See Me Not

by Janelle Harris

  ‘Are you coming in, or are you going to eat from the hall?’

  ‘Eat?’ I gasp, shaking my head.

  ‘Yes. I thought we could share breakfast.’

  ‘You were expecting me?’ I deduce, suddenly feeling like coming here was a big mistake.

  ‘Well. Yes. If not today, then tomorrow.’ Jane slips on some oven glows that match her apron and bends down to attend to something in the oven. ‘But I knew you’d come. Eventually. I was counting on it.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ I say, quivering as I pluck up the courage to cross the threshold.

  ‘Sure,’ Jane chirps. ‘Close the door, won’t you? There’s a draft.’

  I don’t want to close the door. The prospect of sealing my escape route is terrifying. But I do as Jane asks.

  ‘Do you like chocolate chip or cinnamon?’ she says with her head leaning into the oven.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Muffins. I made muffins. Which would you rather? I’m having chocolate chip, but I’ve made both, so you choose.’

  This is so fucked up, I think, staring at the tray of piping hot baked goods that she pulls out of the oven and spills onto a wire rack waiting on the countertop.

  ‘The kettle is boiled,’ Jane twitters. ‘I’ll have tea ready in a minute.’

  I suck my lips between my teeth and search for words.

  Jane glides her hand thorough mid-air and points at the kitchen table in front of me. ‘Please. Have a seat.’

  The table is dressed with cups and saucers, plates and highly polished knives and forks. There’s two of everything. A setting for her, and the other for me, I guess. A vase of fresh ivory carnations takes pride of place in the centre of the table. I freeze as I recognise the simple bouquet. They’re the same flowers Jane left on William Burke’s grave. The flowers weren’t a subtle clue, I realise. They were a trap. She wanted me to find them.

  ‘Who is William Burke?’ I ask, my eyes fixed on the back of Jane’s head as she busies herself washing some raspberries and blackcurrants—no doubt to accompany the homemade muffins.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Jane reiterates, tossing her head over her shoulder towards the table.

  Her voice is light like summer rain, but her jaw is square and reveals her distaste for my question.

  ‘Who is he, Jane? Answer me.’

  Jane slams the wire tray against the countertop. The loud bang startles me, and I squeak like a frightened mouse and jump back. My shoulders collide with the door behind me and slap noisy air out of my open mouth.

  Jane twitches. She coughs just once and runs her hands over her apron, as if smoothing out the creases can smooth out her mounting temper.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I didn’t mean to startle you. But I’d really like if you took a seat now.’

  Jane begins to arrange the muffins in a basket, like a little girl who just wants to play tea parties and she’s frustrated that her playmate doesn’t want to join in the fun.

  ‘Why won’t you answer my question, Jane?’ I say, my hand reaching around behind my back, patting the door as I try to find the handle. ‘Do you even know the man buried in that grave? Are you really Jane Burke, or is that just another person you pretend to be?’

  Jane’s teeth snap shut. The crack of colliding enamel sends a shiver down my spine.

  ‘I just want to have a nice breakfast. It’s all I want,’ Jane scowls. ‘After everything you’ve done, it’s the least you owe me.’

  ‘What have I ever done to you?’ I shake my head. ‘I barely know you.’

  I can’t locate the door handle behind me, and when Jane opens a drawer to pull out a knife, I stop breathing. I know she notices because she looks directly at me as she slices the top off one of the muffins and does not attempt to hide her satisfied smirk.

  ‘You need to reach higher,’ Jane instructs, as she moves her attention from me to a china tea pot that she fills with loose tea leaves and adds boiling water. ‘The door handle is just a few inches above your hand.’

  I pull my arm out from behind my back and interlock my fingers as I tuck my hands tight against my chest where she can see them.

  ‘You can leave anytime you want to, Emma. You’re not my prisoner.’ Jane laughs. ‘You came here of your own free will, remember? I didn’t even invite you.’

  I don’t know what to say. Everything Jane says is making sense, and there’s no snarky undertone, but I can still tell she’s not sincere. She’s saying one thing when she means another. It’s some sort of reverse psychology. She’s making it seem like I’m the crazy one. She’s always one step ahead, and it’s mind boggling.

