The Book of Jane (19 page)

“Definitely not yellow,” he says, striding confidently into my living room. “It smells great in here.”

I walk the flowers to the kitchen, where I take down a vase and begin to cut the stems. “You are going to be so proud of me,” I smile. “We have fresh linguine, and I prepared a salad, and I even made dessert.”

“I am impressed,” he says, laughing. “All this from the girl who didn't know the difference between cream of tartar and tartar sauce a week ago?”

“Who uses cream of tartar these days?” I shrug. “Thanks for the flowers.”

“You're very welcome,” he says, reaching to take the cut stems from the counter and walks to the trash can. He steps on the metal foot and pauses as the lid lifts.

“Jane?” He grins at me.

Uh-oh. I try to look innocent.

“Next time you pretend to cook, be sure to hide the takeout containers better.”

“Takeout containers?! How did those get there?!” I say, my face reddening. I look at Coates. He's not buying it. “I did make the salad,” I say. “And the dessert. Smell the oven if you don't believe me.”

Coates leans over and kisses my forehead. “I can't wait to try the dessert,” he says, winking. And though I know I should hate him, I can't help but smile.

 

“
That
was disgusting,” I say, gagging.

“Truly terrible,” he agrees, nodding.

“I swear I didn't know there was a difference between baker's chocolate and semi-sweet.”

“I believe you.” He grimaces.

The lights are low, and the fire is smoldering in the fireplace, and I feel content. I take a sip of wine and smile, enjoying the sense of peace. Coates smiles at me and leans in, his face only inches from mine.

“So what's with the T-shirt, Plain Jane?” Coates asks, smiling at me. I look down. Oh no. I had forgotten I was wearing this old thing. “You're not plain,” he says, stroking my hair.

“It's ironic,” I say. I cross my legs and face him, leaning forward just a little.

“Or false advertising,” he says softly, touching the sleeve. He trails his fingers down my arm. I don't pull it away.

“This is my around-the-house uniform.” I say, looking up at him. “I've worn it for years. Isn't it hilarious?” I beam at him. “Plus, I only just got it back. Tyson had been holding it hostage—” Coates flinches. “Anyway, I have it back now and I wear it when I'm just hanging around, or when I'm cleaning, or, like, when I am pretending to cook dinner.” He leans back and looks at me, like he's studying me. I shift away uncomfortably. It almost looks like he's frowning.

“Tyson.” He nods. “I confess, I hadn't factored him in. I'm good at reading you, but I guess I'm not perfect.”

“It's just something I used to wear at his apartment,” I say, shrugging. The mood of the room had changed perceptibly. Time to change the subject. “He's gone now. He lives in Denver.” I get up. “Would you like some coffee?” I ask, going around the counter. “I have regular and decaf, although I will admit I'll think less of you if go for decaf,” I laugh. He doesn't smile.

“You're not over Ty.”

“What? Yes I am,” I insist, sitting back down, my voice getting higher with each syllable. “I'm completely over him.”

“What color are his eyes?”

“Blue,” I answer, and immediately regret it. Coates is narrowing his eyes, looking at me. “We dated for over two years. I have to know that,” I say. He doesn't move.

“When was the last time you heard from him?”

I sigh. Do we really have to go into all of this? “Last week. I was on a group e-mail with about a hundred other people.”

“Saying?”

“He's coming back to town. He's giving a reading from his novel in the East Village next week.” I shrug.

“Are you going to go?”

“I hadn't decided.”

“Hm.” He looks down at his hands.

“He drinks decaf.”

The joke falls flat.

We're both silent. I stare at the fire, watching the flames dance and spin. Is there a grain of truth in what he's saying? I get up quickly. “How about that coffee?”

“Yes, please,” he says without looking up. “Decaf.”

 

I slide
behind a table in the back of the bar just as Ty begins to read. His blond hair falls over his eyes, and he pushes it aside absently with his hand. His voice is quiet. Faltering. He's nervous.

