Jane Anonymous Read online

  I was kind of sad to see the bracelet go. I’d tried it on a handful of times, hoping that Norma would put it on sale. But still I clipped the tag, wrapped it up in tissue paper, and turned to reach for a bag.

  And that’s when it happened.

  His tree-branch arms wrapped around my chest.

  A cloth pressed against my mouth.

  I stumbled back and tried to scream. But my voice was silenced, and my legs couldn’t seem to move right—shuffle, shuffle, stomp, slide.

  I reached out. My fingers found something soft: the new silk rompers; I pictured their stripe-and-daisy pattern. I pulled—hard—hoping to snag a hanger, imagining using it as a weapon.

  Something crashed—a clothing rack? A mannequin? The fabric slipped from between my fingers.

  “Just relax,” he said, holding me in place, squeezing my wrists together at my chest. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  A fiery ball of light pressed behind my eyes: bright orange and yellow, erupting into flecks like straight out of a volcano.

  I opened my mouth to bite, but it was filled with cloth. My tongue felt thick and heavy—too big to form words, too bulky to scream out.

  There was a sticky-sweet scent.

  And a bitter-fruity taste.

  Plus, a flurry of thoughts and questions. Is this really happening? This can’t possibly be happening. What did I do? How did he know?

  Ms. Romer’s high-pitched voice played in my mind’s ear—all of her lectures on self-defense in health class.

  Because Ms. Romer knew.

  Because her partner was a cop.

  Because she said she watched too many crime shows on TV.

  “Don’t let the perpetrator take you to a second location. Fight with all your might. Kick, scream, bite, scratch. Do whatever it takes.”

  My head felt woozy, but I refused to give up. I swung out with my arms, only to discover that they were still pinned at my chest.

  I looked around for a weapon or a way out, but all that was within eyeshot were the cases full of candles: wrinkled brown boxes stacked against the wall, silver wicks peeking out at the top. I watched them darken and blur as the lights grew dim.

  As my body grew heavy.

  As my reality faded away.

  NOW

  4

  Mom made an old favorite dish for dinner: homemade manicotti with Grandma Jean’s plum-tomato sauce. Dad baked dessert: fudge brownies. The sight of the brownies flashes me back to middle school, when Shelley bet me she could eat an entire batch in less than three minutes. I took the bet and watched as she stuffed her face with fistfuls of brownie. It wasn’t until her cheeks were packed like a chipmunk’s that I did the chicken dance, complete with bunny teeth, rendering Shelley incapable of swallowing because she was laughing so hard. A chunk of brownie shot out of her mouth. A trickle of chocolate drooled from her nose. We collapsed to the floor in a fit of uncontrollable laughs. And suddenly all bets were off, because we’d both clearly won.

  I miss Shelley.

  A lot.

  I miss Grandma Jean too. She passed away the year BIWM (Before I Went Missing) and lives on in our food now—in the sauces, the stews, and the hand-rolled gnocchi.

  As I sit here at the dining table, going through the motions of a meal, while feeling like the ghost of my former self, I can’t help wonder: Where do I live on?

  * * *

  Dad takes a sip of wine. The color looks extra dark, like black raspberries. Mom said he’s been making his own wine for the past ten months. “It gave him something else to focus on. Honestly, if it weren’t for wine and work, I think he’d have gone completely mad.”

  Her words are like acid spilling over open wounds. If it’s not bad enough I screwed up my own life, I also managed to screw up his.

  “How is your room working out?” Mom asks.

  “My room?”

  “Yes.” She nods. “Do you feel like you’re finally all settled in? Is there anything else you need?”

  “Anything else?”

  “We can go shopping if you like.” Her face brightens. “Clothes, books, bed linens, school supplies…”

  “Can I let you know?”

  “Of course.” She fakes a smile.

  I fake one back.

  “Also, I’ve been meaning to ask … Have you heard from Angie?” Mom’s eyebrows dart upward as if she already knows the answer.

