by Joy Fielding
“Jane …”
“He told me she was dead, Carole. He told me that I killed her, that she died in my arms. How do you explain that? Is he trying to protect me too?”
“He is trying to protect you, Jane. That’s all he’s ever tried to do.”
“By lying to me? By telling me my daughter is dead? That I’m the one responsible? For God’s sake, Carole, listen to me. Do you think I’m making this up?”
“I think you’re delusional….”
“Delusional?”
“I think you really believe the things you’re saying….”
“Delusional? That’s one of Michael’s words, isn’t it? Delusional.” She spat out the word as if she had just bitten into something unpleasant. “Michael told you I was delusional, didn’t he?”
“Jane ….”
“Didn’t he?” The look on Carole’s face was all the confirmation she needed. Jane shook her head in wonder. “He’s really covered all the bases, hasn’t he? He’s got everyone convinced that I’m crazy, that I suffered some kind of breakdown after my mother’s death, and even though I seemed all right to my friends, at home it was a different story altogether. I was always flying off the handle; I threw things; I was violent!” Jane began twisting in small circles, trying to put everything she had learned in order. “And it all makes sense because everybody knows what a terrible temper I have. Everyone has a Jane-and-her-famous-temper story to tell. And how can I fight against him when I’m up to my glassy eyeballs in drugs, so that I can barely get out of bed or speak for all the drool that dribbles down my chin, when I’m so depressed that my happiest thoughts are of suicide?
“Don’t you see? He lied to me; he lied to everyone. He told you I slept with your husband; he told me it was just one of many sordid affairs. He made it so that even when I did start putting things together, even when I started twigging to his lies, he could just tell everyone that I was delusional! He didn’t tell me my daughter was dead—I imagined it! I’m even crazier than he thought!
“Oh, it’s perfect. It’s so perfect. Who’s going to argue with him when he says I have to be put away? And once I’m institutionalized, and this is the real beauty of his plan, once I’m safely locked away in some snake pit with a fancy name, even if I do eventually get my memory back, even if I do remember the truth, they’ll just take that as further proof of my insanity. More delusions they can jot down in their overstuffed reports.”
Carole’s eyes filled with tears. “But why, Jane? Why would Michael want to do any of those things?”
“Because I know something. Because something happened that I either saw or heard or found out about, something that Michael didn’t want me to know about, that he doesn’t want me to remember.”
“What?”
“You tell me.”
Carole’s eyes closed in defeat. “I don’t know anything, Jane.”
“Tell me what happened the afternoon I disappeared. Tell me what happened that day.”
Carole paused a minute before speaking. “Michael said you were very upset….”
“Don’t tell me what Michael said,” Jane interrupted angrily. “Tell me only what you saw.”
“I saw you pull into your driveway,” Carole began reluctantly. “It was early in the afternoon. My father was having a nap. It was cold that day and I’d been puttering around in the flowers trying to keep myself busy, so when I saw you come home, I thought I’d go over and see if you felt like making me a cup of tea or something, just an excuse to visit. But as soon as you got out of the car, it was obvious that something was very wrong. You were hysterical. That’s the only word I can think of. You were muttering, yelling at yourself. I couldn’t make anything out. I wasn’t even sure you saw me, although you looked right at me. I asked you what was wrong, but you just pushed past me into the house and slammed the door.
“I’d never seen you like that before—oh, I’d seen you angry, I’d seen you lose your temper—but this was different. You weren’t even coherent. You weren’t yourself. I didn’t know what to do. I just stood there for a few minutes, and then I decided to call Michael. I told him what had happened, and he said he’d come home right away. I went back to my house.
“About fifteen, twenty minutes later, I saw Michael’s car pull up and Michael rush inside. Well, by this time, I was curious as hell, wondering what was going on. So I kept watch at the window. And a little while later, your front door flew open and out you ran. You didn’t close the door and you didn’t go to your car. You just ran off down the street.
