by Joy Fielding
It would be easy enough. She knew where he kept the medication. All she had to do was take a few too many of those lovely white pills. If that failed, there was always her friendly neighborhood kitchen knife. Or she could throw herself through one of the stained-glass windows on the second floor of their home, impale herself on the unicorn’s horn. Oh, she had plenty of alternatives. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, after all, she remembered, the expression reaching out to her from another life.
“Jane.” Michael beckoned her toward the counter, drawing her tightly to his side. “Do you see anything that you like?”
“Michael, I don’t need …”
“Do it for me,” he said, and the man behind the counter laughed. When he laughed, his wavy blond hair and large tortoiseshell glasses bounced along with the sound.
“First time I’ve heard that one,” he said, glancing at Jane sideways in a way that suggested it was painful to greet her head-on. “Most wives drag their husbands in here kicking and screaming. Is there anything specific I might be able to show you?” the man, who introduced himself as Joseph, asked.
“We’re looking at wedding bands,” Michael told him.
“A wedding. How lovely.”
Jane could see Joseph mentally questioning the wisdom of Michael’s choice of brides.
“We have a large selection of wedding bands. Perhaps you have something specific in mind …”
“Diamonds,” Michael said simply.
“Diamonds,” the jeweler repeated almost reverently. “A lovely word, don’t you think?” He laughed, causing his hair and glasses to bob up and down, and Michael joined in the gaiety. Jane didn’t laugh, or even smile. No sense of humor, she knew Joseph was thinking. Why is this good-looking, obviously intelligent man hitching himself to this humorless drone who wears midi blouses and has no appreciation for the finer things in life? “Were you thinking of a diamond solitaire or an eternity band?” Eternity, Jane thought. Eternityeternityeternityeternity.
“Well, since we’ve already been married for eleven years,” Michael was saying, as the jeweler nodded his condolences, “I think an eternity band sounds just the thing. What do you think, honey?”
Jane thought: eternity. Eternityeternityeternityeternity.
“Can we have a look at some?”
“Of course.” Joseph unlocked the glass case in front of him and deposited a trayful of diamond wedding bands on the counter in front of them. “Would you care to sit down?” he asked, snapping his fingers for his assistant, who promptly produced a chair for Jane, into which she immediately fell. “Is your wife all right, Mr.? …”
“Whittaker. Dr. Whittaker, actually. Jane’s been a bit under the weather lately,” he elaborated, “but she’s getting better now.”
“I’m sorry to hear she’s been ill,” the jeweler announced, “and happy to hear you’re on the mend,” he continued, suddenly addressing Jane, who was busy silently repeating the phrase “under the weather,” thinking it a wonderful expression, wondering where it had originated.
“What do you think of any of these, Jane?”
Jane forced herself to look over the hope-filled black velvet tray. The diamonds twinkled back at her like a series of miniature stars, trapped and securely fastened in bands of platinum and gold. Some had no bands at all, their stars invisibly melded to one another as if by magic. She was past the wonders of magic. She was undeserving of stars and eternity.
“They’re very nice,” she muttered.
“I should hope so,” Joseph said, clearly flustered by her attitude. “These are all first-quality gems.”
“What about this one?” Michael asked, lifting a band of medium-sized round diamonds from its slot. “I rather like this one.”
“An excellent choice,” the jeweler concurred. “One of our finest.”
“Try it on,” Michael urged Jane.
“I don’t think so, Michael.”
“Perhaps she might like this one better,” Joseph offered, holding out a ring whose diamonds were in the shape of tiny hearts.
“Which do you prefer, Jane?”
Jane said nothing. What was the point? She merely offered her hand for Michael to slip the ring on her finger. What difference did it make which ring he chose? It was all the same thing. Would he bury the ring along with her?
“It’s a little big,” Michael said, slipping the ring back and forth along her finger.
“We can easily fix that. Here, why don’t I size her finger?”
