by Lisa Aurello
It’s scary too. Like when Mel mentioned last week that I’m basically alone in the world. Only child, parents far away. Not many friends. I wasn’t popular as a kid—I totally remember that. The gods of teen misery spent a lot of time messing with me.
I piled on the pounds in middle school, gaining over twenty pounds in seventh grade. I wasn’t morbidly obese, just always a little too plump.
Luckily, I did have good skin and hair but I wasn’t creative when it came to fashion so I fell back on drab and nondescript—anything that would avoid attracting attention to me. Becoming a spectacle was the thing that most petrified me in school, so I kept my head down and my nose in my books. Consequently, I earned good grades, another thing that screamed “I am an outcast!” to the top echelon of school culture. Eventually, though, I just became part of the classroom fixtures, like desks or blackboards or beakers in the chem lab. Just walk on by.
All of this past information is nice to have, but it still doesn’t answer the question of who I really am. Now. The light-brown-haired, hazel-eyed woman in the mirror is a virtual stranger. I could be anyone.
The task I set myself for this week was to go through my closet. I started on Tuesday when Mel went to work—slowly and carefully. I’ve been in pretty much constant pain. Dr. Lavelle told me to go easy on the oxycodone, but I’ve been swallowing two pills every six hours because ibuprofen is not enough. But I wanted to go through my closet for two reasons: first, because I wanted to organize it. I realized it makes me uncomfortable when things are in serious disarray.
The second reason is because I thought unpacking clothes might help to unpack some lost memories, since seeing the articles of clothing might provide the jolt I need and help me get back some of the time that I’ve lost. Memories attach to things: clothes, songs, and maybe most of all, smells. If I can recover more memory by using those triggers, it can only help.
Unpacking, I discovered, was not doable just yet, but I was able to check out some of the clothes I have. They’re all different sizes, which is weird, but I’m not healed enough yet to try them all on. Apparently, I’ve lost a lot of weight since the car accident.
I do know what I want in the short term. I want to be beautiful, thin, rich, and happy. That’s all.
I guess I want to be a good person too. No one strives to be a bad person… right? That would be a sad ambition for anyone to have.
But maybe I’m not good. Maybe life has been shitting on me long enough to turn me into a bitter, resentful bitch. Who knows?
I don’t.
Here are the things that I know for certain:
My name is Jane Jensen, and I just bought my own home in Riverdale, New York. It’s a semi-attached English mews-style house, circa 1927. I work at MT Systems in Midtown Manhattan, where I am the IT specialist, and MT pays me generously for the work I do.
My parents live in Sedona, Arizona, and I’m pretty sure we’re all pretty happy about the many miles between us. I was always a disappointment to them: I wasn’t a beauty like my mother or an athlete like my father.
To my mother’s everlasting disappointment, I had zero interest in clothes or makeup or anything remotely girly when I was a kid.
I could still hear her voice: “You know, Jane, I was fussy about what I was wearing even before I could string a sentence together.”
As if that was supposed to impress the ten-year-old me who gave less than a shit about what I was wearing as long as it didn’t smell bad and didn’t look stupid.
I’d roll my eyes and snap at her. “Just how old were you when you could string a sentence together, Mom? Fifteen?” If my mother was contemptuous of my lack of femininity, I was equally so about her dearth of intellectual vigor.
I was an equal opportunity disappointer—I also remember seeing disappointment darken my father’s eyes when he’d come to watch me play soccer or basketball, and I’d just totally suck at it. The teams would fight over who had to take me, nobody wanting the liability of Jane Jensen who was shit at all sports. Those early days of primary school sports were the beginning of my childhood humiliations. I wish I would forget those, but of course they are the ones I easily remember in vivid and vibrant detail. Naturally.
My father is nuts too. One night at dinner I listened to him tell his younger sister’s fiancé, “There are two things you should know about this family. First, we’re all screamers. Second, we always follow the path of least resistance. It may not be the most successful way to live a life but it’s how we roll… and now you’re going to be one of us.”
He’d said it so matter-of-factly and with such smug satisfaction that I busted out laughing right at the table. Everyone ignored me—par for the course. The poor guy just stared at my father as if he were insane and nodded feebly. My Aunt Kara smiled lamely, but it was obvious she wanted to slide right under the table. I thought the whole thing was massively hilarious.
He was actually telling the truth, though: the Jensens were a family of screamers, but unfortunately for me I was born without the ability. I’m soft-spoken, and loud voices make me leap out of my skin. I did, however, possess the tendency to follow the path of least resistance, and that’s just a fancy way of saying loser. Everyone knows that in order to succeed in life a person has to be a risk taker—the bigger the risk, the greater the reward.
Oh, right. Just in case I wasn’t lonely enough because of my apparent lack of a personality, I’m an only child. I have the one good friend who also works at MT; her name is Melanie B. but everyone calls her Mel. Not Mel B. Thank God, I have Mel and that I somehow remember her. She’s the only one in my adult life that I do remember. I know there are others but they’re vague and lurking like shadows in the cobwebby gaps of my brain. When I try too hard to remember, I earn myself a blinding headache.
