See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

  If they dive get it by tmrw they can’t refill yet kids!

  Translation: Mom’s payment didn’t go through. If they don’t get it by tomorrow, they can’t refill her meds.

  Dammit. What is wrong with my bank? This is the third month in a row—

  “Everything okay, sweetie?” Brielle gives my arm a gentle stroke, reclaiming my attention.

  I blink hard. “Oh . . . yeah.” I quickly swallow back my resentments while subtly turning off my phone. “Everything’s fine. It was just . . . Avery. She had to give a speech in English class this morning and wanted to let me know how it went.”

  “Aww, that is so sweet.” Brielle presses her hand against her heart. “You’re such a good mama. No wonder you don’t have to see Dr. Jill—you’ve got this parenting thing nailed down.”

  I force a smile as snippets of last night’s conversation with my twelve-year-old start to reverberate through my mind:

  I’m not saying I’m going to look at every single one of your messages, but I do want to see the kinds of things you’re talking about with him—

  It’s my phone. I’m entitled to my privacy!

  Yes, sweetie, of course you are, but it’s my job to protect you—

  Protect me from what? We’re not doing anything—we’re just friends!

  I’m not talking about sex—

  Oh my god! Don’t say that word!

  Honey, I just want to make sure you’re okay—

  Why do you always have to be in my business? Why can’t you just trust me?

  Sweetie, it’s not that I don’t trust you—

  Then why do you want to look at my phone?

  Because you’ve been getting into trouble with this kid. I just want to make sure—

  It’s because you don’t have a life of your own! Get your own life already, and just leave me alone!

  Leave me alone.

  Not the three little words I desperately want her to say to me, despite the number of times I say them to her.

  “I sure hope we get as lucky as you and Dan when it’s our turn, which hopefully will be very soon . . .”

  Brielle’s leading comment pulls me back to the present, along with Tamira and Heather.

  “Oh my god, are you trying?” Tamira asks.

  Brielle’s rich brown eyes narrow beneath a blooming smile. She nods quickly. “Yes! We started a couple months ago—”

  “Oh, good Lord,” Heather mutters and then takes a drink.

  “Harold’s been traveling a lot,” Brielle goes on, “so we haven’t had as many opportunities to make it happen, but we’re definitely working on it.”

  “Oh girl, that’s fantastic,” Tamira says.

  “It really is,” I agree over a hearty nod of my own. Even though Avery and I aren’t seeing eye to eye these days, being a parent is the greatest joy imaginable.

  I take another drink.

  Our conversation comes to a lull as Melody and another waitress deliver our food and Tamira’s drink.

  “So, what’s the latest from the worker bees?” Brielle asks me, referring to the hospital’s special-events department.

  I finish the bite of salad in my mouth—still wishing it were a burger—and reach for the little notebook I keep stashed in my bag. Since I’m always serving on multiple committees—currently five: two for the hospital and three PTA related—I find that it keeps me the most organized.

  I flip to the notes I took during last week’s meeting.

  “Okay, so they’ve decided to do a big dinner event to kick off the fundraising campaign for the new cardio wing. They’re going to hold it the weekend before Valentine’s Day and call it the Listen to Your Heart Gala—”

  “Aww, that’s so sweet,” Brielle chirps.

  “That’s a depressing eighties song,” Heather groans, and I can’t help but smile because that’s exactly what I thought when I heard it.

  “They’re thinking somewhere between two and three hundred guests,” I go on. “Cocktail reception, three-course meal, dancing, probably a little auction, the usual stuff. And, of course, they want all of us spread out at different tables.”

  This is a tactic that has been very profitable during past fundraising events. The special-events team strategically seats us with potential donors who take particular interest in our husbands’ fields of practice, the idea being that our husbands can engage them with insights on their work while we wives play the role of dutiful, smiling spouses to project a sort of picture-perfect image of where their money will be going.

