Janie Face to Face

by Caroline B. Cooney

  Everyone in the hall was smiling gently. In minutes, she knew Constance and Mikayla and Robin and Samantha. Nobody bothered with last names. I can skip my last names! thought Janie.

  “I’m actually Jane,” she said. “Only my mother calls me Janie.” She had never been called Jane. She felt new and different and safe, hiding under the new syllable along with the new hair. “Jane” sounded sturdier than “Janie.” More adult.

  Her actual roommate appeared so late that Janie had been thinking she might not even have a roommate. “Eve,” said the girl, who flung open the door around eleven o’clock that night. “Eve Eggs. I’ve heard every joke there is. Do not use my last name. You and I will be on a first-name basis only.”

  “I’m with you,” said Janie.

  Her new friends—girls who seemed so poised, and whose grades and SAT scores were so much higher than Janie’s—were nervous in the Big Apple. They thought Janie was the sophisticated one. Everybody she knew back home would think that was a riot.

  Rachel loved ballet and wanted Janie to help her find Lincoln Center.

  Constance wanted Janie to teach her how to use the subway.

  Mikayla had planned to study fashion, but her parents said fashion was shallow and stupid, so Mikayla ended up here, and wanted Janie to take her to fabulous New York stores and fashion districts that dictated what women would wear.

  Eve had a list of famous New York places, and wanted to see them with Janie.

  She did it all. She even managed to alternate weekend visits with the Springs in New Jersey and the Johnsons in Connecticut. Every Sunday morning, she’d catch an early train and go for brunch with one family or the other.

  When she met her academic advisor, the man did not seem to know her background. In fact, he kept glancing at his watch, resentful that thirty minutes of his precious time was being spent on her. She loved it. Maybe the sick celebrity of being a kidnap victim was over.

  When her sister, Jodie, came into the city for a weekend visit, Janie primed her. “They know nothing. They don’t even know my last name! I’m just a girl named Jane. It’s so great. Like having my own invisibility cloak.”

  Jodie was always prickly. “You enrolled here as a Johnson,” she snapped. “Which happens to be your kidnap name. If you really don’t want to be a kidnap victim, you would use your real name. You’d be Jennie Spring.”

  It’s true, thought Janie. I’m the one extending the situation. I shouldn’t have changed my name from Janie to Jane. I should have changed my name to Jennie Spring.

  And if she said that out loud, Jodie would point out that being Jennie Spring was not a name change. It was her name.

  When their weekend came to a close, Jodie said, “I have to admit that I thought being away from your Connecticut home would destroy you. But you’re doing fine. You’re Miss Personality here.”

  “I had plenty of personality before,” said Janie.

  “Yes, but it was annoying.”

  They giggled crazily, and suddenly Janie could hug Jodie the way she’d never been able to. “I was annoying,” she admitted. “I was worthless and rude.”

  “Totally,” said Jodie. “But now you’re fun and rational. Who could have predicted that?”

  Janie laughed. “I’m coming home for the summer,” she told her sister.

  “Home?” Jodie was incredulous. “You mean, my house? That home?”

  “If you want me.”

  “Oh, Janie, we’ve always wanted you. You never wanted us!”

  • • •

  The wonderful weeks of freshman year flew by.

  Eve began talking about Thanksgiving. Eve’s family had several hundred traditions, including who mashed the potatoes and who chopped the celery for the turkey stuffing. “I have the most wonderful new family here,” Eve said, “especially you, Jane, but I can hardly wait to get home to my real family.”

  Even Eve, with whom Janie shared every inch of space and many hours a day and night, did not know that Janie Johnson had both a real family and another family. Like everybody else in the dorm, Eve vaguely assumed there had been a divorce and remarriage.

  In contrast, Mikayla and Rachel acted as if they barely remembered home, family, and Thanksgiving. Janie could now see why parents might dread the departure for college: their beloved child could put away the last eighteen years like a sock in a drawer.

  For Janie, the last eighteen years was more like clothing she had never been able to take off, never mind forget.

