by Joy Fielding
Jane had to bite her tongue to keep from crying out as she caught a fleeting glimpse of the little girl she hadn’t seen in almost two months. Emily wore fluorescent-pink shorts and a multicolored T-shirt, her hair brushed back into a high ponytail from which hung a multitude of brightly colored ribbons. Her toes protruded over the ends of last summer’s white sandals. My baby, Jane thought, my beautiful little girl. How was she going to rescue her? How was she going to rescue them both?
“For heaven’s sake, would you look at the way that silly checkout boy packed this bag,” Doris Whittaker was complaining as she made her way through the cottage, her husband following right behind. “He put the fruit at the bottom, so that all the peaches will be crushed. A fine how-do-you-do. Weren’t you watching him?”
“That’s your job,” retorted her husband, lowering his heavy bag to the table with a grunt, and heading for the rear of the cottage. “Somebody left a drawer open,” he said in passing, absently pushing it shut as he went by.
“Well, we better get this unpacked and see what the damage is. We may have to turn around and drive back.”
“Can I go swimming now, Grandma?”
“Not yet. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Not really.”
“Well, I’m starving, so we better eat. How about a baloney sandwich?”
“Okay. And an ice cream?”
“Only if you eat all your sandwich.”
What should I do? Jane wondered, debating whether she should simply stand up, scissors in hand, and announce her presence, or wait until Emily was alone in the room and then spirit her off. She heard the sounds of unpacking, of cupboards being opened and closed, of groceries being put away. She remembered similar outings when she’d been part of the action, not a silent witness to it. Was there anything more peaceful than a hot summer’s day at the cottage, where even the act of putting away groceries was a testament to serenity?
“What happened to the phone?” Emily asked, her little girl’s voice breaking the spell, catapulting Jane back into reality.
“Not now, Emily. I want to finish getting these groceries unpacked.”
“But look what happened to it.” Jane pictured Emily holding up the severed wire.
“What are you talking about?” A pause, followed by footsteps. “My God, what did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” the child protested.
“It looks like it’s been cut,” Doris Whittaker pronounced, her voice growing wary. Were her eyes even now scanning the room? Were they focused on the tall wing chair in the upper left corner of the room? Could she see Jane hiding behind it? Did she know? “Bert, come in here.”
“I’m in the bathroom,” came the muffled reply.
“Well, hurry up. There’s something funny going on.”
Jane heard the toilet flush.
“For God’s sake, Doris, can’t a man go to the john around here?” Bert Whittaker demanded, the word “john” sounding foreign on his lips. “What’s so damn urgent that it can’t wait a few minutes?”
“Someone’s cut the phone wires.”
“I didn’t do it,” Emily protested.
“That’s strange,” the senior Dr. Whittaker mused. “Has anything else been touched?”
Jane heard them moving about, heading toward the rear of the cottage, taking Emily with them.
“I don’t like the feel of this,” Doris Whittaker proclaimed.
“Everything else appears to be in order.”
“My God, Bert, look at this! What happened in here?”
Jane understood that she had discovered the broken screen by their bedroom window. She knew that she had little time left.
“It appears that someone broke in,” Bert Whittaker exclaimed.
Jane heard the sound of distant drawers being opened and closed.
“But they didn’t take anything. The television, the radio—they’re still here. Our clothes. Even the money in the piggy bank,” Doris Whittaker said, returning to the kitchen and checking on the contents of the large glass jar. “Why would anyone break in just to cut the phone wires?”
“My stuff’s still here,” Emily called out, running back into the kitchen.
“It’s probably some kids playing a prank,” Bert Whittaker offered weakly.
“Some prank! This is breaking and entering.”
“Doris, calm down, you’re scaring the child.”
“I’m not scared, Grandpa.”
“No? Well, good for you. You’re a smart little girl.”
“Did you say someone had left a drawer open in here?” Doris Whittaker suddenly demanded of her husband.
