See Jane Run Read online

“They won’t be here for another ten minutes. You could go upstairs and lie down ….”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You look lovely,” he said, and managed to sound sincere.

  Did she look lovely? She doubted it. Presentable was about all she could hope for these days. Still, she had tried, applying makeup for the first time since her return home, allowing Michael to steady her hand when it faltered, brushing on perhaps a trace too much blush in an effort to give her face some necessary color. Michael had even combed her hair, securing it into a girlish ponytail with one of Emily’s pink bows. It matched the soft pink sweater he had suggested she wear. Why was he being so helpful? Why was he being so damned nice to her when she was being so damned difficult?

  Why did you lie to the doctors and to the police? she wanted to demand, realizing that she was still desperately trying to believe that he hadn’t lied, that he could somehow provide her with all the right answers, tie the loose ends together, make everything all right again. Was it possible? Please explain all the lies, Michael. Tell me there’s a logical explanation for all my suspicions. Make the lies go away.

  She couldn’t ask him. She couldn’t risk incurring his wrath. Not now, not when her friends were almost at the door. Not when with a single injection, he could render her as helpless as a baby.

  “You’re sure you’re up for this?” he was asking.

  She nodded silently, suddenly understanding that her decision not to question him on these matters had less to do with the fear that he couldn’t come up with satisfactory answers than with the fear that he might.

  Because if he could present her with satisfactory explanations, it meant that she really was in the middle of some kind of nervous breakdown, that her stubborn refusal to continue with her medication was only contributing to her deterioration, that she alone was responsible for her plight, that it might go on indefinitely, that she might feel this way for the rest of her life, that she had lost her real self out there somewhere, and this was what had wandered home, and was here to stay.

  She took a long sip of her drink, trying to decide which alternative she preferred: Either she was a very sick girl and her husband was only trying to help her; or her husband had sinister reasons of his own for trying to turn her into a very sick girl.

  Does the contestant choose Alternative Number One or Alternative Number Two? Stay tuned for today’s episode of “The Young and the Psychotic.”

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” Jane insisted loudly, her voice stopping Paula as she was headed for the door.

  “It’s all right,” Michael assured the morose young woman, who instantly retreated to the kitchen.

  Jane’s hands were shaking visibly, ginger ale spilling from the glass to the floor. She carefully lowered the glass to the small table beside her chair and took several deep breaths, hoping her legs were steadier than her hands.

  “You can do it,” Michael encouraged her, rising from his seat on the sofa.

  Jane forced one foot in front of the other, hearing the doorbell ring a second time before she was able to actually move.

  “Easy does it,” she heard Michael say as she reached the front door and pulled it open.

  Two attractive strangers stood before her, the woman carrying a bunch of summer flowers, the man a bottle of white wine in a fish-shaped green bottle. “Welcome home!” the woman shouted, drawing Jane into a hearty embrace. “How dare you go away for so long and not tell anybody!” She stepped back to take a good look at Jane, giving Jane the opportunity to do the same.

  The woman was tall and slender, with streaks of blond running through chin-length straight brown hair. She was wearing navy pants and a pale-blue silk shirt decorated with a rhinestone pin spelling out the word SMACK above a pair of silver lips. Her earrings were a series of colorful stars that reached almost to her shoulders, and her lips were bright red. Jane’s first impression of Sarah Tanenbaum was that she was a very sophisticated and vivacious woman. She wondered what on earth they had in common.

  The woman was staring at Jane as if she were wondering the same thing. “What have you done?” she asked, pulling out of their embrace.

  Jane’s hands immediately moved to her face, wanting to hide behind her trembling fingers. “What do you mean?”

  “What have you done to your face?” The woman turned Jane’s head around in her hand, paying particular attention to the skin around her hairline. “You didn’t have some kind of botched face-lift while you were out in California, did you?”

  “What the hell kind of a question is that?” the man standing beside her asked, closing the front door and handing the bottle of wine to Michael, who had come forward to greet him. “Good to see you, Michael. How’ve you been?”

