See Jane Run Read online

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, opening one of the closets and fishing through her top drawer for her black lace garters. She held them up for her reflection to see, was satisfied by the expression of shock they elicited. “These would probably get him going.”

  Is that what you want? her reflection asked silently. Do you really want to get him going? You better be damn sure before you start anything.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want,” Jane said angrily, returning the garters to the drawer and slamming the closet door shut. “I can’t think clearly. My head feels like someone has stuffed it full of rocks.” She brought her hands to the back of her skull and dug her nails into her scalp, feeling it tingle. “My head hurts,” she cried. “My head hurts and I can’t think clearly, and I’m tired all the time. Goddamnit, what’s the matter with me?”

  It had to be the pills she was taking. Despite Michael’s assurances that they were very mild, obviously they were too strong for her. She probably wasn’t used to any kind of prolonged medication. The pills were responsible for her disorientation and depression, for her constant fatigue and sense of hopelessness. Yet every time she questioned Michael about them, every time she asked him whether they were really necessary, he told her that Dr. Meloff had specifically prescribed them, with instructions that she continue to take them for at least several more weeks.

  Had those been Dr. Meloff’s instructions?

  “Now, what does that mean?” she demanded of her reflection, wondering from what perverse corner of her brain this strange thought had sprung. “What are you trying to say? That Michael is lying to you? That Dr. Meloff never prescribed any medication? That Michael, with Paula’s assistance, is deliberately trying to keep you drugged and dopey and depressed? Why? And how can you be having such thoughts about a man you were, only moments ago, ready to hop into bed with?”

  “Because I’m obviously going crazy,” came the immediate response. “Who else but a crazy person would argue with her own reflection?”

  There’s an easy way to find out, the woman in the mirror informed her, silently passing the message through the glass. Call Dr. Meloff.

  “What?”

  Call the good doctor. He told you to feel free to phone him any time. Call him and ask him whether he prescribed any drugs for you.

  How can I do that?

  Easy. Just pick up the phone and dial.

  Jane’s head spun toward the phone on the bedside table. Was it really that easy? Was that all she had to do? Pick up the phone and dial?

  Her hand reached for the phone, then stopped. What if Michael were to walk in? Where was he anyway? It was after nine o’clock. Was it possible he was still asleep?

  She walked purposefully out of her room into the hall, careful not to make any noise. If he was sleeping, she didn’t want to disturb him. If he was busy in some other part of the house, she didn’t want to bring him rushing to her aid. At least not yet. She tiptoed down the hall, peeking first into Emily’s room, then the bathroom, the guest room, and finally Michael’s office. But the bed in the guest room had been made, and he wasn’t working at his computer. She heard barking and so she approached the window, glancing outside.

  Michael was talking to Carole Bishop on her front lawn. J.R. barked impatiently and pulled on his leash, his walk obviously having been interrupted. From where Jane stood, their conversation looked serious. Both had their heads bowed, their eyes directed at the grass at their feet. She watched Carole nod her head and Michael pat Carole’s arm solicitously. She’s probably going on about Daniel, Jane thought. Or her father. Michael was just being his usual caring self. Could she really doubt him?

  She returned to her bedroom, feeling angry and ashamed. Had the man done anything, one single thing, to make her question him? To make her suspect he might be feeding her unnecessary drugs? No! He’d done nothing but look out for her, look after her. And feed her pills around the clock. Jane looked at the telephone beside her bed. “Pick up the phone and dial,” she said out loud.

  Tentatively, she reached over and lifted up the receiver. There was no dial tone. Her eyes followed the phone cord to its socket on the wall. The socket was empty. The cord lay coiled on the floor directly underneath it like a sleeping snake. Michael must have pulled the cord out of the wall in case the phone rang while she was sleeping. He didn’t want her to be disturbed. He was only thinking of her welfare, as he had proven every day since her return home. And she was about to repay his kindness by checking up on him.

  She bent over, steadying herself against the bed, fighting the sudden wave of dizziness that swept over her, and reconnected the phone. The dial tone droned loudly in her ear, rebuking her. “What now?”

  Now, you call information, she instructed herself, sitting down on the bed, punching out 411.

  “What city please?” came the almost instant response.

  “Boston,” she said equally quickly. “The Boston City Hospital.”

  There was a pause during which the human voice was replaced by a machine. It repeated the number twice while she fished in the drawer of the night table for her telephone-address book. “Just a minute,” she urged the machine. “I want to write this down. Where’s my book?” She distinctly remembered having gone through the paisley-covered book page by page when she came home from the hospital. And now it was gone. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?” she asked, giving up the search and trying to concentrate on the numbers the automatic operator was relaying. “Great, now you’re talking to machines.”

  She immediately dialed what she hoped was the correct number.

  “Boston City Hospital,” announced the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Could I speak to Dr. Meloff, please.”

  “I’m sorry. Could you speak up, please. Which doctor did you wish to speak to?”

  “Dr. Meloff,” Jane repeated louder.

  “I don’t think Dr. Meloff is in today. But if you hold on a minute, I’ll try his extension.”