So anyway… three weeks ago the accident happened while I was driving back from upstate. No idea why I was there. My car was totaled. The other vehicle was pulverized and the driver, a 49-year-old man, was killed instantly. I sustained a traumatic brain injury and have recovered only about sixty-five percent of my long-term memory. My short-term memory picked up almost four days afterward when I woke up. The time in between is gone, likely forever. It feels weird.
I feel immensely awful that the man died. No one will tell me anything about him; they say it’s not good for my recovery to dwell in guilt. I gathered up the courage to look up the accident: the article stated he died from multiple traumatic injuries. That could mean pretty much anything. I hope it was quick for him, I really do. The police say the accident was not my fault… that another car cut me off badly. The person who reported the accident was also an eyewitness to the collision, I believe. I guess I was lucky to have that man—or maybe woman—there. Really lucky.
Dr. Lavelle told me that writing my thoughts down will aid in my recovery—so earlier today I went to a stationery store and stood on a line that never seemed to move in order to buy this overpriced little brown leather-bound book with blank pages that—hopefully—I’m going to fill. My ribs were killing me for the effort and when I came home I swallowed two more oxys.
I started by studying myself in the mirror as I chewed my cheek in earnest. Reaching for the pen and paper, I begin describing myself:
Twenty-five. Five feet eight. Straight light brown hair. Hazel eyes. Balanced features. Straight, even teeth—I wore braces for five years. Weight is now 138. Mel tells me I’ve lost at least thirty pounds—maybe even more. I was a porker, I guess.
Just like in high school. And middle school.
The accident helped me to lose weight. Maybe it was worth all the pain… but not the man’s death. Nothing would be worth that.
My parents never came to visit me. They called twice but I was in a coma the first time and asleep the next. My mother was going to come to New York when she first learned about the accident, but when she realized Mel was here with me, she opted to skip it. A candidate for Mother of the Year she is not. My parents never want to leave the
Southwest anymore.
Not even to visit their only child.
Who almost died in a car crash.
Whatever.
******
Jane bolted upright in bed, her heart slamming against her ribcage. The glowing green numbers on the clock said 3:18 a.m. Reaching for the glass of water she kept on her nightstand, she gulped down half of it. God.
Weird, almost menacing, flashbacks came flying at her like tornado debris. Jane wasn’t sure if it was dream or memory. Probably memory. The recall was almost violent. She was sleeping, and it just came at her like an out-of-control film reel, confusing images bombarding her brain, one after the other, and now she was sitting in the dark, trying to untangle them into sense. There was this blond girl, around fifteen. Kind of scary looking—she had a leering face and big teeth—horse teeth… and she was sneering. Malevolent even. Jane didn’t know who she was, but her face looked vaguely familiar. And Jane knew she hated this girl but didn’t know why.
There was an ambulance and a police car maybe—lights were flashing. Her car accident?
Right on top of that, she got an image of sitting at a table, across from someone, writing. Homework with a friend maybe? And then having a shouting match with her parents. The raised voices sounded like they were underwater—Jane couldn’t make out the actual words, just the strident tones. She started hoping the memories—if they were actual memories—were from her sophomore year of high school because that would mean that her memories were starting to come back chronologically.
It remained to be seen.
Today was Saturday, and Mel was planning a shopping day to buy Jane clothes that fit. She’d spent the night and they were making coffee in Jane’s sunny kitchen.
“I had a kind of erotic dream last night.”
Mel’s eyes flew wide open. “Really? Tell me about it.”
“There was a man—”
“There usually is in a wet dream, Jane,” Mel interrupted. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
“I couldn’t see his face… but he had a beautiful body, just, like, shredded, you know?”
“No, I don’t know. Describe it in minute detail.”
Jane laughed. “It was actually more sad than sexy. The dream. I felt l-like… I loved him… and when I woke up, I was depressed.”
“Maybe someone you know?”
“Maybe. But… if I’d been dating someone, wouldn’t I have at least mentioned it to you?”
“Not necessarily. You’re one of those close-mouthed types who drive girls like me crazy.”
Giving a small laugh, Jane quickly changed the subject. “I wonder if I’ve ever worn a bikini?”
Mel stood there tapping her foot while waiting for the coffee to brew. “I don’t know, but you could if you want to. You’ve got the bod.”
Jane smiled. It felt totally weird to hear someone say that to her. Last year this time, she must have been pretty heavy because most of her wardrobe consisted of brown baggy clothes, size 14, a few were even 16—baggy to cover the extra weight, she was assuming, the brown so as not to attract attention.
This morning she weighed 136 and could fit into a size-6 pair of jeans that Mel bought her. She did a little happy dance, and the thought occurred to her that maybe she should take some kind of dancing lessons. It felt strange to look in the mirror and actually like what she saw. There was now visible proof that her hipbones did in fact exist.
