See Jane Run Page 19

Daniel nodded without speaking, and climbed behind the wheel of his car. Jane watched them back out of the driveway onto the street, Daniel waving one last time. Jane stared after the car until it disappeared, and even then, she was reluctant to turn around. She felt Carole’s eyes, as intense as lasers, searing into her back, hostility covering her like a layer of acid, burning away her skin. Why?

  “Is something wrong?” Jane asked, finding the courage to face the woman she had hoped was her friend.

  Carole’s response was a harsh, bitter laugh. “You must think I’m an idiot.”

  “I don’t think any such thing. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot—you forget! How convenient!”

  “Please, won’t you tell me what’s bothering you? You seem so angry at me.”

  “What possible reason could I have for being angry at you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “No, I don’t. You weren’t angry at me the last time we talked. At least I didn’t think you were.”

  “Can’t you remember?”

  “I remember that I thought we were friends.”

  “Funny about that. That’s what I thought.”

  “Then what happened? Did it upset you to see me talking to Daniel?”

  “Why should that upset me?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you felt a certain sense of betrayal.”

  “Betrayal. An interesting choice of words, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think. I wish you’d stop talking to me in riddles.”

  “You don’t like riddles? That’s odd. I thought people who enjoyed playing games usually liked riddles. It just goes to show you, I guess, that you never really know anybody as well as you think you do.”

  “Please tell me what you think I’ve done.”

  “Oh, I don’t just think. And believe me, I’d like nothing better than to tell you. Just that I made a promise, and unlike some people I could name, my vows mean something to me.”

  “You made a promise to whom? About what?”

  “Carole! Carole, come in here,” an old voice called out in terror. Carole’s father appeared in the doorway of their home, gesticulating wildly. “There’s a fire. There’s a fire in the kitchen!”

  “Oh, my God!” Carole raced toward the house, almost tripping on the dog, which had run outside and was barking furiously. “Move it, J.R.!” she screamed, disappearing inside the front door as the smoke detector began to sound.

  Jane reacted instinctively, running into the house after Carole. If there was a fire, then maybe she could be of help. Paula obviously felt the same way because she was right behind Jane, both women following the path of billowing gray smoke into the kitchen.

  Carole was already at the stove, trying to smother the flames shooting out of the frying pan with the small fire extinguisher that rested on the side of the counter, but not having much luck. Jane reached for the lid of the frying pan and dropped it onto the top of the pan. The flames shot up from the sides of the pan in one last gasp of protest, and then died.

  “Jesus Christ, Dad, what are you trying to do? Burn us down?”

  “I wanted some scrambled eggs.”

  “Just because your brains are scrambled doesn’t mean you can make scrambled eggs! Haven’t you done enough damage around here without having to blacken the ceiling? Look at this!” she yelled, pointing to various stains on the counter. “All these mementos of your vast culinary artistry! If you wanted scrambled eggs, why didn’t you ask me?”

  “Because you’d tell me I just ate, that’s why!” the old man shot back clearly over the loud barking of the dog and the continuing scream of the alarm.

  “I could make him some scrambled eggs,” Jane volunteered.

  “You’re very kind,” said the old man, pitifully grateful.

  “You’ll do no such thing.” The phone rang, interrupting Carole’s angry words. “Yes, hello,” she snapped into it. “No, there’s no fire. It’s all been taken care of. Just my father trying to add a few more gray hairs to my collection. Thanks for calling.” Carole replaced the receiver. “Good thing the monitoring service checks before sending out the fire department.” She stared at Jane, ignoring her father, Paula, the barking dog, and the screaming alarm. “You can go home now. Show’s over.”

  “Please tell me what I’ve done that has you so upset.”

  “Go home, Jane,” Carole repeated. “I don’t want to do anything I’ll regret.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like tell you what I really think of you.” Carole’s anger flared. then suddenly dissolved. “I thought you were my friend, for Gods sake.”

  “I thought so too.”

