Jayne Doe (5 page)

The broken tip of the purple crayon.

It’s locked inside that plastic bag.

I focus on Casey, absorbing his words like a sponge.

“Jayne, I don’t think Jill died of asthma,” he says, very slowly, trying to read her.

Ha. Take that, Johnny.

She's still as stone.

“I found this inside her vaginal cavity.” He keeps his cool on the outside, but he’s completely losing it on the inside. If Mr. Mason finds out what he’s done. Or the cops. That idea petrifies him. Casey isn’t sure what to do. “I know how this sounds.”

Jayne grimaces.

“Please, trust me. I didn’t feel right about her autopsy,” he pleads. His body is soaking wet with perspiration. “I know how this looks.”

“How what looks?” my mother questions.

He shoves the bag into his suit coat pocket. The thrash of his pounding heart is loud enough to shatter glass. His mind is empty. He has nothing to say. He can’t stop thinking:
There is no way to explain what I’ve done.

“How what looks?” Mom repeats herself.

“Casey found something inside of Jill,” Jayne says, uncertainty flashes across her face.

“
Inside
?” A barrage of thoughts run through her mind and her face doesn’t hide what she’s thinking.

“Mom, he found part of a crayon in her private part.” Jayne blushes. She can’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. She knows this going to cause attention the family doesn’t need.

“Oh, brother.” Mom pulls on her coat. “I could’ve gone the rest of my life without picturing that.”

“Pardon?” Casey is speechless at her reaction.

“Well, we all know Jill wasn’t getting any.”

What?

Casey furrows his brow. “I don’t think I quite follow what you’re saying.”

“Mom,” Jayne says, understanding what Mom's thinking.

“Fat girls don’t get attention from boys,” Mom says it loud enough everyone in the room can hear. “They—they take care of themselves.”

Are you kidding me? You think
I
put it there?

“Gross.” Martha looks up from her cell phone.

Billy can’t stop thinking of all the times I was alone in my room and what I was doing. He shudders.

“It’s time to go home,” Jayne says, holding back tears. “I am so sick of our family making fools of ourselves.”

“Damn it, Jayne.” Mom lunges toward her, but Casey holds Mom back. “That’s the second time in an hour you’ve pulled this shit on me.”

“Mom, I just—”

Mr. Mason interrupts, “I think it’s time for everyone to leave.” He lifts his brow and gives Casey one of those see-what-I-mean looks.

I’m mortified.

I want to crawl under a rock and die, except I’m already dead.

Leave it to my mother to find a way to humiliate me even after my death.

Six

I beat them home from the mortuary. Mom is probably taking her sweet time at Sinclair grabbing a six-pack. My hopes are high she won’t start drinking before they get to the house. I need to vent, which requires her full concentration.

The old Pontiac Grand Prix pulls into the drive.

They slowly get out. Much too slow for my liking. I’m ready. Fired up with all sorts of ammunition. Stuff I’ve had on my chest for years.

Mom slouches as her feet hit the concrete under the carport.

I take a whiff.

She’s not drunk. Yet.

She shudders from the cold and Jayne helps her in the house like an old crippled lady. I can’t stand how helpless she chooses to be. She doesn’t deserve a kid as good as Jayne. She deserves Billy and Martha. All the lies, drama, and bullshit they put her through. That’s what she deserves.

Mom twists the plastic sack from her wrist and sets it down next to the couch. She settles against the lime-and-brown flowered armrest and then drops to the cushions before she wrestles to get her coat off.

“Here, let me help,” Jayne says, setting mom free. “Can I get you anything?”

Don’t get her crap, Jayne; she doesn’t deserve it.

“The remote.” Mom twists the ribbed cap off her 40-ounce Bud Light.

Yeah, go for the big boys tonight. Pretend they’ll take you away. Maybe they won’t hurt you as bad as the real men you made a name with in town. Hide in here like nobody knows a thing about your life.

They know, Mom.

“The whole damn town knows.” I scream at the top of my lungs.

Jayne crosses in front of me and drapes my mother in a dull orange afghan. Probably something my mother made when she was a kid. It reeks of sweat and vodka.

What’s that? You hate that your blanket stinks? Oh, I’m sorry, Jayne doesn’t have time to take care of your crap since she slaves away cleaning up Johnny’s.