  ‘Emma, sit.’

  Jane uses the knife to cut an invisible wound through the air. She kicks a chair leg and sends the chair sliding back across the floor. When it steadies and comes to a stop, surprisingly without falling over, Jane points the tip of the knife at the tattered cushion resting on top.

  ‘Sit,’ she repeats, not bothering to separate her top and bottom teeth as she hisses.

  I sit, terrified not to, and tuck myself into the table. Jane carries the goodies to the table on an old tray. The home baking looks delicious, and it smells even more appetising. But I can’t take my eyes off the tray. It’s grubby and worn out with more chips than the muffins. It doesn’t fit her Domestic Goddess image. Jane can’t miss the flowers in the centre of the table. They’re pretty and a noticeable centrepiece, but she pushes the vase over with the edge of the tray, scattering the carnations messily and splashing water across the table to trickle onto the floor. Jane ignores the shambles and lays the tray down in the centre of the table.

  ‘Have you decided?’ she asks, looking me straight in the eye.

  ‘Decided what?’ I breathe; my eyes drift to the puddle in front of me.

  ‘Which muffin do you want? Or, oh my gosh, where are my manners? Would you like two? One of each?’

  ‘Um …’ I swallow, almost too careworn to push words past my lips. ‘Chocolate chip, please?’

  Jane smiles brightly as she places a steaming muffin on the waiting plate in front of me. ‘We have the same taste.’

  I don’t tell her that if she had chosen cinnamon, I would have asked for cinnamon. I want whichever one she’s having; it’s less likely to be laced with rat poison or something if she’s eating it too.

  ‘Tea?’ Jane asks. The lid of the china teapot rattles as her hand wobbles, and I wonder if she’s nervous.

  ‘Yes. Please.’

  ‘Oh good, you’re a tea person. I wasn’t sure, but I took a guess. You don’t look like a coffee person.’

  ‘I drink both,’ I correct, dazed by the ordinary, almost boring conversation.

  ‘Jam?’ Jane asks.

  I shake my head. ‘No. Thank you.’

  Jane giggles. ‘We have a lot in common, Emma. I’m not a jam fan, either.’

  ‘I like jam,’ I protest, desperate to be different from her. ‘I just don’t want any today.’

  Jane throws her hands above her head in mock surrender. ‘Okay, no jam today.’

  I watch Jane pull out her chair and sit with exaggerated grace. She takes a muffin out of the basket for herself and slams it onto her plate almost crushing it. I stiffen as she reaches for her knife and slices the muffin straight down the centre with undeniable aggression. The stainless steel blade clatters against the fine china plate. Jane glares at me and chortles loudly.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ I say, unable to take anymore.

  ‘I like to eat one half at a time.’ She laughs.

  ‘Jane, stop it. You know that’s not what I mean. This is torture. Why me? Why have you targeted me?’

  Jane picks up half the muffin and throws it across the room. It collides with the wall and crumbles upon impact. It falls to the ground in hundreds of crumbly pieces, leaving a dirty, brown stain behind.

  ‘What makes you think this is about you? Christ, you’re so conceited.’ Jane rolls her eyes. ‘Maybe, it’s about me. Maybe, it�
��s about what I want. Did you ever stop to think about that?’

  ‘Jane. I don’t know what’s going on here. Or what your obsession with me is. But it has to stop. You have to stay away.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’ Jane stands up and towers over me.

  I hop up and knock my chair over in the process. It smashes against the ground with a loud bang. Jane doesn’t flinch.

  ‘I’ll go to the police,’ I say. ‘I’ll tell them everything.’

  Jane throws her head back, and a patronising laugh gargles in her throat. ‘And what exactly would you tell them? That I slept with your husband, and it’s driving you crazy? It’s not illegal to have a one-night stand, Emma.’

  I back away, but Jane follows. Her huge smile is forced and intimidating. I never should have come here.

  ‘Maybe, David couldn’t resist me. Maybe, he wanted me so badly he was prepared to throw everything away for one night in my bed.’ The lines around Jane’s eyes soften unexpectedly, and her tone is lighter and less tense. Suddenly, she looks less like she wants to slit my throat and more like she’s in desperate need of a hug. ‘Maybe, David didn’t think of you at all. Maybe, he was purely selfish, and he never once considered how much his actions would hurt you. He told you he loved you. He promised he’d always be there for you, but he lied. He never stopped to think of how you’d have to pick the pieces once he was gone.’