  Janie telephoned her real mother. “Mom?” she said to Donna. It had taken her three years to use that word with Donna and just as much time to think of the Springs’ house as home. “May I come home for Thanksgiving?”

  “Yes!” cried her real mother. “Everybody’s going to be here. Stephen’s coming from Colorado and Jodie’s coming from Boston! Brian promised not to study on Thanksgiving Day and Brendan promised not to have a ball game.”

  The twins were still in high school. Brian was still academic and Brendan was still athletic. Brian was always part of the Sunday brunch when Janie came out to New Jersey, but Brendan never was. If he didn’t have a game, he went to somebody else’s.

  Next, Janie planned the difficult call to her other mother.

  A few years ago, her other father had had a serious stroke. Miranda was not strong enough to move and lift Frank. Over the summer, while Janie was preparing to move herself to a college dorm, she had also moved her parents into an assisted living institution, where Frank was much better off. For poor Miranda, it was prison. Miranda should have found herself her own apartment close to all her girlfriends and volunteer work and ladies’ lunches and golf. But she could not bear to live alone or to abandon Frank to loneliness.

  Miranda would be counting on Janie’s presence for Thanksgiving.

  Miranda did not know how to text and rarely emailed. She loved to hear Janie’s voice, so in this call, as in others, Janie started with gossip about Eve, Rachel, and Mikayla. Finally she came to the hard part. “For Thanksgiving, Mom?” Her throat tightened and her chest hurt. She hadn’t even said it yet and she was swamped by guilt. “I’m going to take the train to New Jersey on Wednesday and spend Thanksgiving Day and Friday with them.”

  “New Jersey” was code for Janie’s birth family; “them” meant the Springs.

  “Saturday morning I’ll get myself to Connecticut and stay until Sunday afternoon with you,” she added brightly. “Then you’ll drive me to the train station Sunday night so I can get back to the city.”

  Miranda’s voice trembled. “What a good idea, darling. If you came here, we’d have to eat in the dining room with a hundred other families and the cranberry sauce would come out of a can.”

  Normally, Janie caved when her mother’s voice trembled. But Jodie’s visit had been profound. The name change, and the soul change, could not be from Janie to Jane. It had to be from Janie to Jennie. All the vestiges of the kidnap, even the ones she cherished, needed to end. She wasn’t ready yet. But in her mental calendar of life, becoming Jennie Spring was not too many months away.

  “I know it won’t be the perfect Thanksgiving for you, Mom,” Janie said, which was a ridiculous remark. It would be awful for Miranda. “But I’ll see you on Saturday, and that will be great. I love you.”

  “Oh, honey. I love you too.”

  Vacation by vacation, Janie slid out of the Johnson family and into the Spring family. The Springs rejoiced; the Johnsons suffered.

  When freshman year ended, Janie divided her summer. She lived Monday through Friday with her birth family. She got a job at a fish fry restaurant. She came home with her hair smelling of onions and grease. Fridays, she worked through lunch, went home, shampooed the stink out of her hair, and caught the train from New Jersey into New York. From there, she took a subway to Grand Central, and another train out to Connecticut, where her mother picked her up at the station. Her father always knew her. Frank could smile with the half of his mouth that still turned up, and sometime
s make a contribution to the conversation. But mostly, he just sat in his wheelchair.

  A few years ago, when Frank suffered the first stroke, Miranda stayed at the hospital while Janie handled the household. Janie was struggling with bills when she stumbled onto a file in Frank’s office. To her horror, she found that Frank had always known where his daughter Hannah was and had sent her money every month. Of course, for twelve of those years, neither he nor anybody else dreamed that Hannah had kidnapped Janie. But when the face on the milk carton was produced and the truth came out, when the FBI and the police and the media and the court got involved, Frank Johnson knew exactly where the criminal was, and he never breathed a word. He had been writing a check to Janie’s kidnapper on the very day the FBI interrogated him.

  It had been such a shock to learn that she was a kidnap victim. But Janie almost buckled when she understood that her father was aiding and abetting the kidnapper. Only to Reeve did Janie spill the secret. One of the comforts of Reeve was that he knew everything. It was always a relief to be with the one person who knew it all.

