The History of Jane Doe

by Michael Belanger

On the way to Jane’s house that Valentine’s Day, the full moon followed me like a spotlight. In Burgerville, a full moon is said to “exert a gravitational force on history”—at least according to Roger Lutz, who first connected the moon to Burgerville’s history in his classic 1971 essay, “Men on the Moon: The Lunar History of Burgerville.”

  Most people dismiss his theory as pseudo-history, a fantasy/science-fiction hybrid that not even the Burgerville Historical Association can get behind. I’d normally agree with them, but when I look back on my brief time with Jane, there’s one fact I can’t ignore: Whenever there was a full moon, something changed about our relationship.

  As I approached Jane’s driveway, I felt the weight of the moment; but for once it was the weight of the future.

  I parked and walked to the porch. Before I had the chance to knock, Mrs. Doe opened the door. Mr. Doe sat behind her, anxiously peering at the stairs. They spoke in hushed tones, as if they were trying not to wake Jane.

  “Jane’s upstairs getting ready,” Mrs. Doe said.

  “Can we talk to you for a minute?” Mr. Doe asked.

  I started sweating. Nothing good ever came out of a private chat with your girlfriend’s parents. The Does had never said anything to me about the episode with the police, but Jane’s whereabouts were now monitored more closely, her curfew set well before midnight. I worried that they had begun to view me as a bad influence in their daughter’s life. Part of me felt complimented that anyone could think of me—a person who up until a few months ago thought a rum and Coke was a “Roman Coke”—as a threat to their child. But I was afraid the Does would grow restless and move Jane once again.

  The mood was somber. Mr. Doe’s motor even gave off a sad droning as he led the way to the nearby study.

  “I’m sorry about the whole thing with the police,” I said. “It was all my fault.”

  Mr. Doe looked at me like he didn’t know what I was talking about. “Oh, that. You guys made a mistake. We trust you, Ray.”

  “Compared to . . .” Mrs. Doe’s voice trailed off. She paused and collected herself. “As you know, Jane hasn’t had an easy couple of years,” Mrs. Doe said. “Ever since . . .” Her voice faded once again; she looked uncertainly to Mr. Doe.

  “She’s been happy here,” Mr. Doe said.

  Happy was not exactly the way I’d describe Jane. It made me think, Happy compared to what?

  “But she’s still got a long way to go,” Mrs. Doe said.

  “If you notice anything out of the ordinary,” Mr. Doe jumped in, “just give us a call.”

  “I will.” I looked around the study, trying to avoid eye contact with Mr. Doe. It was hard enough talking to Jane about this stuff; now I felt like I had to know the right thing to say to her parents too. As I scanned the room, I noticed pictures of Mr. Doe doing all sorts of athletic activities: Throwing a shotput. Running along a track. Doing the pole vault.

  “I was All-American in college,” he said, following my gaze to a picture of him jumping through the air, legs kicking, long hair flowing behind him.

  I wondered if that was part of the reason Jane felt so guilty. If these pictures had to be locked away in a study so she wouldn’t see them.

  “But Jane’s mom was the real talent. For a while she even held the college record for the ten thousand meter. We actually met on the track. Do you run?”

  “Only if a green cow is chasing me,” I said.

  Mrs. Doe laughed. “We’ve tried to get Jane into running, but she’s never been the athletic type.”

  “I assume Jane told you about the car accident?” Mr. Doe said.

  “A little.”

  “I know she blames herself, even though I’ve told her a million times it had nothing to do with her.”

  Our attention was taken to the sound of footsteps slowly descending the stairs.

  “Anyway,” Mr. Doe said. “Let’s keep this conversation between us.”

