“We are your grandparents. Hannah was our daughter.”
Janie dropped the book bag. “Is that all?” she cried. She flung herself onto her mother. “Is that all? I thought—oh. Mother, you just cant imagine what I thought.” She could not stop repeating herself. She hugged her mother ferociously, feeling the strength of wrestlers in her arms. “Oh, Mommy, that’s all it is?”
We’re related, it’s okay, she’s all but my mother, there’s no daymare, no nightmare, no demons, Hannah just had an illegitimate baby and it’s me and that’s all there is to it.
Her father came up behind her, gave her a ponytail, and pulled her backward by her red hair. His hug was also the hug of wrestlers, hanging on to her, as if they were in danger of falling over cliffs. She leaned on him, letting the horrible cliff of kidnapping out of her mind.
“We love you, honey. You are our daughter. Just not legally and biologically. We don’t have a birth certificate for you. So we don’t know what we’re going to do about your passport and your driver’s license and things like that.”
“Who even cares?” said Janie. She found she was sobbing. Her hair was wet, her coat was wet, her cheeks were wet. Her mother peeled away the outer layer of Janie’s clothing. “I’ll fix you a snack,” said her mother. She patted Janie, as if to dry her by hand. Her mother’s teeth were chattering.
“Food solves all,” agreed Janie, laughing through tears.
“The old Johnson family motto,” said her father. Janie pulled away from them. “But I’m not completely a Johnson, then.”
“Nobody here is a Johnson,” said her father. “It’s a long story, Janie.”
All three were breathing hard, as if from a long jog in the cold.
“Let’s sit on the couch together,” said her mother, forgetting snacks. “So we can hug. I’ve rehearsed this in my mind a thousand times, but now that we’re here, I’ve forgotten my lines.”
They sank together in the big velvet couch in the living room, Janie in the middle, a parent holding each hand. She was so tired from the assault of emotion she could hardly hold her head up. She rested against her fathers shoulder.
“Our name is not Johnson,” said her father. “It’s Javensen. We’ve never come across the name anywhere else. It has a Scandinavian sound, but we really don’t know much about my family.”
Javensen, thought Janie. I like it, she thought. It’s better than Jayyne Jonstone. Jane Javensen.
“Your mother and I …” Her father’s voice staggered, like clumsy feet. “I guess I’d better say, your grandmother and I.”
Janie shuddered. “No. Don’t say that.” She put a hand against his chest as if to trap those words.
“Well call us Frank and Miranda, then,” said Janie’s mother.
And the story her parents told, line by line, agony by agony, was so sad that Janie wept for them.
Frank had a degree in accounting and Miranda had a degree in medieval literature. Frank went to work for IBM in marketing, they got married, and a year later a baby girl was born. They named her Hannah, which meant full of grace. Hannah laughed and cooed and was happy her entire childhood.
“Hannah was my whole life,” said Janie’s mother. Her eyes fastened on a past Janie knew nothing of.
I’m your whole life! thought Janie, jealous and angry that somebody had come before her.
But Hannah had been an unusual child. Janie frowned when they described Hannah. She could think of no girl who even slightly resembled Hannah. Hannah had never wanted to do the things other girls did: she didn’t play with dolls or ride a bike. When she was a teenager, she didn’t care about boys or getting a tan or the radio. She worried about right and wrong. From the time she was very small, the inequities of life horrified Hannah. How could her family have so much and the world so little? Miranda could volunteer for a cause, do whatever a committee could do, and return home happy to a good dinner. Hannah never felt she deserved dinner.
“Hannah was beautiful,” said her father, “in a haunting sort of way. Hannah always seemed to be looking at something else. In another age she might have become a nun and spent her life thinking of God. But we were not a religious family, and I don’t suppose she even knew what a nun was.”
The oddest thing was happening: Janie was falling asleep. The sleepless nights worrying about the milk carton and whether to dial the 800 number had caught up to her.