“Yes, I did.” A short pause. The sound of a drawer opening. “This one.”
“My God, my scissors are gone.”
“Well, they probably used them to cut the phone wires. We should go to the police.”
“Bert—”
“What?”
“What if it isn’t a burglar or some kids?”
“What do you mean?”
Another pause. “Emily, why don’t you pack a few things into an overnight bag, and we’ll go to the Vineyard for a couple of days.”
“But Molly said she might come over to play this afternoon.”
“You’ll play with Molly another day. Please don’t argue. Do what I say. That’s a girl.”
“Really, Doris, don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“I don’t think we’ve been visited by any burglar,” Doris Whittaker stated, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I think it’s Jane.”
“Jane?”
“Ssh! Keep your voice down. Do you want Emily to hear you?”
“What makes you think it’s … her?”
“Think about it for a minute. It’s the only logical explanation. Why would someone break into the cottage and not take anything? Why would they cut the phone wires unless they were afraid that someone might reach us, warn us she was coming? Think about it, Bert. It has to be Jane. She came to get Emily.”
“If she was here, then she found the place empty and left.”
“She wouldn’t leave,” Doris Whittaker pronounced. “If it’s her, she’s still around here somewhere. We have to get out before she comes back. Emily! Emily!”
“I’m packing, Grandma.”
“Forget it. We have to leave right away.”
“I need my bunny.”
“Not now.”
“But I want him.”
“We’ll buy you another one.”
“I don’t want another bunny.”
Jane recognized the threat of tears in Emily’s voice. Don’t cry, baby, she wanted to call out. Don’t cry.
“I want Hopalong.”
“We’ll buy you a dozen bunnies later. Now, let’s get moving.”
“This is crazy,” Bert Whittaker was saying as they started across the room. “Why don’t we just go to the police?”
“First we’ll call Michael, find out what’s going on. If I’m wrong, there’s no harm done.”
“I don’t want to go to Martha’s Vineyard,” Emily cried. “I want to go home. I want to see my mommy!”
Jane suddenly pushed herself up to her full height and stepped out from behind the orange-and-brown-striped chair, blocking the path to the door, the scissors hidden behind her back. “I’m right here, angel.”
“Mommy!”
Doris Whittaker gasped and her husband looked faint, but Jane barely paid them any heed as Emily wriggled out of her grandmother’s grasp to fly into her mother’s arms. Jane scooped her daughter up with her left arm and smothered the child’s face with kisses.
“Oh, my beautiful baby. My sweet angel. My big, beautiful girl.”
Emily wrapped her arms tightly around her mother’s neck, squeezing so hard that she almost knocked Jane off balance. “Where were you, Mommy? Where were you?”
“I’ll explain everything later, sweetie. I promise.”
Emily pulled back her head to stare into her mother�
��s eyes. “I love you, Mommy.”
“I love you too, baby.” Jane’s arm could no longer support her daughter’s weight, and she was forced to lower the child to the floor.
“Come here, Emily,” Doris Whittaker commanded, moving immediately toward the little girl and grabbing for her arm.
“Don’t touch her,” Jane screamed, her right hand shooting out from behind her back to reveal the knifelike scissors in her clenched fist. “Don’t touch her or I’ll kill you. I swear it.”
“Mommy!”
“You’re crazy!” Doris Whittaker shouted. “Look what you’re doing to her. You’re scaring her half to death!”
“I’m sorry, sweetie. It’s the last thing in the world I want to do.”
“Put down the scissors, Jane,” Bert Whittaker said softly.
“Sorry, Bert. I can’t do that.”
“Just what is it that you want?”
“I want to take my daughter and get out of here.”
“You know that we won’t let you leave here,” Doris Whittaker stated, her chest puffing with a false bravado her voice betrayed.
“This isn’t your fight, Doris,” Jane told her evenly. “Don’t get involved.”
“Emily belongs here with us.”
“She belongs with her mother.”