  Carole began pacing the smoke-filled room, the dog and her father both scurrying out of the way of her angry steps. “I feel like such an idiot. I guess that’s the worst part. That I never even suspected. That I never had the slightest clue.”

  “Clue to what?”

  “Oh, cut the innocent shit with me, okay? I know all about your affair with my husband! I know everything.”

  “My affair with your husband?! What are you talking about?” Jane could barely believe her ears. Surely she had heard wrong. “No!” It couldn’t be possible.

  “All that time I was crying on your shoulder, all those mornings I spent pouring my heart out to you, and you were laughing at me. Tell me, did you and Daniel have a good chuckle about it later?”

  “None of this makes any sense,” Jane pleaded, looking to Paula for support, seeing only disgust in her expression.

  “On the contrary, it’s all very clear to me.”

  “I think we should go now,” Paula said. “Dr. Whittaker will be home shortly.”

  Could it be true? Had she been having an affair with her neighbor’s husband? Daniel had hinted at his feelings for her out there on the lawn. Was it possible that she had returned those feelings? That they had acted upon them? Had his conscience tricked him into confessing the whole nasty affair to his wife? Had he just finished divulging the sordid details when she and Paula arrived home? Was that the reason for Carole’s sudden change in attitude toward her?

  Could it be that Daniel was the source of all her problems? That Michael had found out about the affair? That he had discovered them together? Had there been a fight? Had she lashed out at him? Struck him across the head with whatever object was handy? Had she tried to kill her husband because she was having an affair with another man? Was the affair real or the product of Carole’s overripe imagination?

  What was real and what wasn’t, for God’s sake?

  Was she really standing in the middle of a smoke-filled kitchen with a siren screeching around her, a dog barking at her feet, an old man beside her pleading for some scrambled eggs, an outraged housekeeper to her right, silently damning her to hell, and a half-crazed neighbor in front of her, who had just accused her of sleeping with her husband, an affair she couldn’t remember with a man with whom she had just spent the better part of ten minutes in pleasant conversation? On her neighbor’s very own front lawn with his son waiting in the car! Was that her reality? Jane Whittaker—this is your life! No wonder she had run away. No wonder she wanted no part of it.

  “How do you know?” Jane heard herself ask.

  “I know.” Carole sank into one of the kitchen chairs. “Michael knows too.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “He made me promise not to say anything to you until you were better.” She shook her head in mock amazement. “I don’t know how you do it. One day you’ll have to tell me your secret. You treat men like shit, and they fall all over themselves trying to make sure you’re okay. It must be a special talent. Maybe one day you’ll write a book.”

  “I’m so sorry,” Jane mumbled. “Please believe me when I tell you I don’t remember any of it.”

  “Oh, I believe you. Daniel’s lovemaking was far from memorable. If you’d asked me, I’d have spa
red you the time and trouble. Now; I’d really like you to get out of my house before I seriously try to kill you.”

  Jane bit down hard on her bottom lip to keep from screaming, letting Paula lead her out of the house. As the front door closed behind them, Jane heard Carole’s father asking when it was time for lunch.

  “No!” Jane was screaming as she raced up the stairs to her bedroom. “No, it can’t be!”

  “Try to settle down before Dr. Whittaker gets home,” Paula pleaded, running after her.

  “What kind of person am I? What kind of person cheats on a man like Michael with her neighbor’s husband?” Jane waited for Paula to provide her with some sort of answer, and when none was forthcoming—did she really expect Paula to have any answers?—she ran into her bedroom and began pounding her fists against her mirror image. “Who are you, goddamnit? What kind of mess have you made with your life? Who else have you been fooling around with? How many other affairs have there been? How many other men does Michael know about? Jesus Christ, look at you! You’re a goddamn mess. Why don’t you answer me, damn you!”

  “I’ll get your medication.”

