See Jane Run

by Joy Fielding

  What was she afraid of? Did she seriously expect to find her photograph plastered across the front page? Did she think she might find herself the topic for the day on Oprah Winfrey?

  She forced her fingers to the television dial and turned it on, half expecting to see herself staring back. But instead she saw some pretty blonde in her twenties delivering the news in a voice so cheery that it made her want to be sick all over again and heard not a word about a pretty brunet in her thirties who had gone missing, although a man in North Carolina reported seeing Elvis as he was emptying the trash.

  Nor was there anything in the morning paper: no mention of an escaped prisoner in the vicinity, no word of a psychiatric patient having wandered off, no woman wanted for questioning in connection with any kind of mishap, no mention of anyone having staggered dazed from the scene of a serious accident. Nothing.

  The thought occurred to her that if she were not a Boston native, if she came from some other part of the country, had merely ended up in Boston, then there would be no reason for her to make the local papers. And yet the blood covering her dress had still been damp when she discovered it, which would seem to suggest that whatever had happened, it had not happened too far away or too long ago.

  She recalled the piece of paper she had found in her pocket—Pat Rutherford, R. 31, 12:30. Was there any mention in the paper of this Pat Rutherford? She reread the morning paper, finding nothing. If it was Pat Rutherford’s blood covering her dress, Pat Rutherford had either made a quiet and unspectacular recovery or was still lying somewhere undiscovered.

  Deciding she would learn nothing from the newspaper, she concentrated instead on the TV, switching channels continually, moving between Good Morning America and the Today show, between Phil and Oprah and Sally Jessy and Geraldo. She discovered there were specialists on battered lesbians and transvestite kleptomaniacs, that there existed a veritable army of young girls who had given birth to not one but several children before their thirteenth birthday, and that there were an awful lot of husbands out there who didn’t want to make love to their wives. She knew this because here were all these people talking about it, pouring their hearts out to Sally Jessy and Geraldo and Oprah and Phil on national TV. There were no secrets anymore, no such thing as privacy.

  She thought of calling the networks. I have a great idea for a show, she would tell them: Women who don’t know whether they’re battered lesbians or transvestite kleptomaniacs, who don’t know how many children they might have borne by the age of thirteen, who have no idea if their husbands make love to them more than twice a year. Women who don’t know who they are. Aw, forget it, she could hear the networks reply, there’s too many of those around.

  Maybe, she concurred. But how many of them have almost ten thousand dollars in their pockets and blood all over their clothes?

  Well, why didn’t you say so? she heard Phil and Oprah and Sally Jessy and Geraldo coo in excited unison. Rich, blood-spattered women who don’t know who they are! Now, that’s an idea whose time has definitely come!

  The talk shows were followed by a spate of game shows, then the soaps. Images of beautiful people dotted the screen, and a deep, masculine voice announced the presence of The Young and the Restless. “The Young and the Useless,” she heard the young man in the convenience store repeat, as she settled back to watch. Who were all these problem-soaked, beautiful people, and what were they doing so dressed up in the middle of the afternoon?

  Reluctantly, she retrieved her own dress from the armoire, examining its blood-covered front as if it were a piece of modern art, perhaps something by Jackson Pollock. But like a piece of abstract art, it told her nothing. She rolled it into a tight ball and flung it against a wall, watching it unravel quietly as it fell to the floor, silently mocking her. She returned to her previous position at the foot of the bed and stared blankly ahead until the angle of the sun through the heavy curtains convinced her it was evening.

  The six-thirty news carried with it fresh sets of problems but still nothing about a lone woman with blood on her dress and money in her pockets. Dan Rather was as blithely unaware of her existence as were Tom Brokaw and Peter Jennings.

  “Who am I?” she cried, angrily snapping off the television and ordering dinner from room service, marveling at the constancy of her appetite. “What happened to me? Where have I put my life?”

  By the start of the next day, she knew she had to find out.

