. And since your wedding’s been all over Facebook and since thieves can be so clever, I thought I’d check.”

  Eve followed Lindsay down the aisle.

  “Janie!” whispered Jodie. “Get off the phone!”

  Janie pasted a smile on her face and waved Jodie away.

  “A minute ago she wanted to fly down the aisle,” said Sarah-Charlotte to Jodie. “Now she wants to stay on the phone.”

  “Can’t be Reeve,” said Lizzie. “Todd confiscated his cell.”

  “Janie, I took her picture on my cell,” said Grace. “I’ll send it to you.”

  Jodie tried to exchange Janie’s phone for the bridal bouquet. Janie held up one finger to mean “Hang on a minute.”

  “Give me a break,” said Jodie. “And give me the phone. You can have your bouquet in exchange.”

  Her New Jersey dad was laughing silently. All his kids were deeply attached to their cell phones, but he hadn’t known it went this far. He maneuvered the wheelchair closer to the door and now his back was to Janie.

  “Jodie,” breathed the bride, “make them walk very slowly down the aisle. I need time.” She backed up as far as she could without falling into the shrubbery.

  The photograph from Grace showed a fat seedy-looking woman with lanky hair, which was dyed as yellow as a daffodil. The woman’s posture was tilted forward, as if she were catapulting away from the reception desk. Away from anything normal.

  Away from us, thought Janie, which is good. Everybody I love is safe, here, in another place. Whatever Hannah is doing, she is doing it alone in an empty space.

  Her soul flooded with grief for Miranda. What she was going to have to face! The person she would have to see! The past hurtling into the present, about to slap her down!

  Mom, I love you, thought Janie. I’m going to do it right this time, but it won’t make anything right for you.

  Lizzie held up two hands in a sharp, irritated “What in the world?” gesture.

  “Walk slow, Lizzie,” Janie stage-whispered. She cupped her hand over her mouth. “Call nine-one-one, Grace. The woman is known to me. She is a criminal. Her name is Hannah Javensen. If there is a way for maintenance to lock her in the room until the police get there, do it. Whatever you do, don’t get near her. She is dangerous.”

  Jodie was about to take preemptive action and snatch the phone.

  “Ten more seconds,” Janie told her. “Sarah-Charlotte, go!”

  Her New Jersey father said over his shoulder, “Come on, Janie. It won’t be any fun without you!”

  Janie walked over to the usher she was not supposed to know. “Grace,” she said into her phone, “this is a policeman. Tell him what’s going on.” She handed her cell with its photograph of Hannah Javensen to Agent Mollison.

  Jodie gasped. She couldn’t see the phone, but she had recognized Mollison.

  Janie said softly to the agent, “When the wedding is over, I want a signal. You got her or you didn’t.”

  “Done.”

  “What’s happening?” demanded Jodie. “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything’s all right for a change. You know what, Jodie? I love you.” Janie hugged her sister fiercely. The cheap fabric of the old wedding gown made crispy sounds.

  The maid of honor fastened the bride’s hands around the thick gathered stems of the bridal bouquet. There was a big gap between Sarah-Charlotte and Jodie, but nobody noticed. They didn’t mind waiting for the bride who couldn’t wait to get married.

  The bride knelt beside the wheelchair. “Daddy, remember how we practiced? It’s time.”

  Her real father offered his arm.

  Very softly, so her sitting-down father couldn’t hear, Janie said to Jonathan Spring, “You are the best father of the bride in the whole world.”

  She could hardly wait to see Reeve, who would be the best groom in the whole world—so handsome that the boys and men around him would look like cardboard cutouts.

  Here comes the bride, said the music.

  The entire congregation was standing. Flashes went off. Phones came back on and photos and videos were taken.

  Janie couldn’t see Reeve yet, because Jodie was still in the aisle, blocking the view, but she saw her Connecticut mother next to Reeve’s mother on one side of the aisle, and Donna on the other side. There was a space next to Donna for Jonathan.

  Because I will stand alone with Reeve, she thought. But that’s the
thing about Reeve. Once I’m with him, I won’t stand alone.

  Jodie turned to the side, taking her place at the front of the line of bridesmaids, and now Janie could see Reeve. He was grinning, the way only Reeve could grin, his entire face split apart.

  Now she knew why people wept at weddings.

  It was hope.

  Let the future be bright. Let catastrophe and pain stay away. Let this bride and this groom love and be joyful.