Oh, Jayne didn’t tell you? Well then, let me. You know that sweet little receptionist job she told everyone about?

She’s the janitor.

The clean-up-and kiss-ass janitor. But that wouldn’t make you proud would it, Mom?
You rotten old hag. Jayne only did what Jayne does best. She fabricated the story to make you happy. I bet you didn’t even know she does this for everyone? That’s the way she is, Mom. She has to be.

Tears roll down my cheeks.

I’m trembling now.

I’m dead and I’m trembling. Weird.

Don’t you see how hard it was for me, Mom? The kids made fun of me because of the way you smelled. You thought nobody noticed, but they did.

My mind can’t stop thinking about grade school. I suddenly feel embarrassed because I remember standing by the dumpsters hoping nobody would notice if I snuck a few lunch leftovers. Those were the days I went without lunch because Jayne couldn’t get Mom settled before we went to school. I hated those days.

I grind my teeth at the memory of hamburger gravy, slopped over a half-eaten roll, mixed with bits of sand from the playground.

Yuck.

I close my eyes and try to make it go away.

“I needed you, Mom,” I say in a hushed voice because I’m afraid someone else will know what I’m thinking.

Mom’s eyes are glassy now. She’s where she wants to be: checked out. Her weathered face is somewhat of a surprise. It’s been a long time since I’ve looked at her this closely. The strands of gray are starting to show through the bleached mess on her head. It’s amazing she has any hair left with all the damage she’s caused. She looks old. Older than I remember her looking a few days ago.

I hate that you’re getting old.
I suddenly feel bad.
I don’t want you to die alone. I’m sorry I thought those things, Mom. I’m just mad. It’s not your fault. You didn’t know Johnny was a dirt bag. Nobody did.

Nobody does.

I reach down and clutch her hands, balking at her hidden memories. Her father beating her mother and then holding a shotgun to her mother’s head while she watched in horror. Mom jumps up first to try and stop him. She took the worst poundings because he hated her. He hated her for ruining his high-school football days and any future plans of a career in the sport. He hated her for growing in her mother’s sixteen-year-old belly. That’s when he started drinking. Then the wedding. Then more babies. Then her mother stopped having babies. He knew she’d done something to make that happen. That made him angrier because he wasn’t in control. And instead of getting help, he took it out on my mother. His oldest daughter.

I pull away my betraying hands.

No more.

I don’t want to see anymore.

I keep my distance. Afraid any part of her will take me back to that world again. A tender smell of Jovan musk seeps from under the blankets. Her eyes are heavy now. She’s starting to sweat. At any moment she’ll black out and forget today ever happened.

I focus as hard as I can, trying not to relive her life, and move in closer, grabbing her hand before she has a chance to get away.

I need to know one thing.

Did you ever love me?

The vision of what I’m searching for is cloudy. Then I see it. She’s at the hospital. Or I think it’s the hospital. She’s in a wheel chair rolling down the hallway. Yes, it’s a hospital, I can tell by the smell. I was just born. I’m in the nursery behind a glass window. She taps on the window. Someone is holding me. It’s not the doctor. And I don’t think it’s any of the staff.

I concentrate harder.

It’s my dad.

Everything inside of me knows it’s him.

I stare into coffee brown eyes so much like mine.

He’s a bit on the plump side with olive skin. Just like me.

My heart rattles with excitement.

It’s my dad. It’s really him.

Mom taps the window harder. I lose focus of my dad and stare at her crying. The nurses come. Dad swaggers to the hallway. Mom screams. There’s complete commotion. My dad doesn’t want to take on three other kids. He only wants me.

Nobody has ever wanted me.

Except for Jayne.

Mom is angry. This was her chance. The last chance she had at finding a father for all of us. The doctor did something so she can’t have babies anymore. Just like her mother.

She’s holding me now, alone in the room crying. She resents me. The resentment strains any form of love or bond we’ll ever have.

The door opens.

A nurse walks in with Jayne and some other lady.

Jayne squeals with delight like a normal five-year-old.

The moment she looks at me it’s magic. We’re bonded. Every part of me knows this bond will never break. Not in life. Not in death. She’s my sister. Nothing can destroy that.

