See Jane Snap

by Crandell, Bethany

  “I know,” I grunt, quickly becoming annoyed with his paternal tone. I’m your wife, not your child! “I didn’t just blow it off. Something really important came up—”

  “What could possibly be more important than my career? Are you forgetting that everything I’ve worked so hard for hinges on whether or not we get that money from the Hoffstras?”

  “Of course I haven’t forgotten,” I snap back, his arrogance grating my nerves. “But the world doesn’t stop for a meeting, Dan. Someone needed my help today, so I helped her. I’m sorry that I missed the meeting, but I had to be somewhere else just then. Missing one meeting isn’t the end of the freaking world.”

  His jaw twitches beneath my heated response. It’s been a long time since I’ve pushed back at him.

  “You have to be at the luncheon on Saturday,” he says over a pointed look. “I don’t care what kind of trouble your friends get into. You have to be there.”

  “I’m aware, Dan. I will be there.”

  He stares at me for a long, uncomfortable beat before he shakes his head and starts heading toward the kitchen.

  “Be extra nice to Avery,” I instruct as he passes by me. “She’s having a bad day.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  I briefly consider telling him the truth but quickly determine that after his very abrupt greeting, a little defiance is a much better response. I thrust my chin up and say, “She’s not feeling well. It’s probably nothing, but I’m going to keep her home from school tomorrow, just to be safe.”

  His anger gives way to a more concerned expression as he says, “Okay,” then resumes his entrance into the house, calling out to Avery, “Hey, kiddo. I hear you’re taking a sick day tomorrow. What’s going on?”

  It’s definitely a poor parenting decision on my part—forcing my child to lie about her health—but I have no doubt Avery will jump at the opportunity. Lord knows the girl can sell a story when she wants to.

  I make my way back into the house—acknowledging an appreciative glance from Avery as I pass through the kitchen, Dan sitting attentively at her side—then sneak down the hall and into Dan’s office. He may not think helping a friend takes precedence over work, but I sure do . . . and sweet Burty still needs my help.

  I round the big mahogany desk, pull open the bottom drawer, and withdraw a sheet of his letterhead. It’s outdated, still adorned with the hospital’s old logo with the embossed tree on the top, but it should do the job just fine.

  Thank you, Dr. Osborne. You have no idea how helpful you’ve been.

  CHAPTER 17

  To whom it may concern,

  This letter serves as confirmation that Burty Bedford was seen in my office on Monday, November 29. Please excuse her absence.

  Daniel A. Osborne, MD

  It’s about as simple as excuse notes go—and the signature doesn’t come close to Dan’s—but it will work.

  “Who in thunder is Daniel A. Osborne?” Burty asks.

  “Don’t . . . worry about that . . . now,” I manage over winded breaths. I had to sprint from the car to pass off the letter before class started. The plan was for Burty and Iris to meet me in the parking lot fifteen minutes ago, but a bad accident on the highway delayed me. And now we’ve got only a minute until class starts. “Just . . . give it to Bates,” I pant, hinging forward at the waist to catch my breath. “It’ll work.”

  “But I didn’t see no doctor,” she goes on, voice quaking with uncertainty. “That’d be a lie. And I don’t like the idea of lyin’.”

  “Would you really rather tell her the truth in front of everybody?” Iris counters. “Do you want all of those women to know what you’ve been going through?”

  “A’course not. That’s my own personal, private business.” And mine. And Iris’s. And anyone within eyeshot of the elephant stampeding down the road. “But what if she calls this Dr. Osborne and asks him about me? Or what if she goes to his office to question him?” I glance up and see that her eyes are now wide, darting back and forth between Iris and me. “She’s a cop, ya know? She’s used to investigatin’ things.”

  “She’s not going to show up at anybody’s office or make any phone calls,” I assure her as I stand back up, oxygen finally returning to my lungs. “All she wants is a piece of paper that says you saw a doctor, and that’s what you have. Now get in there and give it to her.” I motion to the classroom door behind her.