  We left the room and met Jane. Her dark hair fanned out over her shoulders; the red streaks had faded, making her look more like a girl who’d grown up in Burgerville. She wore a slim-fitting black dress, in stark contrast to her usual wardrobe of obscure folk tees, and had forgone her customary assortment of bracelets, instead settling on only one, strategically placed to cover up the scar on her wrist. I didn’t have the normal reaction, the type of Hollywood moment where the stalkerish love song plays over the couple locking eyes as time slows down. Instead, I felt woefully inadequate, as if Jane had made a horrible mistake.

  “Don’t say anything,” Jane said.

  I remained speechless.

  “One picture,” Jane said to her mom, completely unprompted. Mrs. Doe reached into the back of Mr. Doe’s chair and took out a camera.

  “Say ‘cheese,’” Mrs. Doe said.

  We said nothing.

  “Hop in,” Mr. Doe said, pointing to the back of his scooter.

  “I think Ray’s driving,” Jane said, as if her dad was serious about the offer.

  We said good-bye to Jane’s parents, both of them tearing up like my mom had, and made our way outside.

  “No flowers?” Jane asked me as we were leaving.

  I stuttered. “I thought—”

  “I’m kidding.”

  We walked to my car. Jane opened the passenger-side door, where I had placed a bouquet of a dozen roses.

  She picked the bouquet off the seat, smelled the flowers, and placed them across her lap.

  “Do you like them?”

  “No,” she said.

  “The florist said you can’t go wrong with roses.”

  “The florist was right,” Jane said, her head turned toward the window.

  On the drive over to the restaurant, all I could think about was what Jane’s parents had said about keeping an eye out for her. She was quiet, engaged in a tense stare-down with her reflection, where losing was inevitable.

  “Music?”

  Jane nodded.

  I turned the volume up quickly, not stopping to consider what my mom had left on the radio.

  “You are perfect just the way you are,” a calm voice said through the speakers. Waterfalls in the background. A harp playing what could only be described as the music you might hear at the gates of heaven, if such a thing actually existed.

  “You deserve to be loved,” the voice said.

  My mom had been listening to these types of things ever since my dad left. She would never actually play them with me in the car, but at home I could sometimes hear her having a muffled conversation with a faceless stranger, the two of them content with simply saying the same thing back to each other.

  “Whoops,” I said.

  Jane continued to stare at her reflection.

  I reached for the dial.

  “Leave it,” she said.

  I drove on, both of us silent, listening to an old woman describe how great she was, entreating us to do the same. I don’t know why, but at some point, I decided to join in.

  Old Woman: “I am beautiful because I am me.”

  Me: “I am beautiful because I am me.”

  Jane turned away from her reflection.

  Old Woman: “I am kind and loving, and attract kind and loving people into my life.”

  “This is bizarre,” Jane said.

  “My mom loves these,” I said, talking over the blank space where we were supposed to be repeating after the old sage.

  Old Woman: “I am exactly where I need to be.”

  “But what if you’re not?” Jane asked. The sounds of nature accompanied by a harp answered Jane.

  “It makes people feel good,” I said, talking over the old woman.

  “But it’s a lie,” Jane said.

  “It’s only a lie if you believe it is.”

  “It’s the equivalent of believing in magic,” J
ane said.

  “Your life is a miracle,” the voice said.

  “There’s your answer, Jane.”

  In response, Jane hit the radio dial. It so happened that my mom’s other listening habits were classic rock. Hendrix’s distorted guitar blared through the radio as Jane let her head fall back onto the headrest.

  “That’s the answer.”

  I rolled down my window, letting the cold air pour into the car. Maybe the affirmations were magic after all, because I saw Jane’s face soften as her scowl turned into a smile.

  112 DAYS BEFORE, CONT’D

  BE HAPPY

  I’d made reservations at a restaurant across the street from O’Reilly’s called Pisa Pizza. As the only Italian restaurant in Burgerville, it served multiple roles, from your typical pizzeria to upscale dining on special occasions.