  Copley Place is an impressive combination of offices and retail stores located in Copley Square, the heart of the Back Bay. It is home to a major hotel, several fine restaurants, and over one hundred shops located on two levels, each level the length of one city block. It is nothing if not impressive.

  She was not impressed. She was frightened.

  Wearing only her underwear beneath her coat, her shoes pinching her bare feet, she headed toward the ultramodern Neiman Marcus department store at the far end of the plaza. In her hand she clutched a plastic laundry bag taken from her hotel room and filled with neat little stacks of hundred-dollar bills. The money covered another plastic laundry bag that contained her bloodstained dress.

  “Can I be of some assistance?”

  She looked around, discovered she had somehow found her way to the ladies’ department, and acknowledged the small birdlike woman at her elbow with a nod of her head. If there was one thing she could use at this moment, it was assistance. “I need some new things,” she said in a voice that was misleadingly calm. “I have absolutely nothing to wear.”

  The saleswoman leaned forward and dropped her hands to her sides. “Are we talking a whole wardrobe here?” she asked, trying hard to keep the excitement out of her voice.

  “No, just something for today.”

  The hope of a large commission drained from the woman’s gaunt face. “Would you like to see our dresses or are you more interested in casual wear?” Her tone was tentative, as if she couldn’t decide whether or not she was being played with.

  “Casual,” came the unexpected reply. “Maybe slacks and a light sweater.”

  “This way.” The woman led her to a corner of the store that held a selection of beautiful summer wear. “What size?”

  She held her breath, trying to recall the size on the label of her blue dress. “Size eight.”

  “Really?” The woman eyed her coat suspiciously, as if she could see through it. “I would have guessed a six.”

  “You might be right. I’ve probably lost some weight in the last few days.”

  “Well, good for you! I know how hard that can be. I’ve never weighed more than ninety-five pounds in my life but my daughter, poor thing, takes after her father’s side of the family, and she’s always on a diet. So, good for you!”

  She felt foolishly proud of herself.

  “So, you’re buying yourself a treat,” the saleswoman continued. “Well, you deserve it, dear, although I don’t think I’d lose any more weight, if I were you. After a certain age, I think women look better with a few more pounds on them.” She reached over and grabbed a pair of light-brown cotton slacks from one rack and a short-sleeved beige cotton sweater with brown flowers down one side from another. “Do you like this?”

  Did she?

  “Why don’t you try them on for size? Then we’ll have a better idea what we’re looking for.”

  She nodded, taking the items from the saleswoman’s hands and following her to the fitting rooms.

  “I’m right outside if you need me.”

  She entered the small cubicle and pulled the curtain tightly closed before removing her coat. Then she stepped inside the size six brown slacks, and pulled the beige, short-sleeved, one-size-fits-all sweater with flowers down one side over her head. The pants zipped up with no problem; the sweater fell comfortably from her shoulders. She took a step back and admired herself in the mirror. She didn’t look bad at all. The saleswoman had a good eye.

  “How are we doing in there?” came the question from the other side of the curtain
.

  “We’re doing just fine,” she said, emerging from behind the curtain in her new clothes. “I’ll take them. Do you think you could cut the tags off?”

  “You mean you’re going to wear them right out of the store?”

  She nodded. “If that’s all right …”

  The woman shrugged. “It’s unusual, but I guess it’s not unheard of. How will you be paying for these purchases?”

  “Cash.”

  “I thought that might be your answer.” The woman led her toward the appropriate counter and pulled out the necessary sales slip. “It’s been so long since anyone paid cash, I hope I remember how to do this.” She looked around worriedly. “Oh, dear, I think you must have left your purse in the fitting room….”

  “I don’t have a purse.”

  The woman seemed to stop breathing.

  “I have money.” She tapped the laundry bag, reassuringly. “I just don’t have a purse. I need a new one.”

