See Jane Snap

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See Jane Snap Page 23

by Crandell, Bethany


  I never realized how much work it is to look like I’m enjoying myself.

  I’m at the all-committee luncheon, where the hospital’s fundraising team is revealing the plans for the Listen to Your Heart Gala. Details I would have known had I been on the conference call earlier in the week—an “egregiously bad decision” Dan refuses to let me forget.

  Along with the hospital staffers and the outside consultant, there are two dozen or so local philanthropists (mostly wealthy retirees who commit ten to twenty thousand a year in exchange for party invitations and name recognition on brochures), the rest of the Second Wives Club, and, most recently, and most surprisingly, Dan. Considering he doesn’t serve on the committee and has no Saturday surgeries on his docket, the only reason I can figure for him showing up at the hospital right now is to make sure that I’m here. Well, that and to soak up some praise from his adoring fans.

  I don’t need a babysitter, asshole!

  “Well, look who’s here! Dr. Osborne, head of our cardiothoracic department—what a treat!” Jackie Harriman, VP of fundraising, coos from where she stands at the front of the room. “Please, won’t you sit down and join us.”

  Dan flashes one of his Ken doll smiles and says, “It would be my pleasure, Jackie. Thank you.”

  All eyes in the room follow him as he makes his way over to the table where the second wives and I are sitting. My jaw instinctively clenches as he grabs an empty chair and slides it into place between Brielle and me.

  “Well, hey there, good-lookin’.” Brielle’s all chipper, southern charm as she scooches over to make room.

  He extends quick greetings to the rest of the wives—each one gaping at him like he just walked on water to get here—then throws his arm around my shoulder and leans in, kissing my cheek.

  “Hi, honey,” he says.

  My skin bristles, his words and touch grating against every nerve in my body.

  “Aww . . . ,” Brielle sighs while Heather groans, “Get a room, you two.”

  I force out yet another smile and turn to him. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  His own plastered-on smile deepens, and with his gaze lasered in on me, he says, “Well, it’s a very important meeting. I wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  A surge of disdain starts swelling through my veins, prompting me to bury my fingernails into my palm before I hit him over the head like he’s a wrecked car in the corner of the lot.

  “I was just sharing with the committee our plan to invite some former patients to speak at the gala,” Jackie continues, thankfully reclaiming the spotlight. All heads turn back to the front of the room. “We feel that allowing potential donors the opportunity to hear firsthand from grateful patients the impact our hospital—and our doctors, specifically—has had in their lives could be very effective. I’m sure you can speak to that fact, can’t you, Dr. Osborne?”

  And, once again, all attention shifts back to Dan.

  Just the way he likes it.

  “Absolutely,” he says. “The hospital exists solely for the care it can provide the community. I can’t think of a better way to convey that than bringing in actual patients so they can share their stories.”

  “Mmm. So true,” Tamira agrees reverently.

  I swallow a sigh.

  “Well, we’ve got no shortage of grateful patients on your list,” Jackie says wistfully. “We did the math, and you’ve saved more lives than Superman!”

  The room erupts in a chorus of laughter, prompting Dan to do that detestable fake-humility thing he does where he shrugs his shoulders all the way up into his cheeks while smiling like a sheepish schoolboy.

  I hate that look!

  Fighting the urge to scream, I reach for my water glass and take a long drink while Jackie continues.

  “So, along with the grateful patients, we’re also going to have live music, a comedian—a really funny guy from the Comedy Stop down in Chicago. I saw him a few weeks ago; he was hysterical,” she adds over an annoying, scrunched-nose smile. “And of course we’ll have a silent auction. This year Heather Mills-Crosby, our resident soap opera actress and wife to Mitchell Crosby, head of general surgery, has offered up acting lessons.” She motions to my tablemate, who plasters on one of her own manufactured smiles as the room turns our way. “How exciting will that be?”

  “So fucking exciting,” Heather mumbles under her breath.

  Tamira stifles a snort while Brielle says, “Oh, how fun. I might bid on that.”