  “Of course, it’s Saturday! He won’t be there on Saturday.” Jane was about to hang up when she heard his voice. “Dr. Meloff?”

  “Speaking. May I help you?”

  “It’s Jane Whittaker.”

  There was no response.

  “Jane Whittaker? Dr. Michael Whittaker’s wife.”

  “Oh, of course, Jane,” he said, giving an emphasis to her name that suggested he was glad to hear from her. “I’m usually not in today, so I wasn’t expecting any calls. How are you?”

  “I’m so sorry to bother you …”

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m delighted to hear from you. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “I’ve spoken to your husband a few times. He told me that he’d had to reschedule your appointment with the psychiatrist but that he felt you were making progress, that you’d remembered an incident from your past.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed, trying not to sound as confused as she felt. “I didn’t realize you’d been speaking to him.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind my being curious, and your husband, of course, is very concerned. So, we thought we should keep in touch. What can I do for you?”

  “It’s these pills you prescribed for me, Dr. Meloff,” she began, half expecting him to burst in with an indignant, What pills?! I’ve prescribed no pills! But he said nothing. “I was wondering what exactly they were.”

  “I believe I prescribed Ativan. Just give me half a second and I’ll check my files.” There were several seconds of intense silence. So, Dr. Meloff had prescribed medication for her after all. Michael was simply following doctor’s orders. “Yes, Ativan,” Dr. Meloff stated, coming back on the line. “It’s main ingredient is something called lorazepam. I don’t know if that means anything to you or not, but essentially, it’s just a very mild tranquilizer, not unlike Valium, but not addictive in the same way.”

  “But why do I need to be taking anything at all?”

  “
A mild sedation usually works very well in cases of hysterical amnesia.” He paused, and Jane could almost hear him smile. “Look, you’re in a very stressful situation: You don’t remember who you are; you’re married to a man you don’t know; you’re surrounded by a bunch of strangers. That has to be producing a great deal of anxiety which will only get in the way of your memory coming back. The Ativan is supposed to counteract that anxiety, let your memory find its way back home.”

  “But I’m so tired all the time, and depressed ….”

  “That’s not out of keeping with the situation. You’re bound to get more depressed the longer this thing drags on. That’s why the Ativan is so important. And as for your fatigue, well, I’d say your body is trying to tell you something. Namely, that you need sleep. Don’t fight it, Jane. Listen to what your body is telling you.”

  “So, you don’t think it’s the medication that’s making me feel this way? …” Why was she asking him that? Hadn’t he just told her that Ativan was a very mild tranquilizer? That he considered it essential for her recovery?

  “There’s nothing in Ativan to cause depression. I suppose it’s possible that it could make you sleepy, considering you’re a little underweight, but that should stop once your body gets used to it.”

  “It’s just that I feel so helpless, like I have no control ….” She stopped, suddenly aware of Michael’s footsteps on the stairs. “I should go,” she said quickly. “I’ve bothered you enough.”

  “I’m just glad I was here when you called. Listen, if your husband is there, I’d like to talk to him for a minute.”

  Michael stood in the doorway.

  “He’s right here,” she said into the phone, then stretched the receiver toward her husband. “Dr. Meloff,” she told him, her heart pounding wildly. “He wants to talk to you.”

  Michael looked appropriately puzzled as he took the receiver from her hand. He looks as confused as I feel, Jane thought, wondering again what had prompted her phone call to Dr. Meloff. Had she really suspected her husband might be feeding her unnecessary medication? Why? The man had been nothing but good to her. He’d been patient and supportive and wonderful. Was she allergic to wonderful men? Was that her problem? She couldn’t cope with being so happily married, so she’d escaped into some sort of temporary insanity, and now she couldn’t cope with his continued love and devotion, so she tried to convince herself he must be plotting against her. That made a lot of sense.

  When was the last time anything had made sense? Did it make sense that she should find herself walking the streets of Boston without a clue as to who she was? That she should have pockets filled with hundred-dollar bills and a dress that was streaked with blood? That she couldn’t remember her daughter’s birth or her mother’s death? That she should be so distrustful of, and hateful to, the people who were only trying to help her? That the mildest of tranquilizers could turn her into a zombie? That she was growing so paranoid she felt like a prisoner in her own home?

  Did it make sense that her back ached and her head throbbed and it hurt her to swallow? That she couldn’t accomplish the simplest of tasks? That she distinctly remembered returning her telephone-address book to the drawer of her night table, and now it was gone? Did any of that make sense? And how could anyone who couldn’t remember her own name claim to distinctly remember anything?

  “Where’s my telephone-address book?” she asked as Michael replaced the receiver. He’s hurt, she recognized, trying to avoid his eyes. He doesn’t understand why I called Dr. Meloff. And what can I tell him when I don’t understand myself? “It was here.” She pulled open the top drawer of the night table for emphasis. “And now it’s gone.”

  “I don’t know where it is,” he said simply.

  “It was here when I got home from the hospital.” Why was she persisting? Why was she making an issue of something where none existed? Because the best defense was a good offense. Because that way she didn’t have to explain her call to Dr. Meloff.

