Janie Face to Face (3 page)

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 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.

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.

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.

The small, elegant city campus was a world of cell phones and texting. In class and out, at cafeterias and snack bars, on the quad and in the dorms, kids lived on their cell phones. Janie could be sitting outdoors on a bench, nibbling a bagel, surrounded by a dozen other students, and nobody would talk to anybody there because they were all on their phones.

It was slightly warmer than it had been in weeks.

Janie was perched on a long, low stone wall, playing a word game on her iPhone with Sarah-Charlotte. Sarah-Charlotte was in Boston, but they were in touch with each other so frequently that Janie hardly felt the distance.

When a man sat down on the same wall, Janie was barely aware of him. She concentrated on whipping Sarah-Charlotte with a very well-placed letter
Q
.

“I saw you the other day,” said the man. “Walking by the river. I was on my bike.”

She looked up, startled. He was a complete stranger. And very good-looking. He had shaved a few days ago, and the dark stubble was attractive. He had curly dark hair and a nice smile. He was a bit older than Janie. Perhaps a grad student. “It must be fun to have a bike in the city,” she said. He did not have a bike with him now. Janie’s Spring family were all bicycle enthusiasts. She herself was still afraid of being hit by cars.

“As long as it doesn’t snow or rain, it’s fun,” said the man. “A bike can be faster than a taxi or a bus. Of course, that’s going downtown. Coming back is uphill. But that’s good too. Nice workout.”

“That was one of the surprises of New York for me,” said Janie. “How much walking there is, and how much of it is uphill.”

“Want to walk over to Riverside Park with me?” he asked.

Riverside Park was a thin green strip that ran down the Hudson River for miles, dotted with softball fields and tennis courts, a marina and children’s playgrounds, dog parks and hundreds of benches. It was patrolled constantly. Today the park would be packed with nannies pushing strollers, people of all ages and types sipping coffee, and high school ball teams practicing on dusty fields.

The man was smiling at her, a tender smile. A charming
smile. “I’d enjoy the company,” he said in a careful sort of voice; a voice that said,
No risk. It’s public. Plenty of people around
. “We have an hour of daylight left,” he added.

This campus, thought Janie, has thousands of young women, and he saw me across the quad and wants my company. She felt the tiny weight of her cell phone in her hand. She wanted to text Sarah-Charlotte: Maybe I’ve met him!

Him
. The elusive future boyfriend she and Sarah-Charlotte both dreamed of—perfect, of course, and madly in love.

No. She would not tell Sarah-Charlotte anything until she was sure. “That sounds nice,” she said, although it sounded way better than nice—it sounded romantic and exciting and wonderful.

They did not exchange names. He adjusted his stride to hers. He was a talker, which was perfect. She could listen and gather her thoughts.

“I want to write,” he told her. “I’m studying creative writing. It’s harder than I thought it would be. But I have wonderful professors.”

The only thing Janie had ever written easily was her college entrance essay. She was still amazed that she had written it at all, never mind sent it in. She was even more amazed that whoever was on that acceptance committee had given her exactly what she asked for: anonymity. Nobody had a clue that she was the face on the milk carton.

When they reached the park, they chose the paved path closest to the river and walked slowly. Janie usually watched the river traffic, and the passersby, the children and dogs and skyline. This time, she saw none of it. She took up her share
of the conversation. She talked about college and classes and the dorm.

The sun was sliding out of sight. They had walked many blocks. They cut across the park to Riverside Drive and caught a number 5 bus going north. It was full. They jostled against each other. He caught her arm to steady her. “My name is Michael,” he told her. “Michael Hastings.”

“Michael,” she repeated. She had always loved the name Michael.

But now it was her turn. He was waiting to hear her name.

What
was
her name?

If this was her future husband (she hoped the poor man did not know that she was way past their first date and planning their wedding), he ought to be told her real name. But the wonderful thing about him (aside from good looks, great body, and good conversation) was that he knew nothing. Michael did not want to bask on the edges of some ancient crime. He wanted the company of a girl he had seen across the campus.

“I’m Jane,” she said at last, as if he had asked for information that would stump a
Jeopardy!
champion.

He chuckled. “It’s good to know you, Jane.”

He was tall and looked down at her, while she was medium and had to look up at him. She couldn’t keep her gaze on him. He was giving her the shivers. Shivers she hadn’t felt in a long time.