Jayne Doe (12 page)

Sighing heavily, Jayne straightens her sweats and wanders into the kitchen.

Mom lifts her head from the couch and gawks at Jayne. “What the hell happened to you?”

“I fell.” She turns to the fridge to search for creamer, ignoring Mom's lingering eyes.

“Bitch got bitch slapped.” Billy yells and laughs like he’s a flipping comedian. My jaw drops. Even in front of Mom, he has the audacity to say hurtful things.

“Grow up, Billy,” Jayne snaps. She's relieved that Mom doesn't question her further, but I'm seething.
Why can't she see how screwed up this is?

“I need coffee, Jayne,” Mom whines. She hasn't moved from the couch.

“Sorry, Mom, but we're out.”

“Go grab me some at Sinclair.”

Sinclair. Jayne panics. She doesn't want to run into Beth after she lied about having class today. “I'll go to Maverick.”

“Why would you go all the way across town?”

“Slap her, Mom,” Billy laughs again.

“Shut up, Billy,” Mom growls. “I just need a damn cup of coffee, but I guess I have to do everything around here.”

Jayne comes to her rescue. As always. “No, I'll run to Sinclair and grab it. I'll be right back.” She's not going to bother changing since it's freezing outside. She grabs her keys and grasps the door.

“Black with two sugars,” Mom orders, snuggling under the blankets on the couch again.

Jayne nods and jumps in her truck, racing to Sinclair because it’s freezing outside.

“What can I get you?” The voice from the drive-thru window isn't Beth's and Jayne looks up in surprise.

“Large coffee, please. Black with two sugars.” She's pulled her sunglasses on again, but the bruises look worse today and the glasses don't hide much.

“Looks like you need more than coffee,” he says, taking the five-dollar bill from her outstretched hand. “What happened to your face?”

“Sledding accident.” She smiles, taking her change and the Styrofoam cup of steaming coffee.

“You take care of yourself.” He doesn't buy into the sledding crap. He's worked at too many gas stations to believe that.

When we get back home, Jayne puts the truck in park, but leaves it running so that it can heat up. She darts into the house and hands Mom her coffee. “I'll be back this afternoon. I'm taking some stuff up to Johnny's house.”

Mom doesn't say anything, doesn't even look away from the television. She just takes the cup from Jayne and blows through the hole in the lid. “Billy, get me an ice cube.” It hasn't dawned on Mom how much Jayne actually does for her and the family. She's always too busy trying to cool down the coffees Jayne buys for her, or sipping on warm beer, ignoring Martha in her bedroom with another guy, and supporting Billy's pot habit. For a moment, I'm not sure which is worse: being trapped here with our family or being trapped with Johnny. I only have to look at Jayne’s face to get the answer.

I race behind Jayne as she hurries back out the door to the truck and hops in. To my utter amazement, she's teary eyed.

Don’t cry over those fools.
I try and make her feel better.

The road is slick with the remnants of last night's ice. Jayne is barely going twenty miles per hour, but I want her to slow down. I'd be fine if she took all day. Month. Year. Eternity. I could care less if she ever got there, but I recognize the wrought iron fence surrounding his property and my stomach rolls. When she pulls into the drive, swinging around to the back of the house, a woman cracks the blinds and stares. She's judgmental. She'll eat Jayne alive in this house.

Go home, Jayne.
Dealing with Mom, Billy, and Martha is better than this.

Jayne hops out of the truck and twists open the basement door. As I stand there, a cold feeling spreads from the bottoms of my feet to the base of my skull.

There's a tap on my shoulder.

I turn slowly. A man stands before me, his jeans tattered and speckled with mud, a button-down shirt – once white – now a torn mass of yellowing fabric. His cheeks are sunken, eyes purpled and hollow. I freeze and close my eyes, willing him to go away. But when I open them, he's still there staring at me, the acrid odor of decay rolling off of him in sickening waves.

“Leave us alone,” he moans. His voice hoarse, as if he had been screaming and it gave out.

A half-naked woman in a skimpy bikini pulls at my hair. “Isn't she beautiful? Take off your clothes. You can make us beautiful forever. He'll want us.” My skin prickles in gooseflesh. She craves Johnny's attention.

