See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

Her shoulders sag, and she fires me a nasty look.

  Me!

  She fires me a nasty look.

  What did I do?

  “How about you record the game, and we’ll watch it together this weekend?” he goes on, sliding his empty chair into place under the table. “We can make banana splits.”

  She shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”

  “Tell you what—why don’t you go out and start the car for me,” he adds, falling victim to her warranted disappointment.

  Her eyes brighten. “Really?”

  “And if you promise to be really careful, I’ll even let you back it out of the driveway.”

  “Oh my gosh! Yes, yes, yes! I’ll get my shoes!”

  She springs from the table and thunders upstairs to her bedroom, all her grievances instantly forgotten.

  Once again, Dan is the hero.

  Oh, happy day.

  “Well, I guess somebody knows the key to Avery’s heart,” Julie says.

  Dan smirks with pride while I take another drink.

  Asshole.

  “Okay, don’t wait up,” he says to me. “It’ll probably be a late one.”

  “I figured,” I say through a forced smile.

  He gives Julie a cursory “Good to see you” with a sterile, one-armed hug, then saunters around the table and offers me something very similar. No emotion. No sentiment. No lung-crushing exuberance that steals my breath and fills my lungs with the sweet smell of drugstore shampoo. Just an obligatory physical act meant to convince our audience that we’re still a happily married couple.

  “So, what’s the deal with these meetings in the city?” Julie asks as soon as Dan and Avery have left the house.

  My eyes grow wide, and I swallow a surprised gasp.

  How does she know?

  “Meetings?”

  “Avery said you’re going to some meeting in Chicago. She said Dan’s been driving her to school.”

  “Oh, right. Yeah. It’s just a couple times a week. They’re no big deal. I’m just meeting with some of the . . . um . . . the fundraising ladies from the hospital.” It’s the first time I’ve had to lie straight to Julie’s face, and it’s proving to be a bit difficult. I quickly stand and start gathering dishes. “Remember I told you about that big event in February? The Listen to Your Heart Gala . . .”

  “Vaguely,” she mutters, following me into the kitchen with the basket of rolls and two dirty water glasses.

  “The hospital’s holding this huge event because they’re running on a deficit and will have to cut all their specialty departments unless they can secure enough money to keep them going. Since the cardiology group is the most prominent, they think that’s key to getting the funding, but if they don’t, they’ll be getting rid of almost everybody. It’ll just be a regular old community hospital, and everyone will have to drive into Chicago to see a specialist.”

  “Oh shit,” she says over a grimace.

  Yeah. Oh shit, indeed!

  “There’s an older couple—the Hoffstras, the people we went to dinner with a couple of weeks ago—who seem like they’re on board to make a big contribution, but apparently there are a couple of other hospitals in similar situations they’re talking with, so right now there’s no guarantee that they’re going to give any money to Mount Ivy.”

  “Damn, that’s scary, Janie.”

  I nod. Don’t I know it.

  “So, why are you meeting all the way down in Chicago?” she asks.

  Great question, Julie.

  Why the hell are we meeting all the way down in Chicago?

  Scouring my brain for a plausible response, I quickly make my way back into the dining room, Julie following close behind.

  “We’re, um . . . we’re working with a consultant who has an office down there,” I offer with a hearty nod, hoping the movement will add credence to my story. “She’s got a ton of experience and knows a lot of the donors we’re hitting up, so . . .”

  “Oh, thank god.” She blows out a relieved breath. “Here I was worried something bad was going on.”

  “Something bad?”

  “Yeah, I thought maybe you were seeing a divorce attorney or something.”

  Divorce?!

  A surprised and terrified gasp ripples through my body, prompting the gravy boat I just picked up to bobble in my hand. A puddle of gravy splashes over the lip and onto my fingers.

  “Wh-why would you think I’d be seeing a divorce attorney?”

  She shrugs. “Well, I didn’t really. But Avery said that Dan is hardly around anymore and that you seem sad all the time, so I just thought maybe something was going on with you two.”

  My heart twists with the very sadness Avery has apparently tuned into.