“I waited a few seconds and then I went over to your house. The door was open but I knocked anyway. When nobody answered, I got a little concerned. I called out Michael’s name a few times, and then I heard this moaning, so I went into the sunroom. Michael was on the floor, just starting to get up. His head was bleeding. The floor was spotted with blood.
“I grabbed him, got him into the bathroom, tried to clean him up a little bit, finally drove him to Newton-Wellesley Hospital, where they stitched him up. On the way, he made me promise to tell the doctors he’d fallen and hit his head. He said that you were suffering from some sort of breakdown, that it had been building for some time, that he’d explain everything to me later.”
“And then?”
“That’s it. You know the rest. You didn’t come home. He decided you were probably ashamed and embarrassed, that he’d give you a few days to calm down. He was sure you’d be home once you had a chance to cool off. He called me after he heard from the police, told me what had happened, that you’d lost your memory, that he was going to bring you home.”
“When did he tell you about Daniel?”
“Later. And he made me promise not to confront you until after you were better. We all know how that turned out.”
Jane took a deep breath, then released it, hoping to expel the dizziness she felt creeping over her. “Carole, please, you have to tell me where Michael is keeping Emily.”
“I don’t know,” Carole told her, and Jane understood she was telling the truth. “I assumed she was with Michael’s parents.”
“So they really do have a cottage?”
“Yes. In Woods Hole.”
Jane knew that Woods Hole was a small strip of land at the tip of Cape Cod, but she had no recollection of ever having been there. It was a drive of several hours and Jane decided that if she had to, she would drive there blind, worry about locating the Whittaker cottage once she got there. “I need to borrow your car,” she said, balancing herself on the side of the chair, wondering if she was in any condition for such a prolonged trip.
“What?”
“Let me have the keys to your car.”
“Jane, don’t be silly. I can’t let you have my car.”
Jane watched Carole’s eyes travel to a spot just past her head. She saw Carole’s shoulders stiffen and her mouth form a silent gasp, at the same moment she felt someone moving behind her.
“Who is this woman?” Carole’s father asked from the doorway.
Jane thought at first that he was referring to her, then realized, as strong hands gripped the sides of her arms, that the woman to whom Fred Cobb was referring was Paula, that she had somehow escaped her small prison and made her way over. Or more likely, she had been here all along.
“After Daniel called this morning, I went over to your house,” Carole explained as Paula locked Jane’s arms to her sides, “because I thought something might be wrong. I found Paula in the bathroom.”
“What’s going on here?” Carole’s father demanded. “Carole, who are these people? Are they here to sell us something?”
“No, Dad. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a nap?”
“I don’t want to take a nap. I just got up.”
Jane let her body go limp. “That’s a good girl,” Paula told her, not relaxing her grip. “There’s really no point in struggling.”
“Have you called Michael?” Jane asked.
“He’s in surgery. I left a
message.”
So, there’s still time, Jane thought, bending at the knees as if their weight was no longer strong enough to support her. Paula’s arms sagged to hang on, and in that split second, Jane threw her shoulders back, knocking Paula off balance, giving her just enough time to break out of her forced embrace. “No!” she screamed, hearing Carole’s father cry out in alarm as her hand grabbed for the large crystal vase on the coffee table and swung it over her head. Flowers flew into the air, then scattered; dirty water dribbled onto her shoulder and the carpet below; Paula recoiled; Carole shook her head, her father whimpering, hiding his eyes.
And in that second, Jane remembered exactly who she was and what she had tried so hard to forget.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JANE witnessed her memory unfold as if she were watching a movie from front row center, the only person at a private screening. She saw the curtains part and the screen fill up with Technicolor images almost too bright for her eyes to stand. Her voice assumed the role of narrator, allowing Carole and Paula to share her lonely vision.