“I love you, Jayne,” I whisper.

In seconds I’m out of mom’s vision and into Jayne’s bedroom. She’s kneeling in the middle of her floor holding a Payless box in her hands. The black lid is resting on her bony knee and she's perched in the middle of a secret collection. She’s sobbing. I can’t believe the things she’s kept over the years. My first tooth. Sick. There’s Christmas. And Halloween. Even St. Patrick’s Day when she dyed her hands green, making me believe that a leprechaun had poisoned her. I cried for hours that day. And she felt awful for making me so upset.

Jayne leans forward, crushing the box with her heavy sobs. Her tears drip onto the blue shag carpet.

“It’s okay, Jayne, I’m right here,” I whisper in her ear. “I’m never going to leave you.”

I look up to the ceiling. The outline of the tunnel is disappearing. I don’t even try to stop it.

I’m sorry, Stephen.
I think back, realizing how much this will hurt him.

Seven

After last night, I’m exhausted. I need a break from the onslaught. The creaky, sagging front porch is empty and I escape to fresh air. When I was alive, my bedroom was a reprieve; I could get away from everything. But now, I’m stuck—stuck in everyone’s thoughts and feelings, and they won’t shut off.

Jayne pulls mom up from the couch. Life is already going back to normal. I should probably feel insulted or something, but I don’t. I just feel like a bigger outcast than when I had no choice but to live in there with them.

Wind whips against my face. It doesn’t make me cold, nor does it bother me, but it should. I should be freezing out here on the porch. I close my eyes and try to remember what bone-shattering cold feels like, but my skin is immune to the chill. I just feel normal. Death is normal.

I wonder if I'm going crazy.

Jayne walks out the front door pulling me from my inner sanatorium. She’s craving McDonald’s. It’s the only reason for leaving the warm house. The thought of her intense hunger makes me yearn for fast food and I chuckle a strange, disembodied laugh. It feels foreign in my throat, the tinkling sound getting lost in the wind.

I follow her to the old Ford pickup she bought a few months ago. She scrapes crusted ice from the window, standing on her tiptoes to make a perfect, small circle. Just enough to see out the front. She hopes the defroster will clear what’s stuck on the back and sides. She’s cold and annoyed with winter.

I jump into the passenger seat next to her and we creep over speed bumps as she cusses about not being able to see. I giggle and take in every bit of her. The strawberry shampoo. Vanilla lotion. Covergirl powder. Even the thin coat of mascara with no clumps on her lashes. She hasn’t cried today. This makes me happy. Like Jayne can bring normal to something that’s not.

She hums a soft melody as she pulls onto the main road. As we pass the Sinclair, the old roadside sign with missing letters shows it has pizza sticks on sale for 89 cents. I brush my tongue against the roof of my mouth. No patience with a loaded pizza stick is never a good thing. Definitely scalds the mouth.

Jayne pulls up to the drive-thru.

“Welcome to McDonald’s. Would you like to try one of our Peppermint Mocha Lattes?”

She doesn’t hesitate. “No, thanks. Can I get a number one with an orange juice?”

Big Mac. Good Choice. But orange juice? I would’ve ordered a coke. The carbonated bubbles burning the back of my throat. Now that’s a memory. Jayne seems to have this crazy craving for OJ. That’s what got her out of the house, not McDonald’s.
Orange juice. Go figure.

“First window, please.”

“Thank you.” Jayne pulls forward, takes out a ten-dollar bill, and rattles around in the ashtray for the exact change. “I bet you’re freezing with this cold weather?” She’s polite and tries to make conversation.

“Nah, they have a heater right here.” The short little brunette points to the ceiling.

“Nice.” Jayne smiles and nods before driving to the second window, where a young guy hands her that delightful white sack with golden arches. I can feel myself slipping back into human mode. I want to shove a fistful of warm, fresh-out-of-the-grease, heavily-salted fries down my throat. I can barely contain the urgency to touch the bag. I know that’s all it takes. One tiny little touch to enjoy every taste through memory.

But I won’t.

I’ll wait for Jayne, and enjoy it through her experience.

She shoves the clear cup of bright orange juice between her thighs before creeping out of the parking lot.