by Katrina Leno
Fifteen minutes passed. A half hour. And then the front door to the police station opened and a few cops walked in. Jane saw her mother sit up a little straighter. One of the cops, a man about Ruth’s age, started for the front desk, but saw the two of them and walked over.
“Ruthellen North. I almost didn’t believe it,” he said. Ruth stood up and shook his offered hand.
“Freddie,” she said. Then: “I’m sorry. Officer Elton.”
He waved his hand: Don’t bother with the formalities. “We checked it out. Every inch of that place. Nothing out of the ordinary at all. Can you tell me what happened?”
They sat down again, and Officer Elton swung one of the metal chairs around so it was facing them.
“I was out getting Chinese food,” Ruth said. “My daughter was home. Freddie, this is Jane.”
Freddie turned to Jane and stuck out his hand. They shook, then he hesitated, his eyes studying her face in a way that made her vaguely uncomfortable. He took his hand back and exhaled.
“Wow. You look exactly like her.”
“Like who?” Jane asked.
“Like me,” Ruth said pointedly. “When I was your age.”
“I do?”
Jane had only seen a few photographs of Ruth as a teenager, but her mother had always had short hair and a different nose, straighter and narrower. Jane didn’t think they looked that similar at all.
“People have said it,” Ruth said. “Freddie, maybe we could talk privately? I don’t want to upset my daughter further. It’s been a stressful night.”
“But I have to tell him what happened,” Jane said.
“I’ll tell him, Jane,” Ruth replied. “That’s okay, Freddie?”
But she said it in a way that gave Freddie no other choice. He nodded and stood up, and they left Jane alone, feeling uncomfortable, feeling a bit like she was left out of a joke everyone else was a part of.
She pulled her phone out of her pocket. It was just after eight. She had a text from Sal.
Ok? weirdo
Jane narrowed her eyes at the text. It had popped up on her home screen, so she couldn’t see what had come before it. Had she texted Sal after they’d gotten off the phone? What was Sal replying to?
She opened her messages and read the one before it, what she’d sent to Sal:
Everything is so good. Everything is perfect. I love it here.
And the one Sal had sent before that:
Sorry I had to get off the phone so quickly. Going out to dinner with fam. Ily
Jane’s hands were shaking just a little. She couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or from her nerves. Probably both.
She hadn’t sent that message. Had she sent that message?
She looked at the time stamp. Just ten minutes or so after they’d hung up from FaceTime. Jane would have been in the shower.
I love it here.
She hadn’t sent that message. She wouldn’t have sent that message.
But she was so tired. She had probably sent it off without even thinking about it, meaning to be funny, lighthearted. She couldn’t worry about it; she couldn’t worry about anything, because her head was pounding and there wasn’t room in her brain for anything other than the headache that was slowly blossoming behind her eyes. She brought her knees up to her chest and rested her forehead on them, closing her eyes to block out the harsh fluorescent lights of the police station.
She kept seeing the shadow pass in front of the storage-room door. But with every repetition of the vision, it got vaguer and vaguer, until she hadn’t actually seen anything, until she’d made the whole thing up.
It felt like a long time before Officer Elton and Ruth came back.
Ruth looked tired. She stopped in front of Jane and put a hand on her cheek. “Come on, honey. Officer Elton is going to follow us home and make sure we’re all settled in.”
Officer Elton followed them outside and got into his cruiser as Jane folded herself into the passenger seat of their car. Ruth started the ignition and backed out of the parking spot. She waited a minute or two, then cleared her throat.
“Honey—”
“Do you think I made it up?” Jane asked, but what she meant was probably closer to “Did I make it up?” because she honestly had no idea, and having no idea felt even scarier to her than if someone had been in the house. She just wanted to know, one way or the other, and not knowing made her feel weird and untethered and scared.
Ruth took a deep breath. “I don’t know. Of course I don’t think you made it up, honey, but I do believe Freddie, and he says they searched every inch of that place. No windows open, no doors unlocked, nothing taken or out of place.” Ruth paused. “I don’t know, Jane. I don’t think you made anything up; of course I don’t. But sometimes our minds play tricks on us. Especially at night, especially when we’re alone. And, Janie… it’s been a very hard couple of months. I believe without a doubt that you heard and saw something. I just don’t think I believe that what you heard and saw was actually real.”
“So I’m seeing things.”
“I think that’s oversimplifying it,” Ruth said. “I think you’ve had a tremendous loss. And grief manifests itself in unpredictable ways.”
“Okay,” Jane said, because she didn’t know what else to say. Because there wasn’t anything else to say.
They got to the driveway, and Jane glanced behind her to see the cruiser pull in after them.
The cops had left the entranceway chandelier on, but other than that, the windows of the house were dark.
“Why did you want to talk to the officer in private?” Jane asked suddenly, not knowing where the question had come from.
I don’t want to upset my daughter further.
Ruth looked over at Jane. She looked tired, sad. She sighed and rubbed at her eyes.