He took her hand and measured her finger for the appropriate size. “A five and a half!” Joseph exclaimed. “A bit on the thin side.” He looked over his stock of eternity bands. “I don’t seem to have anything made up in that size, at least not in the size of diamonds you’re looking at. We do have something where the diamonds are a little smaller …”
“I like the larger size,” Michael told him, “assuming they’re of good quality.”
“We only sell good-quality gems, Dr. Whittaker, I assure you.”
“Well, I think it’s between these two, don’t you, darling?” Michael held both diamond rings in front of her eyes. “Which one do you prefer?”
Jane closed her eyes, turned her head.
“Maybe your wife would prefer something in another stone. I have some beautiful emeralds or rubies …”
“No, diamonds,” Michael told him. “I think we’ll go with the hearts, as you suggested. Only in the correct size.”
“We can do that easily.”
“How soon can we have it?”
“Say one week from today?”
“Sounds great. What do you think, honey? A week from today okay with you?”
“I think I need some fresh air,” Jane whispered, although, in truth, it was much more comfortable in the air-conditioned store than it was outside. But she needed to get out of this place, away from the gray carpeted walls and black tiled floors, away from the wavy blond hair and tortoiseshell glasses, away from the high-quality gems, trapped like fireflies in a jar.
“Why don’t you wait at the top of the steps?” Michael suggested, and Jane understood he knew that she lacked the strength to run away. “I can finish up in here.”
“My assistant will help you,” Joseph offered, as a longhaired young man ushered Jane toward the door. “I’ll have him keep an eye on her,” she heard him say as she stepped outside. Then, “I’ll need a deposit.”
“No problem,” Michael said as the door closed behind her.
Jane immediately lowered herself to the concrete step, her head in her hands. Poor Michael, she thought. Poor, sweet Michael. Always trying to cheer her up, always trying to make things right again. Using the money she had stolen from their joint checking account to buy her a diamond eternity band! The ring would be ready next week. By that time, she’d hopefully have no need of a diamond eternity; she’d be in an eternity of her own making. An eternity she deserved. Would she be reunited with her mother and daughter in such an eternity? Or had special space been reserved for murderers like herself?
She looked up to find a woman staring at her from the bottom of the stairs. It was the same woman she had seen earlier, the one who had looked at her with unsure eyes when they had passed each other on the street.
“I’m sorry,” the woman said immediately, climbing up a few steps and stopping. “Aren’t you Mrs. Whittaker? Emily’s mother?”
The name elicited a gasp from Jane’s mouth.
“I’m sorry,” the woman repeated, “I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought I recognized you before, but I wasn’t sure. You look a little different. Are you Mrs. Whittaker?”
Jane nodded without speaking.
“I’m Anne Halloren-Gimblet,” the woman said, introducing herself, as Jane tried to see the name in her mind. “You probably don’t remember me, but our daughters were in the same class together. I was on that field trip where you slugged that old geezer with your purse.”
Halloren-Gimblet, Jane repeated silently, wond
ering where people got such names.
“Anyway, I always meant to call you and tell you how much I admired you. I felt so guilty at the time. I mean, I just stood there while that man pushed into our kids, and I didn’t have the guts to do anything—well, none of us did, except you. And then we all just sort of stood around and did nothing. I wanted to phone you, but I never seemed to get around to it. You know how it is, you mean to do something, but if you don’t do it right away, it doesn’t get done.” She paused, as if waiting for Jane to absolve her.
But Jane said nothing. Halloren-Gimblet, she thought.
“So,” the woman continued, stretching forward to shake Jane’s limp hand, “I’m telling you now that I thought you were wonderful, and if anything like that ever happens again, I won’t let another six months go by before I get in touch.” She let go of Jane’s hand and backed down the steps onto the street. “Bye,” she said, hesitating for a few seconds at the bottom, then walking away as Michael stepped out of the shop.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“Some woman with a funny name who thought she knew me,” Jane answered, her voice a monotone.