I look around slowly. The interior of the bar is dark and crammed with tables stuffed in every square foot of the room. A stage is set up with a microphone up front. Off to the side is a table loaded with autographed books for sale. A young man in a tie, who I recognize as Ty's editor, is flipping through a stack of papers. Some of the tables are occupied by young-looking hipsters with greasy hair and tight, dirty jeans. I recognize a few of Ty's friends from college and look away quickly. Maybe they won't see me.

The turnout is pretty good. A few empty tables, but the bar is definitely doing good business by having Ty read here tonight. I signal the waiter and order a red wine.

I am not sure why I am here. Of course I am proud of Ty. And I am excited for him. And, well, with all the time I spent listening to him talk about the book, rejoicing with him when he found an agent, and struggling through the revisions with him, I guess it just feels like this book is partly mine too.

Maybe I shouldn't have come.

Ty coughs, and the microphone amplifies the sound. I hope he's not getting sick. He always gets sick this time of year.

The waiter places my wine and a little napkin in front of me. I take a sip gratefully. This feels weird. But it is good to see him again. I watch him intently. He begins to relax a bit, visibly straightening up, and his voice gets louder and more natural as he gets used to being onstage. He looks up and glances around the front of the room. He continues to read. I remember when he was writing this part about the baby. He looks up again and sees me in the back of the room. He catches my eye. He smiles, then looks back down quickly. One of his college friends turns around to look and, seeing me, gives me a small wave. I wave back and then slide lower in my chair.

When he finishes, the bar erupts in applause. Ty beams, his handsome face lit up with pleasure. I grab my coat and purse and make a break for the door.

“Excuse me,” I say to a man at the table squashed next to mine, motioning that I would like to get out. He is too busy clapping to notice. “Excuse me,” I repeat, louder this time. He turns and gives me a look of annoyance. Slowly, very deliberately showing how difficult I'm making his life, he grasps the edge of his table and slides it over a few inches. I try to edge through the space between the tables, but it's far too small. He looks at me. “I'm sorry,” I say. He sighs loudly and stands up, pulling the table back just enough for me to slide through. I don't bother to thank him as I hurry toward the door.

“Jane.” I stop. It's him. Behind me. “I'm so glad you made it,” Ty says, putting his hand on my shoulder. I turn around to face him. He looks happy.

“Congratulations, Ty.” I don't know what else to do, so I lean in and give him a hug. He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me close. “You did an amazing job,” I say, pulling back.

“Thanks,” he says, his deep voice so familiar. “Are you leaving already?”

“Uh,” I say. “I have this thing I have to get to, and—”

“Stay,” he says, cocking his head and smiling the same charming smile that made me fall in love with him. “Please?”

I am tempted. This is his big night, the night we dreamed of for two years. And he's being so sweet. He's my friend, after all, a part of my life for so long. And the way he's looking at me…I look around at the crowd of people waiting to give him their congratulations.

I nod. “I'll be here,” I say, pointing at a new table. I'm not going near that grouchy guy again. Ty beams, then turns back toward the crowd. I sit down, pull a book from my purse, and start to read.

I don't look up again until the crowd has thinned. Ty is smiling for pictures with his friends. He catches my eye and gestures that he'll be right over. Five minutes later he pulls out the chair across the table and sits down. He smiles at me.

“So,” I say, placing a bookmark between the pages. “How's Denver?” I put my book back in my bag.

“It's nice,” he says, looking down at the table. “The mountains are beautiful. I've got a giant apartment, right downtown,” he says, looking back up at me. “It's less than half of what I was paying here.” He smiles. “And I got a dog.”

“A dog?”

“A mutt I found at the pound,” he laughs. “I named him Brian.” Ty reaches for the napkin lying on the table and starts doodling on it nervously with his book-signing pen.

“Have you been writing?”

He looks at me through the bangs still hanging over his eyes and shakes his head. “I haven't been able to write much.” He takes a deep breath. “Jane, I miss you.”