“Do you know what a cult is?” her father asked.
Janie shook her head, bumping his shoulder.
“A cult is a religious group with exceedingly strict rules for the people who join it. The Hare Krishna movement swept America like a prairie fire in the sixties and seventies, Janie. It attracted young and old, hippie and conservative, East Coast and West Coast. And it attracted Hannah. She met a group of young people who told her that if she became a Hare Krishna, she would be purified. It would no longer be her fault she had so much, because they would not let her have anything. She would be saved. When she was sixteen, she fell on her knees and begged to be allowed to be one of them.”
Janie could picture none of this.
“They were scary people,” said her mother. “They wore bright yellow robes, the men shaved their heads, they carried bowls and begged. You saw them everywhere in cities, in airports, chanting and demanding money. But where we tried to be honest with Hannah, saying, ‘Nobody knows why some people starve and some people have everything,’ the leaders of the cult had answers for all her questions. And what Hannah wanted, in the end, was a set of answers and a set of rules.”
Yellow robes made her think dimly of National Geographic photos. But it evoked no memory.
“Sixteen therefore is a terrifying age for us,” said her father. He tried to laugh. “That’s why we’re having such a hard time with you, Janie. We have to give up part of you. Let you drive; maybe take the trip with the Spanish class; go off to college; make your own decisions—but Hannah’s decision! It ruined our lives and hers.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before now?” Janie asked.
Her mother was shuddering violently, from her teeth to her knees. “Because we were so afraid you’d want to find your mother, or maybe your father, and get sucked up in that cult, too! I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose another daughter. Janie—please—”
They need me, thought Janie. They need my comfort. “I wouldn’t do that to you. You won’t have to go through that twice. I promise.”
Her parents kissed her on each side. Her mother took both her hands now and held them against her cheek, as if in prayer. “We tried everything to get Hannah out. We took her on long vacations, we sent her to live with my cousin in Atlanta, we tried traditional church. But she went to California to join the temple commune. There was nothing we could do. The law wasn’t on our side, Hannah wasn’t on our side. The cult even had armed bodyguards to keep parents like us from snatching our children back.”
Snatching children, thought Janie. To think I actually thought Mommy and Daddy had snatched me! She could no longer keep her eyes open, but let herself doze against her father’s warmth.
“We wrote continually,” said her mother in a strangled weep, “but Hannah rarely wrote back. The few times we were allowed to visit, she seemed dulled. Like a silver spoon that needs to be polished. She spoke only when spoken to. All her responses were memorized. Our beautiful Hannah had stopped smiling forever. ‘I’m very happy here,’ she would say tonelessly, like a mechanical object.”
“I was still with IBM,” said her father. “I was transferred frequently. We sent Hannah every address change. Whenever I went on a business trip. I mailed her postcards. I suppose I thought I could entice her back into the world with pictures of waterfalls in the mountains or castles in Europe.”
Janie tried to remember California.
Her mother whispered, “We were good parents, Janie, we were! We never knew what we had done wrong, or why she rejected everything we ever taught her. We tried everything to get her b
ack. We sent police, we paid the cult off, we tried to debrainwash her when she visited. But she wanted to be in the cult. She was like a very tall, docile toddler: she simply obeyed her Leader; her mind was strangled. We wept on her birthday and that was all we had of Hannah.”
Her father described the passage of years in which Hannah led a weird enclosed life with harsh, incomprehensible people.
“We got an official letter telling us she had been wed to a man in the cult. That was all they told. Not even his name. Then one day,” said her mother, “the front door opened. I was making pound cake for the Women’s Club bake sale. I was in the kitchen adding six eggs to the batter and the beaters were whirling. I had added the first four. I remember that so clearly. I had two eggs to go. And there stood Hannah—holding you by the hand.”
