Jane's Melody

by Ryan Winfield

  “Yes,” she said, sighing. “I miss him.”

  After another minute or two had passed, Grace said:

  “I want you to make me a promise, Jane. You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but it would put this tired old mind of mine at ease if you would.”

  “Sure,” Jane said. “Anything.”

  “Promise me you’ll live the life I can’t.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I don’t have long now, Jane. And I’m making peace with that. But if this thing had turned out differently—if I’d had a second chance—I would have made damn sure that I lived every moment without fear. It’s seems silly now that the one thing I was really afraid of is about to happen to me, and it isn’t anything to fear at all.”

  “Death is nothing to fear?”

  “Death is just the moment that your hourglass runs out of sand. That’s it. It happens to everyone eventually. All any of us gets to decide is where the sand falls.”

  “What are you saying I should do?”

  “Just do whatever you would do if you weren’t afraid. Live the way I would have lived if I’d known. Live the life that I no longer can, Jane. A life without fear.”

  “But you never seemed afraid to me.”

  Grace shook her head and laughed.

  “Did I ever tell you that I had an affair on Bob?”

  “What? You did?”

  “I did. And he’s had his over the years too, but that’s his business to share. Bob and I married young. Back then when he wasn’t flying, all his free time was dedicated to booze, and I was left at home wondering. We were trying to have children then, before we learned I couldn’t. Anyway, he was gone all the time, and I fell in love with this kid who raced motorcycles.”

  “Motorcycles?”

  “And sprint cars too. Our house at the time was near the track, and I used to go down and bring him sandwiches and watch him race. I loved him. I really did. I loved him more than life itself. But I was afraid, Jane. Afraid of being judged.Afraid of giving up my security for an uncertain life with a young daredevil. And I stayed with Bob because of it. Bob’s not a bad man, don’t get me wrong. And I’ve even grown to love him in a way. But it wasn’t fair to him for me to stay. It wasn’t. And it sure wasn’t fair to me.”

  Jane was stunned. She had always thought of Grace as the wise and patient woman who had walked her through so much grief. She never imagined her being young and having her own hopes and dreams; her own heartbreaks.

  “What happened to him?”

  “The boy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I was always curious about his whereabouts. I managed to keep up with his career for a while. About two years after we called it off, I heard that he died on the track. Broke his neck.”

  “But you still think you made the wrong choice?”

  “I guess we make the choices we make. I’m not sure there is a wrong or a right to it. But I know now looking back that I’d have given up everything since then, every day, just to have had those two years with him. Or even one more day.”

  Their champagne had grown warm in their glasses, and the night air had grown cold around them. Grace stood, signaling that it was time for her to go back in. Jane remained seated and looked beyond the terrace at the Eiffel Tower, its lightshow now twinkling like the million thoughts flashing in her mind.

  “I promise,” she said.

  “What’s that?” Grace asked,

  “I promise I’ll live the life you can’t.”

  Grace was standing next to her, and she reached a hand out and gently pulled Jane’s head to rest against her bosom. Then she bent and kissed the top of her head, as if blessing her. It was the simplest yet most intimate gesture. A tear rolled down Jane’s cheek. Somehow she knew it wouldn’t be the last.

  Chapter 25

  GRACE HAD A TASTE FOR EVERYTHING, so they ordered the entire room service menu for breakfast—chocolate-filled croissants, fresh crepes, and baguettes with butter and jam. There were poached eggs, and little crystal dishes of yogurt and granola. There was a cheese sampler plate; a bowl of fresh fruit. Grace took tiny tastes of everything, but ate very little.

  “You sure you’re not pregnant?”

  Jane immediately wished she hadn’t asked the question, because Grace looked suddenly sick and got up and rushed to the bathroom. Through the door Jane could hear her vomiting. Grace’s health was deteriorating by the day, and it was painful to watch—especially seeing how much it scared Grace.

