The History of Jane Doe

by Michael Belanger

  “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Tim said.

  “Why?”

  Tim struggled for words, glancing at my mom.

  “I brag about you all the time,” she quickly said.

  “For what?” I asked.

  I hold no illusions about myself. I don’t play any sports, I don’t have straight A’s, I’m not in any clubs, and probably my most notable accomplishment is winning my eighth-grade spelling bee. I guess what I’m trying to say is there’s not much to brag about.

  My mom’s face went flush and I realized I’d embarrassed her. I didn’t know if it was because she didn’t have an answer to my question or if she was just uncomfortable with her new role as “not just a mom.” I felt like I’d discovered her secret identity.

  “Get back to work, Ray,” my mom said, stirring the potatoes.

  As I made my way across the room, Simon looked at me funny. “What was that all about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is that her boyfriend?”

  “What? No, of course not. It’s her friend.”

  “Women and men can’t be friends.”

  “Jane’s our friend.”

  “But we both want her to be our girlfriend.”

  “You do?” I said, more angrily than I intended.

  “Relax. I’m just making a point. But if you died fulfilling your dream of cage diving with great white sharks, I’d certainly try.”

  For some reason, that calmed me.

  “What’s Jane up to, anyway?” Simon asked.

  I took out my phone and smiled when I saw that Jane had sent me a few texts. In one, there was a link to an article about a chupacabra sighting in Connecticut; according to the author, the mythological creature had migrated from Central America as a result of global warming. In another text, clearly inspired by my random image technique, Jane had written: Bigfoot protesting a parking ticket.

  “I hope I can find a girlfriend,” Simon said as he watched me texting Jane back. I took a picture of Simon in his hairnet and sent it to Jane with the caption: Simon wearing a hairnet. You’re welcome. It wasn’t until after I sent the text that the full weight of Simon’s words hit me. While we hadn’t made anything official, hadn’t even kissed, it was definitely a good sign. Maybe my wish was coming true.

  We took turns spooning out clumps of food to the people lined up. Murphy’s Law could be seen in all of their faces; each person had their own story to tell. For the first time since I’d been going, I actually felt like I was making a little difference. I guess my mom’s social engineering was working.

  Everything was going great until I noticed my mom and Tim across the room. Talking, laughing, taking a break together—they were having fun! The final straw came when Tim playfully tapped my mom on the arm and leaned in to whisper something in her ear. Needless to say, I was appalled.

  “I think you’re right,” I said to Simon once the line had died down.

  “About what?”

  “My mom. I think she likes that guy.”

  “That’s good,” Simon said.

  “Why would that be good?”

  “Maybe she’ll be happy. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

  I had visions of Tim moving in, me being forced to call him Dad, then being sent off to boarding school, because hey, isn’t that what all evil stepparents do?

  “You don’t really think your mom is gonna date Superman, do you?” Simon asked after we’d finished cleaning up, a hint of jealousy in his tone.

  “No,” I said. “Well, maybe. Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.”

  “What if it’s the opposite?” he asked. “And whatever can go right, will go right?”

  “Simon’s Law?”

  “I’m totally posting that on the internet.”

  “I hope it catches on.”

  * * *

  • • •

  On our way back, no mention was made of Tim. It felt like we were all in the car and somewhere else at the same time, a thought made eerie by our reflections in the windows. The bright lights of Murphy made our reflections look like they were alternate versions of ourselves. They drove beside us, judging us from a distance, maybe from another dimension.

  “It’s time,” my mom said, referring to our tradition of saying one thing we were thankful for on the way home.

  “I’ll start,” Simon said. Disembodied Simon sat quietly in the window, waiting for real Simon to speak.

  “I’m thankful to be part of this family,” Simon said.

  Kiss-ass. Simon always knew how to suck up to my mom.

  “That’s very sweet, Simon.”

  “Even though it’s technically false,” I said.

  My mom shook her head. “What about you?”

  “I’m thankful Simon’s not part of the family,” I said.

  “Ouch.”

  “Be serious,” my mom said.

  “Fine. I’m thankful that this year is different.” Almost as if on cue, my phone buzzed. It was another message from Jane: Earl Beddington dressed like a cowboy riding on a green cow. Jane must have been having a tough time in Pennsylvania. I quickly texted back: Nice. But maybe a different outfit for Beddington? A mankini?

  A silence hung in the car. We approached the sign that said we were entering Burgerville. Someone had long ago crossed out Williamsburg and written Burgerville in bubble letters, sandwiched between an oversized sesame-seed bun.

  “I’m going to eat so much, I might explode,” Simon said. As was tradition, Simon would go eat with his family while my mom and I would find a diner somewhere and get anything but turkey. It just didn’t feel right to have a whole Thanksgiving feast with only the two of us.

  “What are you thankful for?” I asked my mom.

  “I’m thankful for you and Simon.”

  “And?”

  “And that this year is different.”

