Jane Anonymous Read online

  But me.

  “He was instrumental during your search,” she continues. “So generous with his time. He made flyers, hung signs, volunteered day and night. He searched the parks, the bike paths, the alleyways, the woods behind your school … He turned this city upside down.”

  “I know.” My voice cracks. “I mean, I’m grateful.”

  “He was instrumental,” she repeats.

  I bite my tongue because instrumental implies that it was because of his efforts that I was found. But no one found me. And I’m still searching for my missing self.

  “Jack’s really sweet.” I nod.

  “So then why don’t you look more appreciative?”

  “I am appreciative. I’m glad he stopped by.”

  “Really?” She combs her fingers through her hair: six inches of gray locks, from root to ear; the rest is auburn. She hasn’t been to a salon since BIWM.

  “I’m sorry,” I utter, unsure what else to say or do.

  “This is about Mason, isn’t it? Why you’re stuck in neutral? Why you push everyone away?”

  I bolt up the stairs, back to my room. Mom follows. She stands in the doorway. Her eyes zero in on my bookcase—on my jugs of water and my stash of Cocoa Loco brownie boxes. “You could have the real Shelley at your side at a moment’s notice, but instead you’re stockpiling some artificial version of her. It isn’t healthy. What’s going on inside your head?”

  I take a step back, bumping into my table.

  “I love you.” She sighs. “But at some point, you really need to…”

  I love you, but … That’s all I need to hear—all it really takes to make a fresh tear in my heart, where I thought there were only shreds.

  “What happened to you was horrible and hideous and tragic and unfair,” she says. “But you’re back now. You’re home, thank God. And you have to go on living.”

  As if I don’t already feel dead.

  “You were gone for seven months,” she says. “Don’t let that vile creature take one more day.”

  The words vile creature grate like sandpaper against my skin. Because she wasn’t there. So how could she even say?

  “I love you,” she says again, this time not altering the words with a but. Instead, a pregnant pause follows as does a shake of her head.

  But I just can’t do it: say the words I love you back. I haven’t said those words in the months since my return. Mom’s eyes fill. Her face wilts like paper in flames, and the drizzling of her tears doesn’t seem to put out the pain.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her again, wishing I could cry too. At least tears would show that I still have feelings, that I’m worthy of time and patience.

  She leaves the room, and I pull the shades, draw the curtains, turn off the light, and lock the door behind her. Sitting in the dark, I rub my cheek against the rug until I feel a hot burn, and I grind my head against a chair, conjuring up the feeling of that time, when so determined to escape, I tried forcing my way through the cat door, nearly getting myself stuck. A layer of skin tore free from my scalp. My hair sopped the blood like a sponge, turning it bright, bright red.

  But still I can’t cry, even though I cried plenty then.

  I crawl beneath the table and wrap myself around the leg. With my cheek pressed to the wood, I think about missed concerts. And missed days. And how much I miss Mason.

  So.

  Unbelievably.

  Much.

  An absence so deep, I can taste it on my tongue like the ashes of cremated bodies after a slow and painful death. Still, my eyes remain dry. My tears have all been shed. If it weren’t for my writing, I’d have no voice either.

  THEN

  27

  As soon as I woke up, I shot out of bed and checked the cat door. My heart leaped. Like Christmas morning, Santa had left me a present. I knew just what it was, but that didn’t lessen the excitement. I pulled the bag toward me, from out in the hallway, and peeked down between the handles.

  The notebook cover was marbleized, silver and blue, and bound with a shiny gold spiral. I took it out. The pages were lined with gold too, all around the edges. A pen sat at the bottom of the bag. I plucked it out, checking to see if I could use the tip as a knife, or if the cap might be sharp enough to cut. But both were plastic.

  I flipped the notebook open just as I heard Mason’s knock. I scurried to the wall, excited to tell him about my prize.

  “I told you,” he said. “All you need to do is play by the rules, and you’ll get what you want.”

  “What I really want is to go home.”

  “Which is why I’m trying to bust us out of this shithole. I found something to help me, by the way.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “A screwdriver. It was in one of the heating ducts. Maybe a worker left it at some point. I figure I can use it to try to pick some locks, chisel through drywall, or protect myself if I need to.”

  I opened my mouth to tell him about my mattress project but then fell silent. Because what would happen if Mason got caught while sneaking out? If he ever chose to save himself by telling the monster everything he knew?

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you something,” I said instead. “When you first got here, was your room stocked with all of your favorite snacks?”

  “My favorite snacks?”

  “All of the things you like to eat, that is. Was everything handpicked, as though just for you?”

  “I guess, now that you mention it. But to be honest, I’m not super selective. I mostly just eat whatever’s in front of me.”

  “Okay, so how about the clothes—the ones that were in your dresser when you got here? Was it stuff you like? Brands you’d normally shop for?”

  “I’m not really a brand-name kind of guy. It was just some sweats and tees, plus one zip-up sweatshirt.”

  “All in your size?”

  “Yeah, why? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that he chose all of us specifically for some reason. Do you know if Samantha’s room is decked out with all her favorite things?”