  Angie works at the animal shelter where I used to volunteer. Apparently, she got some new dogs in, and there’s one she wants me to meet.

  “She called today,” I say, focused on the flower arrangement in the center of the table. Water lilies. The petals look like box-cutter blades.

  “Did you set up a time to see her?”

  I stab my thigh, beneath the table, with my butter knife, wishing it were sharp enough to tear.

  “Jane?”

  “I didn’t set up a time.” I swallow hard, grinding the knife in deeper.

  “How about Shelley?”

  I gaze toward the window, picturing myself on the ledge.

  “Have you heard from her?” she persists.

  I want to be excused. I peek at Dad to see if he’ll come to my rescue, but he’s staring into his plate as if he wants to jump too.

  “Shelley called,” I admit. She calls all the time. Today she offered to bring me lunch—avocado, tomato, and mozzarella sandwiches, plus an Elvis Alive, made with coconut milk, pureed banana, and peanut butter. My favorites. She knows this.

  But I said no anyway. “I’m really kind of busy.”

  “What are you really kind of busy doing?” Shelley asked.

  “Maybe some other time,” I told her, and I felt—in the hole-that-is-my-heart—a tunneling sensation that burrowed deep inside my chest.

  “On Friday, I’m going to the movies with Mellie and Tanya,” Shelley continued. “Do you want to come?”

  “Since when do you hang with them?”

  “Since Mellie accidentally spilled Pepto-Bismol in my lap in physics. I had to wear a lab coat for the rest of the day. Short skirt. Long story.” She laughed. “Anyway, they want you to come.”

  “They said that?”

  “Of course. We all want you to join.”

  Part of me assumed they just wanted the inside scoop about my seven months away. Another part figured they must feel really sorry for me. Either way, my answer was still the same: There was no fucking way.

  After we hung up, I pictured the three of them in a movie theater, snarfing Sno-Caps and talking about their college plans, and suddenly I felt bitter.

  Bitter.

  And lonely.

  And angry.

  And regretful.

  Because while they were enjoying life like nothing ever happened, I was stuck here living mine because of everything that had.

  “Does the food taste okay?” Mom asks, pulling me off my mental ledge. “You’ve barely touched your plate.”

  She doesn’t understand that tomato-based foods are no longer appetizing to me. I tried to tell her that during my first week home, when she made angel hair pasta with marinara sauce, but her face contorted into a giant question mark. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t want to hear it. She’d worked so hard to make the noodles and sauce from scratch, just like Grandma Jean.

  “Dr. White called earlier,” she says when I don’t respond. “I think we should set up another appointment.”

  “I don’t like Dr. White.”

  “Because she’s too old?”

  “Because her office smells like honeycomb candles.”

  Her face twists up as if my comment doesn’t compute. I want to scribble the word Listen across both of her ears: Listen to my words, even put them in your mouth; swallow them down like your homemade pasta noodles. Because, the truth is, I’ve already tried to talk.

  To her.

  To Dad.

  To doctors.

  To the police.

  They all declare a safe space and tell me I can say w
hatever’s on my mind, but that’s only really true if what I have to say is what they’re prepared to hear. And so they furrow their foreheads, raise their brows, purse their lips, and shake their heads.

  They look away.

  They clasp their hands over their mouths.

  They leave me feeling.

  Even more isolated.

  Than I was during those seven months, which they’ll never understand.

  “What do honeycomb candles have to do with anything?” Mom asks.

  Meanwhile, Dad continues to drink. There are chunky bits at the bottom of his glass. He needs to refill. I need to go back to the four gray walls of my room.

  “Promise me you’ll go if I make an appointment,” Mom says.

  I hate Dr. White. “She makes me feel crazy.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Because she thinks I am crazy.”

  She and Dad exchange a look, but neither or them argues for my sanity.

  “I have a better idea for therapy,” I offer. “What if I write about what happened?”

  “Like a book?” She looks at Dad again, checking his reaction.

  Why the hell doesn’t anyone ever check mine?