  I had no idea she picked up on any of my moods.

  Or that sadness was even one of them.

  Is it?

  “You guys are okay, right?” Julie asks, concern furrowing her brow. “There’s no trouble in paradise, is there?”

  I shift uncomfortably, my turtleneck suddenly feeling about two sizes smaller than it did a second ago. “No. We’re fine. It’s just . . . you know how his schedule is.” I toss a flippant hand through the air for added effect, sending a glob of gravy flying across the table. Whoops! I feel my cheeks flush with heat, but I carry on like nothing happened. “There’s just always something going on. But, yeah, we’re just fine. No trouble in paradise.”

  She glances down at the puddle of gravy on the table. “Good. Glad to hear it.”

  I grab the mashed potatoes and quickly head back into the kitchen. “So, things didn’t work out with the firefighter, huh?”

  My sister’s always-sordid love life is about the last thing on my mind right now, but that conversation was way too close for comfort. Dan was right: I’m totally off my lying game today! Thankfully, Julie doesn’t seem any the wiser for the sudden swing in conversation.

  “Nah,” she groans, following behind me with the untouched apple pie in her hands. “He was really cute, but he was kind of a dick.”

  “Really? How so?” I grab a dish towel and wipe the rest of the gravy from my hand.

  “He’s super self-centered,” she explains while grabbing a fork from one of the plates and digging into the pie. I’m too full to even consider joining her, but it looks really good. And by the way she’s lapping the metal tines, it must taste that way too. “We went out for dinner, and I swear all he talked about was his job. I mean, I’m all for saving people from fires,” she assures me while diving in for another forkful, “but he didn’t ask one thing about me the entire time. It was just three hours of him blabbering on about all the training he does, how he’s being promoted to lieutenant, blah, blah, blah. It was one of the worst dates of my life.”

  Three hours with a man who’s obsessed with his career and doesn’t give a damn about you or what you want? A fresh swell of annoyance rises in my chest. Try eighteen years . . .

  Avery bounds back into the house out of breath, her cheeks as pink as the cranberries on the table.

  “How’d it go, Lightning McQueen?” Julie asks.

  “It was so fun,” she huffs over a sated grin. “He let me drive all the way to the end of the street!”

  “Wow. So cool,” Julie replies. “That’s a long way!”

  It’s actually not a long way—two hundred yards at best—but in her mind it must’ve felt like a mile.

  “Were you nervous?” I ask.

  She turns to me, and right on cue her smile starts to fade. “No. I was with Dad.”

  To my ears, her tone is as acidic as it always is, but my heart hears something very different. It hears the sound of a little girl who is well aware that things in her world aren’t quite as peachy as her parents would like people—her—to believe they are.

  “Still, you had to have been a little freaked out, pressing the pedals all by yourself, right?” Julie jumps in, restoring a bit of Avery’s enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, that was kinda scary. I had to scoot t
he seat all the way up just so I could reach them.”

  “Could you even see over the steering wheel?” Julie asks.

  Avery shakes her head. “Not really. Dad had to keep one hand on the wheel so I wouldn’t crash into anything.”

  She starts to laugh. One of those deep, guttural laughs that only a child can make when they’re absolutely overcome with joy. My mouth pulls up into the contented smile I’ve been waiting for all day—finally, something to be thankful for!—but the celebration is short lived as the truth of where that laugh is originating settles in on me. Avery is only happy because she’s sharing this moment with Julie. It has nothing to do with me, as much as I’d like it to.

  I swallow against the ache building in my throat and say, “I’ve been thinking, and I guess it’s okay if you stay over at Auntie’s tonight.”

  “Really?” Avery’s eyes grow wide.

  “Yes. But you have to promise never to hide a detention slip from me again, got it—”

  Ooof!

  Before I can even get the words out, Avery is hugging me. I wrap my arms tight around her and press a kiss on the top of her head. The women in class would probably tell me she’s hugging me for the wrong reasons—that she’s grateful only because I’m giving her what she wants, even though she doesn’t deserve it—but I don’t care. I needed this hug. And Avery needs a happy Thanksgiving.

