See Jane Run

by Joy Fielding

  “The tea’s good,” she told him, and watched him smile, thinking how little it took to make him happy.

  “Specialty of the house. Here, take this.” He handed her a couple of small white pills.

  “What’s this?”

  “A mild sedative.”

  “A sedative? Why? I haven’t had any trouble sleeping.”

  “It’s just to relax you.”

  Jane studied the two tiny pills, feeling them heavy in the palm of her hand. “Dr. Meloff never said anything about sedatives.”

  “Dr. Meloff is the one who prescribed them,” he told her without a hint of impatience. “They’re just to help you relax, Jane. They’re very mild, really. You won’t feel any aftereffects.”

  “It’s just that pills make me kind of nervous,” she said.

  His smile was enormous. “They always did. See? You’re getting better already. They’re working!”

  Jane laughed, wondering why she was giving him such a hard time. “I guess I’m just afraid of losing control,” she admitted, trying to find a rational explanation for her behavior.

  “What control?” he asked, and she laughed again. What control was right! How could a person who didn’t know who she was have any hope for control?

  She popped the pills into her mouth and swallowed them down with the last of her tea.

  “Have a cookie,” he offered. “They’re delicious. Paula made them on Friday.”

  “Paula?”

  “Paula Marinelli. She comes in a few times a week to do the cleaning and the laundry, a bit of baking. I’ve asked her to come every day until you’re feeling better.”

  “Until I’m feeling more myself, you mean.”

  He laughed. “Until you’re feeling more yourself.”

  She took a large bite of the chocolate chip cookie, watching a cascade of crumbs spill to the carpet at her feet. “Oh God, am I always this sloppy?” She bent over to pick up the crumbs and felt her head reel, the room spin. “Whoa!”

  He was immediately at her side, helping her to her feet, guiding her toward the bed. “You must be really exhausted,” she heard him say as he pulled down the comforter and positioned her underneath the sheets. “There’s no way on earth those pills could work that fast.”

  “I am tired,” she agreed, closing her eyes, knowing she had been fighting her fatigue for too long, feeling suddenly overwhelmed.

  “Get some rest,” he said softly, kissing her forehead as if she were a small child. “Do you want me to sit with you until you fall asleep?”

  She smiled, feeling like a pampered little girl. “I’ll be okay. You must have things to do.”

  “Nothing that can’t wait.”

  “You go,” she said, her voice heavy, distant. “I’ll be fine.”

  She felt him rise. “Remember, if you need anything, just holler. I’ll be here in two seconds.”

  I know you will, she thought, but was too tired to say. She tried to smile, hoped her lips had managed the appropriate shape, then gave in to the pleasant numbness that was creeping through her limbs toward her brain. She felt Michael smooth her covers, then disappear from her side. Her eyes fluttered briefly open, then immediately closed again. In the next instant, she was asleep.

  She dreamed that she was standing in an open field. Behind her was a low building, rather like a motel, but with no sign to identify it. A no-name motel, she thought, hearing music emanate from one of the rooms. And suddenly Michael was beside her. She felt his soothing hands on her bare arms. “Do you feel like a walk?” he asked.

  She nodded, snuggling against him.

  “Oh, no, no,” came a voice from somewhere behind them. “You cannot walk.”

  “Of course we can walk,” she said stubbornly, trying to recognize the voice.

  “No.”

  “But why?” she demanded, exasperated. “Why can’t we walk?”

  There was silence. Then the voice spoke. “The field is full of cobras,” it said.

  She spun around.

  Michael was gone. A giant snake, coiled and ready to strike, lay at her bare feet. She took a step back, falling into the field of waiting cobras. She felt their bodies rise up in unison from between the blades of tall, yellow grass, and sway toward her. She felt their vipers’ tongues whip against her legs. She watched the giant snake rise to his full height and lunge toward her. She screamed.

  She was screaming.