It was morning. Michael and Emily sat at the kitchen table, Michael reading the newspaper and sipping the last of his coffee, Emily dawdling over her cereal, letting her spoon drip milk across the tabletop. Michael peered over his paper to gently scold her. Jane saw herself wipe away the milk and cart the breakfast dishes to the dishwasher, filing each dish in its proper slot.
“So, what have you got planned for today?” Michael asked, as Jane became one with the image before her.
“I have an appointment with Emily’s teacher at twelve-thirty,” she reminded him.
“Problems?”
“I don’t think so. Just parent-teacher interviews they always do at the end of the year. I guess they’ll tell me how well she did and what class she’ll be in next year, that kind of thing.” She patted the top of Emily’s head. Emily acknowledged her touch with a shy smile. “What room are you in again, honey?”
“Room thirty-one.” Emily’s voice was quiet. Jane noticed that it seemed to get quieter every time she spoke.
“I don’t know why I have such a hard time remembering that. I better write it down.” She pulled a small piece of note paper from the pad by the telephone and jotted down Pat Rutherford, R31, 12:30. “What do you say I make one of my special chocolate cakes when I get back?” she asked, hoping to get a wide smile from her daughter and feeling foolishly proud when she succeeded.
“Can I help?” the child asked.
“Sure can.” Jane opened the refrigerator, looked inside. “I better get some milk and some eggs while I’m out.” She jotted down milk, eggs. “You all ready for school?”
“I can drive her today,” Michael volunteered.
“Great.”
“Better wear a jacket,” Michael called as Emily ran into the front hall. “They’re calling for very cool temperatures. That goes for Mommy as well,” he said, kissing Jane on the nose.
“Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy.”
“You’re welcome, smart ass.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too. Call me after the interview with Emily’s teacher.”
“Okay.”
Jane followed Michael into the front hall, helping her daughter into her pink-and-yellow-flowered windbreaker. “Have a good day, sweetie-pie.” She knelt down, immediately feeling her daughter’s arms swoop around her neck, and was loath to break out of the embrace. “I’ll see you at school in a few hours.” Jane stood up, finding herself in Michael’s arms.
“That looked too good to pass up.”
She kissed him. “Have a good day.”
“Call me.”
She stood by the door watching as Michael’s car disappeared around the corner, feeling incredibly blessed, thinking that the only thing missing from their lives was the presence of another child. She almost laughed at the irony. Two years on the pill after Emily’s birth to make sure that there would be a three-year separation between children, only to have absolutely nothing happen when she stopped. Tests had revealed Michael’s sperm count was very low, that Emily had been even more of a miracle than they had originally perceived. It was doubtful such a miracle could occur a second time. So, one child it would be. Thank God, Jane thought, as she thought often, that she had been able to present Michael with such a perfect, beautiful, bright little girl.
Her teacher had sounded worried. Well, maybe not worried exactly, Jane told herself as she headed upstairs to change her clothes. “I’m sure it’s nothing to be concerned about,” Pat Rutherford had told her, causing her instant concern. Jane had said nothing to Michael. Why should two people worry about something that was nothing to be concerned about?
Jane fished through her closet for something suitable to wear, choosing a simple Anne Klein dress over several festooned with bows and ribbons, dresses that Michael had selected when they went shopping together. He might be a brilliant surgeon, she thought, stepping into the blue Anne Klein, but he had rotten taste in women’s fashions. Even his taste in negligees left a great deal to be desired, she thought, pushing the white cotton nightgown he had bought her last Mother’s Day to the rear of the closet, never having had the heart to tell him she didn’t like it.
She ran a brush through her hair, pulling it behind her and securing it with a jeweled clasp, pleased with her image in the mirror, her well-heeled-matron look, Michael would tease her, preferring her hair loose. She snapped on the simple gold watch Michael had given her for their tenth anniversary, gave her plain gold wedding band an absent twirl, then debated whether to tidy the place up a bit before she left the house. No, she’d let Paula do that tomorrow, she decided, frowning at the thought of the woman Michael had hired to clean the house. Paula had little sense of humor and no time at all for Jane. Jane knew Paula perceived her as a useless dilettante, a spoiled, pampered woman whose life was filled with everything hers lacked. And Paula was crazy about Michael. Even Jane’s limited exposure to the overly earnest young woman had convinced her of that, although Michael, bless him, seemed totally oblivious to whatever Paula might be feeling for him.
