Jane Anonymous

by Laurie Faria Stolarz

  My father finally met my eyes, but his face showed no expression, as though he’d heard this all before—as if I were the outsider looking in.

  “He’d been at a party, right?” she asked. “Thrown by a girl named Haley. We checked out that detail too, but there were no girls named Haley within a three-hundred-mile radius who would admit to hosting a party in which a male was taken.”

  “Maybe Haley didn’t know that anyone was taken.”

  “You don’t think news reports about a missing person would’ve tipped her off? Especially considering that such reports include a photo of the missing person.”

  “Maybe you should check beyond three hundred miles. And maybe the party wasn’t in May or June.”

  She gave me a look—eyes bulging, brows raised. “You identified a photo of Martin Gray’s hand.”

  I shook my head.

  Why was she still talking?

  What was I still doing listening?

  I moved back through the wall and stood at the foot of the bed. There were scratch marks on the bedpost—long, narrow gouges.

  Had I made them?

  Why did I think I had?

  I looked down at my thumb, able to feel the sensation of pine beneath the nail as a warm, peppery breath blew behind my ear.

  It was all coming back: trying to scratch a web into the wood, convinced that doing so would entice Tiger back. Someone had tugged my hand from the bedpost, stopping me from scratching. And though I’d really wanted Tiger to come visit, another—stronger—part truly wanted to be touched. And so I’d closed my eyes as fingertips glided along the center of my palm, spreading heat all over my skin.

  “Jane?” Dad asked, snagging me back to present day.

  Both he and Agent Thomas were staring in my direction. Meanwhile, a cold, sticky sensation slithered down my spine, filling my gut with panic.

  “Do you remember something?” Agent Thomas asked.

  I shook my head as the medley of whites in the room swirled around me. It was way too bright and all too confusing.

  “Jane?” Dad insisted; his voice sounded stern.

  He said something else, but I wanted them both to go, wanted to close myself up in the room and sit beneath the running shower.

  Agent Thomas came closer. Her mouth was moving, but I couldn’t process anything. My skin flashed hot. My heart wouldn’t stop palpitating. I looked back toward the bedpost with the sudden urge to scratch.

  “I want to see the office,” I told them.

  Agent Thomas gazed at my dad as if seeking his permission.

  “Now,” I insisted.

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” she asked.

  Dad looked back at the crumbled Wall of Separation. “No, I think we’ve already seen enough.”

  “It wasn’t a question,” I told him. “I want to see it.”

  Dad shook his head, his lips trembling, his nostrils flared, as though no longer able to recognize me. “Whatever she wants,” he said quickly, quietly.

  I looked toward his neck for the bumblebee birthmark that matched mine. Part of me wanted to point it out—to prove that despite how much I’d changed, I was still his daughter. He was still my father.

  “Okay, so let’s go,” Agent Thomas said, moving toward the door.

  Before leaving, I took one last look around the room and felt a wrenching sensation inside my gut, pressing against my spine. I closed my eyes, picturing the hole that was my heart filling with absence—a thick and tarry muck. I didn’t want to stay. But I didn’t want to leave this place either—as sick and twisted and unexplainable as that was. And so, I held on to my broken piece, determined to take it with me.

  * * *

  Agent Thomas led us back upstairs and down the hallway, toward the office at the end—the one with the pocket door concealed in the wall. She stood outside it and turned to me. “Are you sure you want to go in?”

  My eyes locked on the handle, and I flashed back to that moment—of trying to break in, jamming a knife into the lock. The hardware was barely detectable, concealed by at least several coats of glossy white paint. I gazed at the scars on my forearm, remembering pounding my fists against the door panel, despite my throbbing cut.

  Agent Thomas stuck a key into the painted lock and gave it a turn. There was a click. She pushed the door open.

  I went inside, noticing right away: Police tape outlined the shape of a body where it must’ve fallen to the floor. But part of the outline—the head part—had been covered by a tarp. I assumed there must be bloodstains beneath it.

  “This is the office of Martin Gray,” Agent Thomas said. She clicked on his desk lamp and handed me a plastic bag with papers inside it—paystubs with Martin Gray’s name.

  But what did that prove? I peered around the room, looking for more hidden doors, running my hand along the walls, searching for cracks.

  “Here,” Agent Thomas said, holding up a plastic bin the size of a laundry basket. Inside were photographs—at least a few hundred of them. She pulled out a handful for show. They were pictures of me, dating all the way back to the summer before high school—candid shots when I’d thought I was alone; personal moments like the time I cried freshman year, in the parking lot at school, after I’d gotten cut from the soccer team tryouts. I was still wearing my tryout number: 23.

  “This still doesn’t prove anything about Mason,” I said.

  “Okay, then how about this?” she asked, handing me a photo from the desk, kept in a shiny silver frame.

  It was a picture of me with the monster, the guy who took me. We were photoshopped together. “Where did you get this?” I asked as if it weren’t already obvious; it’d been kept on the monster’s desk. “Are there any others? Photos of Samantha too?”

