Sunday's on the Phone to Monday (23 page)

I wish I had a boyfriend,
said Lucy.

Of course you do,
said Jane. She folded and unfolded her legs, closing her raw blue eyes.
When you miss someone, and you're not allowed to miss them, it's a rotten feeling,
said Jane.
It feels like you've lost a baby.

Lucy didn't ask her aunt how she knew how that would feel.

Otis has big dreams for the two of us. Bigger than Jesus. Your dad doesn't like him. They haven't even met.

Doesn't he want his sister to be happy?
Lucy felt rebellious toward her father, even though something was telling her that her father probably had good reason to mind whoever this was.

Indeed. He should get to know him.

That Dad,
said Lucy, hinting and disturbingly fixed for Jane's approval,
just as annoying a brother as he is a father.

Otis would play with my hair and sing the Turtles. He'd sing,
Janey Jane gee I think you're swell
to the tune of “Elenore.” You know the song? You're probably too young.

I know the song,
said Lucy.
That's a great song.

He would sometimes buy me makeup from the drugstore and wipe it off my face at night. He taught me how to whistle. He was always gentle when he shaved me. He'd shave me, and I'd smoke a cigarette in the shower, and life would be like a Bertolucci film.
These were all honest things. Jane swore they were. She remembered them. The caring hadn't always been so brutal.

Maybe she missed Otis only because she missed everything from the time she was with Otis, not because she missed Otis as a person. It was the type of missing she knew how to do. She missed the fitful freedom (the only way Jane could enjoy freedom was from the inside) of New Orleans: the long days she had to fill, doing anything she wanted. On days the voices weren't too loud, she'd mosey around the city in no meticulous direction.

Sometimes she'd pick out a person and follow him or her. It was usually somebody who looked indecisive, someone who looked like he himself had no idea where to go next. On a free day, Jane followed about ten to twelve people. She'd never been caught.

Whenever the person passed a store that looked like it had something to offer Jane, she'd ditch the person and go inside. At grocery stores, she would ask for a cookie from the bakery. At department stores, there were all sorts of skin care and makeup stations that gave away free things. Discounts and birthday gifts. Every day was Jane's birthday. And with whatever money Jane had, she bought things, strictly following her impulses and confusing them for intuition.

If a clerk asked something at once innocuous and suspicious, like
may I help you?,
Jane always said,
just looking around.
She loved it most when they touched her, when a salesgirl handed
her a free pastry or the cosmetologists gave her a makeover. She'd try to look and smell her best on those days, the days she'd be touched, like she was worth more than just being accidentally bumped into.

You like this!
One counter girl coquettishly smiled at her. It was true: if Jane was a cat, she'd have been purring. Sometimes Jane would say
sorry
on her way out, squirreled with her free samples. Usually she wouldn't, because likely the salesperson would already be moving on to the next potential customer, forgetting the shape of Jane's eyebrows. And it would be okay, because Jane would already be putting out of her mind the lessons she'd learned about goldening the apples of her cheeks, concealing by blotting with her fingers. So nothing lost, nothing gained—until next time. Jane loved her rules as much as many people loved religion. The rules let her be a lonely, abiding prophet. The rules left her alone.

Spending nothing proved, Jane believed, that beauty could exist outside of money. Though this verification muzzled Jane like a tyrant.

Back when she was free, Jane kept a little notepad with her in her pocket: her to-do list. Usually it looked something like this:

To Do

- Don't do 18

- 24

- Walk 3.5

Counting took control of her mind, conditioned her, made her safe. Most important, it gave her meaning, an anchorage in the freedom filling her (killing her?). Like a machine, she tracked herself with this kind of code. This particular list meant that she had to get 24 free samples and then not go home for another 3.5 hours. And the numbers decided were just serendipity: sometimes Jane would count the number of jewelry on the first
person she'd see outside or how many
MISSING ANIMAL
posts were listed in the newspaper, and those would be her numbers for tomorrow. But since she made up the rules, she could change them as often as she liked. She was her own boss. And she had the whole world inside her.