  “Not bad, Peter. And you?”

  “Great. I’m always great once tax season is over.”

  “Sarah,” Michael acknowledged warmly, kissing the woman on both cheeks, and directing them all into the living room.

  “What’s the matter with Jane?” Jane heard Sarah whisper, and saw Michael respond with a shake of his head. “What have you done to yourself?” Sarah persisted, absently handing the flowers to Paula, who had materialized with a plate of pâté and crackers. Paula took the flowers, deposited the tray, and left the room. “Who was that?” Sarah asked, totally confused. “What’s going on here?”

  “Sarah, for God’s sake, you just walked in the door,” Peter admonished his wife.

  “That was Paula,” Michael explained as Jane felt Sarah’s eyes boring into her face. “She used to clean for us twice a week, but when Jane took her extended holiday, I asked her if she’d consider working full time, and she agreed. At least for the summer.”

  “Lucky you,” Sarah said, continuing to stare at Jane. “I think.”

  “I haven’t had a face-lift,” Jane felt compelled to explain. “Really. Maybe it’s my makeup. Or my hair.”

  “No, it’s nothing so superficial.”

  “And my wife’s an expert on superficial, aren’t you, darling? Have some of this pâté, girls, it’s delicious.” Peter stuffed one cracker into his mouth and was spreading pâté on another.

  “I think she looks wonderful,” Michael said, rushing to his wife’s defense, kissing her on one overly rouged cheek. “What can I get everyone to drink?” he asked.

  “Bloody Mary,” Peter was quick to respond.

  “Is that a gin and tonic?” Sarah indicated the drink in Michael’s hand.

  “That it is.”

  “Looks good. What about you, Jane?”

  Jane picked up her glass and raised it in the air in a mock toast. “I think I’ll stick with ginger ale.”

  “Now I know something’s wrong,” Sarah said. “Since when did you start drinking ginger ale?”

  “My stomach’s been a bit upset,” Jane lied, sensing it was not the right time to get into the larger issues. “Probably the flight.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just cancel? We could have made this for another night.”

  “No, I’m fine. Really.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  “Sarah!”

  “Don’t Sarah me, Peter. I have a right to be concerned.”

  “Concerned, maybe, but not rude.”

  “And speaking of rude,” Michael interrupted, “I don’t believe we thanked you for the bottle of wine or the lovely flowers.”

  “Our pleasure.”

  “Just what’s wrong with the way I look?” Jane whispered to Sarah.

  Sarah hesitated. “How can I say this without it sounding too awful?” She shook her head in defeat. “I can’t.” She swallowed, exhaling a deep breath of air. “I don’t know. It’s almost like you’ve been embalmed, like you’re not real. I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it is your makeup. Maybe it’s the sweater. Maybe you’re just so … pink.”

  “I’ve always loved Jane in pink,” Michael stated, putting his arm around his wife while simultaneously handing Sarah h
er gin and tonic.

  “No, blue’s her color.” Sarah lifted her glass in a toast. “Well, cheers, everybody. Health and wealth.” They all drank, Jane emptying her glass.

  “Would you like another?” Michael asked solicitously.

  “I’ll get it,” Jane said.

  “Allow me,” Peter offered, quickly refilling Jane’s glass.

  “Why don’t we all sit down?”

  “Good idea. How about some of that pâté you’ve been stuffing your face with, Peter?”

  “God, women!” Peter groused, fixing his wife a cracker heaped with pâté. “I suppose now you’ll want one too,” he asked Jane, who was trying to decide whether he was serious. Peter Tanenbaum struck her as a big, handsome kid. Like his wife, he was tall and slim, his brown hair peppered with gray. But there was something mischievous, definitely childlike, about his gold-flecked brown eyes. You couldn’t be sure whether he meant what he said or whether he ever really said what he meant. Could you ever be sure of anyone? “Don’t look so serious,” he was saying. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want it.”

  Jane took the cracker from Peter’s outstretched hand and swallowed it in one bite.