  “Jane!” she heard him calling, but was too terrified to open her eyes. “Jane! Are you all right? Jane, wake up! It’s only a dream. You’re having a nightmare. Jane, wake up!”

  She forced her eyes open, her arms flailing in all directions when he tried to touch her.

  “It’s me, Michael. I’m here. Everything’s okay.”

  It took her another minute to settle down, to consign the cobras to the netherworld of demons where they belonged, to remember that she wasn’t stranded in some unidentifiable motel, but that she was home, in her own bed, safe and sound. “I had the most awful dream,” she began, her voice a whimper. “There were snakes everywhere.”

  “It’s all right now,” he comforted her, taking her in his arms. “They’re gone. I scared them all away.”

  She clung to him. “It was so real. I was so scared.” She realized she was bathed in sweat from head to toe, and pulled out of his arms. “I’m soaking wet.”

  “Let me get a washcloth. I’ll be right back.”

  She sat in bed, shaking and shivering in turn, until Michael returned. By then, the details of her dream had started to vanish. She made no attempt to hold on to them, wishing them gone as quickly as possible. But she remembered the feeling of stark terror that had violated every pore of her body, the terrifying sensation of falling backward into a pit of poisonous snakes. She shuddered, the revulsion causing her to gag.

  “Take deep breaths,” Michael was saying, running a cool cloth over her forehead. “That’s right. Keep taking deep breaths. Try to relax. Everything’s okay now.”

  “It was so awful.”

  “I know,” he said, talking to her as gently as if she were one of his small patients. “But it’s okay now. It’s over.”

  She saw that he was wearing only a pair of jeans, something he had undoubtedly jumped into when he heard her scream. What dreams had she taken him from? she wondered, as he laid her back against her pillow. She felt the soothing cool cloth against her arms.

  Suddenly she felt something prick the exposed surface of her skin, and thought the cobras had invaded her bed. She gasped, lifting her head in time to see the viper make a hasty retreat.

  “It’s just a shot of something to help you sleep without the nightmares,” Michael told her soothingly, returning the syringe to his side and taking her in his arms again. “You need to sleep, Jane.” He kissed a damp hair away from her forehead. “It’s the best thing for you.”

  She nodded, feeling him lower her to the pillow. She studied his face in the near darkness, saw the fear and loneliness he tried so hard to hide, and longed to reach out and touch him, draw him to her, let him hold her through the night. Instead, she felt her eyes start to close. She knew he wouldn’t leave her until she was safely asleep, and she fought to stay awake. Through half-closed lids, she saw him lift his hand to his head to push back the hair from his forehead. And she saw the long row of stitches that snaked along the side of his scalp just above the hairline, normally hidden by his hair.

  What’s that? she tried to ask, but her mouth was too dry to form the necessary words. What happened to your head? she wanted to know, but before she could force the question from her mouth, she was surrounded by darkness, and she fell into the dreamless sleep he had promised.

  NINE

  SHE opened her eyes to the sun streaming through the shutters. She sat up slowly, propping herself up with her elbows, leaning against the headboard, waiting for her eyes to focus and the buzzing in her ears to stop. She swallowed several times, trying to draw moisture into her mouth, which felt as d
ry as if a wad of cotton had been stuffed inside it, like a gag. Then she tried to stand up.

  The room spun; her head swayed precariously on her shoulders, as if too sudden a move would cause it to tumble to the floor. It seemed a massive weight, too imposing for her fragile body to sustain. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, she thought, falling back onto the bed. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  She looked toward the mirrors. All the king’s horses, she heard a small voice chant, and all the king’s men—

  “Couldn’t put Jane Whittaker together again,” she announced to the multiple of images she saw reflected. “Jane Whittaker,” she intoned solemnly, wishing her reflection would sit still. “Who the hell are you?”

  Her reflection wavered, then fell from view as a fresh wave of dizziness pushed her back onto her pillow. “Take it slow,” she advised, knowing it was slow or not at all.