Jane alternated her free days with her working days. She worked when she heard the voices. These days needed Jane. She'd start them by reaching for the tin can underneath Otis's bed. She'd leave the apartment and start following somebody who looked like they had someplace to go. She'd take the bus to wherever he or she went, transfer when the person transferred. When the person would reach his or her final destination and Jane would see him or her getting off, the voices corking her brain, she'd get off too, and stay there. She'd stay with her tin can and find a populated space and sing songs all day. She'd sing for change or whistles or sometimes cigarettes. She was a pretty good singer. She sang James Taylor and Leonard Cohen, male vocalists, so she could change the keys around and not feel like she was turning them into jokes.

Jane earned more money than most street performers because she was young and good-looking. For the most part, she didn't think it had anything to do with how good she sang. At the end of the day, when the whole city turned cold and blue, she'd collect her money. The money made the voices die down, like she too could buy quiet. She'd make eye contact with the social fauna in bars until a conversation would be born. It was easy. Jane was pretty; people wanted to talk to her all the time. Being treated like she was wearing a glittery shirt reading possibility was nothing new. Maybe this was the case for every girl spending her whole life being watched by people.

Then at last she could go home, where she'd sleep like mad. Unless Otis woke her up. But there'd be only hours until the next day. In New Orleans, in the daytime, Jane had been the property of no one—the good old days.

The next day, which would usually be a good day, and therefore a free day, Jane had to spend however much money she earned the previous day. She bought small, disposable things she didn't need. Mostly food. Alcohol, drugs. Sunscreen and eye cream, because looking like you're twenty when you're forty could soften the blow of worrying about things like rent or safety. Clothes from the thrift store that fell apart after three washes. Ten-minute ten-dollar massages at the immigrant-owned nail salons. A wrapping paper caddy from the drugstore. The key back then had been getting through the day, seeking ways to splurge her time, buying things to feel better. An outsider might say that Jane's life was a pointless circle. But Jane believed this was better than the alternative—a life path the sanest of people often chose—a life of nothing but taking, a hole dug.

Come to think of it, Jane's New Orleans life wasn't too different from her later days at Lincoln, except then the voices were too much and she had more options. Too much freedom, it made Jane cry, like the song “For No One” by the Beatles (that was off
Revolver
, she knew, that dreamy, magic record) or the day her favorite seafood place closed for the season. The restaurant was called Cloquet and her favorite waiter's name was Eddie. She always ordered the crab, and he'd call out to the back,
an order of crab and hush puppies! Make it happen!
And whoever was in the back made it happen. There was something so playful and appalling about being completely powerless while food's being made behind your back.

Back in Jane's hospital room, Lucy considered her aunt's eyes, masquerading as sane for the pithy moment. They were withering and a seamless lapis, just like her father's. She tried to use a logic Jane would understand.
Did you ever think about divorcing Uncle Sawyer and marrying him?
During their discussion Mathilde had informed Lucy about the fake marriage, and the real divorce, and Jane's ignorance of the real divorce.

Yes,
said Jane, distant, like a tragic character from a Russian novel.
Sawyer doesn't love me too much. I feel like I know you better than I know him.
She laughed.

Otis, though. Otis loved me. And when I'm out of here I'm going to find him. I already picked out our children's names. Two daughters, Joan and Juliet. They'll do all those things that you kids do. Take lessons in shit, watercolor and swimming lessons. They won't need help deciding anything.

I can see them now,
said Lucy, swayed by pretense, for playing along was one of her bad habits.

It'll be far off,
said Jane,
in the future. We'll fly cars. I won't be ready for children 'til then. I'm just a kid, like you. Older. But still just a kid.
She sat on her hands.