  “I don’t want any medication. I just want to get out of here!” Jane glared at her reflection. “I don’t want to know who you are anymore!” Jane slammed the palm of her hand against her startled image. “I don’t want to remember anything about you. I just want to get as far away from you as I possibly can, like I tried to do before. Only this time, I’ll do it properly.” She threw open her closet doors as Paula hurried downstairs. “I have to get out of here. I have to get away from this. I have to get away.”

  She tore frantically, and without reason, at the clothes in the closet, tugging them off their hangers, scattering them about the room. One after another, blouses were pulled off their hangers, then ripped and discarded, then the skirts and dresses, next her slacks. She opened all the drawers and emptied each one, hurling scarves and nightgowns across the floor, deliberately treading on her underwear, kicking at delicate items with her feet. “Goddamn you!” she was shouting, grabbing her white cotton nightgown, trying to tear it to bits. “None of this is mine! None of this is who I am!”

  In the next instant, she was on her hands and knees, reaching into the far corners of the closet, scrambling among her shoes, reaching up to yank what few clothes remained off their hangers. “Goddamn you,” she cried. “Goddamn you to hell, whoever you are! Do you hear me? I don’t want anything more to do with you. You’re crazy! Nothing but a goddamn lunatic!” She kicked at her shoes, watching them bounce into the air, as if kicking back. Then she was suddenly on her feet again, stretching toward the high shelf that ran along the top of the closet, a shelf filled with old hats and sweatshirts, travel cases, and boxes. Her hand swept across the shelf in one fluid motion, sending each item crashing to the floor. “This is how crazy people clean house,” she cackled as a box hit her head and bounced to the floor. She watched it spill open, a navy purse tumbling out and landing at her feet.

  Everything stopped. As frantic as she had been only seconds earlier, she was equally still now. With deliberate slowness, Jane lowered herself to her knees and scooped the abandoned purse into her hands. Holding her breath, though she wasn’t sure why, she snapped open the handbag and withdrew some old tissues, a set of car keys, house keys, and a maroon-colored wallet. Jane pulled open the wallet and checked inside.

  Everything was there: her driver’s license; her social security number; her charge cards. Her identity. Hidden in a box at the top of her closet. Why? If she’d been planning to visit her brother in San Diego, wouldn’t she have taken these things with her? Did it make sense that she would be flying to California without any identification? That she would have left the house without her purse?

  Unless she’d never been planning to visit her brother at all. But then why would Michael claim she had? Why would he give that story to the doctors and the police? Why would he lie? Was he still trying to protect her?

  Or himself.

  “Now I know you’re crazy,” she whispered, unable to come to terms with these sudden suspicions. “You’ve totally flipped out.”

  She looked toward the door to see Michael and Paula, side by side, their faces a mixture of fear and concern. “What’s going on here, Michael?” she asked, displaying the contents of her purse.

  “Hold still,” Michael told her as Paula gripped her arm and held it straight.

  “No, please—” Jane cried, but it was too late. The needle had already pierced her skin and the medication was rushing through her veins.

  SIXTEEN

  JANE awakened from a dream, wherein she held a group of Nazi skinheads at bay with one of her daughter’s stuffed animals, feeling sweaty and sick. Her arm ached, and for several minutes, her eyes refused to open. She finally forced her lids apart, then had to close them again when she saw the room spinning around her.

  Don’t panic, she cried silently, panicking nonetheless. It’ll be all right. Wasn’t she safe at home in her own bed? Wasn’t she being looked after by the world’s greatest husband?

  Could she really have cheated on him?

  “No,” she groaned out loud. “I didn’t. I couldn’t.” I may not know who I am, but I know I didn’t have an affair. I may be capable of murder, but I am not capable of cheating on my husband. Christ, listen to me. What deranged mind thought up this perverted value system? I’ll kill but I won’t sleep around; I’ll save rain forests but I’ll destroy marriages.

  Did any of this make sense?

  Did it make sense that Carole would lie? What possible motive would she have?