Do beautiful people enjoy looking in the mirror, or do they see flaws that others don’t readily notice? Jane wasn’t sure, but lately she’d taken to stealing glimpses in the mirror quite a lot. She liked to look at her new self though she still felt a sense of dread when approaching a mirror. Whether it was totally because she used to be fat and unattractive or it was residual fear from the accident and how it scarred her, she wasn’t certain. That first time looking in a mirror in the hospital was pretty terrifying. Even without memory, she could recognize that looking at the mirror now and not hating herself was a novel experience for her.
Her hair had grown just past her chin now. Mel told her that she always wore it very short but reminded her that her hair grew very fast. It was bizarre when someone else knew more about her than she did.
Yesterday evening she went with Mel to her salon in the city to have her hair styled. As soon as Annabelle got Jane in the chair, she told her she was not cutting any length.
Jane had eyed the stylist skeptically. The woman was extreme Goth, and she was going to take style advice from her? She glanced at Mel, and her friend vigorously nodded her agreement. Two against one.
“The longer length softens the angles of your face. You’re lucky to have high cheekbones and a pronounced jaw but we want to soften them just a tad. I want you to grow it much longer, and then I’ll cut in some long layers. For now, I’ll just trim it and add some soft bangs.”
Mel was standing there, arms crossed and grinning in agreement. Her hairstylist, Gregory, was flitting about, exclaiming over her marvelous cut—even though he himself did it. When Annabelle was finished with Jane’s hair, he started gushing over what a great job the stylist did on it.
“Honey,” he said, bending down to examine Jane’s face from various angles, turning it to the left and right, “I might have to do your makeup next time you come in for a cut. You have the most expressive eyes.”
She smiled, enjoying the attention and wondering if this was how pretty girls felt all the time? She missed out on this kind of girl fun growing up.
“Doesn’t she look beautiful?” Mel asked him.
“Yeah, especially with the gigantic white bandage stretching across my nose,” Jane added dryly. “The latest in accessories.”
Mel shook her head. “Jane, it’s completely unnoticeable. Cross my heart. It’s just that you know that it’s there…”
Jane stuck out her tongue at her. “You’re just a laugh-riot.”
Thank God for Mel for keeping her company and also keeping her laughing. Jane didn’t know what she’d do without her. She did have things in her life to be grateful for… starting with Mel.
And… next week she would finally get the bandage off and would be able to see her brand-new nose, courtesy of Dr. Philip Crenshaw, plastic surgeon extraordinaire.
Crenshaw was found and paid for by the Stephen Renault, the CEO of her company. It was really nice to be appreciated… even if it’s just because she saved and made the corporation shit-tons of money. Every day she wondered what her new nose would look like. Her old one was all right but it had a slight bump just under the bridge—easily seen in all her old photos. Dr. Crenshaw was grinning when he took off the larger bandage and peeked underneath, promising Jane that she would love the results of his work. He said she’d look like Michelle Pfeiffer. Jane didn’t know who that was, but she figured that the surgeon thought she was beautiful.
Her life had taken a very strange turn.
The other day she remembered that she loved animals when she stopped to say hello to an adorable little dog. She remembered that she wanted one desperately when she was young. Desperately. Or even a cat. She’d have settled for a freaking hamster. Her parents would never let her have a pet. No siblings. No pets. Just a lonely little girl who disappointed everyone.
Maybe she’d get one now—her own dog or cat in her own house.
She mentioned to Mel that if she loved animals, then she must be a good person. Mel reminded her that Hitler loved his German shepherds.
“That’s not helpful,” she’d retorted.
Mel had been staying with her. She brought her work clothes and came back every night. She went home on weekends usually. Jane loved having her around. If she’d had a friend like Mel as a kid, her life would have been different. Way better.
She didn’t though. Jane’s friends were fellow misfits and would have made for memorable literary characters.
Here was the epiphany for today: despite everything that was going on she realized that she was sort of happy. Happy and app
reciative of nice people in the world, especially all of those who’d helped her put her life back together. Someday she’d pay it forward. The only thing that would make her life even better would be to find someone to share it with. A man. Jane was lonely and felt like something important was missing.
Getting her memories back would help her peace of mind, though. She wanted to go back to the life she had before the accident. She wanted to pick up that life where it had left off on the dark highway that night. She felt as if she lost a big piece of herself, leaving it like detritus—accident debris—in the darkness where no one could see it.
Chapter 12
Cate Caldwell was running late. She’d stayed at the office much longer than she’d planned and now she was hauling ass to get to the dry cleaner before it closed. Mason needed his navy suit for tomorrow night’s ballet and neither of them would have time to get it tomorrow. Cate would’ve been home hours ago—but for the late-afternoon shit-show at the office.
Cate had never planned on straying from her marriage but these things sometimes happened organically. The thing was… for Cate, it was just another fun fling—one that was turning out to be anything but. If she’d known what a whiny bitch Jared was going to become, she’d never have gotten anywhere near him. Cate had no intention whatsoever of leaving Mason, so Jared had to get over himself and soon. It was just a one-and-done kind of thing. A one-night stand that overstayed its welcome. That was it as far as Cate was concerned, but Jared was proving clingy.