Janie Face to Face

by Caroline B. Cooney

  It felt safe. She opened her box.

  The usual envelope from Frank was not there.

  Instead she found a big plain envelope with her real name on it. Hannah Javensen. Was it a letter bomb? Was the FBI about to pop out of the tiny doors and slots around her?

  She rolled up the envelope in her hand to keep the name from showing. She left the building. She was almost throwing up. She took side streets and an alley and dealt with a scary dog and finally reached a bench by the river.

  She opened the envelope. There was a check in it. But there was also a slip of paper with a hand-printed message.

  This is the final payment.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Monday after lunch with her New Jersey parents, Janie drove up to Connecticut in Donna’s car.

  No matter which bridge she took over the Hudson River, it was the wrong one. No matter how she timed this trip to avoid commuter traffic, she hit traffic. No matter how often she told herself that once she hit Connecticut the traffic would thin out, it never did.

  It was only four days since her last trip to Connecticut. Four days since Miranda met and enjoyed Michael Hastings. Miranda would want to talk about Michael. Which meant Janie would have to discuss Calvin Vinesett’s book.

  Michael was all lies, she thought, navigating the tricky connection from the GW Bridge onto the Henry Hudson Parkway. But that’s true of many people in my life. My Connecticut parents—my sturdy suburban straight-arrow parents—are world-class liars. When I first recognized myself on the milk carton, they even told me about their decision to lead a life of lies.

  Miranda had insisted that she and Frank never wrote to Hannah again. Never telephoned. Never sent their real daughter a birthday present or a Christmas card. “We let her vanish,” said Miranda, who had wept.

  Her father shed no tears. Janie had assumed he was too manly for weeping. But he was protecting yet another lie. A life built on lies must be shored up, day after day, fib after fib. Did the man inside Frank’s ruined body know what he had done? Did he continue to believe that he had done the best and only thing?

  As for Michael, Janie believed that he had not thought particularly about telling lies. He had a chance to sidle into publishing, and he took it. The fun of being a spy without the risk of going to war.

  Michael had lost his gamble. Janie had given him very little. He could contribute nothing to Calvin Vinesett’s book.

  As for Frank and Miranda, she still loved them. But she loved them differently. She loved them sadly.

  Last year she and her mother had had a terrible confrontation. Frank’s illness had taken such a toll, and that day, Miranda cried, “You aren’t helping me enough. You aren’t visiting your father enough! You only loved him when he was healthy and handsome. I need you, Janie! We both need you!”

  “I’m going to tell you the truth,” said Janie cruelly. “Frank has always known where Hannah is. He’s been supporting her all these years. I found the checkbook and the bank account he used. He sent a check every month to a post office box in Boulder, Colorado. For your sake and his, when I put a stop to that, I didn’t tell the FBI, so they didn’t catch Hannah. Every time I look at Frank, I know that he chose to take care of the woman who destroyed my real family. I love him, Mom, but not as much. It has nothing to do with his health. It has to do with his decision to protect Hannah.”

  Miranda did not ask for more information. She sat there and dwindled away, like a creature in a nightmare, getting smaller and smaller. She never said whether she already knew. She never said a word about Hannah. Did Miranda’s heart and arms yearn to hold her real daughter again? Or was her heart frozen against the horror of what Hannah had become? Would Miranda have tried to find Hannah herself, if she had known where Hannah went every month? She never said, and Janie never asked.

  Janie made it to the Merritt Parkway, a good road because it was so pretty and a bad road because it was so narrow. She ached to talk to Reeve, or at least text him, and know that he was emotionally at her side. But he was working. She could not bother him at work. He would tell her it wasn’t a bother. But it would be.

  She turned up the radio to distract herself.

  At last, she arrived. The Harbor was a pretty place with a flowery front garden and tall trees. She signed in at the front desk. “Hi, Grace.”

  “Why, hey there, Janie. You were just here the other day. Your parents will be so happy to see you again so soon.”