  Even with her eyes tightly closed, Jane could feel her head spinning. She was convinced Carole’s rage had been genuine. Her anger had been too real to be fake. Still, how well did Jane know Carole? And wasn’t it Carole who had remarked that we never really know anyone?

  She can’t be that good an actress, Jane thought, convinced that Carole truly believed her to be guilty of an affair with her husband. Yet on both Carole’s initial visit to Jane’s house and Jane’s subsequent visit to her home, Carole had been friendly and open and eager to be of help. She had been neither resentful nor angry. Certainly not hostile. That meant she had to have arrived at the knowledge of Jane’s duplicity only recently. Either Daniel had confessed their affair out of some misguided sense of fair play, or someone else had told her. Who?

  Jane knew the answer without having to form the word or say the name. Carole had told her that Michael knew about the affair, that he had asked her not to confront Jane until after she had fully recovered. It stood to reason that Michael had also been the one to tell Carole of the affair in the first place.

  Jane fought through the fog that had enveloped her head to recall when this might have transpired. Hadn’t she seen Michael and Carole together one morning? Hadn’t she watched from the window as they whispered together on Carole’s front lawn, J.R. straining on his leash beside her? Oh God, Jane moaned, rolling over on her side, then returning to her back when her arm started to pulsate. Why would Michael tell Carole anything so potentially destructive?

  Maybe he’d just gotten tired of bearing the entire burden alone. Maybe he’d needed someone to confide in. Or maybe his motivation was to drive a wedge between the two women. Maybe his intent was to keep them apart. But why? What could Carole tell her that Michael didn’t want her to know?

  And if Michael had been the one to tell Carole about Jane and Daniel’s supposed affair, then that meant one of two things: that Michael was telling the truth, or that he was lying. Ask me no secrets, I’ll tell you no lies. What secrets? Jane wondered. How many lies?

  Jane’s eyes opened wide with fear. There was another possibility, she realized, watching the Chagall lithographs on the far wall come alive and dance toward her, the upside-down fiddlers suddenly righting themselves, brides and grooms swaying back and forth to music only they could hear: the possibility that Michael and Paula and Carole were part of some larger plot,
that they were all in this together. Oh, great, a conspiracy, Jane thought, rubbing her sore arm, feeling stupid and melodramatic. Where was Robert Ludlum when you needed him?

  The truth was undoubtedly much simpler: She was as crazy as a loon.

  The inside of her left arm began to throb and Jane forced her eyes to the source of the pain. The skin at the crook of her arm was bruised a bluish-purple. Her fingers drew gentle circles around the area of discoloration, but even such timid ministrations were painful. She lifted her arm closer to her line of vision, recalling the prick of the needle as Paula held her arm straight while Michael administered the sedative. How many times had the needle pricked her arm since then? How many days had passed? How long had they been keeping her sedated?

  She forced herself to her feet, fighting the urge to throw up, clinging to the bedposts as she crept to the bedroom door. Paula’s voice wafted up the staircase toward her from the kitchen. Was she talking to Michael? Jane strained to make out pieces of the conversation, but as Paula’s was the only voice she heard, she concluded that Paula must be speaking on the telephone. Unless she was talking to herself, Jane thought and almost laughed. Maybe it was the house that was driving them all insane. Maybe it hadn’t been properly insulated, and asbestos poisoning was making them all nuts.

  Hanging on to the railing, feeling the sun pressing down on her back from the skylight above, Jane continued toward Michael’s study, wondering only briefly what she was doing as she sank into the chair behind his desk and gingerly picked up the phone, bringing it slowly to her ear.

  “… having these nightmares for a few weeks now,” Paula was saying. “What? Are you trying to tell me I never had nightmares as a kid?”

  The woman on the other end of the phone muttered something in Italian.

  The silence that followed was so full of hostility that Jane found herself holding her breath. “Okay, so you were the perfect mother and I’m not,” Paula conceded bitterly. “But I can’t afford to sit home all day and look after her. Her nightmares are bound to stop sooner or later. She’s a kid, for God’s sake. Kids have nightmares.”