I look down at my hands, resting on the table. I don't want him to see the terror in my face or the tears welling up in my eyes. “Jane, I—” he swallows. “I think I made a huge mistake.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and panic for a moment. I must think of something else. Anything else. I look at my hands again. My fingernails. Good. Perfect. Look at those cuticles. I need to do something about that.

“Jane?” I can hear the quiver in his voice.

It's definitely time for a manicure. That's what I'm going to think about. Manicure. Not man. Manicure.

“That night, at your apartment…You felt it too. I know you did.”

Maybe I'll go for something dramatic to announce how carefree I am. Fire Engine Red.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

What am I thinking? I try to block out this question but it gets through. I am thinking that this is the man I thought I would marry. That this is the man who broke my heart. That I know better now.

“I went to the airport, Ty.” I look up from my hands and into his beautiful blue eyes. I take a deep breath. Ty leans in closer. “I went there to try to win you back.” He places his hands on top of mine, and I am too bewildered and distraught to know what to do about it. “I brought an elephant.” The confusion is apparent on his face, but he doesn't interrupt. “I wanted to stop you from getting on the plane. So I went. I bought a ticket for your flight and everything.” He begins to rub my hands with his thumb, and he leans in closer. I sit silently for a minute.

“But I couldn't do it,” I say finally. “I couldn't make you stay. It wasn't going to work, and I knew it.” I shake my head. “I mean, what would you have done if I had come up to you in the airport, holding a giant pink stuffed elephant I got at Coney Island, and asked you to try to make it work one more time?”

He looks at me intently. “I would have said yes.” He rubs my hands and smiles at me, and I can't make myself look away. “I knew even then that I was making a mistake. That I could never be happy without you,” he says, interlacing our fingers. “Why didn't you stop me?”

I bite my lip and pull my eyes away from his. I look around the room slowly. A girl with a guitar is setting up on the stage. The bar is getting more crowded, and…I freeze. By the door, in a long black coat. Coates. Watching me and Ty. He looks me hard in the face. He turns quickly, holding his head up as he walks out the door.

“Because somewhere deep down, I knew all along that no matter how much I loved you, it wasn't going to work,” I say, watching Coates disappear. “And I was finally honest with myself.”

Chapter 22

I
hear
a knock at my door and open it to Lee, his face swollen. I don't say anything, but take him in. He holds a long, crumpled piece of paper and a pen. He is barefoot and wearing gray sweat pants and a T-shirt. His eyes are bloodshot, and his always-immaculate hair is greasy and flat on one side.

“Hi,” I say. I dread what he will say. Something in my gut tells me that I already know what this look on his face means. It speaks of one thing. Death.

He nods at me. That is our sign. It's finished. Mary Sue has succumbed to the disease. I shut the door behind me and hold him. I hear him drop the paper and pen to cling to me tighter. I feel incapable of tears. I'm stunned and feel hollow inside. But he sobs angrily into my shoulder. I hold him tightly and think of her. I remember how Mary Sue smelled. I remember her talking about her cotillion, and I remember her teasing Lee, playing with Charlie, making me feel like it was all going to be okay.

How small my problems really are. How brave she was.

“I'm so sorry,” I mumble, knowing it can never help. “She was an amazing woman, Lee.”

“Don't,” he says simply.

I nod and continue to hold him, letting the tears fall freely. We stand like that for a long time, holding each other, when Lee finally leans back and wipes his nose on his T-shirt. He sniffs and brushes his hair back from his face.

“Why is this happening to me, Jane? It's too much.”

“Lee—” I say and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You know, when my father died, I took that well. Sure I was the only kid without a father in middle school, but I was brave. I still had my mother, and she was so amazing she was practically a father
and
a mother to me.”

God, what can I do to help him? Guide my words.

“But now, now, the universe takes her from me. The only parent I have left.” He begins to pace a little in the hallway. “We're only in our twenties, Jane. A grandparent might die, sure, that happens, but not our parents. Not yet. And not mine,” he yells as he finishes. He punches the wall with his hand and then cups it into his stomach in pain.

