Jane Anonymous Read online

  I needed to get a grip. In the bathroom, I splashed my face with water. My skin looked sallow. Tiny red pimples sprouted from my cheeks and chin. I touched the crown of my head. My hair was an oily nest. But even more startling: My pupils looked larger than normal. A side effect of no light? Of not eating properly? Of refusing to bathe or change?

  The scent of shampoo and soap bars lingered in the air—like marigolds mixed in lemon balm. I moved toward the shower, wondering what it’d feel like to stand beneath the running faucet.

  I hadn’t bathed since the night before I was taken, after a party; it’d been well past midnight, and I’d only spent a few precious minutes standing beneath the steady stream.

  How long ago was that?

  The last tally mark I’d made had denoted my thirty-ninth day. And then there was the time I’d spent in the dark … It’d felt like weeks, but was probably only days. How long had it been? Two months since my last shower?

  I turned the faucet on and imagined warm water pelting against my back. Steam wafted up to the ceiling. I breathed it in. My eyes watered from the heat.

  I gazed around the room, searching for a camera. Part of me assumed there wasn’t one (since no one had stopped my mattress project). But another part knew I couldn’t trust assumptions, nor could I shake the sensation of being watched.

  I started with my sweatshirt, unzipping the front, tugging my arms free, and letting it drop to the floor. My skin prickled as it hit the air. I’d developed some sort of rash. Tan and brown patches stretched like rags across my forearms. I reached beneath my T-shirt, unfastened my bra, then pulled the straps out, through the sleeves, one by one.

  The bra fell to my feet, but the T-shirt remained in place. I touched beneath my breasts, where the seams had made track marks, and winced from the sensation—like fire ants beneath my skin, tunneling through the nerves. I should’ve removed the bra a whole lot sooner and taken my socks off too. But these were my last connections to home—the last things I’d put on. Taking them off (and bathing here) felt like acceptance somehow.

  I rolled my sweatpants down around my ankles, kicked them to the corner, and stepped into the shower. The water pulsated against my chest, making the track marks sting, despite the T-shirt. Still I let the water run all over my body—in my underwear, beneath my shirt, down my back, and inside my mouth—nearly drunk on its ability to make me feel somewhat human.

  The bar of soap clenched in my hand, I scrubbed my arms and legs, also using my fingernails, eager for the scratch. My calves were covered in hair—two-inch-long curlicues. I hadn’t shaved since BIWM.

  I stroked beneath my arms. It was hairy there too—long, nappy strands like a hamster’s mane, like nothing I’d ever imagine. This couldn’t possibly be my body.

  But it was.

  And so I scoured.

  Desperate to reveal my old self.

  The soap burned all of my broken places where the skin had opened up: my fingers, my palms, my calves, my forearms, and behind my ears. But it was a satisfying pain, one I didn’t mind a bit.

  When there was nothing left to clean, I sat on the shower floor, blanketed by the stream, soothed by the sound. Being in the shower felt a little like sleep—like a temporary break from reality. And so, I never wanted to leave.

  THEN

  22

  Mason finally came to visit me again—six hot meals, a jar of cashews, and a bag of ripple chips later. As soon as I heard his familiar knock, I darted like lightning across the room, dropping the box of brownies, crouching beside the dresser, and placing my ear against the wall.

  “I’m here,” I told him.

  “Sorry it’s been so long, but I’ve been sick,” he said. “A stomach thing.”

  My eyes clamped shut. The tension in my chest released. As selfish as it was, it was relieving to know that illness had kept him away, rather than Samantha.

  “Are you okay now?” I asked.

  “Better, but I haven’t been eating. I’ve been taking the meals, though, making it look like everything’s normal by cleaning my plate.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “So I could I earn my last star.”

  “Forget stars. You need to stay healthy.”

  “My head still aches a little, but the chills are gone. And I was able to get you something.”

  “A sweet roll?” I asked, playing along.

  “No. For real this time—with the stars, I mean.”

  Wait. “What?”

  “I have a surprise for you. I wasn’t sure what kind of poetry you like, but I remember you said you liked poems, right?”

  “Yes.” I still didn’t get it.

  “So I got you a book of poems … with my earned stars. I thought I could read it to you, through the wall.”

  My mind couldn’t quite grasp it: that he’d gotten me a book of poems—that he’d waste his stars on me. I mean, he could’ve asked for anything: ginger ale for his stomach, a mystery novel, a deck of cards, a Rubik’s Cube … “Mason, you didn’t have to do that.”

  “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to.”

  I rested my forehead against the wall, wishing there were something I could give him back.

  “I mean, I know it’s not ideal,” he continued. “Plus, like I said, I’m not even sure if these poems are your taste, but I thought I could read them to you. Look, if you don’t thin—”

  “I’d really like that,” I said.

  His kindness was almost too much to take in. But I ate it up like sweet rolls, hugging the leg of the table, soothed by the artful verses of poets I’d never known.

  THEN

  23

  Using my zipper as a knife, and the box of brownies as my inspiration, I managed to make a hole in the mattress fabric. With the cuffs of my sweatshirt pulled down over my fingers to protect the open wounds, I wiggled my thumbs into the hole and pulled in both directions. The mattress split open in one satisfying tear—ten gaping inches.

