See Jane Run Page 20

  More Italian.

  “Mom, do what you want, okay? You want to put her in bed for a few hours, fine. Do it. So, she won’t want to go to sleep at night. At least she won’t be having nightmares. Right? Okay, listen, I’ve got to go. I have to start getting dinner ready.”

  Dinner? Jane glanced at the clock on Michael’s desk, carefully returning the receiver to its carriage. It was after four o’clock. Of what day? How many days had she missed?

  She stared at the phone, hearing Paula busy in the kitchen. How many of her friends had tried to call her in the past few weeks? How many had been told she was off in San Diego visiting her brother?

  Her brother! she thought, jumping to her feet, banging her knees against the bottom of the desk, hearing an involuntary cry escape her lips, then standing very still. Had Paula heard? Jane clutched at the sides of the desk to keep from falling over, her heart pounding with such ferocity that she feared she might faint. Her brother, she repeated, supporting herself against the wall as she slid back toward her bedroom, suddenly remembering how she had trashed her closet, how she had stumbled on her purse, found her driver’s license and her charge cards, all the items she would have surely taken with her on any long-distance trip.

  She staggered into her room, half-expecting to see the mess she had made, to find her clothing strewn all about, but the room was clean and tidy. There wasn’t a trace of her earlier tantrum. She approached the closet and silently pulled open the mirrored doors.

  Her clothes hung neatly and all in their proper place. Nothing looked as if it had been disturbed. Shoes she remembered flinging hither and yon stood primly side by side; sweaters she had thrown across the room were stacked smoothly one on top of the other. The drawers she had emptied were well filled and carefully arranged. Old hats and sweatshirts lined the shelf above her head. The only thing missing was the box that had fallen during her tirade, the box that had opened to reveal her purse, which in turn had disgorged her charge cards and her driver’s license. Had such a box ever existed? Was it possible that she had imagined the whole episode?

  Or was it possible that Michael had been lying to her all along?

  Michael had told the police that the reason he hadn’t reported his wife’s disappearance was that he thought she was visiting her brother in San Diego. He told Jane she had planned the visit as a surprise, and that was why her brother hadn’t been alarmed when she hadn’t shown up. He claimed to have called her brother after bringing her home from the hospital to assure him that everything was all right. But could her brother really have been reassured by a few well-chosen words? Hysterical fugue states couldn’t be that common an occurrence, even in California. Did it make sense that her only brother would be so blasé about something as serious as a total loss of memory? That he wouldn’t insist on flying in to see her? At the very least, you’d think he would be sufficiently concerned to insist on talking to her himself. And if he had called, if he’d been told repeatedly that she was sleeping or sickly or unable to answer the phone, wouldn’t that have made him all the more concerned?

  There was an easy way to find out, she realized, looking back toward the hall, hearing the sound of Paula’s footsteps on the stairs. All she had to do was call him.

  She crawled back into bed and closed her eyes, feigning sleep, just as Paula reached the door. Just check on me and leave, Jane urged silently, feeling the young woman approach her bed. You see, I’m asleep. Safe and snug as a bug in a rug. Isn’t that how the rhyme goes? Isn’t that how you want me—all docile and unconscious? Just fix my covers and leave. I have things to do, people to call. Just straighten my blankets and go get dinner ready. That’s a good girl. No, what are you doing? What are you doing?

  Jane felt her sore arm being pulled out from beneath its covers, then laid out flat, its inside exposed. She smelled rubbing alcohol, felt something cold and wet against her already bruised veins, and opened her eyes in protest. “No, please, don’t,” she cried, feeling the needle make contact.

  “There, there,” Paula said, as if talking to her little girl. “It’s for your own good.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Jane pleaded, determined not to give in to sleep.

  “You need to rest, Jane,” she heard Paula say, her voice retreating even though she was standing still.

  “But I don’t want to rest,” Jane said, feeling her eyes close, not sure whether she had said anything at all.

  She woke up to the sound of a dish breaking.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry, Dr. Whittaker. I’ll replace it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s only a plate. You didn’t cut yourself, did you?”

  “No, I’m fine. Here, let me clean it up.”

  Jane forced herself out of bed toward the top of the stairs, carrying her nausea like a child on her shoulders. She strained to make out the conversation below, then struggled to retain it.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with me today. I’m dropping everything. I guess I’m just tired.”

  “It’s not easy looking after someone in my wife’s condition.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Whittaker isn’t the problem.”

  Jane imagined Michael’s eyebrows arching in concern.

  “Between my daughter’s nightmares and my mother’s nagging, I’m not getting much rest these days.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  “I think you have more than enough on your mind these days without concerning yourself with my problems.”

  “Why don’t you leave the rest of the dishes for a few minutes and tell me about them,” Michael offered, and Jane pictured him pulling out a kitchen chair for Paula to sit down.

  Jane fought the urge to lay her head against the carpet and go back to sleep. She couldn’t risk lying down, not even for a minute. She had to use the phone. She had to call her brother in San Diego. She had to do it now while Michael was caught up in Paula’s problems. Before it was time to administer her next injection.