  “Thanks, Mom. I won’t lie about detention again, I swear.”

  “You better not.”

  “Well, hurry up and get your stuff, dude,” Julie instructs excitedly. “We’ve got movies to watch!”

  “Okay, okay!” Avery releases me and takes off to go pack her things.

  “Why the change of heart?” Julie asks.

  I offer up a shrug that I hope looks effortless. “It’s Thanksgiving. If you can’t stay up all night watching Harry Potter with your favorite person, when can you?”

  There’s a waver in my voice that prompts me to drop my head and start wrestling with the dish towel in my hands.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  She’s suddenly at my side, hand pressing gently against my shoulder.

  I nod.

  “You sure?”

  My already-aching throat starts to swell beneath the concern weighing down her questions. I can’t remember the last time Julie was worried about me. It’s always the other way around. Always.

  “’Cause you know you can talk to me about anything,” she goes on.

  A twinge of temptation flickers in my chest—a momentary urge to unload my burden on her—but it disappears faster than a whisper in the wind.

  As much as I resent it, Julie, and more importantly, Mom, both depend on me and the stability that my life—my marriage—provides them, almost as much as Avery does. I’m not about to ruin her Thanksgiving by informing her that it’s on very shaky ground.

  I slowly raise my head to look at her. The worry filling her green eyes confirms my decision. She can’t know the truth.

  I clear my throat and muster up the best big-sister smile I can and say, “Nothing’s wrong; I’m just emotional. Too much of this,” I joke, tapping the wine bottle that’s sitting on the counter beside me. “I’m so grateful to have you around, Jules. And that kid up there adores you . . .” I knuckle back the tear welling in my eye while motioning toward the stairs.

  Her worry gives way to a relieved smile. “Yeah, well, the feeling’s pretty mutual.”

  I smile again, a genuine one this time.

  “You know, you could come with us,” she offers. “We could have a little slumber party. Do our nails, braid each other’s hair, gorge on ice cream . . .”

  Delicious as the thought is, I don’t hesitate in shaking my head. “Nah. This night is just for you guys.”

  “You sure? It would be so much fun.”

  “I know it would,” I say. “But, really, it’s fine. You guys go and have a good time.”

  Her shoulders sag beneath her flowing tunic top. “But it’s Thanksgiving. I hate the thought of you being here all by yourself.”

  A twinge of anger pricks at my nerves.

  I do too.

  But I wouldn’t be alone if my husband weren’t a lying, cheating asshole.

  I swallow against the knot of frustration building in my throat. “Are you kidding? A night alone is exactly what I need after the week I’ve had.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yes,” I say with authority. “Now get out of here and take my kid with you. Ply her with sugar and sweets, and don’t let her go to sleep until dawn.”

  “Yes, sir.” She laughs, while giving me a mock salute. “Any chance I can take this to my house too?” She points to the apple pie, then flirtatiously bats her eyes at me.

  “So that’s how you get all those free drinks.”

  She grins.

  “Yes, you can take the pie. And I’ll transfer some money into your account too. Just in case you need it.”

  Normally, I wait for Julie to ask for money, but . . . it’s Thanksgiving.

  “Aw, thanks, Janie.” She throws her arms around me and gives me a hug. “You’re the best, you know that?”

  I force a little smile.

  Yeah, I’m the best, all right.

  Too bad no one else in my family thinks so.

  I sip my way through another splash of wine while I clear the table and start on the cleanup. The washing machine’s busy with all the linens, the china’s soaking in the sink—too delicate to run through the dishwasher—and now I’m tackling the leftovers.

  A dozen empty plastic containers sit in a line across the countertop. I load the first two with stuffing, seal the lids, then move on to the turkey. Since I’m the only one who eats the dark meat, I load up a small container with that, then fill a bigger container with white meat for Avery and Dan. The potatoes are next. They’re Dan’s favorite, which is why I always make a double batch.

  Freaking Dan.

  “You’re getting plenty of potatoes tonight, aren’t you?” I growl while burying the serving spoon deep inside the bowl. I scoop up a big dollop and then slap it down into the container. “Must be nice to have two Thanksgiving dinners . . .”