  “So long as I don’t have to sit with that Marvin Gebhardt again,” Tamira says while dipping her forkful of lettuce into the little dressing cup next to her plate. “He actually took his dentures out while we were eating—”

  “No, he didn’t!” Brielle cries.

  “Oh, yes he did,” Tamira assures her, punctuating the sincerity of her statement with a raise of her fork. “His top dentures. He popped them straight out of his mouth and smacked them down on the bread plate, then started scraping at them with the end of his spoon, like there was something stuck in them.”

  I make a sour face while Brielle says, “Eww, that’s so gross.”

  “Isn’t he worth like fifty million?” Heather asks.

  “Mm-hmm.” Tamira rolls her eyes.

  “And how much did he give?”

  Heather’s follow-up question forces Tamira to sigh as she replies, “Two million.”

  Heather smirks. “Ah, the price we have to pay to keep the hospital afloat. They really should pay us for all the bullshit we do for them.”

  “Who are they targeting for the big bucks this year?” Brielle asks.

  I shift in my chair, my jaw muscles starting to tighten again.

  “Marcus said it was the Hoffstra’s guy,” Tamira says.

  “Hoffstra’s?” Brielle questions.

  “It’s a small drugstore chain in the Upper Midwest,” I answer.

  “Supposedly worth a couple hundred million and has a special interest in cardiothoracic medicine because the dad, who started the company like a hundred years ago, died of a rare heart condition,” Tamira goes on, proving her husband’s hospital intel runs deep.

  “Oh, I think I know who you’re talking about,” Heather chimes in over the rim of her already near-empty glass. “He’s super conservative, right? Totally into family values and not working on Sundays and all that shit?”

  I shift again, my bra suddenly feeling about two cups too small.

  “Yep, that’s him,” Tamira confirms.

  “So, how much are they hoping to get out of him?” Brielle asks.

  I swallow hard. “They’re thinking he might be looking for a naming opportunity, which would be around twenty-five million.”

  “Dang,” Tamira coos.

  “Oh my god,” Brielle gasps. “That would be amazing.”

  “Do they really think he’ll give that much?” Heather inquires.

  “They seem to think so,” I reply.

  “So, I imagine Dan will have to get pretty cozy with them, huh?” Tamira astutely wonders.

  I reach for my glass. “Yeah,” I say, then throw back another painful swallow. “They think Dan’s the key to securing their contribution. They want him getting as familiar with them as possible. We’re actually going to dinner with them tonight.”

  Brielle jumps back in, saying, “Oh, that’s a great idea. Who better to sell them on the new heart wing than the best cardiothoracic surgeon on the planet!”

  “Plus, you two are about as picture-perfect, wholesome family as you can get,” Heather adds over a sloppy shrug. “Just don’t tell them who you voted for during the last election.”

  I force a smile.

  It’s not the last election we’re worried about . . .

  From the corner of my eye, I see that my hand is starting to shudder again. I reach for the glass and drain what’s left of the vile liquid.

  I am a strong, capable woman.

  I can do anything I
set my mind to.

  I am no longer bound by the confines of my—

  “Oh! Look who’s here!” Brielle’s sudden shriek startles everyone at the table.

  “Ohmygod,” Tamira crows, now looking back over her shoulder.

  “Speak of the she-devil,” Heather adds.

  I follow their gazes toward the hostess area, where a statuesque brunette is thumping away on her cell phone.

  “That’s Dr. Jill,” Brielle coos. “Come on, let’s go say hi.”

  Like lemmings on the beach, the three of them hurry through the crowded dining room to greet their illustrious savior, leaving me at the table by myself while thoughts of tonight’s very important dinner start to swim through my head, suddenly making it harder to breathe.

  Twenty-five million dollars.

  What it will take to get this wing built.

  To further secure Dan’s position at the hospital.

  To keep Mom safe.

  To protect our livelihood—

  I feel my body start to stiffen against the chair, my bones growing tense and rigid.

  I am a strong, capable woman.