  Janie went through the lovely sitting area and said hello to people who had lost pieces of themselves; ancient decrepit people, struggling to breathe or remember. Her father needed to be here, but, oh, poor Miranda!

  Janie took the stairs instead of the elevator, which was incredibly slow.

  Few apartments at the Harbor were locked, because the aides had to go in and out so often. Michael had been fascinated by that. Would Michael tell Calvin Vinesett that there were no locks? But Calvin Vinesett had so little interest that he assigned somebody else to visit her parents. So what if the author of the book knew that not even a bolt stood between him and two helpless residents?

  Janie knocked and went in. Her father sat in his wheelchair. Miranda was massaging her husband’s feet, which had poor circulation and had turned a ghastly mottled purple.

  This wreck was the wonderful dad of her childhood. Janie was glad that Frank himself did not know how bad it was. She flooded herself with the images of this once-fine man. Every picnic at the beach and ball game in the backyard. Every soccer game coached and piano practice timed. Every shared evening watching TV and fixing snacks and tucking under the afghan.

  She looked at his big hands, which had held and thrown so many footballs, now trembling on his lap.

  Abruptly and completely, she didn’t care anymore that those hands had written the checks that paid the bills of her kidnapper.

  It’s okay, Daddy. You did the best you could. And now it’s over. And thank God I still love you. And I believe, wherever you are inside that body, that you love me.

  Frank and Miranda looked up in astonishment. Janie was swept by love for them; by respect for their courage. She hugged them hard and found herself sobbing and her mother said, “Darling, tell me everything. What’s wrong?” and her father mumbled, “N cry.” Don’t cry.

  She kissed his cheek.

  “I’m crying because I’m happy,” she said, which was not true. Who could be happy, seeing Frank’s destruction? “You will absolutely never guess what. I flew down to Charlotte Friday afternoon to spend the weekend with Reeve.”

  “Reeve?” said her mother. “What about Michael?”

  “He turned out to be a dud. We never have to think about him again.”

  “I’m sorry, darling. Michael was charming. And so sweet to your father.”

  “He’s history,” said Janie firmly. “Here’s the news. Reeve asked me to marry him.”

  Her mother’s jaw dropped.

  Janie handed over her cell. “Watch this video.”

  Miranda held the iPhone awkwardly and frowned at the first muddled moment of the airport scene and then gasped as it unfolded. “Oh, Janie! That is so romantic! That is beyond romantic!”

  Janie took the phone back. “Look, Daddy. Can you see the screen? Do I have it at the right angle?”

  He reached for the phone and managed to hold it himself. They crowded together to see it again. Her father’s eyes twinkled in the old way.

  “Reeve can really kiss, can’t he?” said Miranda, giggling. “You’ll have a long engagement, won’t you? You won’t finish college for two years and I know you’ll want to stay in New England. I’m sure Reeve is hoping to earn a transfer or promotion so he can get out of there anyway.”

  “He loves it there,” said Janie. “And so do I. And here’s the really big news. We’re getting married July eighth.”

  “A month after your college graduation? That works. Two years is enough time for planning.”

  “July eighth right now,” said Janie. “
A month and a half from today.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said her mother dismissively. “You can’t get married now. You’re barely twenty years old. What will your New Jersey parents say? I know Reeve’s parents will disapprove. They have high hopes for Reeve and getting married too young is a poor decision. No. You must rethink this, Janie.”

  The door opened and in came two dietary aides. “Hey, Ms. Johnson,” they said. “Hey, Mr. Johnson. Oh, look, your beautiful daughter is visiting for supper. We’ll bring a tray up for you, too, Janie. It’s such a good meal tonight. Lemon chicken, carrot-raisin salad, orzo, broccoli, a nice dinner roll, and chocolate pudding.”

  They set Frank’s meal on a rolling hospital tray while Janie opened the card table for herself and her mother. A shocking contrast to the long slow meals in the formal dining room they had enjoyed for so many years.