  I reload the spoon, my gaze catching on a familiar image of Dan that’s magnetized to the refrigerator. It’s the picture of him after he finished running his first marathon last spring. Dripping with sweat, a prideful smile stretching across his chiseled jaw. I remember how proud I was of him that day. How impressed I was that all his training had paid off. Hours and hours of training so he could cross that item off his bucket list. Because it’s always been about Dan’s lists. Dan’s goals. Dan’s desires . . .

  A jolt of anger suddenly electrifies my bones, prompting me to pull the spoon back and launch it—catapult style—directly at the picture. The potatoes smack against the fridge, covering the left portion of Dan’s stupid, selfish face, while bits of potato sail through the air, landing on the quartz countertop and hardwood floor like fluffy white grenades.

  Despite my anger, I burst out laughing and load the spoon up again. Smack! Another direct hit, this time covering the rest of the picture.

  “How does that feel, Dan?” I taunt the potato-covered image while reloading the spoon for another attack. “The all-powerful Dr. Osborne likes his potatoes, doesn’t he?” Smack! Reload. “’Cause it’s all about what Dan wants, isn’t it?” Smack! Reload. “It’s all about Dan.” Smack! Reload. “Dan, Dan, Dan . . .”

  By the time I reach the bottom of the serving dish, the refrigerator is spackled in a thick coat of potatoes, and I’m seriously considering moving on to the green bean casserole when it dawns on me that Julie and Avery could walk in at any moment. It’s not likely, but on occasion Avery forgets something and they have to turn around and come back for it. Explaining away a meeting in the city is one thing, but justifying the mess in front of me would be another. As therapeutic as hurling food is (potatoes or oranges), I have to find another way to work through my frustrations. Somewhere
I’m allowed to make a mess. Somewhere I can’t get myself into any trouble.

  A nervous flutter rolls through my chest as I glance toward the breakfast nook, where my purse is hanging on the back of the chair.

  I probably can’t get into trouble if I’m with a cop . . .

  I set the empty bowl down on the counter, wipe my hands on the dish towel, and head for my bag, where Chavez’s Post-it note is tucked into the interior pocket, right next to my lipstick.

  He said I could call anytime, but he didn’t mean Thanksgiving, did he? Surely, he’s having dinner somewhere. With his family or one of the many women who visit him at the station. I’ll just text him. Then he can get back in touch with me when he’s ready. Which probably won’t be until tomorrow or maybe even next week. With the long holiday weekend, there’s no telling what people are up to.

  I thump out a message that I hope doesn’t sound as desperate as I feel:

  Hi. It’s Jane Holliday. Hope you’re having a nice Thanksgiving. If you’re still willing, I’d like to take you up on your offer. Let me know when is a good time for you. Thanks.

  I set the phone down and start cleaning up my nightmare of a kitchen. Much to my surprise, my phone chimes with a new text before I even pull the sponge from the sink. It’s from Chavez:

  Are you free tonight?

  Foolishly, my heart starts to beat a little faster.

  “Calm down, girl,” I mutter. That’s likely his default text response to all women.

  Yes. We just finished dinner.

  His reply comes lightning fast.

  Great.

  Meet me at 1122 Bancroft Drive

  I’ll meet you at the gate.

  Bring a bat if you have one.

  My eyes snap wide.

  Bring a bat?

  Good Lord, what have I gotten myself into?

  CHAPTER 13

  The address Chavez sent is just a few blocks from the police station in the city. Traffic is light, so I’m able to make the trip in just under an hour. The dashboard clock reads 6:28, but it might as well be midnight for how dark and desolate the streets are. I guess everyone’s at home spending time with their families. What a novel concept.

  I keep a firm grip on the wheel as I make my way through the neighborhood and finally come upon the address. It’s a huge lot—spanning the size of an entire city block—with a tall chain-link fence guarding its perimeter. Strips of black plastic are woven in and out of the links, making it impossible to see what’s hiding behind it, but given the barbed coils wound around the fence’s lip, it must be important.