  After Jane had pushed the breakfast cart into the hall, she sat on the bed and thumbed through a glossy travel magazine while Grace sat in front of the mirror, applying her foundation. It took her more time each morning to cover up her increasingly pale complexion, but she told Jane that dying was no excuse not to look good, even if she felt like hell.

  “Have you ever been to Venice?” Jane asked.

  Grace looked at her in the mirror.

  “No, but I’ve always wanted to ride in a gondola.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “We’re already all the way over here. Why not?”

  Jane looked at Grace, hoping she’d say yes. She knew that their trip had to end eventually, but she wasn’t ready for it to be over yet. Grace pulled her passport from her purse, flipped it open, and looked at it.

  “I wouldn’t mind having a stamp from Italy,” she said. “You know, it’s a shame I didn’t use this thing more.”

  “So you’ll go?”

  Grace turned in her chair and smiled at her.

  “Oh, hell, yes. Let’s do it.”

  “I’m logging in and buying us tickets right now.”

  Grace opened her purse and tossed Jane a credit card.

  “Use my card,” she said. “You’ve got to be nearly in the poor house already as long as I’ve taken you away from work. And don’t argue. I won’t need it where I’m going.”

  THEY LANDED IN VENICE THAT NIGHT, and as they exited the airport gate, a short, uniformed woman wearing an official-looking hat glanced at their passports then handed them back.

  “Aren’t you going to stamp it?” Grace asked.

  The woman shook her head and said something in Italian. All Jane understood was EU; she guessed that stood for European Union.

  They got a cart for their luggage, and Grace leaned on it while they made the long walk from the airport to the water taxies. A stout, mustached man with a friendly smile took their fare and helped them on board with their luggage. They descended together into the boat. A light mist was falling, and the windows were beaded with water. There were several other passengers slumped in shadowed seats, but no one spoke.

  Grace leaned her head on Jane’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She fell asleep. Jane couldn’t blame her—the hum of the boat’s engines, combined with the guide lights sliding by in the dark water outside their window, lulled her into a near trance. She daydreamed that Caleb was here with her, and that it was his head on her shoulder. How nice to imagine a honeymoon rather than a wake.

  They docked at San Marco Square, and Jane woke Grace. Together they made their way down the ramp, stepping carefully for the way it heaved and slid against the dock. The same man helped them off; then the boat pulled away for its next stop, and they were alone with their luggage.

  There was no cart here, and it was slow going wheeling the bags across the cobblestone walkways, past stone steps leading down into the still green waters of Venice’s lagoon. The whole place had an otherworldly appearance, as if it were a middle-aged Atlantis descending to the seafloor an inch at a time.

  A light rain began to fall.

  There were no roads, no cars, and no people.

  In the empty square, Jane noticed odd wooden walkways erected several feet above the square’s perimeter, as if there had been a runway show for nimble-footed models. She looked about for their hotel, but saw nothing.

  The rain came down harder.

&
nbsp; “It must be this way,” she said, leading the way.

  They came upon numerous arched footbridges, spanning an endless maze of canals, and Grace paused on the steps to catch her breath several times as Jane made two trips on every bridge to carry their bags across. The rain fell harder, the stone walkways turned slick, and Jane began to worry.

  She pulled Grace beneath an awning.

  “You wait here with the bags,” she said. “I’m going to get someone to help us.”

  She expected Grace to argue, but she only nodded and sat down on one of the bags. She didn’t look well.

  Jane ran ahead until she found a small restaurant tucked away in a narrow alley. She stepped through the door and was bombarded by a loud mix of Italian and Mandarin, something unintelligible from a fevered dream. The small tables were filled with Chinese, an energetic tour guide bouncing between them, translating their menus. A young Italian approached Jane.

  “Ciao,” he said, “vieni e ottenereasciutta.”

  “I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”

  He nodded.

  “Yes, very well.”

  “My friend is outside in the rain. She’s very sick, and we need help finding our hotel.”