  “But—”

  “Give her the note.” Iris cuts her off with a stern look. “Even if you tell her the truth, there’s no guarantee that she’ll let you stay in the class. And if you don’t finish the class, you’ll get fined and might even end up doing some jail time. That means you’d have to leave Rosie. You don’t want that to happen, do you?”

  She gasps. “Lord no! I’d never leave my little girl.”

  “Okay then,” Iris goes on. “Get in there, hand her the note, and be done with it. Go on.”

  With the threat of her child on the line, Burty accepts her instruction and heads through the door.

  “You know forgery is a felony in some states,” Iris snuffs under her breath.

  I grin. “Only if you get caught.”

  And even if I do, Dan would never press charges. Not with what I have on him . . .

  As instructed, Burty marches straight up to where Bates is standing at her little podium and offers her the note. “Sorry I missed class on Monday. I was feelin’ real sick.”

  “Yeah . . . uh, that’s okay,” Bates mutters, not taking or even glancing at the paper. Her attention is so focused on the action going on in the corner of the room I’m surprised she even realized Burty was talking to her.

  That was easy . . .

  “What’s wrong with Maya?” Burty asks no one in particular.

  Maya, who usually sits next to me, is standing on the far side of the room facing the window, while Donna and Angel stand on either side of her; Donna is stroking her back in that comforting, maternal way I know so well.

  “Her abuela died,” Lina grunts from her usual seat.

  “Aww . . .” Burty’s bottom lip rolls out into a pout.

  “Abuela’s not Spanish for cat, is it?” Iris mutters to me.

  I fight a smile while shaking my head. “No. It means grandmother.”

  Iris winces. “That’s too bad.”

  I nod. Yeah, that is too bad.

  “Take your seats,” Bates orders, her attention still focused intently on Maya.

  Angel and Donna abandon their posts at Maya’s side, joining the rest of us as we settle into the chairs.

  My stomach twists nervously as I flip open my journal and lay it across my lap for inspection. I kept my response intentionally vague, but it’s also painfully true. I wrote it Monday night, right after I stole the letterhead from Dan’s office. I hadn’t planned on being so honest, but something deep down inside begged me to do it. Like somehow my soul knew that getting at least some of those feelings out of my head—out of my heart—might make me feel a little better. And it did. But now all the good stuff is gone, and all I’m left feeling is . . . exposed.

  THE HARDEST THING I DID THIS WEEK WAS . . .

  Admit to my daughter that the perfect life she thought she had—the life she deserves—isn’t real. And that more than anything I want to fix it for her, but I don’t know how.

  Bates huddles up in the corner with Maya for a few minutes before she makes her way back to her podium. “Ladies, we’re going to do things a little different today. Maya’s asked if she can talk to us about her grandmother, who passed away on Tuesday. Anybody got a problem with that?”

  Despite the question mark trailing her words, Bates isn’t really asking for our approval. Not that any of us would oppose the idea if she were. It’s obvious by the mascara tears staining Maya’s cheeks that she’s having a hard time; it makes sense that she’d want to talk through some of her pain. I know I would . . . if I had people I could talk to.

  “All right, then,” Bates goe
s on. “Close your journals and give Maya your attention.”

  Despite my empathy for Maya’s heartache—and my utter surprise at Bates’s compassion—I’d swear I can hear a chorus of angels singing right now. I slam my notebook shut and heave a deep breath as I settle into my seat.

  May you rest in peace, Abuela.

  And take my journal entry with you . . .

  “Now will you tell me who this Dr. Osborne is?” Burty says impatiently.

  She’s asked this question at least a dozen times since we were excused from class and made the three-block walk over here to Aunt B’s Diner: a hole-in-the-wall place with plastic menus and cracked Formica countertops. Given its proximity to the police station, I’m not surprised that it’s a hot spot for cops—there are three uniformed officers sitting at the counter to my right—but what did catch me off guard is how good their dessert is. Iris said it had won some local awards, but this peach cobbler deserves a freaking Oscar. I’m already working on my second slice.

  “Come on, please?” Burty prods.

  The thought of telling them anything about Dan sours the decadent taste in my mouth.