  She pulled herself silently along the railing at the top of the stairs to Michael’s study, pausing for a second at the doorway, trying to decide whether it was riskier to close the door or leave it open. If she closed it, there was less chance of her being overheard. But there was also less chance of her hearing them, should they decide to come upstairs. She decided to leave it open.

  Sitting behind Michael’s desk, she reached for the phone, hearing each action magnified a thousandfold. She pressed the phone to her ear, and was immediately greeted by the deafening blast of the dial tone. Surely they had heard it downstairs. She buried the receiver against her chest and waited for the sound of footsteps on the stairs, but there was nothing. Slowly, awkwardly, her fingers unsure of their destination, her aim unsteady, she punched out 411.

  “What city please?” the woman all but screamed into the phone. Jane pressed the receiver tighter against her ear. She mustn’t allow any sounds to sneak through.

  Her own voice was barely a whisper. “I need the number of Tommy Lawrence in San Diego.”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to speak up.”

  Jane bowed her head as if in prayer and spoke into her chest. “I need the number of Tommy Lawrence in San Diego.”

  “San Diego? Did you say San Diego?”

  “Yes.” Goddamnit, yes!

  “You’ll have to call the long-distance operator for that information.”

  “How?” The word was as much sigh as question.

  “One—two-one-three—five-five-five—one-two-one-two,” the operator told her and clicked off.

  Jane fumbled for the button at the top of the phone, received another dial tone, then pressed the appropriate numbers.

  “Operator. What city, please?”

  “San Diego.” Jane felt the words reverberate throughout the study as if in an echo chamber.

  “Yes?”

  “I need the number of Tommy Lawrence.”

  “Address?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “One min
ute please.”

  Hurry. Please hurry, Jane begged silently.

  “I show a listing for a Thomas Lawrence at One fifty-five South County Road and a Tom Lawrence at Eighteen hundred Montgomery Street.”

  “I don’t know.” Oh, God, I don’t know. Think, a little voice dictated. Try to remember the address that was listed in your little book. Try to see the name. Jane closed her eyes and held her breath, calling up the image of her telephone-address book, turning to the proper page, seeing her brother’s name, his address just below. “I can’t see …”

  “I can’t hear you.”

  “Eighteen hundred Montgomery Street!” she exclaimed louder than she had intended. “I think it’s Eighteen hundred Montgomery Street.”

  But the operator was already gone, replaced by the familiar machine. Jane scribbled down the number as it was relayed to her, her eyes locked on the open doorway, hearing faint laughter from downstairs. Keep laughing, she urged. Laugh so I can hear you.

  Jane pressed out the number, realized she had forgotten to include the area code, and had to begin again. She wanted desperately to lay her head down along the top of the desk. All she needed was a few more seconds of sleep and then she’d be ready. Her head angled toward the desktop, stopping only when confronted with her image in the blank computer screen.

  The woman who stared back at her through half-closed lids looked only vaguely human, her face distorted and gray. Was this the same woman whose face she had first confronted in the washroom of the convenience store on Charles Street? The woman the ponytailed proprietor had described as “kind of pretty"? Good God, what are they doing to me? she asked, forcing her body into an upright position.

  Somewhere a phone was ringing, a voice was saying hello.

  “Hello,” Jane said back, covering her mouth with her hand. “Hello. Who is this?”

  “Since you’re the one who called,” a woman was saying, “suppose you tell me.”

  “It’s Jane.”

  “Who? I can hardly hear you.”

  “Jane,” Jane repeated louder.

  “Jane? Tommy’s sister?”

  “Yes!” She was starting to cry.

  “My God, I didn’t recognize your voice. Do you have a cold or something?”

  “I haven’t been feeling very well,” Jane began. This woman must be Tommy’s wife, Eleanor.

  “You sound awful. What is it, the flu?”

  “No. One of those mystery viruses,” Jane told her, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “How have you guys been?”

  “Oh, the same as usual. Jeremy just got over a cold and Lance has a permanent runny nose, and your brother keeps complaining about his back, and I’m going crazy trying to figure out what to pack …”

  “You’re going away?”

  “Our trip to Spain, remember? Finally. At last. God, how could you forget? We’ve been planning it for years. I assumed that’s why you were calling, to wish us bon voyage.”

  “Eleanor, I need to talk to my brother!” Jane wondered if her voice was as loud as she imagined.

  “Eleanor? You know I prefer Ellie. And your brother’s at work. He won’t be home for another hour.”

  Jane checked the clock on Michael’s desk. It was almost seven o’clock. “He’s working late?”

  “It’s only four o’clock. Jane, did you forget the time difference?”

  Jane swallowed the urge to vomit, speaking clearly into the phone. “Eleanor … Ellie, you have to tell me the truth.”

  “The truth? Why would I lie about your brother being at work?”

  “Have you been speaking to Michael lately?”

  “Michael? Well, no, I haven’t—”

  “Has Tommy?”

  “I don’t think so. At least he hasn’t said anything to me.”