  “You’re not planning on sharing your story, are you?” she asks.

  I stuff my mouth with noodles, just as Shelley did with that batch of fudge brownies, so I don’t have to talk—so none of my ideas will get stomped like Dad’s sour wine grapes.

  THEN

  5

  Lying on my back, the surface beneath me rocked from side to side. I opened my eyes, unable to see. Darkness surrounded me—an overwhelming sensation that crawled like spiders beneath my skin.

  I tried to get up. My head hit something hard. A car horn beeped. My heart started hammering.

  I reached outward to feel all around, discovering a roof above my head. My knuckles made a knocking sound against it.

  Music played—a country song, a medley of instruments: a guitar, a keyboard, a drumbeat, and a harmonica. My body jolted forward, and I smashed into another solid surface, nose-first. A trickle of wetness ran down my lip, landed on my tongue—the taste of blood.

  The snap to reality.

  A male voice sang, “Don’t let that lover get awayyyyy.”

  Tears slid down my face. Acid crept into my throat. I reached inside my pocket, my fingers shaking, my legs quivering, relieved to find my phone. It was still there, zipped inside my running jacket. I clicked it on—two bars, three texts, and a missed call from Shelley, plus another missed call from Mom. I didn’t bother to read the texts or listen to the messages. I just typed in my pass code, getting it wrong on the first try. I accidentally hit Delete on the second try.

  Finally, I got it to work, and I pressed my mother’s number.

  “Where are you?” she answered; there was panic in her voice. Shelley must’ve called her when I didn’t show up at the diner.

  A gush of words stormed from my mouth. “He took me. Mom … You have to help me, Mom. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know what’s happening. I’m in the trunk of his car.”

  Hearing those words aloud provided a new layer of terror, because speaking them made them true, and because I’d never heard myself be that scared about anything.

  “Who took you?” Mom asked.

  “A guy. At the store.”

  “Norma’s? John,” she called to my father. “Now. We need to call 9-1-1.”

  I could hear Dad’s voice in the background. What was he saying?

  “She’s in a car trunk,” Mom told him.

  A whining sound burst from my mouth when I suddenly realized: The guy who took me … he’d eventually stop driving. I’d be forced to get out. And what would happen then?

  And what would happen then?

  “Mom,” I whimpered.

  “Listen to me carefully,” she said. “Do you see a tab or latch of some sort—something that glows in the dark? Pull on it. A light should go on. The trunk will flip open.”

  “No!” I cried. “There’s no tab, nothing glowing.”

  “Okay, so look around,” she continued. “Is there anything in the trunk that can help you? A weapon? Something sharp?”

  “A tool or umbrella?” Dad asked, now speaking directly into Mom’s phone. “A screwdriver, jumper cables, cleaning agents?”

  I tried to look, straining my eyes, but I couldn’t see. I could only feel: a thin layer of carpeting and the interior contours of the trunk, where the sides met the roof.

  “Are you able to locate where the taillights would be?” Mom asked. “There’s probably a panel covering the space. Pull it out and kick at the taillight as hard as you can to break the glass. Then stick your hand through and wave so that other drivers can see you.”

  I felt all around, but I couldn’t find anything—not a tool or a taillight. Where were the panels? Why couldn’t I find them?

  The music continued to play. “Make that lover want to stayyyyyyy … Give her love all night and dayyyyy … Don’t let her get awayyyyy…”

  “Jane?” Mom’s voice.

  “I can’t see,” I murmured. “I don’t know.” Didn’t I have a flashlight app? I could’ve sworn I’d downloaded a flashlight app. I looked at the screen, but I didn’t see the icon: the purple flashlight.

  “You need to hang up and call 9-1-1,” she said.

  “Mom, no.”

  “Jane. Big breath. Daddy’s on the phone with them now. He already gave them your cell number, but they want you to call them.”

  “No.” More tears. I didn’t want to let go.

  “Jane.” Her voice sounded stern, but I could tell she was crying too. “Let them help you. They’re tracing your whereabouts. They’re going to find you. We’re going to find you. Jane?”