  Damn you, Dan.

  You literally ruin everything!

  I set the fork down and sigh. “Dr. Osborne is my husband.”

  “You’re married to a doctor?” Burty chirps, eyes and jaw gaping in wonder. I nod while casting a quick glance across the booth toward Iris. She smirks from behind the lip of her coffee cup. “But your last name is Holliday, isn’t it? Isn’t that why Bates calls you that?”

  “Holliday is my maiden name. I’ve just been using that lately because . . . well . . . it’s a long story”—that you’re never going to hear—“but my married name is Osborne. Dan is my husband.”

  “Wow, a doctor. That’s so excitin’! And he was okay writin’ me an excuse, even though he didn’t see me?”

  I hate the idea of lying to Burty—especially after what she’s been through this week—but knowing the truth would just upset her. Besides, if Dan can’t be a good guy in real life, he might as well be one in make-believe.

  “Yep. I told him about what happened, and he was more than happy to help.”

  “Aww. What a sweetheart,” Burty coos. “You sure are lucky to have such a nice guy like that.”

  I force a smile.

  Yeah, I’m lucky, all right.

  I pick up my fork and start stabbing at a peach.

  I’m real lucky . . .

  “So that was quite a life Maya’s grandmother lived, wasn’t it?” Iris says.

  “It really was,” I say, grateful for the change in subject.

  Maya shared the beautiful and inspiring story of her grandmother, Rosabel, who emigrated from El Salvador when she was just nine years old. The woman was a powerhouse who juggled two jobs while she earned her high school diploma, then went on to cosmetology school and eventually opened her own hair salon on the southwest side of Chicago, where she worked until the day she died. Along with her thriving career, she enjoyed an enviable sixty-three-year marriage to her high school sweetheart, Carlos, and had nine children (all daughters), twenty-one grandchildren, and six great-grandchildren. Talk about leaving behind a legacy.

  “I think it was real good of Officer Bates to let her talk through all her feelin’s,” Burty says while loading up her fork with another hunk of pie. She’s on her third slice of cherry. I don’t even like cherries, and my mouth is watering just looking at it.

  “I have to admit I was a little surprised by that,” Iris says. “I was starting to wonder if there was a heart under all that uniform.”

  “You and me both.” I chuckle, then pose a concern that crossed my mind during class. “You don’t think Maya would use again, do you? As a way to cope with all of this?”

  “What do you mean, use?” Burty says.

  “You mean drugs?” Iris asks.

  Their questions give me pause. I slowly set down my fork, eyeing both of them. “Well . . . yeah. She told us she was charged with possession of heroin.”

  Iris’s brows furrow while Burty cries, “Maya did heroin?”

  She says it loud enough that one of the cops at the counter turns and looks at us. I flash him my best nothing-to-see-here smile, then drop my head and my voice and reply, “Yeah, don’t you remember on the first day, when Bates made us all stand up and say what we were charged with . . .”

  “Oh, right.” Iris starts to nod, recognition setting in. “Now I remember. She was the first one to talk, wasn’t she?” I nod. “And there was that day in class when she said she only liked hanging out with her girlfriend when she was high. Poor kid.”

  “I can’t believe Maya used heroin,” Burty goes on, shaking her head in disbelief. “She seems so sweet and innocent.”

  “I know,” I say. “Same with Angel. She was charged with possession of meth.”

  “Shut up!” Burty smacks the table, forcing the coffee cups to rattle in their saucers. “Angel too? I never woulda guessed that. She’s so funny and is always talkin’ about her mama and her baby brother. What about Donna?” Her voice suddenly takes on a concerned tone. “She’s got a grandbaby. Please don’t tell me she was doin’ drugs too.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “But Lina did—”

  “It was crank, wasn’t it?” Iris offers up, proving I’m not the only one who was paying attention that day.

  I nod. “Yep. And assault.”

  “Assault?” Burty cries, palm pressed to her forehead in shock. “God bless America. That’s terrifyin’!” I shift against the vinyl seat beneath me. Yes, Burty, being charged with assault is terrifying. “What do you think she did?”