  “Oh, sure. Now you’re going to tell me you want another one.”

  “So, tell us about San Diego,” Sarah urged. “What did you do there for so long?”

  “What are you talking about? San Diego’s a great place,” Peter said.

  “For a week, it’s a great place,” his wife told him. “For almost a month … I mean, how many times can you visit the zoo?”

  “Jane’s always loved the San Diego Zoo,” Michael said.

  “And she can barely tolerate her sister-in-law. You always said she had shit for brains,” Sarah reminded her.

  “Obviously, she’s changed,” Michael volunteered.

  “She must have changed a great deal.”

  “People do.”

  “Yeah? Since when?”

  “My wife, the cynic.”

  “My husband, the know-it-all.”

  “Ah, young love, ain’t it grand.”

  “So, okay,” Sarah continued, not about to be put off so easily, “you went to the zoo and you went to the marine museum, and you took a few boat rides, and then what?”

  “What is this?” Peter asked. “An inquisition? What does anybody do when they go on holiday? They visit their friends and relatives; they sightsee; they try to relax.”

  “Did you go to L.A.?”

  “For a few days,” Jane lied, starting to feel a bit dizzy and wondering if all this confabulating was the reason. “It was great.”

  “Now I’m really confused. I thought you hated L.A.”

  “Well, sometimes I do.”

  “But not this time?”

  “This time it was great,” Peter answered for Jane, finishing off his Bloody Mary. “So, Michael, how’s the world of medicine?”

  “Busy.”

  “Too busy to get away with your wife?” Sarah asked.

  “I flew out a few weekends.”

  “That was nice.”

  “And the world of accounting?” Michael asked as Jane watched his face divide into two halves and then reunite. What was happening to her?

  “Well, summer’s always a good time. The pressure’s off. You can relax a little, cultivate a few new clients. Oh, did I tell you who I brought into the firm?”

  “Jane, are you all right?” Sarah was leaning forward in her chair.

  “I felt a little dizzy for a minute.”

  “Jane, what is it? Are you okay?”

  Jane stared into Michael’s worried face. “I’ll be fine.” Could Paula have slipped something into the pâté? As if responding to her unvoiced accusation, Michael fixed himself a cracker heaped with the stuff, popping it into his mouth while Peter leaned forward to make himself another. So, it couldn’t be the pâté that was making her feel this woozy. What, then? The ginger ale? Was it possible for Michael to have slipped something into her drink after all?

  Oh, please don’t come unglued now, she wailed silently. You felt okay this afternoon. Well, not okay maybe, but not this awful sick feeling, this feeling where you have no control, where the room dances circles around you, and people’s voices drift in and out. Please stay with it at least until after dinner, until you’ve had the chance to explain everything to Sarah.

  How would Sarah react? She was already spooked enough by Jane’s appearance, by Jane’s prolonged stay in San Diego with a woman she obviously despised. I knew I didn’t like that woman, Jane thought, recalling her sister-in-law’s voice on the telephone when she’d tried to convince her she needed help. It’s nice to know some of my instincts are still intact.

  So, what do your instincts tell you about Sarah Tanenbaum? How will she accept the story of your amnesia? Your version of your confinement? Will she have the same trouble digesting the information as your sister-in-law? Will she react the same way, opting to believe Michael? And how can you expect her to believe that Michael has been lying to you when you’re not even convinced he’s lying? Although he lies so easily, she thought. (“I flew out a few weekends,” she heard him tell Sarah. Why had he said that?) Will she think you’ve gone crazy, react as Eleanor had, convinced you were in the middle of an emotional collapse?

  And how much are you planning to reveal? Are you going to tell Sarah about the ten thousand dollars? About the blood on your blue dress? Blue’s definitely your color, Sarah had said.

  “So, I told him, Frank, do yourself a favor and get rid of the jerk. I mean, I know he’s a local celebrity, and it’s always nice being able to say ‘I do so-and-so’s taxes,’ but the man’s giving you ulcers, and it’s not worth it. I mean, the guy actually called Frank up in the middle of the night to discuss a dream he’d had about tax shelters. A dream! Can you believe it. And Frank listens. So of course the guy’s going to keep calling. It’s cheaper than going to a shrink, which, frankly, I think Frank could use.”