  When the aides had left, Janie said, “Mom. You know I love you. I’ve managed to be two daughters at one time, but I can’t have weddings in two places. The wedding will be at Our Lady of Grace, the Springs’ parish. Father John will perform the wedding. The reception will be in the Springs’ backyard. But you’ll be there and you’ll also be my parents. I will have two mothers of the bride and two fathers of the bride. Donna is reserving a wing at the motel for everybody to stay, and a handicapped room for you and Daddy.”

  Miranda swallowed hard. A few tears slid down her cheek.

  Was Miranda wishing that she was the real and only mother of Janie? Wishing that her real daughter, Hannah, could have had a middle-class life and a wedding among friends?

  Janie realized that she did not care. It was okay to love extra people and be torn. “Mom? Will you be okay? Tell me.”

  “A person always weeps over a wedding,” said Miranda bravely. “Reeve is a lovely boy. He will be a delightful son-in-law.”

  But Reeve would not be Miranda’s son-in-law. He would be Donna Spring’s son-in-law.

  They talked about Reeve and what fun it had been living next door to his family and whether Mrs. Shields was reacting well to the news of a wedding in seven weeks. Not likely. Mrs. Shields mainly reacted well to things she controlled.

  When dinner was over, Frank took his wife’s hand. Their hands were so old! Their joints had swollen and their veins had knotted. Her father patted Miranda’s fingers, repeating something neither woman could understand.

  “The ring,” said Miranda finally. “He’s tugging on my diamond.”

  “Reeve didn’t give me a diamond ring, Daddy,” Janie told him. “Maybe we’ll do that some other year.”

  He mumbled a long sentence whose only clear word was “wedding.”

  “The wedding will be in New Jersey, Daddy. In church. You’ll be there, because you’re the father of the bride. We’ll get a tux for you too. You’ll look so handsome.”

  “Far de bide,” he said.

  “Father of the bride,” she agreed.

  “Come?” he said clearly.

  Janie knelt beside him. “Oh, Daddy, yes. I need you there.”

  She met her mother’s eyes. “But here’s the thing, Daddy. I have another father. My New Jersey father. Jonathan Spring. And another mother. Donna Spring. And I want to get married as my real legal self.” Janie clasped her father’s hand and drew her mother’s in and held their hands in hers. “I will say my vows as Jennie Spring,” she told them. “The days of Janie Johnson are over. And then I will be Jennie Shields. So my name is Jennie now.”

  She had never asked these parents to call her Jennie. She had forced the real parents to say Janie.

  I’ve been a terrible person, she thought. But I had terrible decisions to make. And I wasn’t ready.

  Maybe nobody is ever ready for a terrible decision.

  “Even I’m not used to the name Jennie,” she said, trying to smile. “Reeve is going to have cue cards so he can remember to say Jennie during the ceremony. But that’s the wedding present I want from everybody. Even from you. My name. Jennie.”

  • • •

  Reeve had lost himself in work. Mondays were especially busy. Right now they were preparing for the College World Series. It wasn’t until everybody began knocking off that Reeve remembered he led a life outside of work. He had not checked his phone in some time.

  Many people had texted and called. Especially Janie. He read her messages, following her through the long drive and difficult visit to Connecticut.

  If I don’t tell her that I was offered a position in Connecticut, thought Reeve, then I’m not letting her be part of the decision. Aren’t wives and husbands supposed to share important decisions?

  He wanted Janie to think about china and curtains and stuff. Where she would finish college and what she would do with that degree. He wanted her to have ordinary problems, like parking or shoes. He wanted to carry her away from the grip of the kidnap and the double parents.

  They would live in his one-bedroom apartment, which was in a pleasant complex surrounded by trees and running trails. He even meant to go running one of these days. He had seriously been thinking of getting tableware, because the little plastic forks he got with takeaway food kept breaking. But then he’d have to find time to go shopping, and find out where you did that shopping, and somehow it never worked out.

  Janie loved shopping. This was good. They would divide household tasks. She would shop. Of course, it’s easier to shop if there’s money.