How would she feel to discover that the two of them had been carrying on an affair? she wondered, then laughed the thought away. It was too absurd to even think about. Besides, Michael would never cheat on her, she was convinced of that. There was no point bothering herself over such unpleasant thoughts. They did both Michael and herself an injustice.
Jane went downstairs, grabbed her purse from the hall closet, and was about to leave when she remembered Michael’s admonishment to take her coat. “Who needs a coat?” she asked out loud, opening the front door. “It’s June, for God’s sake.” A cold gust of wind slapped her testily across the face. “It’s freezing, for God’s sake,” she sputtered, returning to the hall closet and slipping her trench coat over her shoulders. “I guess Father Knows Best after all.”
Jane spent the morning looking through stores in Newton Center. She thought about calling Diane for lunch, but didn’t know how long her meeting with Pat Rutherford might take, so she decided to grab a quick sandwich alone before heading over to Arlington Private School. Why had Pat Rutherford scheduled a meeting at lunch hour? And why today? Hadn’t the school calendar listed Friday, June 22 as parent interview day?
She probably can’t get them all done in one day, Jane decided, pulling into the school parking lot and getting out of her car, checking the note in her pocket for the correct room. “Room thirty-one. Why can’t I remember that? Oh, hell, and I forgot to get milk and eggs. What’s the matter with me today?” She realized she was nervous. “What have I got to be nervous about?” she asked herself impatiently, returning the note to her pocket. “And why am I talking to myself? Somebody’s liable to see me and think I’m crazy.”
She entered the school by the side door and quickly proceeded up three flights of stairs, locating room 31 at the far end of the photograph-lined hall. The door was open, and she poked her head inside. The room was decorated w
ith children’s drawings and large colorful cutouts of the alphabet. Brightly patterned paper mobiles hung at suitable intervals from the ceiling, and a hamster ran endless silent circles on the pinwheel in its cage by the window. All in all, it was a warm, friendly room that no doubt reflected the personality of its teacher. It was also empty. Jane checked her watch: 12:25.
She was always early. From the time she was very little, her mother had drilled into her the importance of being on time. To be late was to show disrespect for those waiting, her mother had said, though the woman was often late herself.
Jane located one of Emily’s paintings on the busy wall—a field of flowers being watched over by a happy sun. If her mother had only learned to take her own advice. Then maybe she wouldn’t have had to rush to go shopping before her return to Hartford. Maybe if she hadn’t left it till the last minute, if she’d been driving just a bit slower, if she hadn’t been running so far behind schedule ….
“Hello, Mrs. Whittaker.” Pat Rutherford’s voice was delicate, thin, like the woman herself. “Have you been waiting long?” She sounded nervous.
“Just got here.”
“Good.” Pat Rutherford smoothed her long blond hair behind one ear with her fingers. A large silver loop earring popped into view. “Thank you for agreeing to see me today. I hope it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience.”
“No, not at all. Is everything okay with Emily’s school-work?”
Jane was expecting a few quick words of reassurance, and was startled when the young woman hesitated.
“Is something wrong?”
“No,” Pat Rutherford said unconvincingly, then, “Well, I’m not sure. It’s what I wanted to talk to you about, why I asked you to come in today and not with the other parents on Friday.”
“What is it?”
“Please sit down.”
Jane tried to position herself comfortably in one of the small desk sets in front of Pat Rutherford’s desk. Pat Rutherford did not sit down. She paced, occasionally leaning against her desk, her dark eyes unsure where to settle. “You’re making me a little nervous,” Jane confessed, wondering what the woman could possibly have to tell her.