“And did she?”
Jane shrugged as Michael helped her to her feet and led her down to the street. Something the woman had said gnawed at the base of her brain like a mouse chewing on a piece of rope, but she knew that it would require all her concentration to recover the conversation, and she was too tired. Ultimately, what difference would it make? Instead she devoted her energy to putting one foot in front of the other, the woman’s name repeating silently inside her head with each step,, like the sound of a train chugging along a track. Anne Halloren-Gimblet it said. Anne Halloren-Gimblet. Anne Halloren-Gimblet. Anne Halloren-Gimblet.
Annehallorengimbletannehallorengimbletanne hallorengimblet.
TWENTY-FOUR
JANE awoke with a start from a dream in which she had been chasing Emily through a never-ending maze of bushes. Michael stirred beside her but didn’t wake up, so Jane laid her head back on the pillow and waited for sleep to reclaim her, soon feeling the familiar tug of unconsciousness creeping through her muscles.
In the next instant, she was in a large department store, Emily at her side. Together they approached the counter, Jane holding a plastic laundry bag containing a dress she wished to return. “This dress is stained,” she informed the clerk, who wore a baby-pink ribbon in her flaming-red hair.
“We don’t accept bloodstains,” the young woman told her, rubbing her fingers against the blue fabric. “Besides, you bought this dress six months ago.”
“There’s a lifetime guarantee.”
“There are no guarantees.”
Jane looked around for her daughter and discovered she had disappeared. “Emily,” she called, “where are you?”
And suddenly she was standing in front of an open grave, peering down through the darkness at Emily. The child sat paralyzed with fear as bright-colored cobras danced before her, their hoods extended, their fangs exposed. Seeing them poised, about to strike, Jane threw herself into the snake pit on top of them.
“No!” Jane screamed, lurching up in bed, waking Michael, who immediately wrapped her in his arms and began rocking her gently back and forth.
“It’s okay,” he was saying rhythmically. “It’s okay. It was just a dream.”
Jane said nothing. Michael’s gentle rocking reinforcing the image of snakes swaying in the pit.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Jane shook her head. What was there to talk about? She’d lost her daughter only to find her in a grave filled with vipers. But there was more, Jane realized, leaning forward and resting her arms against her knees. Something more.
“I’ll get your medication,” Michael said, pushing himself out of bed and heading for the bathroom.
Something more. What?
Jane sought to recapture her dream before it faded away, starting in the department store, going over her conversation with the saleswoman, hearing her protest that six months had passed. Six months, Jane thought. What was so significant about six months?
And then she remembered the woman on the steps by the jewelry store on Newbury Street. Anne Halloren-Gimblet, she repeated silently, almost by rote. Anne Halloren-Gimblet had said something about six months. What?
“Here. Take these.” Michael’s hand held out two white pills, slightly different in shape from the Haldol she was used to taking. When had he changed her medication? She took the pills from his hand, examining the slight varnish of their coating. If not Haldol, then what? Thorazine? What difference did it make? she asked herself, her answer for everything these days. With her other hand, she accepted the glass of water he held toward her.
What exactly had Anne Halloren-Gimblet said to her? Something about being on the field trip where Jane had slugged the man with her purse, that she thought Jane was terrific, feeling guilty that she hadn’t told her sooner. “If anything like that ever happens again, I won’t let another six months go by before I get in touch.” Yes, that was it. “I won’t let another six months go by before I get in touch.” Six months? What did she mean? Did she mean anything, or was it just an expression?
“Take the pills, Jane. We can still get a few hours’ sleep before we have to get up.”
She needed more time. If she took the pills, she’d be a vegetable in minutes, and she needed those minutes to think this through. Her subconscious was desperately trying to tell her something. It had fought through her medication, snaked its way into her dreams, because it had something important to tell her. She just needed time to figure out what it was.