  “Then it must still be there,” he was saying.

  “It isn’t. Look for yourself!”

  “I don’t need to look. If you tell me it’s not there, then I believe you.”

  Jane translated this to mean, If you told me that Dr. Meloff had prescribed medication for me, then I wouldn’t dream of checking up on you. It fueled her anger. “Paula must have moved it,” she shouted, pacing back and forth in front of the bed.

  “Why would she move it?”

  “I don’t know. But it was here last week and it’s not here now. So, somebody had to move it.”

  “I’ll check with Paula on Monday,” he said, clearly upset by her behavior, but fighting to keep calm. “I don’t understand what you want with the book anyway.”

  “Maybe I want to call one of my friends,” she shot back, sounding irrational even to herself. “Maybe I want to start picking up the pieces of my life. Maybe I get tired of being cooped up here all day, watched over by that Nazi ….”

  “Nazi?! Paula?! My God, what’s she done?”

  “Nothing!” Jane shouted, all pretense of sanity gone. Nothing could prevent the torrent of words from rushing from her mouth, as if they, too, had been kept prisoner for too long and were now hell-bent on escaping. “She does everything exactly right. She’s a goddamn machine. She watches over me like Big Brother. I can’t go to the bathroom without her checking up on me. She doesn’t let me answer the phone. She tells my friends I’m out of town. Why won’t she let me speak to my friends?”

  “What would you say to them?” he asked plaintively. “Do you really want your friends to see you like this?”

  “What are friends for?” she demanded.

  The color drained slowly from Michael’s face, as if someone were adjusting the tint on a color TV. He sank onto the bed, his face in his hands. “It’s my fault. I told Paula not to let you take any calls. I thought I was helping you, keeping you away from stressful situations. I thought it would be best if not too many people knew about what was happening. You’ve always been a very private person, and I didn’t think you’d appreciate having everyone know … I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice drifting off, disappearing into the space between them.

  She sat down beside him, her anger suddenly vanquished. “No I’m sorry. You obviously know me better than I do.” She hoped he would smile and was gratified when he did.

  “If you want to speak to your friends, just say the word. I’ll call them right now if you want, tell them to come over.”

  Jane thought for an instant, the idea of speaking to virtual strangers, let alone facing them in person, causing her heart to race. He was right—it would undoubtedly prove too stressful. Whom would she call? What would she say? “No, not now,” she told him, then, “Please forgive me. I’m just very confused.”

  “Is that why you called Dr. Meloff?”

  “I don’t know why I called Dr. Meloff.”

  “Don’t you think you can talk to me?” She saw tears forming in his eyes, saw him struggling to contain them. “Don’t you know that there isn’t anything in this world I wouldn’t do for you? That if you have any questions, any doubts, any fears, that you can talk to me about them? If you don’t like Paula, we’ll get rid of her. If you want to get out of the house more, I’ll take you wherever you want to go, or you can go by yourself, if that’s what you want. You can come to the office with me, if you’d like. Or you don’t have to go anywhere with me at all.” He stopped, his chest caving in as if he’d been punched, hard, in the stomach. “Is that it, Jane? Am I the problem? Because if it’s me, if I’m the one you don’t want around, then just say the word. I’m out of here. I’ll pack some things and move into a hotel until this nightmare is over.”

  “No, that’s not what I want. You’re not the problem. I’m the problem.”

  “I just want what’s best for you, Jane. What’s best for us.” He was crying openly now, not bothering to hold anything back. “I love you so much. I’ve always loved you. I
don’t know why this awful thing is happening to us, but I’ll do whatever I can to make it go away as quickly as possible, even if it means giving you up.”

  Now she was crying too. “I don’t want you to go away. I want you to stay with me. Please don’t leave me. Please.”

  She felt his arms surround her as she laid her head against his chest, and they both cried. And then they weren’t crying any more, and her eyes were seeking his, and his mouth was covering hers, and they were kissing, and it felt good, no, more than good, it felt wonderful. It felt, for the first time, as if she really had come home, as if she really did belong here.

  “Oh, God, Jane, you’re so beautiful,” he said, kissing her again and again, his hands finding her breasts, pushing her nightgown aside so that he could stroke her legs. And then suddenly, he was pulling away, retreating, burying his gentle hands beneath the covers of the bed. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  “Why not?” Jane asked, well aware of the answer.

  “You’re confused now; you’re not sure….”

  “I’m very sure.”

  He stared at her for several long seconds, then bent his head forward to kiss her nose. “I’ve always loved you in that stupid nightgown,” he said, and she laughed.

  “Make love to me, Michael. Please.”

  He looked carefully into her eyes, as if trying to crawl inside her head.

  “It’s what I want,” she told him, and there were no further protestations.

  THIRTEEN

  THE following week, Jane had another dream.

  She was standing with a little girl she recognized as her daughter at the edge of a small skating rink in Newton Center. They stood side by side, Emily in her pink snowsuit and new white skates, Jane in a hooded parka and heavy winter boots, about to step onto the ice when they were halted by a stern male voice.