  “No, but I can ask.”

  “Do you think he might’ve taken us for ransom?”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I’m screwed. I don’t know anyone with money.”

  “So maybe he chose you for a different reason.”

  “Or maybe I was a spontaneous pick.”

  “Why would he spontaneously pick you?”

  “Because of my irresistible charm?”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I’m not?”

  “My parents would pay anything to get me back,” I told him.

  “Were you guys really close?”

  “We are really close.”

  “Sorry. That’s what I meant.”

  “My parents have Only Child Syndrome, which basically means they’re hyper-focused on every little thing I do, say, feel, or want. When I sneeze, they practically come running with tissues balled up in their hands.”

  “If only you were sneezing when that asshole took you, right?”

  “Right,” I admitted. “If only my mom had insisted we catch up over coffee. If only my dad had gotten up early instead of sleeping in.”

  “Why did he sleep in?”

  “He’d been working until midnight the night before.”

  “But you said you were taken on a Sunday. Does your dad work Saturdays?”

  “He’d started to.” More and more, late into the night.

  “Let me guess. Does he work in a hospital? Or at a twenty-four-hour call center?”

  “He works in a bank.”

  “Seriously? A bank?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  “Doesn’t that strike you as a little weird … working until midnight at a bank? Is it a twenty-four-hour branch?”

  I bit my lip, knowing it was weird. So why had I never questioned it? The long hours, even on the weekends …

  “My mom took off when I was eight,” Mason said. “My dad couldn’t handle
it and started drinking.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, it sucked, especially on nights when my dad got completely wasted. He’d lock me in the basement to keep me out of his hair, then tell me it was all my fault.”

  “Mason, that’s horrible.”

  “But life goes on, right?”

  “I guess…”

  “It does. I’m living proof.”

  “Do you know where your mom went? Or why she left in the first place?”

  “Negative to both. I haven’t seen her since.”

  For a fast and fleeting second, I wondered if his mother might’ve had something to do with us being taken. But that didn’t make sense either. Because why would she take me? Or Samantha? Or any of the others?

  “My dad passed away a couple of years ago,” Mason said. “I tell myself he’s probably happier wherever he is. He hated life without my mom, drank himself into a pretty bitter guy. On some nights, I think he was just waiting for the time to come—to not wake up, I mean.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “I know. But everything happens for a reason, right? My mom abandoning Dad and me, growing up with an alcoholic, having to drop out of school to pay bills…”

  “Were there relatives that could help you?”

  “If there were, I didn’t know any of them. But it hasn’t been all bad. I mean, I’ve definitely seen and learned a lot—probably more than most people my age.”

  “What’s been your most valuable lesson?”

  “Not taking on the role of victim. Even when life is at its suckiest, I try to find the bright side.”

  “What’s the bright side of being abducted and held against your will?”

  “At least I’ll have a pretty impressive story to tell in the end.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Maybe a little.” He laughed. “But this isn’t my first time being locked up. I got arrested once for stealing from a convenience store. Between that and a rocky family life, I’ve had plenty of practice at staying positive.”

  “Stealing food?”

  “Cash.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed hard, feeling a piece of my heart crumble.

  “It wasn’t anything as dramatic as what you see on TV. No one got hurt.”

  “Did you have a gun?”

  “No, but I pretended I did. It was really, really stupid. But my father had just died—not that that’s an excuse—and I was desperate and hungry. Anyway, I did my time. And I tried to stay optimistic. Because what’s the alternative? Giving up? Rotting away? Passing out in the snow, like my dad, and not waking up?”

  “Wow,” I said, taking it all in.

  “Wow, ‘What a complete menace I’m talking to on the other side of this wall’?”

  “Wow, you’ve been through a lot.”

  “Do you think less of me now?”

  I honestly wasn’t sure what to think. Part of me felt like I’d been socked in the gut. Another part tried to imagine myself in his position, after having been abandoned by my mother, and after losing my father, after dropping out of school to find a way to make ends meet … But would I have robbed a store?

  “Tough question?” he asked. “I can’t say I blame you.”

  “It’s not that I think less of you. There are just more layers I’m encountering.”

  “So now I’m an onion? I hope I never make you cry.”

  “Okay, that’s pretty bad.”

  “I know, but I couldn’t resist.”

  “If you get me out of here, I’ll cry tears of joy.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  “And so am I. I’ve been brainstorming ideas for escape.”

  “What kind of ideas?” he asked.

  “What if I were sick and needed a doctor?”

  “You’re not sick, though, are you?”

  “No. But what if I pretended that I was? You know, like in middle school when you felt like playing hooky? Do you think that guy would open the door?”

  “Maybe he’d just give you Tylenol.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “Okay, so suppose he does open the door. Then what?”

  “Then I fight back and try my best to break free.” The idea sounded laughable spoken aloud, outside the confines of my head.

  “I just think he’ll know if you’re not really sick—like, he’ll be able to take your temperature. Though I guess you could put a warm cloth on your forehead or gargle with hot water…”

  “Exactly, like in middle school.”