Her parents sat up. Janie was amazed by this mutual physical response of the emotions. Even their posture knew the worst was over. Her father leaned forward, resting an elbow on his knee and cupping his chin, so he could look at Janie. Her mother’s voice lightened. She ran her hands through Janie’s red mane, held both Janie’s cheeks, and kissed the tip of Janie’s tilted nose. “You were such a beautiful child!”
I was a resurrection for them, thought Janie. Hannah reborn.
“You were her little girl, by the man who had been chosen as her mate by the Leader.”
“Mate?” repeated Janie. “What an animal term for the love between husband and wife!”
Her mother didn’t hear her. “You had no clothes except the clothes you were wearing. I had the best time taking you shopping! We bought sweet little socks with ribbon trim, and the cutest little jacket with bunnies on it and a tiny little beret. It was so adorable against your red braids. You had the best time! You had never had so much attention. I suppose in the cult you were in some kind of day care. You often referred to the other children and asked about them.”
Those twins, thought Janie. The spilled milk. It was just day care.
“We gave you your own bedroom and you thought that was the most exciting thing that ever happened.”
“You know what would be exciting now?” said her father. “Dinner. I am absolutely starving. Nothing builds an appetite like trauma.”
Janie giggled. She felt warm and toasty and complete.
“Lets nuke the leftover pot roast,” he said. “Are there any potatoes left, Miranda?”
“No, but I can make instant mashed if you want them, Frank.”
“I love instant,” said her father.
They went into the kitchen, as if leaving the bad parts of the story behind in the living room. Good things happen with hot food, thought Janie. “So, go on,” she said when the pot roast was nuked. “Hannah came in the door and you bought me tons of clothes and then what?”
“Well!” said her mother excitedly. “Hannah had realized the cult was a terrible way to bring up her little daughter. So she escaped! She didn’t even like you near the windows for fear the guards of the cult would be there, peering through the curtains. The second night of celebrating Hannah’s return and your existence, we realized the cult could find us just as easily as Hannah had, because of course we had always sent our forwarding address.”
Minutes ago Janie had been incredibly sleepy. Now she was incredibly hungry, eating as if she had never known food. Her hands shoveled the meat into her mouth. She felt like an animal. Her parents saw nothing. They were a tag team, rotating speeches.
“IBM knew all about Hannah and the cult because I was always flying west trying to extricate Hannah. They not only transferred me immediately, they got us into a hotel that night under assumed names until they could pack our belongings for us. My senior vice-president even sold our house through a power of attorney for me so the cult wouldn’t find our names anywhere. We had all mail forwarded through the company, never to our house.”
She had no memories of the West Coast. This cult with its costumes, capes, and rituals. The woman and man who were Hannah and her designated mate. No memory of a cross-continental flight. Three years old. Wouldn’t you remember planes and trains, cars and overnights, even if you were only three? thought Janie, disappointed.
Janie Johnson … a name to disappear under. A name without personality. Without trace.
“You had the best time, Janie!” said her mother.
For the first time Janie saw clearly how old they were. Much older than her friends’ parents. And more tired, too. More used.
Hannah, what did you do to them? thought Janie. How could you have thrown them away like yesterday’s newspaper? Your own mother and father, who tried so hard to give you everything; to get you back?
“We were fleeing, but you were in heaven, Janie, bouncing all over the place.” Her mother painted a happy little Janie in the new houses— buying new clothes—teaching her to swim—Hannah standing blank-eyed—packing boxes never unpacked before the next flight—yet another different driveway—Janie dancing like a water sprite.
“But even though we did all we could,” said her father, “Hannah eventually wanted to go back to the cult.”
This time Janie entered the daymare willingly, as if it were a hallway down which she could walk if she chose. She felt that down that corridor she could find Hannah, find California, remember that nursery school. The laughter of children rang in Janie’s head. Then something different—a man’s laughter—big and chesty—and she knew herself held in the air by this man—a red mustache— she was tugging the mustache and he was nibbling Jennie’s fingers—she could even feel its texture, bristled like a paintbrush, same color as her own braids—she could remember the braids, remember the way the rubber bands yanked when—
“Hannah was addicted to the cult the way some people are addicted to heroin. When Hannah insisted on going back, we let her.” Her mothers voice grew urgent. “She wanted us to keep you, Janie. I’ve always cherished that. She loved you very, very much. You have to know that.”