  I peeked inside to check out the construction. It was different from how I’d thought it would be: A network of springs, assembled as part of a metal grid, sat between two layers of foam. The foam pads appeared to be solid pieces. I sat back on my heels, unsure if I should rip the pads apart to get at the coils. Or would it be better to tear the mattress fabric around both sides to have more access to the springs? Both options were worth a try, but first I needed a break. My forearms quivered. My head wouldn’t stop aching.

  I took a swig of water. My stomach gurgled with hunger. The scent of popcorn kernels heating filled the air. Food would soon be coming. I grabbed my reward form in anticipation, having earned my twenty stars; it was time to order my prize.

  Are you kidding? said the Shelley voice inside my head. If you really cared about getting out of this cell-hole, you’d keep on working.

  I ignored the voice and scribbled the words notebook and pen set across the line.

  Why not ask for something to help you escape? the voice continued. Like hairpins, knitting needles, or a metal fork. I mean, seriously? A notebook? Do you plan on paper-cutting him to death? Even Mason was smart enough to ask for a reading light which doubles as his flashlight.

  I looked at the box of Cocoa Loco brownies sitting propped on my pillow. If I didn’t start writing again, I was seriously going to lose it. “Writing is how I’m able to make some sense of this screwed-up world,” I argued. “It’s how I used to end every day.”

  Better to end your day on the outside, rather than in this cell-hole with a bunch of moody poems. Why is that not obvious?

  I flipped my pillow over the Cocoa Loco box so I wouldn’t have to “listen” anymore. If that weren’t crazy enough, not five seconds later, I removed aforementioned pillow so that “Shelley” wouldn’t be mad.

  I know.

  And I knew.

  The voice of Shelley—my inner devil’s advocate—was right. I had to keep focused. But still I pushed the scorecard through the cat door (out of arm’s reach so
I couldn’t make any edits), and felt guilty shortly afterward.

  I needed to see Mason. He would make it better, tell me that I did nothing wrong, remind me of the frivolous book of poetry he got with his stars points. Except the book hadn’t seemed frivolous at all. It’d been the first thing since being taken that had made me feel somewhat normal.

  That should’ve been the red flag right there. I’d been locked up in a cell, taken against my will, and treated like an animal.

  Nothing was supposed to feel normal.

  NOW

  24

  It’s funny the way memory works, especially long-term memory, when the thing being remembered hits us, making the brain pop like electricity. We think it’s so random—that timing of sorts. But there’s nothing random about it. Our brains are smarter than we are, equipped to recall things at key times, when we’re able to make the most sense of the information.

  I remember something. The memory strikes me like lightning, waking me out of a sound sleep. I sit up in bed, still able to picture it—that afternoon, a few years back. Someone bumped into me downtown. It was snowing out, and the sidewalks were blanketed by at least six inches.

  I fell to the ground. Snow found its way up my back, filling the inside of my sweater. The bruise I’d find on my outer thigh later looked like dead roses beneath my skin.

  I didn’t think much of it at the time—falling, that is. I was laughing. The guy I’d bumped was laughing.

  He gave me a hand getting up. White ski gloves—the men’s version of the kind I’d been coveting at the sporting goods store in Maybelle Square.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  I dusted the snow from the back of my jeans.

  “Sorry. That was definitely my fault,” he continued.

  “It’s fine. I mean, I’m fine.”

  “Are you sure? Is there anything I can do?” he asked.

  He nodded toward Chico’s Bakery. But I didn’t quite get it. Was he asking if I wanted to go there? To check out my wounds? To join him for coffee? He looked at the bakery again and then at me. An unspoken question loomed above his head like a thought bubble without words.

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  He glanced at the bakery for a third time. The neon-pink sign in the front window announced hot sticky buns but provided zero clarification. “I just thought that maybe…” His words stopped, replaced by an awkward grin.

  Meanwhile, any residual grin on my face melted like snow in fiery heat. I took a step back. Chills ripped up my skin.

  But still he asked, “I just thought maybe … Do you want something to drink? Or are you hungry for a bite?”

  He was wearing a knitted hat, an oversized parka, and a pair of blue-mirrored sunglasses. But he was tall.

  Like he was.

  And had facial scruff.

  As he had.

  And so I don’t know, will never know, if he’d been watching me since then.

  NOW

  25

  My mother calls me to come downstairs, saying she has a big surprise. I can hear the smile in her voice, and I crawl out of bed, promising to reward myself with a star for good behavior.

  The surprise is sitting on the living room sofa.

  Jack stands when he sees me, flashing me back to the night of the junior prom, when he sat in the very same spot, waiting for my grand descent down our mahogany staircase.

  A subtle smile crosses his lips. “I hope it’s okay that I stopped by.”

  “Of course it’s okay,” Mom answers for me.

  He’s holding a bouquet of wildflowers. Mom goes to search for a vase, leaving us alone, pretending to be busy.