  She pictured a maze of cobwebs spun from one side of her brain to the other, and watched as her hand reached into the picture to sweep them all away. But they were instantly replaced by more cobwebs, and no matter how many times she attempted to push them aside, the result was the same.

  She shook her head, as if this act of defiance might shake the cobwebs free, but it only sent her head reeling, and she was forced to close her eyes to keep from fainting. Her head felt numb, anesthetized, frozen. It felt vast, filled with poisonous gas, in danger of exploding.

  With her eyes closed, she tried to bring herself up-to-date: She was in Jane Whittaker’s home, sleeping in Jane Whittaker’s bed, Jane Whittaker’s husband just down the hall, which was fine because she was Jane Whittaker. She had documented proof. Michael had produced her passport and their marriage license. She had recognized herself in the family photographs on the piano. She had even played the piano, for God’s sake. How much proof did she need?

  So, okay, she was Jane Whittaker, and Michael Whittaker, handsome and renowned pediatric surgeon, was her loving and supportive husband. And she had a beautiful daughter and a lovely home, and lots of friends. So why did suddenly knowing all these wonderful things about herself make her feel so depressed? Why did she want to crawl into a hole somewhere and die?

  She recalled the vague outline of her nightmare with a shudder. She’d always hated snakes. She rubbed her arm, feeling again the sudden prick of a needle as it pierced her skin, and she opened her eyes, expecting to find Michael at her side, but there was no one.

  He’d promised her a sleep devoid of dreams, and he was as good as his word. There’d been no more nightmares. She’d slept soundly, seamlessly. So why did she feel so crummy? Why did her head feel as if it were encased in cement?

  Her eyes found the clock on the night table by her bed and managed to bring its numbers into clear focus. “Ten after ten!” she read incredulously. Could it really be after ten o’clock in the morning? Could she really have slept more than twelve hours?!

  She brought the clock to within inches of her face. It was definitely ten minutes after ten. God, half the morning was gone, she thought, determining to get out of bed. Why me? she wondered, standing up and watching the floor tilt toward her. Her hand shot out in front of her, stopping on something cold and clear, like an ice pond, she thought, lifting her eyes and coming face-to-face with her own image. The palm of her right hand was pressed into its own reflection, as if the stranger in the mirror had come to her rescue, was holding her up.

  Where was Michael? she wondered, staggering toward the bathroom and sinking onto the toilet seat, her head in her hands. She hadn’t even bothered to shut the bathroom door. Suppose he walked in right now. Would he be embarrassed? Would she? Were they the kind of people who politely closed the bathroom door on their ablutions, or did they leave the door open for all the world to see? She didn’t know; she was too groggy to care. If Michael were to walk in now, she wasn’t even sure she’d notice.

  Still, she was surprised he hadn’t already been around. She’d expected to see him as soon as she opened her eyes. Was she disappointed? Was that the reason for her depression?

  Maybe he was downstairs making breakfast. Maybe he was as expert at brewing coffee as he was at making tea. Maybe he was preparing to bring her bacon and eggs in bed. Immediately, her spirits lifted, then sank at the realization of how dependent she was already starting to feel. “Didn’t Oprah teach you anything?”

  She flushed the toilet. Surely that noise would bring him to her side. Then she washed her hands and face, splashing cold water repeatedly over her eyes. But it was as if they were coated with an invisible film. No matter how many times she rubbed them with the washcloth, she couldn’t wash away the fog that seemed to have settled over her eyes like a pair of glasses.

  In spite of everything, she was surprised to discover that she didn’t look so bad. Her hair hung shiny and straight around her shoulders; her complexion was clear, if a little pale. Even the bags under her eyes seemed to have shrunk, as if recognizing she had problems enough. She brushed her teeth and debated getting dressed. But she was too tired to drag her nightgown over her head, and what difference would it make anyway? She wasn’t going anywhere.