  The saleswoman tried hard not to stare at the plastic laundry bag. “It seems you’re in need of quite a few things.”

  “Yes, actually I am.”

  “Well, you’re in the right store. Our handbag department is on the main floor next to the cosmetics department. That will be two hundred and thirty-seven dollars and twenty-eight cents.”

  She slowly reached inside the laundry bag and withdrew three one-hundred-dollar bills. The saleslady stared openly and then averted her eyes, quickly making the appropriate change, and watching the change drop into the plastic bag. She then clipped the tags from the newly purchased clothing without further comment. Whatever was going on, it was clear she had decided she would rather not know.

  “Remember, handbags are on the first floor, right beside the cosmetics department,” the woman called after her.

  She spent the next hour shopping. In rapid succession, she discarded her Charles Jourdan pumps in favor of a pair of canvas open-toed flats, purchased a new bra and panties in the palest of pink silks, a stylish handbag in bone-colored leather, a navy wallet, and a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses. She was slowed down considerably by the fact that she paid in cash, a practice apparently long since abandoned by most shoppers and almost forgotten by sales help. Then she moved on to the cosmetics department where the eager young salesgirl encouraged her to select a peach-colored blush and matching lipstick, as well as a deep-sable mascara she wouldn’t want to do without.

  She carted all these items into the washroom where she secreted herself in a stall and removed her new slacks and sweater. Then she replaced her underwear with the pink lace delicacies she had just bought. After stepping back into her new brown pants and beige sweater, she transferred several hundred dollars from the plastic laundry bag into her new leather wallet, which she placed, along with her new sunglasses, inside her new purse. She wrapped her old underwear in her coat, then stepped out of the stall, smiling self-consciously at the blue-haired elderly woman who was adjusting her false teeth in front of the mirror. Then she tossed the whole bundle into the wastepaper bin.

  Joining the old woman in front of the mirror, she applied her new peach-colored blush in broad even strokes across her cheeks, and watched the mascara instantly transform her ordinary lashes into something lush and exotic. The peach-colored lipstick did the same thing for her lips, seeming to draw them forward into a full pout.

  “That’s a lovely shade,” the blue-haired woman beside her stated, snapping her dentures into place once and for all. “What’s it called?”

  She checked the bottom of the tube. “Just Peachy,” she read out loud.

  “Isn’t it, though?” the woman said, and was gone.

  “Isn’t it, though,” she repeated, thinking not of her lips but her predicament. “Isn’t it, though.”

  It amazed her how well she knew the city. She knew exactly how many blocks away everything was, whether she could walk or take public transport, whether it was worth it to take a cab. She felt at ease in this city, and yet, not once had she spotted a familiar face, not once had someone stopped her on the street, not once had anything she had seen tweaked a nerve or triggered a special response. She felt anonymous and alone, like a lost child who has been waiting days for her negligent parents to claim her.

  She passed a newspaper kiosk, knowing, because she had already checked, that there was no mention of her in today’s paper. Not only had nobody claimed her, nobody seemed to know she was gone. “Just peachy,” she muttered aloud, finding herself in front of the busy Greyhound Bus Terminal.

  She went inside, cutting through the numerous bodies to the back of the station, seeking to deposit the laundry bag containing her bloodied dress and the bulk of her cash inside one of the storage lockers. But as she was about to drop the correct change into the designated slot, she noticed a sign announcing that the lockers were cleaned out after twenty-four hours and knew she’d have to find another alternative.

  “Excuse me,” she said, approaching an older man with wispy white sideburns and a neatly pressed blue uniform. “Is there anywhere I can store something for more than twenty-four hours?”

  “Turn right,” he said, pointing. “Down the long hall.”

  She followed his directions, holding the laundry bag slightly away from her body, almost as if it contained bloodied body parts and not just her bloody dress. “I need to store this,” she told the bored-looking woman behind the counter.

  The woman barely glanced up from the magazine she was reading. “Twenty-dollar deposit.”