In the windows her mothers red geraniums still bloomed. Their lives in the sun were probably happier than Hannah’s. Her mothers hands covered Janie, patting, needy. “She gave you up so you could have a real life. Your mother gave you the gift of freedom, Janie. It was the only gift she had to give. She left you with us when she went back to the cult.”
Shortly after Hannah left, Frank and Miranda had realized that the cult would want the little girl. Not to mention the father, whoever he might be. Hannah had no strength. One interrogation and she’d tell the cult where she had left her daughter. Their attorney advised them to change their name. Javensen was too unusual. So they had taken Johnson.
“We moved several times in one year,” said her father. “Looking back, I suppose it was irrational. But whenever we let you out in the yard, we’d panic. So we kept finding a new yard. You loved it. You were always giggling, always the center of attention. It took you a while, but eventually you switched to calling us Mommy and Daddy.”
Her mother beamed: a smile like the sun.
If I hadn’t come to live with them, Mom would never have smiled like that again, thought Janie. I am that smile.
“And then we made the most painful decision of all,” said her mother. “We never wrote to Hannah again. Our only daughter. Your mother. We never sent her an address. We never again telephoned on her birthday. We never chose and wrapped another Christmas present for her. We let her vanish into nowhere so that we could keep you safe.”
They were no longer at the table, no longer eating. They had all gotten up, their bodies desperate for comfort. They were hugging each other, an oddly rocking trio. “Oh, Mommy!” said Janie. They cried together.
Her father did not weep, but then he never did; he got tight; the muscles bunching in his jaw, no doubt also in his gut. Janie hugged him separately, and her father hugged her back, with affection so deep she could hardly bear it.
They are my mother and father, she thought. They raised me. They love me. I love them. Mother and Daddy are all I have, and all I want.
/>
CHAPTER
10
She woke up as if attacked, ripped out of sleep.
Her body was drenched in sweat, and her thin nightgown clung damply to her skin.
Monsters and hideous, evil, sucking things scattered in her brain. She lay in the dark, clinging to the satin hem at the top of the blanket. Just a dream, just a dream.
She wanted to get up and get a glass of water. Find another blanket. Turn on some lights.
But she was caught in an old childhood fear of things under the bed: the silly fear that kept her even now, at nearly sixteen, from sleeping with her toes hanging off the edge—something might nibble them, drag her down.
Slowly she curled tighter and tighter under the covers, bracketing her spine with her pillow, protecting her heart and soul with tucked-in knees.
It was a nice story they had told last night. But what about the Springs? What about the milk carton? Hannah was real. The trunk in the attic full of her geography papers proved it. But the milk carton was real. Jennie Spring was real and so was that 800 number. New Jersey was real. And that shopping center.
I remember a friendly kitchen with lots of kids. I remember shoe shopping. I remember …
Memories swirled dimly. She held herself still, trying to pull them in, like a fisherman with a reel. The cult did not sound like people who took their nursery-school class shopping in malls for shiny white shoes.
The white apron? Was it Hannah’s? Why did she remember a white apron and not yellow robes? California and cults should make a deeper imprint on a child’s memory than a sundae and a swiveling stool.
Janie’s made-up versions slipped and slid like cars on ice; they crashed into what few dim memories she had—or had created. But one thing was true and certain: the dress in the attic matched the dress on the carton.
In the dark of her bedroom an idea misted in her brain like fog: dank and sour and thick.
Had Miranda and Frank Javensen, their minds warped from losing Hannah, decided to replace her? With a new little daughter?
The Face on the Milk Carton Page 7