  “Just your photos,” she reminded me. “Your things. A captivity room set up just for you…”

  My hand shook. The frame jittered. The photo looked almost legit, like we’d actually posed together. The picture of me was taken from the sophomore semiformal. I recognized my dress and the flower in my hair. I looked closer, trying to see the guy’s arms, but the sleeves of his sweatshirt had been pulled down over his wrists. “It’s not Mason,” I said, handing it back.

  “You’re right.” Agent Thomas pulled a piece of paper from a manila folder and handed it to me—a photocopy of a driver’s license. “It’s Martin Gray.”

  The face in the license picture matched the photoshopped one in the frame. The name read Martin Gray.

  “Still, what does it prove? That you know the name of the guy that took me? Okay, fine. But that has nothing to do with Mason.”

  I looked toward Dad, hoping he’d back me up, noticing more plastic bins. They were stacked up around the room, all of them full.

  Was that my green scarf?

  Were those my yellow mittens?

  And my poetry journal from freshman year? I thought I’d lost it.

  “Jane?” Agent Thomas asked.

  I shook my head and turned to see more. The motion tipped the room onto its side. Dad lunged in my direction, but it was already too late. My knees gave way, and I collapsed to the floor.

  NOW

  62

  I run.

  Because I can’t sleep.

  Because Memory can’t catch me if I keep a fast pace.

  Because my parents’ door is closed, but Night can’t shut me out.

  Because I’m not supposed to be out at this hour, especially after everything, especially all alone—and so it feels a little like power.

  The bells of the town hall chime three times. I run along the pathway that leads to No Name Park. The harbor is the backdrop. It’s full of sailboats at this time of year, but the darkness swallows them up. There’s only the blinking lamp of the lighthouse, across the way, reminding me where I am.

  I walk to the edge of the rock cliff and look out over the harbor, imagining myself as a dab of black paint against the ebony canvas of sea and sky—hidden, invisible, anonymous.
The wind tattoos my face, making my eyes water.

  Now that I’ve stopped running, certain questions have caught up; they press into the back of my head. Why did the monster work so hard at stocking my favorite things but didn’t do the same for Mason? Why didn’t he supply Mason with contact lenses and solution, or at least provide him with a backup pair of glasses? Why did he give Mason mint-flavored antacids despite an allergy? And why were my photos and possessions the only ones found at the house?

  The house, not the warehouse.

  The glass-paned windows rather than the barred ones.

  The unmarked skin, not the tree roots.

  Earlier today, I checked my running bag, searching for the red hair comb I’d kept in the side pocket (BIWM), remembering how Agent Thomas said she’d found a similar comb in Martin Gray’s office and speculated it was mine. I wanted to show her it wasn’t—wanted to prove her theories were somehow wrong.

  But the pockets of my bag were empty.

  And I couldn’t find the comb anywhere—not in my room, not in any drawers or bags either …

  So, what did that mean? What does it mean?

  Who is Martin Gray really?

  And how did he pick me?

  I take another step, picturing myself tumbling forward, in slow motion, wondering if I’d feel my body breaking against the rocks—the sensation of bones snapping and arteries puncturing. Or would I feel nothing at all?

  The moon shines down over a patch of sea, giving the illusion of a scrying mirror. In it, I see Grandma Jean wagging her finger back and forth.

  She’s telling me no.

  I blink her away.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. I check the screen, feeling chills rip up my skin. It’s an alert to remind me about Grandma Jean’s birthday—as if by fate. It’s officially the twenty-seventh. She would’ve been seventy-five.

  There’s also a text from Jack. It came in hours ago:

  Jack: Just wanted to make sure you got the CD in your mailbox.

  Me: I did. Thank you.

  I go to pocket my phone when I notice him texting back—the series of ellipsis points.

  Jack: What are u doing up?

  Me: I could ask you the same.

  Me: I went for a run.

  Jack: At 3AM?

  Jack: Are you home now?

  Me: No. I’m at No Name Park.

  Jack: Do yr parents know?

  Jack:???

  Me: What are you doing up?

  Jack: I wasn’t up. Your text woke me.

  Me: Sorry.

  Jack: NP. I could’ve turned down the volume. But I like hearing from u.

  Jack: U do realize you’re just across the harbor from me, right?

  It’s true. Jack lives by the lighthouse, down a narrow, winding street that always makes me think of fairy tales. Back in middle school, we used to decorate the street at Halloween, transforming it with fog, cobwebs, and scary music.

  Jack: Hold on a sec. Im going outside.

  Jack: OK. Im waving at u right now.

  Me: You don’t rly expect me to see u, right?

  Jack: No. But Im hoping you can cosmically sense my waving.

  Jack: Can u?

  In some weird way, I can; can also picture him standing on the beach at the end of his street, looking out across the harbor at the very same things I am.

  Jack: Can I join you on the walk home?

  Me: How do you propose to do that? You’re a 20-min swim away.

  Jack: U can talk to me the whole way back. Unless you’d rather I picked u up.

  Jack: I won’t be able to sleep otherwise.

  Me: Ok. Let’s walk.

  The next thing I know, my phone starts vibrating. Jack’s FaceTiming me. I pick it up, able to see him moving through the darkness, with the lighthouse in his background. His hair looks slightly rumpled from having just woken up.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say back, unable to stop the smile on my face.