  She slipped a twenty-dollar bill across the counter as the woman reluctantly closed her magazine and wrote out a receipt before coming around to the front of the counter and dropping a key into her palm.

  “It takes two keys,” she explained, her voice on automatic pilot as she led her toward a wall of lockers. “You get one. We keep the other. You need both to open the locker, so don’t lose it. Refund or balance of payment due when you pick up your stuff.”

  She nodded understanding of the rules and quickly thrust the plastic laundry bag inside the now-open locker, watching her hands shake. Had the woman noticed as well? Would she be quick to report her to the police as soon as she was safely out of sight? Suspicious woman with shaking hands storing suspicious package in locker 362. Proceed with caution. Looks guilty of something.

  It didn’t matter. She had already decided to turn herself in. She’d made the decision this morning when it had finally dawned on her that this condition might be more permanent that she had first imagined. She couldn’t spend another day in this self-imposed limbo. If she couldn’t figure out who she was on her own, then she’d have to let others do it for her, no matter what might have happened to cause her condition, no matter how her dress came to be covered with blood, no matter who stuffed her pockets with hundred-dollar bills. Whatever had happened, whatever she might be guilty of, it couldn’t be worse than this—this not knowing.

  But she had also decided that before she handed herself over to the powers that be, before she found out what dreadful deed she might have committed, it would be a good idea not to hand over all the evidence. The police would be distracted by the sight of all that money and blood. And who could blame them? Hadn’t she herself been similarly distracted?

  No, before she confused the issue by presenting the police with the evidence of her guilt, she first wanted to know what crime she might be guilty of. If she walked into the police station carrying a bagful of money and displaying a dress covered in blood, they would panic, as she had panicked. It was better to keep such knowledge to herself, at least for the time being. First things first. And the first thing she had to find out was who the hell she was.

  She waited until the woman was back behind the counter and reabsorbed in her magazine before removing one new shoe, peeling back its instep liner, and laying the locker key inside. Then she replaced the flap, and slid her foot back inside her shoe. It felt strange, wrong, as secrets often do. It would feel better once she got used to it, as soon as he
r body adjusted to the lie.

  She discarded her receipt in a nearby garage bin and walked briskly out of the terminal, debating whether she should stop somewhere for a quick something to eat, amazed at the persistence of her appetite. Then she saw the boyish-looking police officer standing on the corner of Stuart and Berkeley and her appetite suddenly vanished. “Excuse me,” she began tentatively, approaching him with caution. “I was wondering if you could help me.”

  FOUR

  “OKAY, just relax, this isn’t going to hurt.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “You’re just going to take a little ride. No, lie still. I promise you, you won’t feel a thing. Try to relax. It’ll be over in about ten minutes.”

  She was in the Boston City Hospital, a 450-bed hospital that was mostly for charity cases and the poor. The police had brought her here when it was determined that no woman of her description was wanted for anything, nor was she on their current list of missing persons. They had taken her fingerprints, which they intended to send to Washington, and her photograph, which they planned to release to the newspapers, but first they wanted the hospital to run a few tests. They decided on the Boston City Hospital over the posh Massachusetts General when they realized that someone with no identity was unlikely to be carrying any medical insurance.

  The police officers left her in the care of a nervous intern who didn’t know what to make of her any more than she did. He asked her the same questions as had the police: When did you realize you had no memory? Where exactly were you? Where did you go? Had you been drinking? Could you tell us anything about yourself at all? She answered all their questions except the last one, the one that mattered most.

  The intern began his physical examination of her by checking her pupils to see whether they reacted to light. They did, so he moved on to her blood pressure and heartbeat, both of which were good. He checked her urine and felt her head for any signs of external trauma. Everything checked out, so he called the resident, a bearded and resolutely humorless young man who looked as if a smile had never creased his face, and indeed one never did, at least in the half hour he spent examining her.