  I can’t help but think back to the big prescription bottle stashed in Heather’s bag. I’m not sure Brielle can hang with that much fun.

  My phone suddenly vibrates from inside my bag. Dan hears the muffled buzzing, too, and gives me a stern look as if silently telling me not to check it, but there’s no way I’m going to ignore it. It could be Avery, even though I’m pretty sure it’s Julie. She’s already sent three text messages since I’ve been here, each one harder to interpret than the one before, but the gist is that Mom is having a bad day, and, of course, she can’t handle it on her own.

  As subtly as possible, I reach down and pull the phone from my bag, and—yep, it’s Julie. But she’s actually calling this time, which in itself isn’t that strange—she always ends up calling if I don’t respond to her texts—but for some reason today feels . . . concerning.

  I quickly reject the call to stop the vibration, then hide the phone on my lap and wait for the “New voice mail” notification to appear. From the corner of my eye, I can see that Dan’s keeping watch on what I’m doing. I shift beneath the weight of his heavy arm, angling myself away from him for a little privacy. As soon as the notification appears, I click it open and immediately hit the “Transcribe” button, so rather than playing the message, I can just read it on the screen.

  For the first time in history, one of Julie’s messages comes through without one typo:

  You need to get down here. Mom’s freaking out. She’s saying all kinds of ridiculous things about Dan. I’ve tried to talk her through it like I usually do, but it’s not working. And now she won’t stop crying. Please come down here. I don’t know what to do.

  Had I actually listened to the message, I have no doubt that Julie’s voice would’ve been cracking with panic—her sentences punctuated by exclamation points, not periods—but without the audio, my brain can focus on only the words in front of me.

  On that one phrase: saying all kinds of ridiculous things about Dan.

  My stomach drops.

  Mom heard me.

  Despite the way she was acting, some little part of her was there the day I confessed the truth about Dan, and now she’s talking.

  SHIT.

  Without thought, I snatch my bag and lean into Dan, whispering, “I have to go. Mom needs me.”

  Still mindful of our surroundings, he maintains a pleasant expression, but the little squeeze to my shoulder assures me he’s anything but happy. “I’m sure your sister can handle it until we’re done here,” he mutters back, jaw twitching in restraint.

  I shrink out of his grasp. “No, she can’t. I’m going.”

  I throw my bag over my shoulder and make a quick beeline for the door. I can hear the second wives murmuring curiosities as to where I’m going and can feel the attention of the room shift to me, but I keep my head down the entire time. I’m too focused on how I’m going to deal with Mom—and more importantly, Julie—than to worry about what these annoying, fake-laughing people think of me, or my cheating liar of a husband.

  If I’d gone the speed limit, the drive would have taken roughly an hour; I make it in thirty-eight minutes. I called Julie on the way down to let her know I was coming. As expected, her voice was quaking with fear, and it summoned that protective, big-sister instinct I have like it always does. Dammit. This isn’t how I wanted her to find out. She shouldn’t have to hear it this way.

  Carol’s at the front desk and greets me with a worried look when I blow into the lobby.

  “I’m so gla
d you’re here,” she says, quickly scribbling out my name on a visitor’s badge and handing it to me. “She’s really out of sorts; I’ve never seen her like this.”

  “Well, hopefully I can calm her down a little.” I peel off the plastic backing strips and slap the sticker against my chest. “They’re in her room?”

  “Yep. Dr. Bain is in there too.”

  Oh good. Now the doctor’s privy to my dirty, cheating laundry too.

  Pulse racing, I hustle down the hall toward Mom’s suite. Her door is closed, but I can still hear someone wailing on the other side.

  Dammit, Jane! Why did you tell her?

  Flinching against the sound, I inhale a deep breath and open the door.

  “Oh, thank god.” Looking as haggard as she sounded on the phone, Julie springs up from where she’s sitting at the dining table and hurries over to me for a hug. I pull her in tight while focusing my attention over her shoulder to where Mom is huddled up in a ball in the corner of the little love seat, crying. She looks more like a scared child than a sixty-four-year-old grandmother.