  When we arrived, the restaurant was packed with couples moving steadily through their meals. Leaning Tower of Pisa candle holders were placed in the middle of each table, a fire hazard to be sure, but also oddly elegant in their imperfection. The usual red-checkered tablecloths were replaced by white linen and the lighting had changed from pizza parlor bright to cave-dweller dim. The staff buzzed around the tables like bees pollinating flowers, though the typical T-shirt, jeans, and surly expressions had been swapped out for black ties and fawning grins. Everything had the air of efficiency: the speed with which we sat at our table, the follow-up drink order, the quick return of the waiter asking if we’d had enough time to look over the menu. Valentine’s Day is big business; love is only incidental.

  While we waited for our food, Jane seemed to be in good spirits, at one point even leaning across the table to feed me a piece of bread.

  “I feel like a baby bird,” I said.

  “Way to ruin the moment,” Jane said.

  I contorted my lips into something that resembled a beak and let out a high-pitched squeal.

  “I don’t think I’ll be able to get that image out of my head,” Jane said. “Might as well just call it a night.”

  “Lesson learned. Baby bird impersonations are not sexy.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Jane said.

  Soon after, our dinner arrived. Eggplant Parmesan for me, lasagna for Jane.

  We were quiet for a few minutes, listening to the chatter of couples sharing romantic moments around us: professing love, renewing vows, complaining about the soggy fried calamari, how it was mostly tentacles, and that next time they were definitely going to say something.

  Jane poked at her lasagna, watching tomato sauce billow out like lava from a volcano. Something about the dim interior and Jane’s expression—somewhere between thoughtful and self-conscious—just got to me.

  “I think I love you,” I said. It was an accident. I mean, it was true, but I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  Jane looked up from her lasagna. “You think?”

  I backtracked. “I don’t know,” I said. “Sorry.”

  “But do you?”

  “I think I do.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  Jane smiled. “I think I love you too.” She looked away, as if the moment was too intense. I reached across the table and held her hand. Instead of moving it away like she usually did in public, she kept still; there was something almost challenging about her stare, like she was asking me to arm wrestle.

  “I was thinking that after dinner we could take a walk around town,” I said.

  “How about your house instead?” She then gave me a look I had never seen a girl give me before.

  I nodded, gulping.

  I sped through dinner, eating my eggplant as if I were part of a pack and the others were waiting to steal my food. Jane seemed amused by this, as she took her time, letting herself enjoy every bite.

  I ate too quickly, so by the end, I had a stomachache and was slumped down in my chair with beads of sweat on my forehead.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Jane said, now that I could barely move.

  We got into the car and I began driving home. Jane fumbled with the radio dial until the light strumming of acoustic guitar filled the car.

  “Oh my god,” she said. “Oh my god.”

  “What is it?”

  “It’s my grandma. Her only single.”

  I listened closer. Grandma Irene’s voice was belting out the chorus to “Be Happy.”

  If you want to love the Earth,

  Love yourself.

  If you want to stop a war,

  Find your peace.

  If you want to be happy,

  Be happy.

  “Okay, I’ll admit it,” I said, glancing over at Jane in the passenger seat. “I called the radio station and planned for them to play the song at this exact moment.”

  Jane laughed. “You’re so full of shit. I’ve gotta tell my mom.” She took out her cellphone and started screaming when her mom picked up. “They’re playing Grandma Irene on the radio!”

  Jane held the phone up to the speaker. There was a brief pause followed by an ear-piercing shriek from Mrs. Doe.

  It felt like some sort of catharsis, Grandma Irene speaking to Jane from across time, telling her to have hope, to love herself, to love the world. And to stop spraying horrible chemicals on our crops.

  Jane hung up and let her head fall back on the headrest as she sang along.

  I sped up, the music urging us on, as if it might be possible to bend time and space in order to get to my house faster. By the time the song ended, we had finally pulled into my driveway.

  Jane sprinted out of the car, still humming her grandma’s song. I followed her to the porch, fumbling with my house key, for some reason unable to fit it into the lock. I was considering ramming my shoulder into the door when Jane gently touched my wrist. I realized my hand was shaking.