  Reeve had been in the weddings of one brother and one sister. Those weddings had been like architecture, undergoing design and revision for a year. At his wedding, all he had to do was show up with his shoes polished. He moved through Janie’s texts, assuming that she had assignments for him. Her most recent text said, Want to visit again soon.

  Can’t afford another ticket soon, he wrote back.

  I’ll drive, she wrote. Only 14 hours.

  Reeve did it in twelve. She obviously intended to drive the speed limit. He made a mental note that when the two of them went on trips, he would drive.

  What do we need to talk about? he texted.

  I wasn’t thinking about talking. XOXOXOXO.

  On the bench in Boulder, sitting in the dark, Kathleen watched the video yet again.

  She had a wedding vision: herself in a white gown, and an aisle, flowers and guests and music. But she could not put Stephen into this vision. Stephen dreamed of being a geologist—going down shafts or up mountains; going to Mongolia or Tanzania or the isolated land of northernmost Canada. But basically, just going. On his own in a world of risk and tough odds. He did not dream of weddings.

  “I mean, think about it,” said Stephen. “Reeve’s in a big city. Has a fabulous job. Famous athletes and coaches roam all over his office. He has no responsibilities except at work. And he wants to change all that and get married.”

  What would the wedding be like? Kathleen wondered.

  Would it be formal? Would there be a bridal shower?

  Would there be bridesmaids?

  Would that snippy sister, Jodie, be a bridesmaid?

  Would Janie remember that her older brother, Stephen, had a girlfriend?

  Would Janie think of inviting the girlfriend?

  Would Stephen think of putting Kathleen’s name on the guest list?

  Would Stephen even know there was such a thing as a guest list?

  I want to be at Janie’s wedding, thought Kathleen. I want to be at my own wedding.

  She was glad it was dark and Stephen could not see her face or the tears shining in her eyes.

  Stephen said, “So now we have the names of the three possible Hannahs. That’s what we’ll do tomorrow. Go look at them.”

  “We both have to work,” said Kathleen faintly.

  “I’m getting a substitute,” said Stephen.

  She was not going to be left out of Hannah hunts. “Me too,” said Kathleen.

  Jodie told her supervisor and the nuns that she wanted to leave now, because of an upcoming wedding. They hugged and kissed and told her
how wonderful she was, and how of course she must go home for that great celebration! They gave her a party, and somebody somewhere managed to bake a cake, and all the children came, and she photographed them on her cell phone so she could keep them in her hand.

  She loved Haiti. She loved Haitians. But now she was going home to party. The family’s first wedding!

  Jodie had expected to return from Haiti as the star of her family, the one who had handed her life to charity, done good work, and helped save the world. Everybody would want to see her photos and videos and hear every bit of her story. But no. The lost sister had center stage again.

  From the nuns, Jodie had learned to pray for patience.

  She smiled at God and said silently, So I need even more of it, God. Janie’s a big patience taker.

  At the airport, Jodie rejoiced because she was going home. Such a beautiful phrase.

  Once again, she would have a life of comfort and safety. A life of electricity and friends. Cars and air-conditioning and washing machines. Libraries and malls. She could eat a salad without worrying about diarrhea. She did not have to think of the tropical diseases that came through the air, through the soles of bare feet, through water and dust and mud and rubble. She did not have to look at what passed for housing in the areas not yet cleaned up from the earthquake—housing so bad that if an American kept a dog like that, the American would be arrested.

  They began boarding her flight.

  She was just about to turn off her cell when a message arrived from that researcher who was helping with a book about the kidnap. It was so annoying that the man had her cell phone number. Who had given it to him, anyway? Probably Brendan, who had become such a pain. Mom said Brendan was giving interviews. Jodie had asked her mother, “What do you think about the book?”

  “I’m still thinking,” Donna had said. A non-answer if there ever was one.

  Jodie deleted the researcher.

  Donna Spring floated on the joy of her daughter’s wedding.