  A pang of guilt slices straight through my heart.

  I did that to her.

  My lie—Dan’s lie—did that to her.

  “She’s just a mess today,” Julie sputters against my ear. “Nothing I say will calm her down. She just keeps prattling on with all this crazy talk about Dan and then gets so mad when I tell her they’re not real memories. And I know I’m not supposed to do that,” she adds over shuddery breaths. “I’m not trying to upset her, it’s just—”

  “No, I know you’re not,” I say, tightening my hold on her. Unfortunately, Alzheimer’s doesn’t come with a script, for patients or their families. It’s impossible to get it right when there’s no recipe to follow. “She’s just having a bad day—probably didn’t get any sleep last night. We’ll get her through it.” I glance at Dr. Bain and, despite Mom’s obvious pain, still have to settle my own unease. “How long has the doctor been here?”

  “She just got here a few minutes ago.”

  “Did Mom tell her what she told you?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I told her not to say it to anyone.”

  I swallow a relieved breath. Thank god!

  “Oh, Katherine, look. Your daughter Jane is here,” Dr. Bain suddenly announces from where she’s standing at the opposite end of the love seat from Mom, monitoring her with a concerned brow.

  “Janie?” Mom calls out over shuddery breaths. “Janie Lou Bug, is that you?”

  I release my hold on Julie and hurry across the room, saying, “Yeah, it’s me, Mom. I’m here.”

  “Oh, Janie!” she wails, raising her head slightly while swiping at her eyes. “I don’t understand what’s happening! It feels so clear in my head, but Julie’s telling me it’s not true. I must be going crazy!”

  “No, you’re not going crazy, Mom,” I assure her, as I have before. I drop down on the cushion beside her, surprised when she immediately unrolls from her little ball, only to collapse in a crying heap on my lap. I cast a wary glance toward Dr. Bain and say, “Do you think we could have a moment?”

  “Of course. I’m just across the hall if you need anything.”

  The doctor gives Julie a supportive pat on her way out, then disappears into the hallway. Now it’s just the three of us in the room.

  The three of us and one great big damning secret.

  My chest grows tight, and I instinctively start to drag my hand along Mom’s mess of tangled hair. Before the disease found her, I could count on one finger the number of times I’d seen her cry—the day she learned my father had died—but now she does it a lot. Sometimes out of fear, sometimes out of frustration. Today it sounds like both. Well done, Jane.

  “Everything’s going to be okay,” I go on, stroking her back. “You’ll feel better soon—”

  “But I just don’t understand it!” she cries out, her thin body shuddering beneath me. “It doesn’t make sense! I’m sure what I’m saying is true. I’m sure it happened. But Julie says it didn’t. But it feels so real in my head!”

  I wince against the anguish in her voice.

  It feels real because it is real.

  “I hate this!” she yells while pressing her fisted hands against my thighs.

  Anger isn’t uncommon in Alzheimer’s patients—considering how their brains betray them, it’s certainly warranted—though today it’s not this damn disease that’s brought her to this horrific point; it’s me.

  I inhale a nervous breath, then say, “Mom, why don’t you tell me what you told Julie. Maybe I can help you understand it a little better.”

  She shakes her head. “No,” she sputters against my legs. “You’ll just think I’m crazy too—”

  “I never said you were crazy; I just said it didn’t happen,” Julie snips back, the hours she’s spent trying to calm her down evident in her exhausted tone.

  Mom suddenly bolts upright and faces Julie, screaming, “But it felt so real!” while raking her hands through her hair in frustration. “I just don’t understand why it can feel like such a real memory if it didn’t actually happen.”

  “Mom, what was it?” I prompt again, now desperate to confirm what she’s saying so I can ease her suffering. “What did you tell Julie that felt so real?”

  She turns toward me and for the first time since I arrived looks at me head-on. My heart twists at the desperation pooling in her swollen, bloodshot eyes. Desperation that’s quickly giving way to sadness and sympathy, because the longer she holds my gaze, the more she’s assured that she was right.