  ‘What?’ I say, suddenly pulling myself up as straight as my back allows. ‘What are you talking about? David hasn’t gone anywhere. We’re still together. You know that.’

  Jane tosses her head and runs her hands through her hair. Her bun loosens and strands break free and stick to her clammy face. I can see tears glisten in her eyes, but they don’t fall. It’s a fleeting glimpse of pain, but she gathers herself before I see enough to understand.

  ‘Jane. If this isn’t about me, then what? Tell me. Help me to understand. What happened to you? Why are you so angry?’

  ‘Don’t.’ Jane raises a hand, and I flinch as I prepare for her to hit me. ‘Don’t you dare pretend you care about me or my problems.’

  ‘I don’t care about you,’ I say honestly, backing farther away. ‘But you’ve made your problems my problems. You’ve barged into my life and made things a living hell for me. All I care about is making it stop.’

  ‘There. Now, you’re showing your true colours, Emma. You’re selfish. Just like your mother.’

  ‘You know my mother?’ I gasp.

  Jane grunts. ‘No.’

  ‘Jane, I don’t understand. You’re talking in riddles. I can’t keep up.’

  ‘I was a happy kid, Emma. I loved my mother and my father. And I thought they loved me. But my father only loved himself. You see, he was a scoundrel. A cheat. He had an affair. He got another woman pregnant. What kind of man does that?’

  I stare at Jane through squinted eyes. Her ramblings seem to shave inches off her, and she doesn’t appear as tall or as intimidating as moments before.

  ‘David,’ I whisper.

  Saying my husband’s name feels like a betrayal, but I know that’s what Jane wants to hear and I want her to keep talking. I want to learn more. But she narrows her eyes, and I see a flash of temper. I’ve said the wrong thing.

  ‘Men are all the same. Selfish. They will always abandon you. Every man I’ve ever loved has left me. You should thank me. I’ve done you a favour.’

  ‘Jane, my husband isn’t leaving me,’ I interrupt. ‘I keep trying to tell you that. No matter how hard you try, you can’t drive us apart.’

  Jane’s lips twitch to one side, and her jaw cracks. I tread carefully, afraid to irk her too much.

  ‘I’ve put David through hell over the years,’ I confess truthfully. ‘And he’s always stuck by me. He was there for me at my lowest. He’s still here now.’

  ‘I know exactly what you’ve done. I know the type of person you are, Emma. You hurt yourself to ease your pain, but you never consider what that does to the people around you. You’re a selfish bitch. Just. Like. Me.’

  Jane’s words sting. They hurt more than if she’d stabbed me with the knife she used to cut her muffin.

  ‘You’re right,’ I say. ‘I’ve done some terrible things. But I don’t deserve this.’

  ‘Maybe you don’t,’ Jane says. She walks back to the table and begins to tidy up. ‘But I didn’t deserve what happened to me.’

  The door is just a couple of footsteps away. I can leave if I want to. Jane is giving me the green light. Her back is to me, and I suspect if I run now, she won’t follow me. But something deep inside forces me to stay. I’ve seen something familiar in her eyes, in the way she hangs her head. I see me.

  I follow her to the table, and I crouch on my hunkers as I pick up the battered carnations.

  ‘Who is William Burke?’ I ask for a second time since walking into this apartment. But for the first time, I suspect I already know the answer.

  ‘My husband.’ Jane swallows.

  ‘What happened to him?’ I ask, my heart aching as I ask the question that must be so hard for her to hear. ‘Did he leave you? Is that who abandoned you?’

  ‘He killed himself.’ Jane nods, busying herself as she carries the cups and plates over to the sink.

  ‘Why?’ I whisper.

  ‘Because he was selfish. I told you.’

  I stand up and set the flowers down on a chair. Jane is leaning over the sink with her hands dipped into sudsy water. She submerges the crockery and clatters cups and plates together noisily. I approach her slowly, taking baby steps. I don’t want to spook her.