  And then came another surprise: at college, she found out that it was more peaceful to be among people who knew nothing.

  During freshman year, Janie saw Reeve only at Thanksgiving and Christmas. The summer after freshman year, Janie saw him only once, at the fabulous college graduation party his parents gave him. It was so much fun. Reeve had more friends than anybody, and they all came, and it was a high school reunion for his class. He and Janie were hardly alone for a minute. During that minute, he curled one of her red locks around a finger, begging her to come back to him.

  She didn’t trust herself to speak. She shook her head and kissed his cheek.

  He didn’t know why she couldn’t forgive him. She didn’t know either.

  The following day, Reeve left for good. He had landed a dream job in the South and had to say good-bye to her in front of people. His departure was stilted and formal. She said things like “Good luck” and he said things like “Take care of yourself.” And then it was over: the boy next door had become a man with a career.

  Her heart broke. But she wanted a man she could trust, and she only half trusted Reeve. It was so painful to imagine him lost to her, living a thousand miles away and leading a life about which she knew nothing. She kept herself as busy as she could. One good thing about her parents’ move to the Harbor was that they no longer lived next door to Reeve’s family: she no longer used the driveway on which she and Reeve learned to back up; no longer saw the yard on which they raked leaves; no longer ran into Reeve’s mother and got the updates she both yearned for and was hurt by, because she wasn’t part of them.

  By July that summer, Janie was not visiting her Connecticut parents until Saturday mornings. By August, she was borrowing her real mother’s car, driving up for lunch on Saturdays, and driving home to New Jersey the same night. As her visits dwindled, so did her Connecticut mother. Miranda became frail and gray.

  Is it my fault? thought Janie. Or is it just life? Am I responsible for keeping my other mother happy? Or is Miranda responsible for starting up new friendships and figuring out how to be happy again? I’m eighteen. Do I get to have my own life on my own terms? Or do I compromise because my mother is struggling?

  The only person with whom she could share this confusion was Reeve. But she had decided not to share with him again.

  THE SECOND PIECE OF THE KIDNAPPER’S PUZZLE

  The food court had its own exit to the parking lot.

  The woman formerly known as Hannah took the little girl’s hand again. “Let’s go for a ride.” If anybody stopped them, she’d say she was trying to find the parents.

  “What about Mommy?” said the little girl again.

  The silly question annoyed Hannah. “She’s meeting us,” said Hannah. They had to cross a wide stretch of parking lot. The little girl’s red hair blew in the wind like a flag: here we are!

  But nobody stopped them.

  It was so exciting.

  Way better than stealing a car.

  The little girl looked around. Still not afraid—just looking for Mommy.

  “You know what?” said Hannah. “You can sit in front!”

  The front seat was a privilege forbidden to small children. The little girl was thrilled. She climbed right in, so small she was hardly visible. It did not occur to Hannah to fasten the toddler’s seat belt. The little girl even asked her to, but Hannah didn’t have time for that kind of thing.

  The mall was wrapped in parking lots. Hannah circled. She did not immediately see an exit to the main road. Racing toward her was a Jeep with a twirling light on its roof and a slap-on magnetic sign that read MALL SECURITY.

  Hannah felt a wonderful thrill of fear, deep and cold and exciting. But the driver of the Jeep did not look at Hannah and could not see the small passenger in her front seat.

  Hannah giggled. Guess what. Your mall is not secure.

  “But what about Mommy?” said the child.

  It was a stupid sentence. Hannah was sick of it. “She’s taking a nap,” snapped Hannah. “When we get there, Mommy will be awake.” In moments, she was back at the interstate, choosing her direction by the usual method: whichever entrance came first. It happened to be northbound. Hannah changed the subject. “What’s your name?”

  Her name was Janie and she loved her shoes and she loved her doggy back home and basically she loved everything. Hannah quickly tired of this kid’s happiness. “Put your head down,” she said. “Take a nap.”