  Catching a glimpse of her reflection, I saw a smile begin to form, the type of mischievous grin that tells you you’re only getting part of the truth.

  172 DAYS AFTER

  ROLE PLAYING

  “If your parents were here right now, what would you say to them?”

  Lately, Rich has been doing this thing where I have to play all the different people and emotions in my life. So I end up having to pretend I’m my mom or dad or Anger or even the cafeteria lady (she was a real jerk to me one day). And let me tell you, I make one hell of a nice lunch lady.

  “Do we really have to do this?” I ask, having flashbacks to my fifteen minutes wearing a metaphorical hairnet.

  “We can talk about something else if you like. How about we start with kindergarten?”

  “You’re good,” I say. “Okay, here I go. How’s Florida, Dad?”

  Switching chairs.

  “Awesome. It’s always hot. I go to Disney World all the time.”

  Back to my chair.

  “That’s pretty weird, Dad.”

  Switch.

  “Well, I have a new family. And cancer.”

  I love making shit up.

  “Stick to the facts,” Rich says.

  Back to my chair.

  “Why did you leave?” I ask, monotone.

  Switch.

  “Because your mother was driving me nuts.”

  “Now what would your mom say?” Rich says, rudely interrupting my conversation with my dad.

  Switching to a different chair in the corner of the room.

  “You’re an asshole,” my mom says, played by me.

  “Who, me?” I say, running to my chair.

  “Or me?” I say as I collapse into my dad’s chair.

  It feels like a workout sometimes.

  I jump back into my mom’s chair.

  “You,” she says, pointing at my
dad.

  “Ask her why she’s so angry at your dad,” Rich says.

  “Because he left,” I say, breaking character.

  “No, ask her,” Rich says.

  “Because I’m all alone,” I hear myself say.

  I start to feel really guilty, so I jump up and go back to my chair.

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “But you can’t dwell on the past.”

  “Tell yourself that,” Rich says.

  “That’s just something you say to make people feel better. Like time heals all wounds or a stitch in time saves nine, whatever that means.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  “I feel like I’m being inducted into a cult.”

  “Repeat after me,” Rich says. “I can’t dwell on the past.”

  I roll my eyes, squirming in my chair, and repeat the words.

  “Good, now drink this Kool-Aid,” Rich says, completely deadpan.

  He does have his moments.

  189 DAYS BEFORE

  SUPERMAN UNLEASHED

  Simon’s intuition proved to be right on about Tim, the homeless shelter Superman. He came over to help my mom move some furniture a few days after Thanksgiving. No, that isn’t a euphemism for sex.

  When I saw his car approach the driveway, my defenses immediately went up. Feeling mysteriously like a supervillain, I asked my mom what he was doing at our house.

  She pointed to a couch in our family room. “Can you move that by yourself?”

  I heard his car door close.

  I walked over to the couch, bent over, and attempted to lift it. It came only a few inches off the ground before crashing down.

  “You’ve won this time,” I said.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Be nice,” my mom said, before opening the door. Tim stood on the porch wearing glasses, jeans, work boots, and a red-and-blue nylon jacket with a white T-shirt underneath.

  I didn’t know what Simon was thinking calling him Superman. He may have had the colors down, but he looked more like a nerd trying to play construction worker. We shook hands, neither one of us revealing our secret identity: Tim’s alter ego as Supernerd and mine as the supervillain Raynman. Yes, I know it sounds like the movie, but too bad.

  “I think this room just needs a change,” my mom said to Tim.

  “What were you thinking?” Tim asked.

  In my head, I added little lady, as in “What were you thinking, little lady?” Something about the way he spoke sounded wooden, like he was repeating lines he saw in a Western.

  My mom laid out the plan for the move and Supernerd and I rolled up our sleeves. I went to one end of the couch and he went to the other. We both bent over, trying to grab hold of the bottom, but neither one of us could get a good grip. Super strength my ass.

  “Give me a second,” Tim said. He took off his glasses and jacket. Then his entire persona changed. His voice became deeper and his muscles seemed to bulge through his shirt.

  My mom looked on in awe as Tim now easily lifted up his end of the couch. Breathing heavily, on the verge of defeat, I had no choice but to call in my mom for help. I held my head in shame, the first supervillain in the history of comic books to need his mother to fight his battles for him. Then it was the three of us, all of our effort going into moving the couch, the forces of light and dark banding together for the noble goal of interior design.

  Tim placed the couch down, nodding solemnly as the legs touched the ground.

  “Piece of cake,” he said.

  For the rest of the afternoon, I kept trying to find something wrong with Tim, the kryptonite that would make his superpowers disappear.

  My mom ordered pizza and the three of us went into the kitchen to eat. Tim unknowingly sat in my dad’s chair, which I almost said something about, but my mom gave me a preemptive look, one of those grounded for life type glares. I mustered as much telepathic hatred as I could, but it only appeared to make him stronger, a broad smile on his face as he told stories about his exploits saving the world in the Peace Corps. I could see right through his do-gooder résumé, but apparently my mom didn’t have the same powers of X-Ray vision. She kept laughing real loud and leaning forward when he spoke. I knew she had fallen under his spell and I was the only one who could rescue her.