  “Which hotel you stay?”

  She looked at the confirmation email on her phone.

  “Luna Hotel Baglioni.”

  “Very nice,” he said, nodding. “But far away. I take you.”

  He snatched two umbrellas from behind the counter and led her back out into the rain. They found Grace where Jane had left her, sitting on one of the bags and leaning against the building. She looked half asleep. The young Italian handed Grace his umbrella and took a bag in each hand, nodding for them to follow. Grace was too weak to walk without help, so Jane closed the second umbrella, and they leaned together beneath hers and followed their guide. He led them back the way they had come, and Jane felt like an idiot—she should have printed a map. Puddles of rainwater were claiming San Marco Square, and they splashed through them. Soon Jane could see the sign for their hotel. She wondered how she had missed it.

  The Italian paused to allow them to catch up.

  “What are those for?” Jane asked, pointing to the catwalks.

  “Acquaalta,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Flooding. They say this one will be—how you say it?—unusually high for this season. Come now. We’re almost there.”

  When they arrived at the hotel’s entrance, a red-jacketed doorman quickly snatched their bags from the young Italian and ushered them inside to a warm and luxurious lobby. It was as if they’d entered some portal to another world, leaving the dark and rainy one behind. Jane handed the Italian his umbrellas. He was soaking wet, and a puddle was developing at his feet. She opened her purse and held out a hundred euro note. He held up his hands and shook his head, almost as if he were offended.

  “Nessunanecessità di pagare,” he said.

  “But I want to repay you. You really saved us.”

  “Come eat at the restaurant,” he said. “My family owns it, and you love the food, I promise.”

  “We’ll do that,” Jane said.

  And they would, if she could find it again.

  The young man smiled and retreated with a bow, pushing through the door and back out into the rain.

  GRACE SLEPT that night and most of the next day.

  She would occasionally have tremors in her sleep, and Jane stayed by her bedside and monitored her constantly, worried that she might have another seizure. But she didn’t. On the second morning Grace got up and took a shower, insisting that she was feeling fine after her rest.

  “Let’s go get some gelato,” she said. “I’ve always wanted to have real Italian gelato in Italy.”

  “We can order it from room service,” Jane suggested.

  “It’s not the same. Stop worrying so much. I’ll be fine.”

  It was no longer raining, but the square was under nearly a foot of tidewater, and they crossed it on the raised platforms they had seen when they arrived. Jane walked behind and held onto Grace’s arm, just in case. They passed a group of shirtless German tourists, sitting in submerged metal chairs and posing for pictures with upheld cigars. Jane couldn’t help but smile.

  The flooded square gave way eventually to dryer ground, and they walked the winding pathways lined with tourist trap restaurants promising authentic Italian cuisine on handwritten window signs. They passed tiny souvenir shops filled with blown-glass trinkets, until they found a walk-up gelato counter.

  Grace had a scoop of chocolate; Jane had pistachio.

  They traded halfway through.

  Later Jane thought she recognized the alley where they had gotten lost, and they followed it to the restaurant and sat for an early lunch. The food was just okay, and the young Italian wasn’t there, but Jane left a very large tip anyway.

  On the walk back Grace stopped suddenly on a footbridge and looked around as if she didn’t know where she was.

  “Grace, are you okay?”

  “What are you doing to me? Don’t touch me.”

  “Grace? What’s wrong?”

  Jane held her shoulders and looked into her eyes, and she seemed to awaken from some daydream and recognize her.

  “What happened, Grace?”

  “I don’t know. I’m fine now.”

  Whatever it was, Jane was happy that it had passed.

  “Let’s go for a gondola ride,” Grace said.

  “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  “Well, I’m not planning on rowing myself, silly.”

  They found a group of gondoliers, lounging around their boats, laughing and smoking thin cigarettes. Their striped shirts made them look like prisoners on a break to Jane.

  A tall one pounced on them as they approached.