  “So, who’s this bigshot celebrity?”

  “You can’t breathe a word of what I told you….”

  “He’s already told half the city,” Sarah deadpanned.

  “It’s Charlie McMillan.”

  “Who’s Charlie McMillan?”

  “The weatherman on channel six! For Christ’s sake, Michael. You’re no fun. You never know anybody. You know who I mean, don’t you, Jane? Jane?”

  Jane fought to bring Peter’s face into focus. Why doesn’t he sit still? she thought, trying to recall what he had asked. But how could she be expected to hear him when he kept lowering his voice, so that he sounded like a bad telephone connection? “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you.”

  “Jane, what’s wrong?”

  “Maybe you’d like to go upstairs and lie down for a few minutes.”

  “We could do this another time.”

  “No! I’m fine. Really, I’m fine. I mean, what is this? Why are you all jumping on me because I didn’t hear something?”

  “You looked like you were going to fall over,” Sarah told her, hovering close by.

  Jane shook her head. “I’m fine. Probably just hungry.” She looked at Michael, who pointed to the side of his mouth with his finger, a signal to her that there was something at the side of her own mouth. Jane raised her hands to her lips and wiped away a trail of drool, wanting to take a sip of ginger ale, but deciding against it. Where was Paula with the dinner anyway? She hadn’t eaten anything since lunch. She was probably just weak from hunger. She’d be fine once she got a little food in her system.

  “How much weight have you lost?” Sarah was asking, as if reading her thoughts.

  “Have I lost any weight?” Jane asked in return, strangely grateful to see Paula tiptoe into the room.

  “Dinner’s ready whenever you are,” Paula announced.

  Jane jumped to her feet, then had to grab hold of Sarah’s arm to keep from falling.

  “This is silly, Jane. We should leave. You should be in bed.”
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  “I’m fine,” Jane insisted, allowing Peter to guide her toward the dining room. “It’s probably just jet lag.”

  “Michael, what’s the real story?” she heard Sarah ask softly, trying to keep Michael back.

  “Come on, everybody, let’s sit down,” Jane called, not allowing Michael a chance to respond, taking her seat at the head of the table. Michael and Sarah followed.

  “This looks wonderful,” Sarah said, surveying the dinner that Paula was laying out on the table, forcing some cheeriness into her voice.

  “Help yourselves,” Jane directed, carefully watching as her husband and their guests piled their plates with food. She did the same, then waited until everyone else had sampled Paula’s cooking before lifting a forkful of chicken to her mouth.

  “This is delicious,” Sarah said. “This woman is a gem. Don’t ever let her go.”

  Jane forced the food into her mouth, knowing all eyes were on her. She chewed with deliberate slowness, concentrating on every motion, pushing one mouthful of food down her throat with another. If the chicken tasted any different from the green beans or the wild rice, Jane was unaware of it. It all blended together on her tongue. She only prayed it would stay in her stomach until after they had left the table.

  “What happened to your wedding ring?” Sarah asked, trying to sound casual.

  Jane stared at the unadorned ring finger of her left hand, unable to recall Michael’s explanation.

  “I’m buying Jane a new one. I thought she’d look nice in diamonds. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a good man,” Sarah told him, and patted his hand.

  “So, you haven’t asked my wife about Hitler,” Peter said suddenly, obviously unhappy with the subject of diamonds.

  “What?” Jane tried to lay her fork across her plate, but she missed, and the fork fell to the floor. She ignored it, concentrating on Peter. Had he really mentioned Hitler?

  “Our neighbor! Mr. Intimidation,” Sarah said impatiently. “The one who breaks into a goose step whenever he sees me. The Gestapo—I told you on the phone. You would have been very proud of me. I really let him have it.”

  “She asked him to pretty please not put his garbage in front of our house anymore.”