  “Relax,” she said.

  She took my keychain and easily slid the key into the lock. Taking me by the hand, she pulled me inside. I took a deep breath as Jane led me through the kitchen and up the stairs.

  Once we got to my room, Jane kicked off her shoes and went to lie down on my bed.

  “Food coma,” she said.

  I stumbled across the room, pretending to be drunk on eggplant. I lay down next to her and wrapped her up in my arms. Jane pulled me even closer. “I never thought living in Burgerville would be a good thing,” she said, almost like she was just realizing it now. “But these past few months have felt like a reset. It’s like I feel almost . . . normal.”

  “You’re so normal,” I said. “And we’re as normal as a couple gets. Extremely normal. Eat-at-the-diner-without-speaking normal.”

  “Go-on-vacation-to-Disney-World normal?”

  “Talk-about-the-police-blotter-while-eating-cantaloupe normal,” I said.

  I moved closer. Our noses pressed up against each other’s, her face a blur. We started kissing.

  She pulled her dress over her head and then threw it across the room. I stood up and stripped down to my boxers, wiggling my legs to escape my pants as Jane pretended to check her imaginary watch.

  “It’s harder than it looks,” I said. Jane rolled her eyes and pulled me into bed, the mattress springs squealing as we rebounded and collapsed beside each other. Jane slid underneath the comforter and before I knew it I saw her bra and underwear join her dress in a crumpled pile on the floor.

  I reached for my bedside table and grabbed one of the bright yellow wrappers Simon had stolen from his dad.

  I fumbled around, trying to find the right end. Jane coached me through it, the process feeling painfully like a video you’d watch in health class.

  Finally, I joined Jane under the covers. I worried our bodies might suddenly burst into flames, or I’d have an asthma attack, or I’d wake up in a cold sweat sucking my thum
b. It all seemed too good to be true.

  “Well, I guess I should be getting home,” Jane said.

  “It is getting late,” I said, out of breath, tracing lines down Jane’s arm.

  “I wouldn’t want to be out past curfew.” She rubbed her hand over my chest.

  “You better go,” I said.

  She pressed closer to me and our lips touched, just briefly, and then her arms were around my shoulders. Hands grasping at my back. Finally her legs wrapped around me, and it was like we were one person—two people with two histories now somehow condensed into one.

  No past, no future, only Jane and me, an infinity that was compressed into a couple of minutes.

  Afterward, I wondered if I had done it right. All of those voices in my head once again competing for time: It wasn’t long enough. You were breathing like a lawn mower. What the hell was that thrusting move you tried to do in the final stretch?

  But when I voiced some of my concerns, Jane simply shook her head and rested her finger on my lips. “It was perfect.” We were both quiet for a moment. “And you’re perfect,” she added in the cheerful voice of my mom’s affirmation CD. “Just for being you.”

  “Can I get a recording of you saying that?”

  “Sure, but it’s gonna cost you.” Jane sat up. “Should we get going?”

  I looked at the clock, suddenly aware of time rushing forward. I didn’t want the night to end. “We have a little bit longer,” I said, pulling Jane back into bed. “My mom won’t be back for at least another hour.”

  We lay under the covers for a long time, every exchange punctuated by a kiss: “I’m feeling this strong desire to make pledges to you. About love and eternity and playing backgammon together.”

  Kiss!

  “You sound a little bit like a stalker. But for some reason, I’m okay with that.”

  Kiss!

  At one point, I accidentally ran my finger over her wrist. The bracelet had slid down her arm, leaving her scar exposed. Her body jerked. She immediately pulled her bracelet back up.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” I said.

  She let her hand relax. I held her wrist, running my finger over the raised skin. The scar wasn’t like any scar I’d ever seen before. It looked like a small mountain range, ridges and peaks, a deep valley in between. The skin was still pink in some places.