They'll be ravishing and thoughtful. With blue eyes and ribbons in their hair. And . . . what kind of hair does Otis have?
Lucy felt like a solvent. The rhetoric of idealism came easily enough.

Short. They'll have enough luck for a third world country,
continued Jane.
They won't need extra candles on their cakes. They'll never be the types of girls who would try anything once, or twice because they didn't trust themselves the first time. Don't you worry. Joan and Juliet will be different.

Aunt Jane,
said Lucy,
I need to tell you something.
She hadn't planned on telling her but figured now would be an appropriate time if any. Jane seemed cogent to her. Craziness was relative, right? It wasn't like you could hold it in a measuring cup.
Something you need to know about me, is . . .
She frowned.

Is that I'm sick. Too.

Honey,
said Jane,
who isn't?

I need a Heart transplant,
said Lucy.
I'm serious.

Otis's hair is light brown,
said Jane.
Like Cinnamon Toast Crunch.

I don't want to think the worst, but I could die soon.
So much for defusing the moment.

You're kidding,
said Jane. She wondered if this was also
happening in the world, or in the clutter that was Jane's world. Maybe Lucy was in on it too. Maybe they were all gaslighting her, this farce of a family, taking advantage of her obvious damage. The other day, Jane asked Claudio to bring her a globe, and he did, a cheap classroom one from Rand McNally. Jane wrote
their world
over Eurasia with arrows going in twelve directions (twelve was how many birds she saw fly past her small window that day). Sometimes she'd spin it and pick a country and for the rest of the day pretend she was living there. But she didn't know how to do an accent from Singapore or Ghana, the two countries she last picked.

Aunt Jane?

Be quiet,
said Jane, losing track of who was saying what.
Can't you see I'm feeling sick? I'm feeling silky. Arguing keeps me warm.
Jane's teeth were shuddering and her words came with different volumes, like someone was turning her louder and softer. Lost again, and Lucy really thought she'd had her for a moment. Reticent, Lucy told herself never to trust the idea of sanity ever again. Especially when it came to Aunt Jane, but probably when it concerned anyone.

S
awyer was visiting his ex-wife by himself for the first time. They'd never been alone in the same room before. Claudio usually served as a buffer, in case Jane insisted on any nonsensical, tall orders. Nonsensical, such as
so if you're my husband why don't you ever kiss me?

Two nights ago, Noah had confronted him about his marriage to Jane and kicked him out of the apartment until he was ready to trust him again.
It could be never,
Noah had warned him.

Thank you for being honest,
Sawyer said, solemn. He packed a suitcase and moved in with Claudio and Mathilde, who welcomed him with open arms (and Claudio, with dreadful remorse, feeling it was all his fault). Sawyer seized the opportunity to force himself to focus on people other than himself. He made this visit alone, feeling it was necessary and maybe overdue. He wasn't sure what they'd talk about, but perhaps in some cosmic way if he could spend time with the person who unwittingly caused this, it would bring him a sort of peace, or better yet, bring Jane some peace, as she needed it more.

Hi, Jane,
Sawyer said, opening her door. Light poured into her room.

Um,
said Jane.

Sawyer held her hand and she let him. Her palm felt mildew-hot, like an old attic in August.

Sawyer dawdled. He gulped from his bottle of water. He picked up a picture frame and then set it down. Claudio had brought the picture frame over and put a picture of his daughters inside, but after he left, Jane had replaced it with the paper underneath featuring stock photography models. A brunette couple with a mackintosh-yellow dog in a garden. The soft glow of a calla lily made the frame's silver appear dull.

When Lucy got sick, Sawyer and Noah had been in the middle of planning their wedding. They'd already been talking about adopting, or maybe finding a surrogate. A baby! Sawyer needed to believe this would be his future. But who knew now? When he got divorced, he'd thought the hardest part was over and that his ex-wife would stay in the hospital for the rest of her life, if she needed to. He should have known, like so many other couples: trust and forgiveness were much harder to obtain than a divorce.