  “He didn’t say anything about Michael calling and asking if I was there.”

  “Why would Michael ask if you were here?”

  “Because that’s what he told the police.”

  “That’s what who told the police? Jane, what are you talking about?”

  Jane could hardly speak over the rapid pounding of her heart. She thought she heard voices, footsteps on the stairs, but when she looked, there was nothing. “You’ve got to listen to me, Eleanor … Ellie. Ellie, you have to listen to me.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Her head was spinning; her mind was racing. She heard the voices drawing closer, then nothing. Her eyes focused on the door. Still nothing. She had so much to say, so little time to say it. “Something has happened to me.”

  “What? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t explain it; I can’t remember who I am.”

  “Jane, you’re not making any sense.”

  “Please, listen. Don’t interrupt. It’s very hard for me to concentrate. They keep giving me drugs—”

  “Drugs? Who’s giving you drugs?”

  “Michael and Paula.”

  “Paula? Who’s Paula?”

  “They were supposed to help me, help me remember. But they only make me feel worse, and now they’re giving me injections—”

  “Jane, is Michael there? Can I speak to him?”

  “No!” Jane knew she had spoken too loud. “Listen to me. Michael has been lying to me. He told the police that I was visiting my brother in San Diego. He told me it was supposed to be a surprise. But then I found my purse with all my identification, and how could I go to San Diego without any identification? So, he was lying about why he didn’t call the police after I disappeared—”

  “Jane, slow down. You disappeared? I don’t understand. Can you start from the beginning?”

  “No, goddamnit. There isn’t time. They’ll be up in a minute to give me another shot. Please, Ellie, you have to help me. You have to tell my brother. He has to come and get me.”

  “Ellie,” a male voice cut in on the extension as Jane watched Paula step into the room. “Ellie, it’s Michael.”

  “Michael, what’s going on?”

  Jane listened absently to the conversation, knowing it was pointless to say anything else. Paula was walking toward her, syringe in hand.

  “I’m sorry you had to get involved,” Michael was saying. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

  “What the hell is happening over there?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  Was Michael crying?

  “I get this crazy call; I don’t even recognize her voice; she’s telling me some nutty story about disappearing, losing her memory, being given drugs …”

  “We are giving her drugs,” Michael explained. “We’re supposed to be keeping her calm. That’s what her doctor advised.”

  “Her doctor?”

  “Jane is having some sort of breakdown. I think it’s all related to the accident ….”

  “My God. What can we do?”

  “There’s nothing anybody can do except wait. The doctor is confident it won’t last much longer. He calls it a hysterical fugue state. Apparently, they usually don’t last longer than a couple of weeks.”

  “A hysterical what?”

  “It’s not important. What’s important is for you not to worry.”

  “We’re supposed to be leaving for Spain in a few days,” Jane heard Eleanor sputter as Paula reached her side.

  “Go,” Michael urged. “You’ve been planning this trip forever. There’s nothing you can do. I wouldn’t even tell Tommy about this. There’s really not a damn thing you can do to help, and the whole episode will probably be over and done with by the time you get back.”

  “I’ve been really looking forward to this trip” was the last thing Jane heard her sister-in-law say before Paula took the phone out of her hand.

  I bet I never liked that woman, Jane thought, giving her arm to Paula without a struggle.

  SEVENTEEN

  “CAN I get you anything?” Paula asked.

  “What?” Jane was no longer sure when she was hearing things and when she wasn’t
.

  “I said, can I get you anything? Some more orange juice? Some toast?”

  “How about some coffee?”

  “Sure.”

  “Real coffee, not that decaffeinated shit.”

  “Jane….”

  “Paula….”

  “If you’re going to be difficult, I’ll have to take you back to your room.”

  “Please let me stay here. I love this room.” Jane opened her eyes briefly to make sure the sunroom was still there.

  “If you want privileges, you have to behave.”

  “Privileges are what you give to children.”

  “When you act like a child, you get treated like one,” Paula told her.

  “I don’t mean to. It’s just that I feel so awful, and I get so confused.”

  “You have to follow your doctor’s instructions.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “You have to try harder.”

  “I will. Thank you for letting me come downstairs.”

  “The sunroom was Dr. Whittaker’s idea.”

  “I’m grateful,” Jane said, and she was.

  “Do you want some coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  “How’s your daughter?” Jane asked, thinking that Paula looked tired.

  “She’s fine.”

  “What’s her name again? Caroline?”

  “Christine.”

  “Your mother’s looking after her?”

  “Temporarily.”

  “I bet you didn’t think you’d be here this long.”

  “It shouldn’t be much longer.”

  “Why? Why do you say that?” Jane pushed herself up on the sofa-swing.

  “Don’t get all worked up. It was just something to say.”

  “But you sounded like you knew something.”

  “All I know is what Dr. Whittaker tells me.”

  “What did he tell you?” Jane asked.

  “That it shouldn’t be much longer,” Paula answered.

  “Has Michael been talking to Emily?”

  “I don’t know.” Paula was watering the plants.

  “He must miss her.”

  “I’m sure he does.”