  The car stopped.

  A door slammed.

  I found the panel—a piece of carpet-covered plastic—and pulled it out. My fingers found wires.

  I tugged.

  Something broke.

  “Jane?”

  “He’s coming,” I whispered. My whole body shook. I could barely hold the phone.

  My mother was crying too hard for words, which only made things worse, because Mom was supposed to tell me that everything would be okay—that she’d put on her red cape and come save me, wherever this was, just as she always had.

  I heard a key slide into the lock, followed by a deep click.

  “Don’t let him take you,” Dad said. “Kick, bite, scratch, punch—”

  “Almost home.” The guy’s voice again. The familiar rusty tone.

  Chills ripped up my skin.

  “Don’t take her!” Dad shouted. “I’ll find you. I’ll find her.”

  Something wet hit my face. A rag pressed against my skin. That familiar sweet scent was right over my mouth, beneath my nostrils, filling up my senses. I tried not to breathe it in, knowing it would put me out, but my head was already fuzzy and my limbs felt heavy. Inside my ears was an overwhelming itch.

  Where was my phone? No longer in my grip. Had I hung up? Was Mom still connected?

  A squeaking noise came from inside my mouth—the rag rubbing against my teeth, like Styrofoam on Styrofoam. I screamed out, deep from within my chest. A blood-curdling wail tore out of my throat.

  At least I thought it did. But I didn’t hear any sound. Had it been muffled by the rag? Or lost in the folds of fabric? My tongue felt cumbersome again—too big for my mouth. Had it muted the sound?

  I tried to swipe him away, reaching through the air, swatting from side to side, only able to see the top of his head out of the corner of my eye: the spot the rag didn’t cover.

  Brown wavy hair.

  A patch of light skin.

  And a burst of black dots.

  My fingers jammed into something soft. I imagined it was his chest. I wanted to get his eyes, like Ms. Romer advised in health class.

  “The vulnerable five,” she called them. “The eyes, nose, throat, groin, and knees. Kick �
��em where it counts. Jab ’em where it hurts. Punch ’em like you mean it.”

  He continued to press the rag into my face, trying to pin me still, waiting until I passed out. In my mind, I fought back, kicking outward, flailing my legs.

  I might’ve spun around on my back.

  I’m pretty sure I managed to knee his hip.

  He started to lift me out of the trunk, grabbing around my shoulders. I arched my back. The top of my spine jammed into something sharp; a biting, singeing pain radiated down my legs.

  “There’s no need to fight.” His voice was no longer rusty. It was slow and distorted now—the vocal equivalent of molasses on ice. “It’ll only make this—”

  Harder?

  More painful?

  I could no longer decipher the words, but still he was talking. I pictured myself in an ocean with anchors tied around my feet, fighting to stay afloat by treading water with my arms. Only I kept slipping beneath the surface, making it hard to hear.

  He pulled me forward—up, out of the ocean. My chin met something hard. His jaw? Or collarbone? I sank my teeth into whatever was there.

  Was that a wail? Did it come from him or me? Or maybe from Mom—was she still sobbing, over the phone?

  Music continued to play. Had it ever stopped? Was the ignition still running? Were we on a boat?

  “Lover, don’t you want to stayyyyy? In a place where we can hide awayyyy … Oh, please, believe. We’ll be happy and free. Oh, please, lover, please, believe.”

  THEN

  6

  When I woke up again, the first thing I saw was a pair of eyes—chocolate brown with upturned lashes, plus a mole by the lower lid. I wanted to reach out and poke those eyes, but my arms didn’t move. I couldn’t find my fingers. Everything felt thick.

  And heavy.

  And slow.

  And warm.

  The guy’s lips moved, but I couldn’t decipher the words. There was a buzzing in my ears and a disconnection in my brain.

  I think he placed something on my face. I’m pretty sure he pulled blankets up to my chin. Maybe he sang me a song—from The Sound of Music. Was he wearing white ski gloves?