  “You speak English, no?”

  “Yes,” Jane said. “How much for a ride?”

  He waved expansively toward his gondola.

  “You come. Forty minutes, one hundred euro.”

  “We’ll give you eighty.”

  He shook his head and crossed his arms. Jane leaned past him and waved the money at the other men behind him.

  “Anyone willing to take us for eighty euros?”

  “Fine,” he said, “I take you.”

  He snatched the bills before his competition could accept. Grace looked at Jane and smiled, obviously impressed.

  The gondolier took them through the canals, past cracked-plaster and yellow brick walls hung with bright flower baskets, and under arched-stone bridges, more than a few of which Jane recognized from their walk. He took them beneath the Bridge of Sighs, where he said passing lovers would be granted eternal bliss for the price of just a sunset kiss. When the gondolier told them this, Grace grinned at Jane and said:

  “I’m not kissing you, so don’t even try. You’ll just have to come back sometime with a certain boy we both know.”

  Jane blushed.

  Grace took on a pale and distant look before their forty minutes was up, and Jane paid the gondolier his other twenty and asked him to drop them at their hotel. He was kind enough to oblige the request, even helping them from the boat.

  They returned to their room.

  “I need some rest,” Grace said. “Why don’t you go out and explore. No reason to let me spoil another nice day.”

  “You know,” Jane said, sinking into a chair, “I’m pretty tired too. I think I’ll just sit here and read for a bit.”

  Jane awakened late that night to Grace screaming in the dark. She clicked on the lamp, rushed to Grace’s side, and tried to rouse her from whatever nightmare she was having. But Grace was not sleeping. She sat upright in her bed and stared wildly at Jane with her hands balled into fists at her side.

  “What have you done with my boy?”

  “What’s wrong, Grace?”

  “You killed my boy, you bitch!”

  “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

  “Bring
me my boy!”

  “You don’t have any children, Grace.”

  “You’re lying.”

  Grace seemed possessed, and Jane didn’t know what to do. She ran to the sink and poured a glass of water.

  “Here, let’s make sure you’re hydrated.”

  Grace knocked the water glass from her hand.

  Then she came to and looked at the glass on the floor, as if wondering how it had gotten there. She started crying.

  “Oh, God. What’s happening to me, Jane?”

  Jane sat on the edge of the bed and held her.

  “I don’t know, Grace. I don’t know.”

  She was sobbing, pleading with Jane through her tears.

  “I want to go home, Jane. Please take me home. Please. I just want to go home now.”

  Jane rocked her gently, caressing her hair.

  “Okay. We’ll go home.”

  “I want my Bob. I need to be with Bob.”

  “I’ll get us on the first flight, Grace. I promise. The first flight. It’s okay. We’re going home.”

  Jane held Grace’s head close to her breast so she wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her face, although she might have still felt them hitting the top of her head.

  “I just want to be with Bob,” Grace said again.

  “It’s okay, we’re going home now.”

  “I’m scared, Jane.”

  “I know,” Jane said. “Me too.”

  BOB MET THEM AT THE AIRPORT, pushing a wheelchair.

  She had called him from the hotel before they left, and at least it looked like he had managed to sober up.

  It had been a long journey back to Seattle, flying through Paris, and Grace was extremely pale, shaky, and nervous, her eyes darting involuntarily in their sockets, as if she were being set upon by evil things on every side. She looked ten years older to Jane than when they had left.

  “Thanks, Jane,” Bob whispered, after helping his wife into the chair. “You have no idea how much this meant to her.”

  Jane knelt to speak with Grace in the chair, to thank her for such a great trip, but Grace seemed to not recognize her at all. Jane’s heart thudded in her breast; she couldn’t swallow.

  Don’t cry, she told herself—not here, not now, not yet.

  “Bob, why don’t you two go on ahead? I’ll stay and deal with customs about our bags, since they rushed us through on a medical emergency.”