“So you can fill her head with lies? So you can make up more disgusting, awful stories about her father? Make her believe your sick fantasies?”
Jane looked toward her daughter, saw that her eyes were filled with confusion and fear. “Emily, please trust me, honey. You know I’d never do anything to hurt you, don’t you?”
The child nodded without hesitation.
“Don’t listen to her, Emmy,” Bert Whittaker cautioned. “Your mother’s been sick. She’s not the way you remember her.”
“I’d like you to wait for me in the Chrysler that’s parked in the driveway a few cottages down,” Jane continued, ignoring Bert’s interruption.
“The kind of purply one in the Stuarts’ driveway? Grandma wondered whose car that was.”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“When are you coming?”
“In two minutes.”
Emily’s eyes traveled warily between her mother and her grandparents. “I’m afraid.”
“Don’t be afraid, sweetie. I promise I’ll only be a few minutes.”
Emily hesitated, and Jane understood that she was remembering the last time her mother had promised to join her soon. “Okay,” Emily announced finally, running to the door, then coming to an abrupt halt at the sound of her grandmother’s voice.
“Your daddy wants you to stay here with us,” Doris Whittaker told her forcefully. “You don’t want to hurt your daddy’s feelings, do you, dear?”
Emily said nothing, silently reaching for the doorknob.
“Aren’t you at least going to give your old grandma and grandpa a kiss and a hug good-bye?”
Emily looked toward her mother.
“I don’t think that would be a good idea. At least not now,” Jane told them, wondering what she would actually do if it came down to a physical altercation.
“Are you going to start filling her head with lies about us too?” Doris demanded, her husband retreating into the silence with which he had always been more comfortable.
“Go on, sweetie,” Jane told her daughter. “I’ll be right out.”
“I’ll throw you a kiss,” Emily compromised, raising her hands to her mouth and making a loud, smacking sound with her lips. Her grandfather automatically raised his hand to catch the airborne kiss. “Bye-bye.” Smiling shyly at her mother, pointedly ignoring the raised weapon in her hand, Emily opened the cottage door and ran outside.
Doris Whittaker threw her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “You won’t get very far. We’ll get to a phone, call the police. Unless you’re planning to tie us up before you leave,” she added, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Jane lowered the scissors to her side, though she kept it pointed at her in-laws. “I think I know what Michael has told you,” she began, “and I want you to know that …”
“We’re not interested in your lies,” Doris Whittaker shouted, blocking her ears with the palms of her hands. “How dare you make up such awful stories! How dare you defile our son’s good name! Only a crazy person would do such a horrible thing.”
“It’s your son who’s been lying to you.”
“I won’t listen to such garbage.”
“Did you talk to Emily? Did you ask her?”
Doris Whittaker ignored the question, if she heard it at all. “Don’t think you’re getting away with this. We’ll stop you. You’re crazy. If there was ever any doubt, this little stunt proves it. My son will keep his reputation and his daughter. The next time we see you will be in a court of law.”
Jane Whittaker walked to the cottage door and opened it. “I look forward to it,” she said.
THIRTY-ONE
“DO you have any jacks?”
“Any jacks?” Jane looked over the cards in her hand, then back across the kitchen table at Emily. “No. No jacks. Pick a card.”
“You’re supposed to say ‘Go fish.’”
“Sorry. I keep forgetting. Go fish.”
A look of dismay settled on Emily’s delicate features.
“What’s the matter, sweetheart?”
“Are you starting to forget things again?” the child asked.
Jane gasped, immediately lowering her cards to the table and reaching across to take Emily’s hands in her own. “Oh, no, sweetie. I’m fine now. I promise.”
“For sure?”
“For sure. Absolutely. Cross my heart.”
“Sometimes I forget things too,” Emily said, as if to reassure both her mother and herself.
“Everybody forgets things from time to time,” Sarah Tanenbaum announced, walking into the room, wearing a rose-colored bathrobe, her uncombed hair secured away from her face by two tortoiseshell combs. “But your mom is all better now. You don’t have to worry about her. Now, who’s ready for breakfast?”