  The wheelchair rolled smoothly. Frank waved to the people he knew, which broke Janie’s heart.

  But there was one person in this church who might never feel joy again, who had no hope and no future. Miranda.

  Lord, help me help her, Janie prayed. I’m the pitcher in the final inning. I have to make the save.

  The high ceilings and the gilt paint and the beautiful altar seemed to lean toward her and Janie knew how to save her mother.

  I’ll move my parents to North Carolina. There’s no reason for Frank and Miranda to be at the Harbor. Day after tomorrow, I’ll be in Charlotte, Reeve will be headed out of town, and instead of shopping, I’ll find an assisted living facility. Daddy won’t know where he lives. And Mom can start a new life.

  We all need a new life.

  My new life will be as Jennie Shields.

  In Connecticut, sirens were screaming and police cars converging.

  In New Jersey, Father John asked who gave this woman to be married to this man. Jonathan Spring said, “We do. Her fathers and mothers. All four of us.”

  The congregation sobbed audibly.

  Janie kissed her real father’s cheek before he sat down. Think again, Daddy, she said silently. You’re not giving me away. I’ve found my families at last and I’m keeping them.

  She gave Reeve her best smile.

  It’s over, she thought. Hannah is a predator, but the leopard does not always catch its prey.

  It was time for the vows.

  Reeve Shields looked at the face of his beautiful bride and really and truly couldn’t remember her name. It wasn’t Janie anymore. What was it?

  Father John had rounded up every last cue card. Reeve cast a desperate look at his brother, who extended the back of his hand. Written in black marker was the word Jennie.

  “I, Reeve …,” he said, so emotional he made no sound. He had to start over with more air in his chest. “I, Reeve, take thee, Jennie, to be my wedded wife.”

  In Connecticut, the police entered Frank and Miranda’s apartment. The woman had emptied every drawer, turned over every chest, and flung open the door of every cabinet. The floor was covered with papers and books and broken dishes. “I’m busy,” she said sharply, emptying a file. “I’m a writer. I’m getting material. And they owe me money anyway. Everything here is mine. It’s always been mine. That girl stole it.”

  In New Jersey, Father John said, “Heavenly Father, we ask your blessing upon all four of Jennie’s parents. Upon Donna and Jonathan, who gave Jennie life and suffered her loss. Upon Miranda and Frank, who brought Jennie up and also suffered her loss. We ask your blessing on all parents everywhere, and upon this new family, the family of Jennie and Reeve Shields.” He laid his hands on their heads. “I pronounce you husband and wife.”

  The younger guests leapt to their feet, applauding, whistling, laughing, and stomping.

  Jodie handed the bridal bouquet back to Janie. When Janie wrapped her fingers around the flowers, she felt the two rings on her finger, the diamond from the airport and the gold circle from the vows they had just taken.

  Reeve kissed her again. They turned away from the altar to walk back down the aisle and into their new lives.

  The organ was playing an exit march, but it could barely be heard. The friends and family of the new Mr. and Mrs. Reeve Shields were making too much racket.

  Donna Spring thought the shouting was the most beautiful music she had ever heard: the music of rejoicing. We passed through horror, she thought, and came out fine. My beautiful daughter has done all the right things. Well, except for dropping out of college. Now I’ll pressure her to go back. But I’ll wait a week.

  Reeve wanted to run out of the church. He wanted to run several miles, he had so much energy. He could have run carrying Janie in his arms. But his bride stopped after two steps, knelt beside her father’s wheelchair, and kissed Frank. “Hey, Daddy. I’m a bride!”

  “Boo-ful,” whispered Frank.

  Janie kissed her other three parents and then she kissed Reeve’s parents.

  Reeve grinned at his dad. He flung an arm around his mother. “Thanks, Mom. Thanks for coming through for me.”

  The bride and groom moved slowly down the aisle. Their friends had gone to so few weddings they didn’t know the usual rule: you wait in your pew until the bride and groom are out of the church. They were leaping forward to hug and take photos; barging around yelling for confetti.

  • • •

  When at last Janie and Reeve got out on the portico, Agent Mollison was standing to the side. Janie had forgotten him. She had forgotten Hannah. He made a gesture, as if slamming a door and turning a key. But Janie had already done that.

  Janie and Reeve were covered in a cloud of rose petals flung by giggling friends.

  Reeve tugged her down the steps onto the grass and Janie almost lost hold of her bouquet. Already the fragile roses were starting to fade.

