The Book of Jane (11 page)

Chapter 14

I
wake
up the next morning and sleepily look across the room. There is no sound. For a moment, I worry that I'm deaf. And then a wonderful realization settles over me. I'm not deaf. I'm just alone. I'm alone in the most peaceful place in the world. Well, maybe not
the
most peaceful place, as a monastery in the Alps where the monks have all taken a vow of silence and just make cheese all day might be a smidge quieter, but still it's very peaceful. I haven't been this relaxed in ages. I take a deep slow breath and lazily talk to God about all the goings-on in my life, curious to see if he has any thoughts he'd like to interject.

After an hour of lying around in bed, I saunter over to the Jacuzzi and begin to fill it up for a bath. As I stare out the bathroom window, though, I hear a knock. I open the door, and Lee bursts into the hotel room. I should never have given him the room number, but when I called to see about Charlie he demanded to know all the details.

“So it's true,” he says, looking around. He walks to the window and takes in the view. “Wow.”

“It's pretty cool, huh? Check out the minibar. Toblerone!” I laugh, pointing out the chocolate bar inside the mini-fridge. I pull it out and begin to unwrap the foil.

Lee spins around, taking in the sumptuous room. “You're telling me you really don't know who is paying for all of this, Jane?” he asks skeptically.

I take a bite of the chocolate and chew. I shrug.

“Dunno,” I say.

He watches me. “When you find out who this sugar daddy is, can you make some requests for me? Meanwhile, I am going to do some research,” he says, nodding. “And FYI, the contractor was pumping water out of your place all day yesterday. I peeked in, and you could probably come back now. It still smells a little funny, but it's technically livable again.” I nod. Though the front desk told me I was welcome to stay as long as I needed, I do feel weird living off the generosity of an unknown donor. It's been nice, but I guess it's time to get back to reality.

“And I've decided to help you get to the bottom of this article about you in
Star Power
.”

“Lee, aren't you supposed to be at work?”

“Sick day.” He pretends to cough. “We have important business to attend to, Jane.”

“What's that?”

“You wanted to clear your name, right?” He pulls a yellow legal pad out of his bag and sits down on the edge of the bed. I take a seat on the desk chair across from him and nod. “So we have to figure out who is responsible for the article,” he says.

“You want breakfast?” I ask, tossing him the room service menu from the desk. “It's free.”

He shakes his head. “Had a smoothie earlier,” he says. “Your blender still works, by the way.”

“Great.”

“Who are the primary suspects?” Lee pulls out a pen and begins to chew on the end.

“I don't really have any suspects,” I sigh. “That's the thing.”

“Think, Jane. If we can figure out who planted that story and why, we can get them to print a retraction and clear your name.” He picks up the menu absently and begins to read. “Then they have to give you your job back.”

“That would be nice,” I say. “But even if we do figure out who did it, I don't know if they will take me back.”

“Of course they will,” he says, undeterred. “You do want your job back, right?”

I look down at my hands for a second, thinking. “Of course I do.”

“Good. Then I need you to think hard. What can you remember about the times those photos were taken? What stands out to you? And can you call down for some croissants and mimosas after all?”

“Of course.” I pick up the phone, ask Eric in room service to send up the breakfast, and turn back to Lee.

“The only clue I can think of is that there was this girl with red hair who was always around when I was with Matt Sherwin,” I say, inspecting my split ends. “She had this curly auburn hair, and she was always watching him. But I don't know who she is or if there is any connection.”

“Curly red hair. Got it. It's a start.”

“Lee?”

“Remember anything else?

“Lee, I really appreciate this, but why are you so into clearing my name?”

“That's what friends do, Miss Jane,” he says, putting his hands on his hips. “Besides, I have a vested interest in making sure you can pay your mortgage,” he says and laughs. “If you leave, who knows what kind of psycho might move in? I might get stuck with some guy with a nutcracker collection living above me or something. Plus, I'd miss Charlie. So you see, I have to make sure you stick around.” I laugh a little at his ridiculousness, but I sense there's something he's not saying.

“Lee,” I say, pushing my hair back behind my ear, “how's your mom doing?”

He looks at me, then looks away quickly. He's quiet, and his silence speaks volumes. Oh, Mary Sue. All of a sudden, my problems seem ridiculously small.

“So where do you think we should start looking for the girl with the red hair?” he finally says, smiling. “I have a contact at Condé Nast, which owns
Star Power
, so I'll see if I can find anything out that way. Any other ideas?”

 

The
smell of mildew still permeates the air, and the mold on the walls has spread, but the floor is dry, and the contractor has cleaned up most of the debris and nailed a thick sheet of plastic around the broken skylight. Elvis stands in the corner, silently mocking me. I sigh as I walk into the bedroom. It's not going to be pleasant, but I can stay here. I begin to strip the damp linens off my bed and replace them with dry sheets from the closet, but I stop. While I have been lolling about on Egyptian cotton, Mary Sue has been fighting for her life downstairs. I have to go see her.

I knock on Lee's door, but there is no answer. He must be at work, and I don't know if Auntie Di is still around or if she's gone back to New Jersey. I run upstairs, grab my key to Lee's, then slip it in the lock, and push the door open. The apartment is dark and cool, and Charlie is sleeping on the couch. I walk over to him and kiss and nuzzle him awake. The joy on his face brings tears to my eyes. And then I know that he can help me with my plan.

“C'mon, buddy,” I say, and he follows me to Mary Sue's bedroom door, which is slightly ajar. I push it open to see Mary Sue, asleep on the bed. Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles weakly when she sees me.