  Jack looks different from how I remember, up close, mere inches away. Sure, nearly a year has passed, but still, his face looks thinner. His hair is longer on top. Has he grown a couple of inches? Were his eyes always bottle green? He looks so put together in his dark-washed jeans and gray cotton sweatshirt. Meanwhile, I feel broken apart, desperate to disappear.

  I sit on the edge of the sofa and run my fingers over my bedhead hair.

  “So I saw you,” he begins, sitting down beside me. His hand rests on the seat cushion, just a few inches from mine. “In the coffee shop the other day, and I didn’t get a chance to say hello.”

  “Hello,” I answer.

  “I knew you were back, but I figured that since you were out and about, maybe you’d be open to visitors. I would’ve called or texted, but your number is different now. Anyway, if I’m overstepping it by coming here, just say the word.”

  Instead, I draw my hand away.

  “I’m really glad you’re home safe,” he says. “Everybody is. I guess that’s pretty obvious.”

  Nothing’s obvious to me—not anymore. “It’s still nice to hear.”

  He angles in my direction. An invisible agenda pops above his head. “I was trying to imagine what it must be like for you … coming home after having been away for so long, I mean. All the changes…”

  “It’s weird,” I admit.

  “But change can be good,” he perks. “For instance, there’s a new taco place in town—Casa Buela or Buena … something like that. I thought of you when they were moving in and renovating the space.”

  “I love Mexican food.”

  “Exactly, which is why I told myself I wouldn’t try the place until you got home and we could try it together.”

  “That’s really sweet of you.” I half smile. “Really sweet that you would even think of me.”

  “Are you kidding? I think about you all the time.”

  “Well, thanks,” I say for lack of better words.

  “When you went missing, it was, like, I don’t know … like maybe a part of me went missing too. I mean, I know that may sound weird or cheesy or whatever, but we’d been pretty close, don’t you think?”

  “We had been,” I agreed, though I was never quite sure just where our flirtationship stood.

  “We’ve been a part of each other’s lives since the fourth grade,” he says. “Every morning before school, you were there, at my locker, with your crunchy granola bars and your daily dose of cheer. Every track meet, every cram session, every major disappointment and cause for celebration … you were with me, offering encouragement, advice, a shoulder, your notes … Whatever I needed, day or night. And then, just like that—”

  “I wasn’t.” I nod.

  “I hated that … every day, not knowing where you were.”

  A thin layer of pink creeps over his face, making blotches on his neck; they remind me of bleeding heart flowers.

  “I guess I was pretty freaked out that I’d never gotten to tell you some stuff,” he continues.

  “Stuff like what?”

  He gazes up from the floor. His eyes look bleeding too. “I mean, I know this may sound weird. Most guys don’t make a habit out of talking about their feelings … But I care about you. I always have. And I regret not telling you that before, not making it clearer. Maybe if I had…”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “Maybe you’d have been with me that morning, instead of running off to the shop. There was the Gigi Garvey concert that night. Maybe we’d have gone into the city early and made a full day of it. That’s what I’d wanted, but I’d been too chickenshit to ask.”

  “And maybe we wouldn’t have.”

  “I guess we’ll never know, but it’s something I asked myself each day that you were gone.”

  After I got home, it didn’t surprise me to learn that my parents harbored regrets. Mom wishes she’d brought me to Norma’s herself. Dad hates that he slept in that morning.

  Shelley blames herself for having made her parents cut their camping trip short.

  Norma curses her decision to give me my own set of shop keys.

  We’ve all carried our regret around like anchors, struggling not to drown. But never did I imagine that Jack carried it too. Just how many more casualties lay in the wake of my mistakes?

&
nbsp; “I guess I just needed you to know that,” he says.

  I want to tell him that I knew he cared, and that I did as well, but I can’t get the words to fit through the pinhole that’s become my mouth. “I really wanted to go with you to that concert,” I say instead: my version of middle ground.

  Jack smiles—the grin I remember, that curls to one side, forming a dimple in his cheek.

  He looks away, clenching the edge of the sofa. I pull my sweatshirt cuff over my scars and place my hand down beside his, about eight inches away. He probably doesn’t notice. To me, the gesture is huge.

  “Did you go to the concert anyway?” I ask, not sure I want the answer.

  Jack meets my eyes again and shakes his head. “Once word spread that you’d gone missing, it was as if the whole world stopped. A search team got assembled. There were hundreds of people looking.”

  My parents said the same, but it was nice to hear again. And it was nice to sit in this space with Jack—a space without questions or expectations, beyond the four gray walls of my room.

  NOW

  26

  After Jack leaves, Mom pops out of the kitchen before I have the chance to go back up to my room. Her face is beaming: wide, expectant eyes; round, rosy cheeks; and a smile I haven’t seen on her since BIWM.

  She clasps her hands together as if to pray. “So … How did it go?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  Clearly, that isn’t the winning answer, because the smile fades. Her cheeks lose their puff. The glow on her face dulls. And her prayerful hands drop.

  “Jack’s a really nice guy,” she says, slowly, carefully, as if I don’t quite get it. “He means well and cares about you.”

  “I know. He does.” And so what am I supposed to do? Ignore what I’m feeling? Change myself for him?

  For her?

  For everyone?