  She threw her head back defiantly, trying to rid herself of the lethargy that had seized control of her body, but the motion only sent her head spinning and she barely made it to the bed before she collapsed. “I’ll just rest here for a few minutes,” she whispered into the pink floral sheets that were the last things she saw before unconsciousness.

  When she opened her eyes again, it was almost an hour later. “Jesus,” she said, straightening her shoulders, pushing herself out of bed. This time, the floor remained steady beneath her feet. Her dizziness was gone, although a vague sense of depression lingered. She told herself that depression was an improvement over terror. “You’re making progress,” she said out loud, and watched her reflection smile.

  She absently brushed some hair away from her forehead, unconsciously mimicking Michael’s gesture of the night before. And then she stopped. “My God,” she said, recalling the neat row of stitches that lay just above his hairline. What did it mean? Did it mean anything at all?

  Maybe he’d had some sort of minor surgery. Or maybe he’d fallen, cut his head open. Her mind immediately conjured up the image of her bloodied blue dress. Head wounds bled a lot. Was it possible the blood on her dress had been Michael’s?

  She dismissed the thought as quickly as it had appeared. If this were the case, surely Michael would have said something, although he’d been reluctant to tell her anything that might upset her further.

  Maybe there hadn’t been any stitches. Maybe the whole thing was a figment of her perverse imagination. She’d been hysterical over her nightmare; she was confused; it was dark. If her mind could conjure up fields of venomous snakes, then surely it was capable of imagining a simple row of stitches. Surely a mind that was capable of forgetting who she was, was capable of anything.

  At any rate, it would be an easy thing to find out. She’d merely take a good look at Michael, and if the stitches were there, she’d ask him how he got them. Simple. Life was really very simple once you got the hang of it.

  She walked over to the windows that ran across the back wall, and drew back the shutters, staring into the backyard, wondering why it was taking Michael so long to join her. Was it possible he was still asleep?

  She heard her stomach growl, and she laughed, glad to see some things never changed. Oh, well, if Michael wasn’t going to bring her breakfast in bed, she’d have to find her way down to the kitchen and fix it herself. Maybe even surprise him with breakfast in bed.

  She turned to the door and screamed.

  The woman who stood in the doorway was young, with an unfashionably deep tan. She was of medium height, maybe five feet four inches tall, with black hair that was pulled away from her face in a neat braid. She was slim, although her legs looked sturdy beneath the dark denim skirt she wore. “I’m sorry,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly strong. “I didn’t mean to startle you.�
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  Jane stared at the woman, estimating her age as late twenties. Her round face wasn’t delicate enough to be regarded as pretty, nor so coarse as to be considered plain. It was a face that would probably be best described as “interesting,” one that might, on occasion, possibly even rise to the level of “mysterious.” Her eyes were opaque, as dark as her hair, her nose was long and narrow, offsetting a mouth that was wide and red.

  “I’m Paula,” she began without further prompting. “Paula Marinelli.” She waited for her name to register, continued when it didn’t. “I clean your house a couple of times a week. Dr. Whittaker was supposed to remind you.”

  “Yes, he did,” Jane assured her, vaguely recalling the conversation. “I’m sorry. I’m having a hard time keeping track of things.” She almost laughed at her use of understatement.

  Paula Marinelli looked embarrassed. “Dr. Whittaker said that you’re suffering from amnesia.”

  “It’s just temporary,” Jane offered. “At least that’s what they tell me.” She cleared her throat, more for something to do than because she felt the need. “Where is Dr. Whittaker anyway? Is he still asleep?”

  Paula Marinelli looked genuinely shocked by the idea. “Oh, no. Dr. Whittaker left for work first thing this morning.”

  “He went to work?”

  “Emergency surgery.”

  Jane nodded. “Of course. I guess that must happen quite a bit.”

  “Everybody wants Dr. Whittaker. Which isn’t surprising,” she added, with a faint trace of pride. “He’s the best there is.” She looked around the room. “Are you hungry? I can bring you some breakfast.”