  She did report the truth to Julie.

  She can see it in my eyes.

  And now the thought of saying it aloud, with me here . . .

  Her chin starts to quiver, and her teary gaze drifts away from me while she says, “I, um . . . I told her . . . I said that . . .”

  “She said that Dan has been cheating on you, with another man,” Julie jumps in, quickly making her way into the guest chair sitting opposite us. “But I told her that was impossible. That she must have seen it on one of her shows and somehow got it confused with real life. Like The Love Boat or One Day at a Time, or—oh! It was probably on Three’s Company.” Her hopeful gaze darts back and forth between Mom and me. “They always had wacky storylines on that show. It must have been something like that. Like maybe one where Jack pretends to be gay to get out of dating someone. Or maybe someone thinks Mr. Furley is gay. He was always wearing those fancy scarves around his neck. Maybe that’s where the whole gay idea came from . . .”

  I can tell by the way Mom’s nodding that she wants to confirm that what Julie’s suggesting could be true—her memory is just playing more tricks on her—but I can’t let her assume that lie to spare my pride. As much as I want to keep the truth from Julie, it can’t come at the expense of Mom’s well-being. Good or bad, she deserves to have as many real memories as possible.

  I intervene before Mom has a chance to respond. “It’s not something she saw on TV. It really happened. I told her that.”

  “What?” Julie turns to me, brows furrowed. “Why would you tell her that?”

  “Because it’s true.”

  “It’s what?”

  “Oh, Janie. I’m so sorry,” Mom sputters. “Now I remember that you told me it was a secret. I—I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m so sorry.”

  “No, Mom.” I shake my head at her unwarranted regret. “You didn’t do anything wrong—”

  “Wait, what are you talking about?” Julie cuts me off, now leaning forward with her forearms pressed against her thighs. “What is going on?”

  I turn to her and very bluntly say, “Dan is gay.”

  She scoffs. “Okay.”

  “I’m not kidding, Julie. Dan’s gay. He’s been cheating on me with other men pretty much our entire marriage.”

  She stares blankly at me for a long beat before her eyes grow wide and she says, “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I nod. />
  “Holy shit.” She reels back, eyes now blinking hard in disbelief. “What—I mean . . . oh my god! How did you find out?”

  “He confessed when we were on that trip to Denver.”

  “Denver? That was like”—she pauses to do a quick mental count—“two months ago. You’ve been carrying this around for two months?”

  I nod again.

  “Oh my god, Janie . . .” She pushes herself off the chair and quickly circles the coffee table, wedging herself into the narrow cushion space between me and the arm of the love seat. She throws her arms around my neck and pulls me in for a hug. “I’m so sorry. This is—god, this is horrible. Are you okay?”

  Nothing about this conversation is remotely pleasing, but I still find a grateful smile tugging on my lips. I can’t remember the last time someone asked me if I was okay.

  “No, not really,” I say, voice wavering with emotion.

  “I’m sorry, Janie Bug,” Mom joins in, giving my back a supportive rub. Another thing I haven’t experienced in a very long time. As much as I hate this disease, I have to admit I enjoy how it’s softened her. “I always knew he was a pompous ass, but I didn’t know he was light in the loafers too.”

  I snort. Okay, maybe she’s not that soft.

  “Yeah, I definitely didn’t see that coming,” I say, sniffling over another broken laugh.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Julie asks, releasing me and settling down on the coffee table so we can talk eye to eye. “Have you filed for divorce? Is he moving out? Are you getting your own place—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I cut her off with a raise of the hand. “Nobody’s going anywhere. We haven’t even talked about it—”

  “What do you mean you haven’t talked about it? You’re not thinking of staying with him, are you?”

  Mom cuts in. “No, she’s not.”

  I’m grateful that her tears have stopped but not so sure how I feel about the authority in her voice. The answer’s not quite that simple.

  “Well . . . ,” Julie urges.

  I swallow hard, the weight of her stare suddenly making it hard to think of an appropriate response. “I—um . . . it’s not—”

 

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