“I don’t know, Janie. I don’t know what to do anymore. Every time I make up my mind one way or the other, I always end up doubting myself.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Ruth laughed softly. “I’m just trying to figure it all out. This new life. This loss. Greer… I know I’m the mom here, and I’m trying to keep everything together, to be there for you, but… I’m worried that I’m failing. That I’m not doing a good enough job. I don’t know, honey. I don’t know how to do this.”
Of course, Jane thought, because she wasn’t the only one who’d lost someone. Greer had been her father, but he’d also been Ruth’s husband. They had both lost him in different ways.
Jane reached over and took her mom’s hand. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Oh, honey. I’m the one who’s sorry,” Ruth replied, squeezing Jane’s fingers. She smiled—weakly—then opened her door and met Officer Elton in front of the car. Jane waited a minute and joined them.
“How are you holding up?” Officer Elton asked Jane.
“Fine,” Jane said, even though she felt about as far from fine as humanly possible.
Officer Elton clapped his hands together softly. “All right, then. Shall we?”
They went inside.
Officer Elton led the way, turning on lights as he went, talking loudly. Jane got the impression that he was trying to fill up the house with light and noise in an effort to make them feel comfortable. He made a show of opening doors and cabinets and even the silverware drawer. Jane saw the missing knives from the block on the counter and realized they’d left them in the back seat of the car.
Officer Elton pushed on, from kitchen to living room to sitting room to piano room to Chester’s study to the mudroom, then finally back to the foyer of the house, where the chandelier was blazing brightly above them. Jane looked up at it. She wondered how much it was worth. A plane ticket to Los Angeles, at least.
“Let’s head to the second floor,” Officer Elton said, pointing his chin up the stairs.
“I’m sure Jane is starving,” Ruth said. “Honey, why don’t you go warm us up some of that Chinese food. Freddie, can we make you a plate
?”
“No thanks, Ruth, I’m okay.”
“I’ll come upstairs with you,” Ruth said.
Jane watched them walk up the staircase, then shrugged to nobody in particular and went back to the kitchen. Every light in the house was on. She turned off a few as she went.
She got the Chinese food out of the fridge and made two plates. She didn’t feel hungry at all, just tired and a little scared. She kept getting the sudden desire to look over her shoulder, to check behind closed doors. But she didn’t let herself. She put one plate into the microwave and ate it while the second one warmed up. The food seemed tasteless in her mouth—even the fried rice, her favorite. She choked it down like it was made out of cardboard.
Something was nagging at the back of her mind, something that couldn’t have possibly been true.…
Melanie had been to her house once before.
Melanie had thrown a rock through the window.
But vandalism was one thing.… Would Melanie really have broken into North Manor?
Jane put her face in her hands. She couldn’t tell what was real anymore; she couldn’t tell what was reasonable and what was impossible. Her brain felt overloaded, unsure of whom to trust, including herself. Had she sent that text message to Salinger? It must have been her—it was her phone.
But why couldn’t she remember sending it?
It was an unsettling feeling.… Was it possible someone else had used her phone? If it was Melanie, had she come into Jane’s bedroom to send those messages?
But why? Why would Melanie take Jane’s phone only to send a fairly benign text message to Sal? And what about the FaceTime calls?
No, something had to be wrong with her phone. She would look it up in the morning, find some glitch in the software.
She took another bite of her dinner and made herself chew and swallow.
She heard Freddie and her mom walking around upstairs, creaking floorboards announcing wherever they went. The noise was directly above the kitchen now, so Jane guessed they were in the storage room.
Ruth had seemed surprised when Jane told her the storage room wasn’t actually a storage room, but she had also hesitated, as though she’d been trying to choose her next words carefully.
The microwave dinged for the second plate of food just as Ruth and Freddie walked into the kitchen.
“We can’t thank you enough, Freddie,” Ruth said.
“Just doing my job,” he said, then turned toward Jane. “I was telling your mother: I’m going to have the night shift make a few rounds by the house tonight. Just to make sure everything’s quiet over here. Hope that’ll ease your mind a little.”
Jane forced a smile. “Thanks.”
“You ladies try and get some rest. I’ll call you tomorrow, Ruthellen.”
“Let me walk you to the door,” she replied.
She was gone only a minute. In the silence of the house, Jane heard the dead bolt slide shut with a resonant clank.
Ruth came back and got her plate of food and sat across from Jane.
“What a night,” she said quietly.
“We left the knives in the car,” Jane said.
“Very dramatic, in hindsight,” Ruth observed. “But the adrenaline kicked in.”
“Do you think you would have actually stabbed someone?”
“To protect you? I wouldn’t think twice.”
A moment, then: “I’m sorry,” Jane said.
“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
“But nothing happened. I made the whole thing up.”
“Let’s talk about it tomorrow. Let’s just get in bed and watch a movie until we fall asleep, okay? We can put the bureau in front of the door.”
“You want to do that?”
“If it would make you feel better,” Ruth said.
“I’m going to be so tired tomorrow.”
“Then stay home.”
“I can’t. I’m still catching up.”
“That’s where we’re different,” Ruth pointed out. “If Emilia ever gave me the option of staying home from school, I wouldn’t have given her a chance to change her mind. PJs all day. Wouldn’t have even brushed my teeth.”
“Did you not like school?”