I rip my hair from her frail hand watching as her skin flakes away into dust.

“What have you done?” she screams, holding her destroyed hand to her chest.

“I'm sorry.” I look around for Jayne. They're both yelling loud enough that I fear she'll hear them, but she's disappeared into the basement.

“Get her.” The bikini woman yells in a scratchy voice.

“Leave me alone.” I scream. I close my eyes and imagine myself in Jayne's truck with the doors locked.

It's quiet.

Safe.

When I crack open my eyes, the specters are still around, but they're not bothering me anymore. The man is wandering the property and the woman has one leg wrapped around the flagpole. At least they don't seem to notice me as long as I'm in the truck. I pray Jayne will hurry up because clearly, Johnny's family is more messed up than ours – they're magnets for depression and darkness.

<><><>

By the time we reach the bottom of the hill, the specters are gone and my mind is whirling. I'm glad to be away from that house, but I don't want Jayne to go back. Ever. And not just because there are dead people lurking around. Johnny is evil.

Jayne's cell phone buzzes beside me and I glance down at the caller ID. Johnny. He wants something. She pushes a button and puts him on speakerphone.

“Hey, babe. Can you run to Trans West and grab my insurance card out of the glove box? I need to make a claim on my car and I forgot to grab it when it got towed.”

“No problem.” Jayne's talking, but she's not paying attention. We pull into our driveway and she grabs the phone from the seat and runs into the house. I follow her inside. Martha and Billy are gone; Mom's passed out on the couch again. Scattered mail litters the countertop and coffee table along with the cup of coffee Jayne bought for Mom this morning. It's ice cold and the cup is still full. I wish I knew how to give Mom nightmares.

“Can you bring a plastic bag and grab everything else out of the car too?” Jayne looks down at the phone in surprise. She hasn't been listening to him at all and he'll be pissed if she forgets anything.

“Yes, I'll grab everything,” she says. Johnny gives her the address to the place. She makes up for ignoring him by spouting a bunch of lovey-dovey crap she doesn't really mean and then she hangs up.

<><><>

The Trans West building is a massive white cinder-block structure connected to several, smaller ill-planned additions scattered around a lot filled with thousands of wrecked and flattened cars, piles of spare parts and wiring, and broken glass from smashed mirrors and windshields. Jayne sighs as she pulls into the small driveway in front of a door simply labeled “OFFICE.”

A red-faced man with a kind smile and paunch belly comes out to greet her. “Can I help you?”

Jayne turns off the truck and jumps out. “I'm looking for my boyfriend's car. It was wrecked and got towed yesterday.”

“The red Celica?”

“That's the one.”

“Nice car.”

Was a nice car.
I chuckle.

He points to our left. “It's on lot seven.”

Jayne nods and starts the trek to Johnny's car, weaving through rows of debris. I stay close to her side trying not to imagine the horrible, twisted metal deaths of those who didn't survive these accidents. I don't want to get harassed by anymore-dead people today.

When she spots Johnny's car, Jayne's shoulders slump in relief. She rushes over to it and rips open the passenger door, pulling a folded up plastic bag from her pocket. She clicks open the glove box and a tiny, yellow box nearly jumps out at her.

He left the crayons.

I look at Jayne. Judging from the look of shock on her face, she's already run the scene through her head. Casey's clear bag with the tip of that purple crayon.

Her hands shake as she reaches for the box and pulls open the top flap.

My breath catches, struggling to make its way out of my chest. I stare at the broken purple crayon resting there untouched like a serial killer's trophy.

Fifteen

Thoughts. Millions of them. Screaming through her head like live wires, firing neurons in her brain, bouncing around until nothing makes sense. Shock. Panic. Anger. The broken-record echo of terror.

Jayne's hands shake as she misdials a few times before she calls the only person she can trust. The phone rings and rings, eventually going to voicemail.

“Casey, this is Jayne.” Her voice is shattered by unshed tears. “I need to talk to you.” She disconnects and shoves the phone in her purse. With quiet resolve, she picks up the box of crayons and sprints back to her truck. My heart is racing. A part of me is glad someone finally found out. But another part of me hates that Jayne had to find it.