  “Whoa, your hair…”

  I run my hand over the short spikes. “Oh, right. I got it cut.”

  “It looks amazing.”

  “Thanks.” I smile wider.

  “So shall we walk along the water or take the main road?”

  “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “Are you kidding? What else would I want to be doing at 3:00 a.m.?” He sits down on his outside deck, where we’ve hung out at least a hundred times, doing homework and eating pizza.

  “You’re really sweet.”

  “And so are you. So have you left the park yet? I can’t quite tell.” He squints as though straining to see better.

  “I’m leaving now.” I turn away from the cliff and begin on my way.

  NOW

  63

  In the kitchen, I nab Dad’s chocolate bar from the cabinet. It’s 90 percent cocoa, like the kind Mason brought me. I bite off a piece, imagining it was Mason that opened the wrapper—that it’s his bite marks in the block rather than my father’s.

  Mom’s cell phone rings from the kitchen island. It’s Agent Thomas; her name flashes across the screen. I pick it up, the chocolate wadded in my cheek.

  “Mary?” she asks, when I click the phone on.

  “No. It’s Jane.”

  “Oh, Jane, hi. It’s good to hear your voice. How are you doing?”

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Are you still going to therapy? Keeping up with your studies? Getting back into the swing of things?”

  Which one does she want me to answer? “I guess” applies to at least one of the above.

  “Glad to hear. Is your mom around? I’m returning her call.”

  “She’s in the shower, but I’ll tell her you called.”

  “Okay, perfect.”

  I swallow the bitter syrup taste. “Can I ask you something?” I venture.

  “Of course. Anything.”

  “Did my blood work show signs of being drugged?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I was admitted to the hospital, I mean. Was there a drug in my system?”

  “None that was detected, but that doesn’t mean much. Some drugs only stay in the system for a matter of hours. Why? What makes you ask?”

  “I’ll tell my mother you called.” I click the phone off. Agent Thomas’s words roll like bowling balls inside my brain. None that was detected, but that doesn’t mean much.

  I take another bite. Mom’s phone rings again. Agent Thomas. I click the ringer off, but her words continue to play. None that was detected, but that doesn’t mean much.

  Could fever have been to blame for my unconsciousness? Could it have knocked me out? And made me delusional? Are delusions only visual, or do they apply to touch too?

  Because when I close my eyes, I can still feel the sticky-wet kisses at the back of my sweat-stained neck, plus the bristle of calves sliding against my bare legs, and the fingertip spirals forming across my back as someone drew invisible roses all over my skin.

  “Jane?”

  Mom’s standing by the fridge. There’s a towel wrapped around her head and a carton of eggs in her hand. “Hungry?” she asks. “I was going to make an omelet.”

  “Why did you call Agent Thomas?”

  Mom sets the eggs on the island, along with a plastic mixing bowl; it clamors against the granite and sends shivers over my skin. “Did you talk to her?” She grabs her phone.

  “She called while you were in the shower.”

  Mom sees the missed call. “I was just looking for the name of a trauma expert. She’d mentioned one before, but I never got the number.”

  “A trauma expert for me?”

  “For both of us.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal, then cracks an egg into a bowl, shells included, and stirs the broken pieces.

  NOW

  64

  Instead of going straight to the shelter, I find myself sitting in the bathroom at the library once again. I’m huddled in the corner with the key clenched in
my grip. The door is locked. The air conditioner runs like white noise, but it doesn’t blot out the storming inside my head.

  Until now, I’ve kept certain thoughts locked up in a box.

  And still now, I remind myself these thoughts may not be true.

  But at the same time, now, I wonder if I should face what my mind has labeled sick—what it’s quarantined inside my brain.

  The door handle jiggles back and forth. I make myself known by shuffling my feet. I also clear my throat and slide my bag toward me, across the tile.

  Then I unzip.

  And zip.

  Unzip.

  And zip.

  Reaching inside the main compartment, I poke my fingers through the hole in the lining and pull out the card I got from that woman at the shelter. Healing starts the moment we feel heard. I cry for the first time in I don’t even know when.

  For the loss of a best friend.

  (And I don’t mean Shelley.)

  NOW

  65

  At the shelter, I avert my gaze as I pass by the cabinet on my way to visit Brave. As usual, she starts barking as soon as I open the door to the dog wing. I sit down outside her cage and toss in a few crumbled hearts from my pocket. I’ve also brought along my CD player—the handheld kind—with the Gigi Garvey CD already inside.

  “How’s it going?” Angie asks, coming from around the corner.

  “Today’s the day. I’m going to let Brave run free in the yard.”

  “Are you sure she’s ready?”

  “Definitely sure. I’ve been walking her every day. She heels, stays, and listens to the word no. She also doesn’t give me a hard time about coming back inside.”

  “Sounds like you’re doing a great job of taming her.”

  “Which is all the more reason to let her run wild.”

  Angie grabs a leash and harness from the hook at the end of the hallway, then unlocks Brave’s cage. Brave comes right out, wagging her tail and sniffing Angie all over, while I harness her up.