  Obediently, the little girl tipped over and curled up on the seat, and shortly the rhythm and purr of the car really did put her to sleep.

  In less than an hour, they had reached New York City.

  Hannah disliked paying attention to traffic, but now she had no choice. She really disliked paying a toll, but she had no choice about that either. Hannah hated things where she had no choice. It was typical of society that they were always shoving themselves down your throat.

  Hannah’s goal in life was to be free.

  She emerged from the tangle of roads and traffic, merging lanes and shoving trucks; that was New York. The turnpike widened and she could breathe. Her eye was caught by a pile of red hair on the seat next to her. She had forgotten about the stupid little girl. She could not remember what her plans had been. What was she supposed to do with this burden?

  Hannah hated responsibility. A kid! Next she’d have a utility bill and a factory job. She had to offload this kid.

  A large sign loomed by the side of the road. NEW ENGLAND AND POINTS NORTH, it said.

  Connecticut was the first Point North.

  Hannah would dump the kid on her parents. She hadn’t seen them in years, not since they tried to wrench her out of her group, which they viciously called a cult. It was her parents’ assault on the leader that eventually led to his arrest and the end of the group. Hannah had never dreamed that she could avenge this.

  I know! she thought, giggling. I’ll pretend this is my kid!

  “Wake up!” she said roughly. She had to jab the kid to wake her. The kid was confused and puffy-faced and tearful and Hannah had to sweet-talk her into a fun game. “A let’s-pretend game!” she cried. “Let’s pretend I’m the mommy and you’re the little girl! And guess what! We’re going to meet a whole new grandma and grandpa. It’ll be so much fun!”

  And it was.

  The mother and father Hannah hadn’t seen or communicated with in years kissed and hugged her. For a fraction of a second, Hannah remembered what love was. But then they centered their attention on the kid.

  “This beautiful little redhead is our granddaughter?” they cried.

  Now they really kissed and hugged. They rushed the little girl to the bathroom and cleaned up the sticky mess of the ice cream and fixed her a butter and jam sandwich with the crusts cut off, and found a cute little plastic glass with mermaids on it and poured an inch of milk in it and cooed proudly when she drank without spilling.

&nb
sp; These people had not seen Hannah in years, and already, she came in second.

  Hannah hated them.

  They sang songs with the kid, and danced in circles, and rocked her to sleep.

  Every now and then the little girl was puzzled and asked for her mommy and wanted to know when they were going home.

  Hannah had mastered the art of lying. She explained to her parents that since they had lived in a communal situation, baby Janie had more than one mommy, and lots of brothers and sisters.

  The new grandma and grandpa asked awkward questions. About, for example, the daddy. Hannah spun a long story about how a mate had been chosen for her by the group, and how the man’s identity meant nothing, because no one had ownership over a child.

  This was a pleasant thought. If nobody had ownership over a child, then New Jersey was not a problem. Besides, the actions of the day had fallen so easily into place. In the group, the leaders had often explained that some things were just “meant” to happen. There was a power out there. It ordained things and you had to go with the flow.

  Hannah had simply gone with the flow.

  The police would have another opinion. Police were like some kind of organized disease. They infected society. You could not lead your own life with them around.

  She reached into her mind for more lies and came up with a one-night solution. She told her parents that baby Janie was not allowed to watch television. It wasn’t good for children, said Hannah firmly, and she wasn’t bringing up her daughter to find solace in silly television shows.

  And so nobody turned on the TV and nobody saw the horrifying news of a kidnapping at a mall in New Jersey. And when the little girl Janie asked about her mommy, the Connecticut people thought she meant Hannah, and came up with excuses and explanations, and whisked Janie into another activity, and the weeks passed, and became months, and Janie didn’t remember that mommy anymore.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sophomore year was perfect. Janie’s complicated past—except when she was with Miranda and Frank—was history. Autumn moved into winter. They had an early dusting of snow and then week after week of it—heavy, beautiful, and exhausting. It was April before the snow disappeared, leaving cold hard ground and cold hard weather.