She floors the gas and we barrel through roads until we get to Wall Avenue. She heading for the mall. A nice, public place. She's a complete mess. Her jaw is clenched and all she can think about is Casey and the Ziploc bag. The tip. That broken little tip. The one that fits perfectly on the purple crayon inside the box. She looks down at the offending square of yellow cardboard resting comfortably on the worn red-and-brown braided seat.

Casey, please answer your phone,
she thinks.

She grabs her cell out of her purse and barely pays attention to the roads in the parking lot or her speed.

“Casey?” she cries when he answers. “Your dad gave me this number.” She explains like that even matters right now.

“I’m glad.” He grins an enormous smile on the other end.

“I need your help.”

His voice falters. “Are you okay?”

“It’s Jill.”

“Jill?” He’s confused.

“I think something happened to her.” She whips into a parking stall so fast the backend of the truck bounces over the curb and jolts her into the steering wheel.

Casey’s heart races. “Where are you?”

“The mall.” She scoots back and rolls her neck around and panics a little over the baby.

“Stay there. I’m coming.”

“I’m heading into the food court.”

“Is anyone with you?” He’s calculating the best route to get here.

“No, I’m alone.”

“I have to hang up for a few minutes. I’ve got to get my shoes on.” He reaches for a pair of sneakers and opens the front door. “I’ll be right there.”

“Hurry.” Her voice is full of anxiety.

“I will.” He hates himself for not having on shoes. “I promise, I’ll be right there.”

Jayne grabs the box of crayons and shoves them deep into her purse before slamming the truck door. She sprints inside and I race after her, trying to keep up. She ignores the hordes of people staring at the bruises on her face and settles down at a small table in front of Chic-fil-A.

The large clock ticks in the center of the room.

Five minutes have passed.

Don't worry. He's on his way.
I rest my hand on her forearm in an attempt to calm her. The vomit pooling in the back of her throat is unbearable and she swallows hard but it's not enough. She bolts to the bathroom.

I look toward the sliding glass doors. Casey will be here any minute and we can't lose track of him. He's the only one that listens. The only one with a sound mind. The doors open and a few people come inside. Casey's here. I can feel it.

I stare through the glass doors as Casey’s hair sparkles in the sun. He's standing next to his car in the parking lot and he's talking on the phone. In my periphery, Jayne walks out of the bathroom and ends a call. Casey puts his phone in his pocket.

He races inside the building and runs to Jayne, wrapping his arms around her. She shudders into his chest and finally lets out the tears she’s been holding back. Casey might as well be screaming his thoughts are so loud. He's pissed about the black eyes buried under layers of concealer.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet so as not to attract unwanted eavesdroppers.

“I'm fine.” She pulls back.

“Can I get you something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I don't feel well.” She crosses her arms across her stomach.

Ne nods and pauses, noticing a rigid couple staring at them from a few feet away. “I think we should order something. People are staring. I need you to relax if you can.”

She looks defeated and nods, slumping into her seat as Casey steps in line to order. I get as close to Jayne as I can without sitting on her lap. The skylight drops sun down on her shivering skin. She's not cold; she's in shock. But the warmth feels good and she closes her eyes.

Casey slides into the booth and Jayne's eyes pop open. “They didn't have OJ,” he says, sliding a large plastic cup full of soda in front of her, “but I got you a side order of sliced pickles.”

I smile at him. He remembered Jayne's weird cravings. And even though it's slowly dawning on him why she might be having those cravings, his opinion of her never wavers. He wants the responsibility. She's his whole life. I grab his hand, trying to get him to hold hers, but it doesn't budge.

“The sugar will help. You're shaking,” he says, gesturing to the cup.

“Casey—” Jayne's voice shatters. “I think Johnny...”

My heart bursts as I watch Jillian settle down in the empty seat beside Casey. She’s kicking her feet, appearing bored. I’m hoping if I ignore her, she won't want my attention.

Casey leans across the table toward Jayne. “Johnny what?”

Jayne bites her lip, stalling while she finds a way to broach the subject. “Tell me how you found the crayon,” she says finally.

He breathes out a slow breath. She caught him off guard. “What?” he gulps.

“How did you find the crayon?”