  I can do anything I set my mind to—

  Without thought, I lean over Heather’s empty seat to where her bag hangs on the back of the chair. I cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, confirming my friends are still occupied, then pop open the snap, peel back the leather fold, and peek inside. The prescription bottle beams at me like a beacon in a storm, begging me to open it up and take one—just one. Not because I need it, or want it, but because . . . well . . . you just never know.

  CHAPTER 2

  My gut wrenches with disgust as I say my goodbyes and quickly head for the car, hijacked pill stashed deep inside my own purse.

  What is wrong with me?

  Why did I do that?

  I’ve never stolen anything in my life, and certainly not someone’s prescribed medication!

  I fire up the engine and head out of the lot, Dr. Deedee’s encouraging words once again filling the car.

  I am a strong, capable woman.

  I can do anything I set my mind to—

  RIIIIIING!

  The tutorial is suddenly cut off by the unnervingly loud sound of my phone. I glance at the dashboard display and see that it’s my little sister calling. Dammit.

  My grip instinctively tightens around the wheel.

  Five counts in.

  One long breath out.

  Deep, cleansing breaths are the key to relaxation—

  Right on cue, a different tutorial—this one courtesy of a Dr. Phil episode I saw years ago—starts to siphon through my mind. The same instruction I’ve relied upon for what seems a lifetime when it comes to dealing with my little sister.

  One deep, five-count inhale through my nose—one, two, three, four, five—then a hard push through my mouth, like I’m blowing out birthday candles—

  RIIIIIIIING!

  My knuckles run white.

  My molars clamp shut.

  It’s not working.

  Why isn’t this working?!

  Come on, Jane. You can do this.

  In through your nose, out through your mouth.

  You’re a strong, capable woman—

  RIIIIIIIIIIIING!

  Agh!

  I smack the button on the display, accepting the call.

  “What do you need, Julie?”

  My greeting feels forced against my windpipe but sounds relatively pleasant to the ear.

  “Hey, Janie! Did you get my text about Mom?”

  Teeth clenched, I inhale a deep breath through my nose and start to nod as I reply, “Yes. I did. I just haven’t had a chance to call the bank yet.”

  “Okay, yeah, that’s cool. You just need to do it by the end of the day. That Marlene lady in the office said she’ll be there until five, so you’ve got a little while yet.”

  “I’ll get it done,” I say firmly.

  I always get it done.

  “So, what’s up for tomorrow? Avery and I were texting last night, and she said she has a soccer game in the morning?”

  My hold on the wheel tightens, frustration quickly giving way to jealousy.

  Despite the twenty-seven hours I endured birthing her, the food and designer clothing I provide her, the care I administer when she’s sick, the countless hours I’ve spent taxiing her between activities and trying to wrap my brain around “new math,” Avery would still rather send texts to my little sister than me. My sister, who can’t hold a job, a boyfriend, or a conversation that doesn’t include her asking me for money.

  “It’s an early game,” I say. “Eight o’clock at Fletcher Field.”

  “Yeesh. That’s brutal.”

  I sigh. Yep. And she has to be there at seven, and with the field nearly a half hour away, that means I have to get up at six to get her there on time. Welcome to my Saturday mornings.

  “Well, I’ll do my best to get there, but it sort of depends on how things go tonight,” she goes on, her tone hinting of a giggle. “I started seeing this guy Blaze a couple weeks ago, and he said something about going to watch his friend’s band tonight—”

  “Blaze? His name is Blaze?”

  “Yeah.” She laughs. “Well, I mean, it’s not his real name, but that’s what everybody calls him.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  I sigh again, and this time I catch a glimpse of my eyes rolling in the rearview’s reflection. Of course she doesn’t know his real name. That would imply she’s had conversations with him that involve more than what they’ll be drinking the next round.

  God, I wish she’d be pickier about the men she dates . . .

  “So, Mom was asking about you yesterday,” she goes on.

  “About me, or about the short, brown-haired woman who brushes her hair?”