“Hated it,” Ruth replied. “I was always getting into trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Jane asked, leaning her elbows on the table to get a little closer. Ruth rarely talked about herself as a young girl, and Jane didn’t want to miss a word.
“Oh, for silly things,” Ruth said. Her eyes were glazed, like she was a million miles away. “I could be kind of a punk back then.”
That word. Punk. Greer’s word. Jane could almost hear his voice now, echoing around them in the kitchen.
“What do you mean? What did you do?” Jane asked.
Ruth shook her head and blinked. She tapped the side of her plate with her fork. “This sure hits the spot, huh?”
Jane smiled sadly. She knew by her mother’s tone that Ruth was done reminiscing. They finished their food in silence, put the dishes in the sink, then walked around, turning off all the lights Officer Elton had turned on.
They met again at the bottom of the stairs.
“So what do you think?” Ruth asked. “Want to sleep with me tonight?”
“I’m okay,” Jane said. “I think I’ll just stay in my own bed.”
Ruth smiled—a tired smile. “You’ve always been that way, you know. Even as a kid. Never crawled in bed with us.”
They let the word us have a wide berth. They let it explode into fireworks above their heads. Jane missed her father more than she had ever missed him yet, a great, huge tsunami of missing him that made her physically sway where she stood.
Ruth misinterpreted. She saw the sway and put a hand on Jane’s elbow.
“You look exhausted, baby. Let’s go get some sleep.”
Once she was in her room, alone, Jane locked the door and paused for a moment before dragging her bookshelf in front of it. Then she took The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe and sat on the floor. Just one page. The familiar medicine of ink and paper dissolving in her stomach.
She started to cry.
She removed her phone from her pocket, opened up her messages, and found Greer’s listing. The last message he’d ever sent her. A stab of pain in her gut as she read that one word.
She clicked his name and hit Call, then held the phone to her ear, hands shaking as it went straight to voicemail.
“Hiya! Greer here. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can.”
She clicked End.
She didn’t know when Ruth would get around to canceling Greer’s cell phone. Maybe her mother kept it active for just this reason—so she could call and hear her husband’s voice whenever she wanted.
Jane held the phone tightly in her hands, shutting her eyes, feeling the tears drip hotly down her cheeks.
Would she ever feel safe again?
Would she ever feel safe, without her father?
She listened into the stillness of the house, knowing she wouldn’t sleep a wink that night, and thought, No.
She was predictably exhausted the next morning, moving through her routine sluggishly: shower, clothes, breakfast. Ruth was practically drowning herself in coffee when Jane reached the kitchen. There was a pot of oatmeal bubbling on the stove; she got herself a bowl and sprinkled brown sugar on top. It was something she had never had before moving to New England, oatmeal and brown sugar, but it had become a staple in their mornings now. She poured herself a cup of coffee and joined Ruth at the table. Ruth grunted a greeting.
“Ditto,” Jane said.
“How are we going to get through this week?” Ruth said, almost to herself, almost to Jane, then she pulled herself up a little straighter in her seat and saw the oatmeal. “Oh yeah. I forgot about that.”
Jane pushed the bowl over to her mother and got up to make herself another one.
“I made you lunch,” Ruth said.
�
��How long have you been up?”
“Since yesterday morning.”
“You didn’t sleep?” Jane asked, sitting back down.
“I gave it my best try. But nope. Instead I’ve been going through my dad’s old things, trying to clear out his study. Say what you want about my father, but that man was diligent in his record keeping. It’s really excellent stuff for someone who can’t sleep. I found a receipt from a root canal he had done twenty-five years ago.”
“I’m assuming you’re putting that in the ‘keep’ pile?”
“Oh, I’m keeping plenty. Dental records aren’t making the cut.” Ruth had a bite of oatmeal.
“You work today, right?”
“Just a few hours. I’m going to call it a half day. You?”
“Yup.”
“Are you working too much, Janie? How’s your schoolwork going? Not falling behind at all, right?”
“Not yet. Oh yeah—do you know Tim Barker? He said to say hi. How come everyone here calls you Ruthellen?”
“Tim Barker,” Ruth repeated. “Wow. I guess I underestimated how long I could fly under the radar here. Two weeks seems to be my limit.”
“Ruthellen?”
“Oh. God, I know. That was an Emilia thing. Ruthellen was a family name. A great-great-aunt or something. And Emilia could not abide nicknames. Practically clutched her pearls into dust when I told her I was naming you Jane.”
“She didn’t like my name?”
“Oh, honey. She had an opinion about everything. And her opinion about Jane was that it wasn’t a big enough name for a North. I said, ‘Well, she isn’t a North, Mama. She’s a North-Robinson.’” Ruth chuckled. “She didn’t like that answer very much.”
“Did she like Dad?”
Ruth sighed. “That’s a little complicated. I mean, everything is a little complicated with Emilia. But she didn’t like that I left Maine. She didn’t like that Greer lived in California. She didn’t like that I never visited. She always blamed him for that. Even though I told her, again and again, he had nothing to do with it. In the beginning, he was constantly suggesting we take a trip back east. He wanted to see where I grew up. But I kept saying no, and he finally stopped mentioning it.”