Jane popped the pills onto the top of her tongue, then raised the glass to her mouth. But as the water neared her lips, she tilted the glass forward, watching the water spill out across the front of her nightgown, feeling the wet cotton plaster itself against her breasts.
“Jesus, Jane, look what you’re doing.” Michael grabbed the glass from her hand and wiped at her wet nightgown with the end of the bed sheet. “It’s okay,” he told her, returning to the bathroom as she numbly surveyed the mess she had made. “I’ll get you some more.”
The second he was gone, Jane spit the pills from the tip of her tongue into the palm of her hand, then buried them under the mattress. “I won’t let another six months go by before I get in touch.”
Six months.
Michael returned with a fresh glass of water, which Jane brought carefully to her lips, throwing her head back to mimic the swallowing of pills and then carefully downing the contents of the glass. Michael deposited the now-empty glass on the table beside her, crawled back into bed, and fitted himself around her protectively.
Jane lay awake, trying to steady the beating of her heart. What did everything mean? What had Anne Halloren-Gimblet meant when she said that next time she wouldn’t let another six months go by? If only six months had passed since their last meeting, then the field trip she was referring to, the field trip where Jane had slugged some ignoramus with her purse, had taken place within the past school year. But that was impossible if Emily had been killed in a car accident over a year ago.
Unless Emily hadn’t been killed. Unless she was still alive.
Jane felt her body twitch with excitement, felt Michael’s hands tighten their grip around her waist. But if Emily hadn’t been killed, if she was still alive somewhere, why had Michael told her she was dead? If Emily was alive, that meant that everything Michael had told her was a lie.
There was one way to find out, she decided. “Michael,” she whispered, sliding out of his embrace, “when we get up, I’d like to visit the cemetery.”
The cemetery was located a short distance away in that section of Newton known as Oak Hill. Michael had protested that he saw no purpose in going there, that it would undoubtedly only upset her further, but she had been adamant, and in the end, he had given in. What difference did it make? she could almost read in his expression.
A big difference, she
had answered silently. All the difference in the world. The difference between letting herself be buried alive in a pit of vipers or starting to fight back, to find out what the hell was going on, to getting her daughter back.
Michael pulled the car into the open gates of the Mount Pleasant Cemetery, and brought it to a halt in the small, unpaved parking lot. He turned off the ignition and sat for a minute, studying her. Jane lowered her head, feigning great fatigue. It wouldn’t do to arouse his suspicions at this point, although, truth to tell, she was tired, could have slipped easily, carelessly, into sleep. “Are you sure you can manage this?”
“It’s something I have to do,” she told him honestly.
“Okay. If it gets too tough, tell me. We’ll come right back to the car.” He opened his door and got out, coming around to her side and helping her out, leading her up the proper pathway, his slow steps mimicking her own.
Why was she doing this? she suddenly asked herself, fighting the urge to run back to the car. Michael was cooperating; he obviously had nothing to hide. So what was the point of the exercise? Anne Halloren-Gimblet had a careless way with words, that was all. Six months was nothing more than a figure of speech. She could just as easily have said six years.
“It’s down this way,” Michael said, pointing across the neat rows of tombstones, each surrounded by half moons of summer flowers. Jane walked carefully between the rows, her eyes scanning the unfamiliar names, absently noting the years of birth and the dates of death. BELOVED WIFE; LOVING FATHER; TO KNOW HIM IS TO LOVE HIM; A STRONG SPIRIT, A GENTLE HEART; LOVED BY ALL WHO KNEW HER; A LOVING SON, TAKEN TOO SOON; a simple WE MISS YOU.
Michael came to a stop in front of a tombstone carved out of rose-colored granite. “Here it is.”
Jane held her breath, looked toward it. EVELYN LAWRENCE, the inscription read. LOVING WIFE, BELOVED MOTHER AND GRANDMOTHER. BORN MARCH 16, 1926. DIED JUNE 12, 1989. IN OUR HEARTS, YOU LIVE FOREVER.