  Our mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s a couple of years ago. At first, she just had trouble recalling little things—a word here or there, what time her favorite show came on—but over the last few months, bigger things have started to disappear from her memories, like people. Sometimes she recognizes me as her oldest straight away, calling me Janie Lou Bug just like she did when I was a child. But other days it’s like there’s a stranger living in her body, and she only knows me as the woman I am in that very moment: the woman who plays Uno with her; the woman who walks with her around the assisted-living facility; the woman who brushes her once-lustrous chestnut hair.

  “You,” she answers. “She asked for you by name, and Avery too.”

  “She did?” A grateful smile tugs on my lips. It’s been a long time since she recognized Avery.

  “Yup. I mean, she thinks she’s in kindergarten or something, but still, she said, ‘When do I get to see Avery Rose again?’ You guys are coming down this weekend, aren’t you?”

  Mom’s facility is in Cannon Park, a solid one-hour drive from where I live in Mount Ivy. I do my best to get down there a few times a month, but with my crazy schedule, sometimes it’s hard to find the time. And getting Avery there is next to impossible.

  “I’m not sure if I can,” I say. “I’ve got a very important dinner with Dan tonight; then we’ve got Avery’s game tomorrow morning, and I have the PTA rummage sale in the afternoon—”

  “So maybe you can go on Sunday?”

  I come to a slow stop at a red light, jaw clenched in restraint. Sunday will be the first day in nearly a month when I haven’t had something on my docket. I’d planned to sleep in a little and maybe take a walk—

  “Janie, she asked for you,” Julie continues. “The doctors said we have to do our best to keep her memories alive. That it’s good for her to see familiar faces as often as she can—”

  “I know!” My interjection comes out with a lot more bite than intended. Crap! “Sorry,” I quickly say, aware that Julie’s enviable emerald eyes are splayed wide right now. I can’t remember the last time I raised my voice at her. “I didn’t mean to yell; i
t’s just . . . I’ve got a lot going on, and . . .”

  “No, it’s okay. I get it.”

  “I’ll try to come, okay?”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  The waver in her words suggests that she’s fighting back tears—a sound that instantly transforms her from the thirty-one-year-old woman she is to the six-year-old child I had to soothe back to sleep after bad dreams woke her in the middle of the night.

  I roll my lips over my teeth and clamp down, keeping my own emotions at bay.

  I am a strong, confident woman.

  I can do anything I set my mind to—

  “So, how’s everything with the new job?” I ask, shifting gears to something slightly less volatile. “Are they giving you lots of classes?”

  Julie is a Pilates instructor, though not a very good one, based on the way she jumps from studio to studio.

  “It’s fine. The studio’s really nice and all the equipment is good; it’s just . . .”

  She blows out a heavy, familiar-sounding sigh that prompts me to shake my head in disappointment—not at her, but at myself. I teed that one up perfectly.

  “I swear the only reason they hired me is to cover the classes nobody else wants. They stuck me with the two o’clock in the afternoon slot; that’s it. Two o’clock, Monday through Friday. Do you know how many people come to a Pilates class at two o’clock in the afternoon on a weekday? Two. Three if I’m lucky. It’s bullshit, Janie. I can’t survive on five measly classes a week.”

  . . . and there it is.

  The subtle ask that will inevitably have me transferring another thousand dollars into her checking account.

  All regret for my earlier aggression starts to drain from my body.

  “Sounds like things are pretty tough,” I say, almost robotically.

  “Yeah. I mean, I’m okay. It’s just getting tight with having to run the furnace at night now, and I’m burning through gas driving out to see Mom all the time. I go out there like four times a week, you know.”

  I inhale another deep breath through my nose, leg muscles tensing against the leather seat beneath me.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  I know darn well that you visit Mom four times a week, because that was the arrangement we made when we put her in the facility. Dan and I would foot the bill, and you’d do the majority of the visits because you have the most time. It’s also why we selected a home in Cannon Park in the first place—because it’s closer to you!