  “Probably beat up a Girl Scout for ringing the doorbell too loud,” Iris mutters over a mouthful of pumpkin pie.

  I burst out laughing. Guess I’m not the only one who thinks Lina is mean and scary.

  “So, I guess y’all remember what I did, too, huh?” Burty asks sheepishly, a flush of pink coloring her cheeks.

  Indecent exposure.

  I remember it well.

  “Yeah, I remember,” Iris says to her. “But I bet you can’t guess mine.”

  The redirect is obvious to me—a thoughtful gesture meant to ease Burty’s embarrassment—but she doesn’t notice.

  Her blue eyes grow wide, and she shakes her head. “I got no clue. Jane?” She turns to me. “Do you remember what Iris got charged with?”

  My chest tightens beneath Burty’s question. When I met Iris a few weeks ago, she was just a stranger I was forced to sit next to: a stranger I defined by the charge filed against her. But now she’s . . . well, now that I’m getting to know her . . . just the thought of pointing it out feels sort of . . .

  “It was . . . petty theft, right?”

  Iris rolls her eyes, aware that I’m playing dumb, while Burty gasps and says, “You stole somethin’?”

  “I sure did,” Iris admits over a chagrined smile. “Five fifty-milligram doses of Victonel.”

  “Victonel? What’s that?” Burty asks, swiping the question straight from my lips.

  “It’s the medication my son takes to treat his prediabetes.”

  Iris has a son.

  She’s a nurse, and she has a son.

  So much more than a petty thief.

  “What’d you do, break into a Rite Aid?” Burty questions.

  Iris chuckles. “No. Nothing like that. They were samples one of the pharmaceutical reps dropped off at the clinic a few weeks before.” She inhales a long breath through her nose while settling deeper into the corner of the booth as she starts to explain. “Damon, my son, goes to college upstate and uses the student insurance they have—it’s cheaper than keeping him on mine,” she adds, looking directly at me. I nod. I get it. Insurance is expensive! “But there was some kind of hiccup with his coverage, so he couldn’t get his prescription refilled,” she goes on. “We tried calling his doctor, but his office was closed while he was on vacation, and the answering service wasn’t very hel
pful—”

  “Someone should have been covering his patient load,” I interject.

  “Well, apparently there was, but the doctor who was supposed to be covering contracted some weird virus and ended up in the hospital for like a month or something. I don’t know exactly what happened”—she tosses a hand through the air—“but at the end of the day, nobody called us back.”

  I shake my head, annoyed. He may be an asshole, but Dan would never leave his patients unattended.

  “Anyway, Damon had enough to get him through until a few days before the doctor was due back, but he was really scared about skipping any doses, especially being so far away from home . . .”

  And now I’m nodding. Of course he was scared. Poor baby.

  “So, I was at the clinic late one night and saw them sitting there in the cupboard with about a hundred other samples, and I just decided to take them.” Her gaze slowly drifts down to her coffee cup. She drags her red-tipped finger along its lip and almost absently says, “The doctor gives us samples all the time. Since they’re free, he just passes them out without much thought, but apparently this medication was different. They keep track of it and report into the pharmaceutical company with patient feedback or something. The office manager realized they were missing the very next day and started questioning everybody on staff. I came clean right away, but it didn’t matter. The clinic has a zero-tolerance policy when it comes to stealing medication. They had no choice but to fire me.”

  “Oh, Iris . . . ,” I mutter, my shoulders slumping sympathetically.

  “Nah, don’t feel sorry for me.” She shakes her head firmly. “It was wrong. I deserved everything I got. And they actually cut me a break, because technically they could have charged me with a felony, but instead they just called it petty theft, so I got off with a misdemeanor.”

  “Does your son know what happened?” I ask.

  “Huh-uh. He’d kill me. Especially after the way I’ve been riding him his whole life about doing the right thing and making a difference in the world. Some difference I made,” she groans. “That was just flat-out stupid. I knew I shouldn’t have done it, but at the time I really didn’t see another way.”