“I'm just gettin' my beauty sleep,” she says, pushing herself up as she smiles at me. She looks very pale and frighteningly thin in the dim light. “How are you, shug?”

I walk over and sit on the edge of the bed. I pick Charlie up, and just like a trained therapy dog, he kisses her face and nuzzles into her body for a little nap. She baby-talks to him for a moment.

“I'm fine,” I say, smiling at her. “Just fine.” She smiles at me, reaching for a glass of water on the nightstand. Her fingers tremble, and the glass slips out of her hand, landing with a crash on the floor.

“Oh fudge,” she mumbles under her breath, but I motion for her to stay where she is and walk to the kitchen to get a towel to wipe it up. On the counter is a whole row of little bottles filled with different pills.

After I have the spill wiped up and hand her another glass of water, I take a seat on the floral-print wingback chair in the bedroom that I know isn't Lee's. Mary Sue assures me that there isn't anything she needs and lies back against the pillows. And then I have an idea. I start out slowly at first because I'm really not much of a storyteller but after a while, I get the hang of it. I talk for a good while, regaling her with stories from my childhood, about the time I booby-trapped Jim's bedroom or when I fell down at my five-year-old dance recital and played it off as a modern dance move, hoping that I will take her mind off of things like she did for me that night. And after an hour, she has a small smile on her face. She pats my hand and looks at me seriously.

“Shug, there is something you can do for me if you really want to help,” she says quietly. “I'd understand if you want to say no. But I'm havin' a hard time getting around these days, and while my sister was here, she helped me get a bath. But now that it's just Lee—well, you can see why he'd feel weird about that.”

For a moment, I feel like I can't do it. God, I am not ready for this. I am not strong enough. What if she falls? What if something goes wrong? But I know I have to. I can do this for my friend. “Of course,” I say and give her a smile.

And as I lower Mary Sue into the tub, I think about how blessed I am, even now. Especially now. Sometimes, in our darkest hour, God gives us the most beautiful moments of grace.

 

After
a seemingly eternal stay in the poshest waiting room I've ever seen, I am finally called into the examining room of the dermatologist the concierge recommended. At least I had time to call my insurance company to see how much of the repairs and furniture they would pay for. And I got in contact with the contractor working on my apartment, who told me they would be able to fix the skylight by the weekend. But my joy at the good news is crushed as soon as I see Dr. Singer's face. He looks at me and his eyes light up.

“I've never seen it this bad,” he says by way of introduction, leaning in to get a close look at my skin. “That's amazing!” He turns on the small light over my head and leans in for a better look, a look of pure rapture on his face. “I'll be right back,” he says, turning quickly and walking out the door. “Hey, Lenny, come get a look at this!” he yells, and I cringe. So it's true. I have some rare infectious flesh-eating disease, and I will be horribly disfigured for the rest of my life. Suddenly I feel for Cyrano de Bergerac. At least me and Elephant Man can hang out. Oh, wait. He's dead. I sigh. I'm all alone.

Lenny comes rushing in in a white lab coat. He breaks into a grin when he sees my rash. “What a mess!” he shrieks happily, looking closely. “This is one for the textbooks! China, get the camera!” he yells over his shoulder. A young nurse's aide comes into the room carrying a professional-grade camera, probably bought by the doctors in the hopeful anticipation of this very moment. I am a circus freak on display for the legions of dermatologists to come through medical school in the next few decades. Like Jessica Simpson, I am so bad that I am good.

“Is it treatable?” I ask.

Four pairs of eyes—who is this new doctor come to gawk?—turn on me at once. They look at me as if I'm a complete moron.

“Of course it is,” Dr. Singer says, shaking his head. “It's just impetigo. Kids get it all the time.” He shrugs. “All it takes is a round of antibiotics to kill it. It's so easily treatable that it never gets to be this bad,” he says, leaning in again to admire the mutant nature of my skin. “Did you put anything on it?”

“I used some drying cream,” I say. The room erupts in laughter.

“Drying cream?” the new arrival laughs. “That's the worst thing you could use. Drying cream!” He chuckles like it's the best joke he's heard in years.

Dr. Singer looks gleeful as he hands me a prescription. “Don't worry,” he scolds, seeing my distress, “you'll be fine in a day or two.” I swear I hear someone whisper, “What a shame.”

“Really, immensely fascinating,” Lenny murmurs from the corner. I slowly get up to leave, hoping these crazy people will leave me alone. China blocks the doorway with her gigantic camera. “Can we just get some more pictures before you go?”

I am
still lying in bed at home when my cell phone rings. I reach over and grab it, then put it back down when I see it's my mom calling. Ugh. We haven't spoken since I left their house in a huff the day my roof caved in. I let it go to voicemail. I can't deal with her right now. I roll over and try to muster the energy to go to the library and e-mail my résumé for some job postings I saw online yesterday. I need to get a new computer, fast.

A few minutes later, it rings again. Mom. Great. She's stalking me now. I ignore it.

Three minutes later, it rings again. Why can't she just leave me a voicemail? What could be so important that she has to speak to me this minute? Did she have another revelation about how I can win Ty back?

The first ring of her fourth call is enough to drive me to distraction. I flip the phone open in desperation. “Mom?”

“Oh, hi Jane dear,” my mom says. “Did I catch you at a bad time?” Her saccharine voice makes me want to scream.

“No,” I sigh. She doesn't seem at all concerned that I have obviously been ignoring her calls.

“Honey, I know you're mad at me, but I really hope you can forgive me.” I sigh. After how she treated me, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. But then, she is my mother. What else can I do?

“Okay, Mom,” I say simply.