I go to him and look at his red hand. His face is tear-streaked and blotchy. He takes big gulps of air, trying to recover from the crying and yelling.

“I'm so sorry,” I whisper, tears running down my face.

“It's not fair.” I look down and think of how soft Mary Sue's hands were. I think about her wonderful, ladylike laugh, the way her stories always had a moral hidden inside. He covers his face with his hands and breathes in and out a few times. Then he stumbles back and, coming in contact with the wall, slides down. He coils into a little ball on the floor. I squat down next to him and put a hand on his forearm.

“Lee?” He doesn't look up. I rub his arm a little. “She was in a lot of pain.” I cringe at the image of her attached to machines. “She's free from that now. She's in a better place.”

Something about that seems to get through to him. He looks up from his knees and sighs. “She did believe that, you know,” he says. “She told me she was ready to go because she knew that the other life was a good one.” He seems a little relieved to think of it. I nod and help him up. We hug in the hallway for a while, crying on each other's shoulders.

“Jane,” he says through sobs. “I need a favor.”

“Anything,” I say.

He stoops down and picks up the pen and paper he had when he first came up. We open the door to go inside. I stub my toe on the couch because I can barely see through the film of tears in my eyes.

Lee sits on my couch and takes a deep, shaky breath. He holds my hand and rolls his lips in to steady himself. “She looked good, Jane. At the end. She looked good.”

I sob quietly, unable to look up at him.

“I had never seen death, but at least,” his voice trails off for a moment, “for my mom it looked sweet and peaceful. I never got to see my dad like that.”

I nod and go to get my box of tissues. We both help ourselves to big handfuls of them. I need to be stronger for Lee. He needs me now. Mary Sue told me to take care of him. I finally make eye contact with him.

“What can I do?” I ask.

He points to the beaten-up piece of paper in my hand. I look at it. It is tearstained and covered in beautiful, delicate cursive penmanship. “She left me that.”

Lee Bordereaux Colbert,

If you are reading this then I've finally slipped on the great banana peel of life and landed smack dab in the grave. That's a joke, shug. Try to laugh. Please don't sit around too long making a big ol' fuss over me. Remember a small fuss is respectable. Anything more than that and you're just a-wasting your precious time and probably making a fool of yourself to boot.

I know I'll be happy on the other side, drinking lemonade with your dear, sweet daddy again, watching you get up to all kinds of trouble and being proud of you. Shug, we both love you with all our hearts and will always be with you. You know how when you pass someone or a restaurant or a store and something about it, boom, shoots through you and makes you think of home, or biscuits, or the bicycle you had growing up? Well, that's just us passing you by, tapping you on the shoulder, telling you we're always thinking about you, son.

You were the best boy a mama could have hoped for and I'm real proud of you. So stand tall and make us proud of you from Heaven. I know you will.

Love,
Mama

P.S. On the back of this you will find a list of people you are to call and invite to the funeral. I figured I'd better write it out for you. You'd forget your own head if it weren't attached to your body.

By the time I finish the letter my face is streaked with hot tears. When Lee sees me it sets him off too. We grab more tissues, pull ourselves together, and then sit quietly for a moment, while I feel her presence there in the room with us.

“She was really one of a kind, Lee,” I say.

“I know,” he says. “The postscript just about sums it up.”

I nod and try not to well up with tears again.

“I just hoped that maybe you could sit with me here while I made the first call,” he says.

I flip over the paper and see what must be close to one hundred people he needs to contact.

“I'm scared,” he says. I reach out and hold his hand. “I'm scared to call people, I'm scared of life without her.”

I give his hands a squeeze. I swallow back a big lump in my throat and muster all of her I can in my voice. “She raised you right, Lee. It's going to be fine. And I'll be beside you.”

He looks at me with a half smile.

“I promise,” I say. “Now go get that phone. We have to throw her a funeral that Charleston will never forget.”