  “You’d really have to play a convincing role, coughing a lot, hacking up, making yourself look groggy and weak … Do you have any soda water in your room? Maybe you could use it to douse your eyes and make them red. But he still might be able to tell that you’re faking.”

  “Even if I were really sick?” Like if I got a headache or a stomachache and simply ramped up the drama.

  “You’re not planning on doing something stupid, are you?”

  “Stupid like what?”

  “Like trying to make yourself sick.”

  It was the first time the option had occurred to me—that if I’d wanted I could’ve downed a bottle of shampoo or eaten a bunch of soap bars; that maybe, despite the horrible circumstances and these equally horrible choices, I still retained a bit of power.

  “Jane?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think I could handle it if you really got sick.” His voice sounded soft and splintered. “Or if you got hurt in any way…”

  I pressed my forehead against the wall, wondering just how affected he’d been by his mother’s abandonment and his father’s death.

  “I mean, I know we don’t even know each other well,” he continued, “but believe it or not, this time we’ve had together … it’s meant a lot to me.”

  The heat of my breath bounced off the wall, smoked against my cheeks, made my face grow even warmer.

  “Jane?”

  “I’m not going to make myself sick.”

  “Promise me?”

  “I promise,” I said, glad there was something I could give him back. And just like that, my power was gone.

  THEN

  28

  Later that same night, I tossed and turned in bed, my mind locked on the conversation I’d had with Mason and the questions it had launched.

  Why had my father been working until midnight on the night before I was taken … a Saturday night? Why had he started putting in longer days, including on weekends? The bank he worked at wasn’t even a major one, just a small-town branch where he processed mortgages and car loans—nothing that’d require him to work as much as he did. Or to travel as often as he’d started to.

  Was it possible that he’d been cheating on my mother? Was that the real reason he couldn’t have dinner with us most nights? And why, last spring, he’d missed my poetry reading entirely. He’d said it was because of an accident on the highway, but now I had to wonder.

  I wondered …

  What was the real reason he’d started working out at the gym? He’d been shopping differently too—at the mall, rather than at megastores and discount warehouses. About a month BIWM, he’d asked me to go with him to the outdoor marketplace.

  “You need to show me where all the cool dads shop,” he’d said.

  I brought him to Cloth and Stone and helped him pick out pants, shirts, and tees, racking his bill up to over $600.

  “Sorry,” I told him when the salesperson said the amount.

  “No worries.” He smiled. “I knew what I was doing. Thank you for being my personal stylist. Now, I can look good for your mom.”

  Had it really been about her?

  “Your dad’s a good guy,” Mom reminded me not long BIWM.

  I’d given her a curious look, not sure why she was bringing it up. The comment had seemed so random; we’d been talking about going to see a movie, nothing even remotely relatable. Did she say it because it’s what she really thought? Or did she say it b
ecause it’s what she wanted to believe and needed to remind herself?

  I rolled over in bed, trying my best to conjure up fonder memories, like the time I got poison sumac in kindergarten when I took a nosedive into a bush while scavenging for wild strawberries—which probably sounds weird as a “fonder memory,” but it was the way my dad took care of me afterward that made the memory fond. At 2:00 a.m., when I couldn’t sleep because of the constant itch, he snuggled me up on the sofa in the living room and scratched my legs while we watched an all-night marathon of Jill and Jessie. Eventually, I fell asleep, and when I woke the following afternoon, he was still there. He’d taken the day off from work just to be with me—to make my favorite lunch (mac ’n’ cheese) and play my favorite board games.

  Was that same dad capable of having some secret life? How would I know? How could I not have known?

  I pulled a pillow over my head as if that would stifle my thoughts. But instead the conversation I’d had with Mason played on a continuous loop inside my mind’s ear:

  Does your dad work Saturdays?

  Let me guess. Does he work in a hospital? Or at a twenty-four-hour call center?

  Seriously? A bank? Doesn’t that strike you as a little weird … working until midnight at a bank? Is it a twenty-four-hour branch?

  I tried to stop the loop with thoughts of my father again. I pictured my five-year-old self wrapped up on the living room sofa, armed with the TV clicker, as a new episode of Jill and Jessie appeared on the screen.

  “Just scratch, Daddy, scratch,” I’d told him.

  Dad did as I’d said, scratching my every itch, and made me 3:00 a.m. nachos, along with a root beer float. So he wasn’t a bad guy. So he’d never do anything to hurt our family. How could I ever possibly think that?

  But still, I did.

  THEN

  29

  “What if I wrote letters to the monster?”

  I looked at the box of brownies sitting across from me at the table as though it could answer.

  “I could write long, meaningful letters,” I continued, “making sure to phrase things just right, focusing on the day I was taken.”

  I was still confused about the timing of it all. Had the monster staked out my house that morning, having assumed I’d go running, as I often did? Did my detour to Norma’s Closet throw him for a loop? Though he’d rebounded just fine, hadn’t he? With the story of his girlfriend and their one-year anniversary … What story would he have used if we’d met on a running trail? That he was lost and needed directions? Or that he knew me from somewhere?