  I am no fragile flower, she thought. In fact, if I were a flower, I’d be a tough old dandelion. You can cut me down over and over, but I had four strong parents and I have strong roots. I’ll flower again.

  “Throw the bouquet!” yelled somebody.

  Even the girls who planned never to do anything traditional in their lives raced up, hoping to catch the bouquet. Janie knew who wanted it most.

  She flung it to Kathleen.

  “Mrs. Shields,” said Reeve to his bride, “they want us to pose for a formal photograph.”

  “That’s no surprise. Mrs. Shields is very photogenic,” said Janie.

  “You bet. Mr. Shields isn’t too bad either.”

  “Mr. Shields is drop-dead gorgeous,” said his wife.

  And they kissed one more time, the cameras clicked, and Janie Johnson vanished for good.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Five books about Janie and Reeve! No one is more astonished than I am.

  Over twenty years ago, when I was in LaGuardia Airport, I found a concourse plastered with a homemade missing-child poster. Under the photograph of a toddler was a caption stating that she had been missing for fifteen years.

  All I could think of was her parents. That mother and father got up that morning with their stack of homemade posters and their roll of Scotch tape and drove to LaGuardia, still hoping, after fifteen years, that as tens of thousands of people passed through this airport, one of them would recognize the photograph and tell the parents where their little girl is now.

  But nobody can recognize a kid fifteen years later from a picture of her at age three. I boarded my plane weeping for those parents—and then I thought, Actually, there is one person who might recognize that photo. The little girl herself. What a great idea for a book: You recognize yourself on a missing-child poster.

  I knew right away that this little girl would have grown into a terrific teenager who has a good family, whom she loves. When she recognizes herself in a missing-child photo, what should she do? If she tells anybody what she suspects—that her parents are her kidnappers—her family will be destroyed by the courts and the media. She loves her family. She cannot let that happen. But what about that other family, still out there worrying? What does a good person do when there is no good choice?

  The Face on the Milk Carton is a book about worry, and I wanted my readers to go on worrying even after they finished the book, just like that real family who put up posters at LaGuardia. So the ending of this book is not tidy.

  My readers wrote a lot of letters, wanting to know what happened to Janie. But I had no plans for a sequel, because such a book
would resolve Janie’s situation, and then my readers could stop worrying.

  I was a church organist at the time, and our minister gave a sermon one Sunday about the story of King Solomon. Two women face the king, each claiming to be the mother of the same child. “Oh, just slice the kid in half,” says Solomon. Immediately it is clear which woman is the real mother: the one who says, “No, no, I don’t want the baby hurt. Let her have the baby.”

  I knew that was the sequel to The Face on the Milk Carton. Who is the real mother? The one who brought Janie up? Or the one who gave birth to her?

  This second book had to be called Whatever Happened to Janie? because that was the question my readers asked.

  I was never going to write a third book about Janie. But in the first two books, an adorable boy, Reeve, lived next door. (You should always have a handsome boy live next door.) Reeve was perfect, because if you’re going to have a boy in story, he ought to be perfect.

  At that time, my son was in college—he attended for about a minute, but it was enough time for me to get a book out of it. Because my son worked at his college radio station, I decided that Reeve, too, would work at his college radio station, where he dreams of being a brilliant talk show host. But what should he talk about? He decides on the long-fascinating story of Janie, the girl next door. He sells her, and her two families, and their tragedy, night after night, on the air.

  There’s another character in these books: the kidnapper, Hannah, who is the biological daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, the couple who then brought Janie up. But Hannah has vanished. Among the many listeners who call in to Reeve’s talk show is somebody who just might be Hannah. If Reeve has drawn Hannah out of hiding, there may be a trial, and a kidnapper brought to justice, but Janie will have to relive her nightmare in a media circus.

  That became The Voice on the Radio.

  I knew I would never write another book about Janie and Reeve.

  But my readers loved Reeve. He used to be perfect, they wrote, and you have to write a fourth book in which Reeve is perfect again. Furthermore, Reeve and Janie should get married. Most of all, they stressed, the kidnapper should be caught and punished. My editor, Beverly Horowitz, and I often talk of future books, tossing ideas back and forth. Beverly called with what I think of as a postcard idea: a snapshot from the midst of some not-yet-written story. “I see a parent and a teenage child in an attic,” she said. “One of them has found something in a box or a trunk. I don’t know what it is. But if it is revealed to the other one, their lives will be irrovocably and tragically changed.”