  “Kids?” I asked him after he’d finished another long and boring story about his time helping people get clean water or democracy or cable TV.

  He shook his head. “Just a dog. A golden retriever named Robin.”

  He had a sidekick!

  “Ever married?” I asked, taking the last slice of pizza and staring Tim down.

  My mom choked a little. “Ray!” she said.

  “No, that’s okay, [little lady],” Tim said. “The truth is, Ray, I’ve never found the right person.”

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “Once.”

  Ha! The chink in the armor!

  “It was at a Save the Dolphins rally. I got a little carried away,” he said, laughing.

  I thought of him cradling a dolphin in his arms as he walked onto shore, a crowd of onlookers holding their breath in anticipation as he gave Flipper CPR.

  And then, as he was leaving, he asked me if I liked baseball.

  “No,” I said.

  He seemed caught off guard. I hadn’t given a shit about baseball for a couple of years. That was something my dad and I had done together. When he left, my interest in baseball went out the proverbial broken window.

  Undeterred by my terse response, Tim pulled a signed baseball out of his jacket and threw it to me. “I thought you might like to have this,” he said, as if reading a line of dialogue someone had forgotten to change.

  “You love baseball, Ray,” my mom said, part statement, part command.

  I held the ball in my hand, reading the name I didn’t recognize.

  “I do?” I said. I tossed it in the air and caught it. Tim smiled and I thought about throwing it right at his stupid face.

  Tim then launched into a story about how he got the ball, someone’s record-breaking home run or something like that, and assured me it would be worth a lot of money someday.

  “Thanks,” I said, before chucking the ball onto the couch and going to the kitchen.

  After he left, my mom seemed to be lost in thought. I wondered if she was mad at me, if I should have tried a little harder to like Tim. We stood over the sink doing dishes. I watched the little beads of soap collect and then disappear, thinking about how much had changed since my dad left. The past few months I felt like my mom and I were finally becoming a family again. We had left behind the people we were, thrown them in a scrapbook alongside the old day-to-day routines, the inside jokes and holiday rituals, the uncomfortable silences that followed a fight. When so much changes, you have no choice but to change yourself. The only question was whether or not we were okay with that. I certainly had misgivings. And now with this intruder, Tim, something just didn’t feel right.

  “How do you feel about the new setup in the family room?” my mom asked, waking me up from my dish meditation.

  “I don’t know. It’s kind of boring.”

  “But there’s something refreshing about its simplicity,” she said.

  “Yeah, but if I had to spend more than a couple of hours in there, I think I’d poke my eyes out.”

  She turned the faucet off.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Is everything okay, Ray?”

  I had gotten a little bit more worked up than I thought.

  “It’s just that I like the old family room,” I said.

  “Change is good, Ray. Otherwise, life is boring.”

  “Tim’s boring,” I blurted out.

  “Give him a chance, Ray,” she sai
d. “People can surprise you.”

  I marched upstairs to my room, thinking about our upcoming comic book: Superman vs. Raynman: The Element of Surprise, a ten-issue opus about the chaos that ensues when Superman exacts his most twisted revenge yet: dating the villain’s mother.

  188–182 DAYS BEFORE

  THE LOST WOODS

  With Jane in the picture, though, I didn’t have much time to worry about Tim or think about my dad. I was too focused on the now. Life had changed so much. Simon and I were officially no longer a couple of outcasts—with Jane, we were the group of outcasts, a deformed set of conjoined triplets that couldn’t be separated.

  “What’s going on?” Simon said one afternoon.

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s like the spell has been broken.”

  “What spell?” Jane asked.

  “I just assumed there was a spell,” Simon said.

  “So then I’m your fairy godmother?”

  “Sort of,” Simon said. “Only if I’m Cinderella.”

  “Then I guess I’m the prince?” I asked.

  “You’re the talking mouse,” Simon corrected.

  Jane tapped me on the head with her pencil, pretending to cast a spell. “Who says you can’t be both?”

  Later, Jane drew me a picture of the three of us together, Simon in a Cinderella dress, me as a mouse-prince hybrid, and her floating above as a somewhat demonic fairy godmother.

  Even guys like Tommy Beddington seemed to look at me differently. For the first time since the pudding incident, he spoke to me. We were passing each other in the hallway, and as usual, I was staring at the ground in an attempt to avoid awkward hallway eye contact. All of a sudden, I heard Beddington’s voice. “Hey, Ray,” he said.

  I thought I imagined it. After years of really only talking to Simon, it felt like one of those scenes from the movies where the ghost suddenly realizes someone can see them.

  “Hey, Tommy,” I said uncertainly. Don’t make a joke about the green cows. Don’t make a joke about the green cows.