  I stand alongside her and wait in silence. Jane takes her temper out on the washing up. She works up a sweat as she splashes water all over both of us. She slams the plates and cups against the draining board. One plate snaps clean in half, and a cup loses a handle. Jane doesn’t bat an eyelid. I don’t move. I just let her work her frustration out, and for the first time since I stepped inside this apartment, I’m not afraid of Jane Burke. I feel sorry for her.

  Minutes later, when we are both soaking wet and cold, Jane turns around, presses her back against the sink, and slides to the floor.

  I sit beside her, cross-legged, in silence. Jane pants and puffs. Sighs and snorts and eventually begins to cry. I don’t move. I understand it’s years of anger and pain bubbling over. I wonder if Jane has ever admitted to another person that her husband took his own life. I doubt it. I wonder why she told me. I hope I find out.

  Jane turns to face me. Her cheeks are red and blotchy from salty tears stinging her skin, and her eyes look too wide and round for their sockets. I’ve seen myself look exactly like that. In fact, her dishevelled face is uncannily similar to mine when I cry.

  ‘Will thought I would be better off without him.’ Jane heaves. ‘He was so wrong.’

  My breath catches in my throat. I’ve thought those same dark thoughts. On my worst days, when David really suffered because of me, I thought life would be better for him if I wasn’t in it.

  ‘But you’re not better off,’ I whisper.

  Jane drags the bottom of her apron up to her face and wipes her eyes. ‘William’s death made everything worse. It’s been five years. Sometimes, it feels like five minutes. Other times, it feels like five hundred years.’

  ‘Jane. I’m sorry,’ I say genuinely. ‘It must be very hard. But you can’t replace William with David. Even if David and I do split up. Even if you two get together, it won’t be the same. David isn’t the man you love.’

  Jane scrambles to her feet and rummages around in her huge handbag sitting on the countertop next to the cooker.

  ‘Here,’ she says, returning and shoving something small into my hand.

  ‘It’s an ultrasound.’ I sigh, fighting back tears. ‘You really are pregnant.’

  Jane taps a beautifully manicured nail against the greyish-black square in my shaking hand. ‘I sent this photograph to David last night.’

  ‘I know. I saw him looking at it on
his phone when he thought I was asleep,’ I admit, my heart heavy and aching as acceptance creeps in. ‘But I thought it was an image you’d downloaded from the internet. I didn’t think it was real.’

  Jane is statue-like and glaring at me. I wish she’d say something. Anything. ‘Is it really David’s baby?’ I ask, knowing if she says yes, I won’t cope.

  ‘Emma, you need to understand something,’ Jane begins, and I physically place my hand over my heart, bracing myself for what she’s about to say.

  ‘My childhood was tough. I’m not using it as an excuse, just an explanation. My father cheated on my mother over and over when I was very young. Finally, he got another woman pregnant. My mother was strong enough to kick him out, but it broke her heart. She fell apart after that. She slipped into a deep depression and drank her troubles away. She died when I was nineteen. My father didn’t come to the funeral. Maybe, he didn’t even know she was gone. I was all alone.’

  ‘Jane, I’m sorry,’ I say genuinely. ‘It can’t have been easy to grow up with all that going on, but …’

  ‘Shut up,’ Jane barks, thumping her fist against the cupboard door behind us. The door rattles and shakes, and the cutlery on the shelf above jumps and clatters noisily. ‘You came here for answers, didn’t you?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, fucking listen then.’

  ‘Okay.’ I swallow. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I didn’t see my father for years,’ Jane continues, the angry lines around her eyes softening as she calms down. ‘He and my mother didn’t stay in touch. He just disappeared. He wasn’t there when I was growing up, and I really struggled by the time I hit my teenage years. Every child deserves a father, don’t they?’

  ‘David would never abandon his child, Jane. He’s not that type of man,’ I growl. Mixed emotion surges through my soul. David would be a fantastic father. Any child would be lucky to have him but not like this. ‘You don’t need to try to trap or blackmail him into being there for his kid with mind games.’

  ‘Do you think that’s what I’m doing?’ Jane smirks. ‘Do you think that’s what this is?’