Emily laughed.
“I think you mean lunch,” Jane told her friend, in whose kitchen they were sitting.
Sarah groaned. “Why didn’t somebody wake me up?”
“We decided you needed your sleep. It’s not easy having full-time boarders.”
“Are you kidding? I love it.” Sarah poured herself a glass of orange juice and drank it down in one smooth gulp. “I’m hoping you never leave.”
“There’s coffee in the pot, and you’re very sweet, both you and Peter. I can’t thank you enough.”
“We’re thrilled to have you. We’ve never had a little girl stay with us before.” Sarah brought her mugful of coffee to the table and sat down, directing her comments at Emily. “My boys are all grown up now. Or at least they think they are.”
“We’ll be out of your hair before they get home from camp,” Jane assured her.
“You’ll stay until everything is settled. End of discussion.” Sarah took several long sips of her coffee, and fidgeted with one of the combs in her hair. “So, what’s on tap for today?”
“Diane’s taking Emily to a movie.”
“And to McDonald’s,” Emily added with enthusiasm.
Jane jumped slightly at the mention of the name, recalling her brief incarnation as Cindy McDonald. “Sally Beddoes is coming over in about an hour, and Daniel said he might drop by,” she said, trying to steady her nerves, knowing her future depended on how in control she was perceived to be.
Sarah hurriedly downed the last of her coffee. “Then I better get dressed. Can’t have a man seeing me in this condition.”
“What about Peter?” Emily asked. “He’s a man.”
“Peter’s my husband; he doesn’t count. Besides, he’s out playing golf. Can you imagine teeing off before eight A.M.?” She shook her head. “Men and their games.” She and Jane exchanged rueful glances before Sarah left the room.
Two weeks had passed since Jane had reclaimed both her daughter and her life. Sarah and Peter had graciously invited them to share their home, Michael refusing to leave the house on Forest Street. Jane doubted she could return there, in any event. Too many memories, she thought, and laughed out loud.
“What’s funny?” Emily asked.
Jane hesitated, picking her cards off the table. “What’s funny is that I do have a jack in my hand.” She handed the card to her daughter, who seemed oblivious of the fact that Jane had laughed before she picked up her cards. Emily immediately pulled three more jacks out of her own hand and arranged the four cards into a neat little pile, next to several such stacks.
Like neat little bundles of hundred-dollar bills, Jane thought, suppressing an involuntary shudder, growing impatient with her habit of relating everything to her recent past. Would a Big Mac be forever synonymous with her ordeal? Would she see stacks of money in the most innocent of children’s games? Would she ever be able to look at a picture of model Cindy Crawford again without breaking into a sweat?
“Do you have any sixes?” Emily was asking.
Jane carefully perused the cards in her hand. “Go fish,” she pronounced decisively, feeling a renewed sense of well-being.
She had been examined by a host of doctors since her memory returned. They were monitoring her closely while gradually weaning her off the drugs in her system, and she was seeing a therapist twice a week. She was well on her way to a total recovery, they pronounced. Thanks to Sarah’s gourmet cooking, she had even managed to put back a few of the pounds she had lost, and her skin was no longer the color of ashes. She had stopped drooling and her coordination was back to normal. Nor did she have to fight to stay awake, although it was true she tired easily and often went to bed at the same time as Emily. And she’d cut her hair into a more sophisticated style that stopped at her chin and was better suited to her face than the longer hair Michael had always preferred.
Her body tensed at the thought of her husband’s preferences. How had she failed to notice that he had always liked her best, been his most loving, when she was at her most girlish, her most needy? Those awful adolescent-style clothes he had bought for her, the desire to see her in soft pastels over bright colors and sophisticated blacks, that awful white travesty of a nightgown he had told her was sexier than any of the garter belts and stockings she had purchased on her own.