The Book of Jane (10 page)

Chapter 12

T
he doorman
eyes me warily as I wheel myself into the lobby of the Four Seasons. I feel like I have a sign taped to my back that says, “Satan's Plaything” or even just “Kick Me,” but I try to hold my head up and at least pretend I belong here. And just a few days ago this wouldn't have been a stretch for me. But I'm painfully aware of my disheveled state now. No matter. The Four Seasons called
me
.
They
invited
me
, not the other way around. I'll just check in and go and repair myself upstairs.

I stop dead still after my first few steps into the lobby, fully appreciating how gauche my blue Saucony sneakers look here. They seemed so retro cool when I bought them. But this place is breathtaking. I feel as though I have stumbled into a modern Egyptian mausoleum. It is dim and cool inside, but lit so magically from within that everyone looks beautiful in such friendly lighting. The marble floors are covered by huge rugs, and on the desk stands a large bouquet of fragrant, exotic flowers. I don't think I ever appreciated how beautiful it was all of those years that I worked at Glassman Co. I don't think I even wanted to. Why fall in love with something that is not, nor will it ever be, intended for you? But now that I have a ticket to all of this beauty, I feel like Cinderella.

“Ahem.” I look up and see a huge man stuffed in a blue blazer with a Four Seasons patch on his pocket. I smile at him. “May I help you? The hotel lobby is only for our guests. Their privacy is important to us,” he says.

I laugh and walk over to the security guard to introduce myself and explain the situation. That is, I try to walk over to him. Instead, my sneaker tread catches on the edge of the carpet, and I trip and fall. It all happens so fast that I don't process it. I suddenly realize that I'm staring at what must be the cleanest hotel carpet in the world. It's really very impressive at this proximity. Next, I feel the security guard gruffly pick me up, and I swear he's trying to smell me. I don't smell that bad, do I?

“Please, ma'am. Let's just collect your, um, things, and I'll escort you out quietly.”

I know I should be concerned, but in light of everything that's happened to me, it's really very funny for some reason. I laugh and say, “Okay, I'll go ‘quietly.'” I even make the little quote marks with my fingers.

He walks over to my sad, worn-out suitcase—I can never find even a moment to shop for a new one—and begins to walk back to the door. I stay where I am, doubled over in laughter. This is too much.

The goon soon realizes I'm not following him so he abandons my suitcase just inside the main door and goes off. While he's gone, I decide to have a seat for a moment. I can't believe how cool and quiet this lobby is. You can't appreciate this sort of magnificence without at least one night at the Big Apple Inn. The hotel guests move around the lobby, oblivious to how good they have it.

Soon the goon reappears. On his heels is a stern-looking woman in a power suit, her dark-brown hair in a tight bun. I study them as they whisper and point at me. This is just getting silly. I take a deep breath, pull myself together, and walk over to them, but as I approach I make out the word “homeless.” I stop. They think I'm homeless? And then, I realize something. I feel small inside. My cheeks flush with shame. While I'm not truly homeless, in these past few days I've gotten a brief taste of just how easy it would be to become so and how you're treated if you are.

I storm over to them to take control of the situation. I stop just short of their conference, put my hands on my hips, and cock my head to the side. “Um, hi,” I say to both of them.

The goon and the woman exchange a worried glance. The woman begins to speak, “Look here, I'm afraid that—”

I extend my hand to them. “Jane Williams. You called me about my reservation? I have a room reserved in my name?”

Instantly, recognition washes over the woman's face. “Oh. Ms. Williams. Terribly sorry. There was a misunderstanding, I'm afraid.” She shoots the security guard a look of death.

 

I'm
jumping up and down on the bed in my pajamas when I hear a knock on the door. I run across my giant suite, grab my big, fluffy terry-cloth robe, throw it on, and answer the door. A sheepish young man stands there with a silver cart covered with a white linen cloth. On the cart I spy a giant basket wrapped in cellophane. I stifle a small squeaking noise welling up within me. I will not be a teenaged girl, squealing with glee.

“This was ordered for you, Miss Williams. May I bring it in?”

I open the door slowly and stare at him, dumbfounded, as he places the huge basket on the coffee table and then produces a tray of chocolate-covered strawberries. He bows at me (bows!) and turns to leave.

I have no money for a tip but resolve to bring him a large one as soon as my new debit card arrives. After he leaves, I press my back to the door and just look around at my suite, the view, the basket, the strawberries. How am I ever going to thank whoever did this?

I dig into the basket, tearing off the cellophane to find the card. Strange. I don't see one. And the basket is crammed with girl stuff. I shake my head in disbelief and then begin to examine the ten shades of nail polish, the emery board, the mud mask, the aromatherapy lavender bath oil, the skin-firming cream, and best of all, the foot sloughing scrub. I wonder who…? Aha. Buried down at the bottom is a bar of Ghirardelli chocolate, a package of cookie dough, and a pack of Hubba Bubba bubble gum. Raquel. We used to save up our allowances and walk to the 7-Eleven downtown to buy the precious fruity gum when we were kids. The fact that the flavor never lasted more than about thirty seconds never mattered to us, and we spent entire summers scheming about how to make money to buy more gum. And she knows I love cookie dough. It must be an apology from Raquel for being so awful to me last night. She probably woke up, realized what she'd done, and made the arrangements. I can contain myself no longer and squeal loudly, just like I did when I had braces. But as I pick up my phone to call her, I remember that she was worried about their finances. Now that I think about it, it's not at all like Raquel to spend money so frivolously. But, if not her, then who? A flash of dark hair races through my mind, but I dismiss the thought. That's just silly.

I walk to the bathroom, which is larger than my bedroom at home, and turn on the water in the Jacuzzi tub. While it's filling, I walk to the curtains and throw them open to discover I have a terrace. I unlatch the sliding glass door and walk outside to behold Manhattan in all her shimmering beauty.

How could anyone ever leave her? I know, in my darker moments, that I had considered it, but looking around, I realize now how right Tyson was. This city is my home. I couldn't leave it. It's in my blood. I was meant to live here.

I walk back inside the quiet suite and check on the tub. It's only a quarter full. It could easily fit four people. I wander back out to the bedroom and feel the sheets, smooth as silk.

Matt! It must be Matt Sherwin. That makes perfect sense. Who else would have money to throw around like this? And since it was his fault I got fired, this must be his way of apologizing. I grab the tray of chocolate-covered strawberries and thank God for Matt Sherwin.

After four chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of San Pellegrino, I slide off my clothes, slip into the robe and fuzzy slippers, and make my way to a giant Jacuzzi that now looks like a frantically whipped cappuccino. I pour in the aromatherapy bath oil and the scent of lavender fills the room. I turn down the lights, light the candles around the tub, sprinkle the water with rose petals thoughtfully placed in a bowl on the counter, and open the window that overlooks Manhattan. I drop into the bath, and the world melts away.

Fifteen minutes later, my cell phone bleats out in the darkness, and I give it a pleading look. “I'm sorry, but you usually bring me harm,” I say to it. It continues to ring, and I finally cave in and slide over to answer it. I see from the screen that it's Raquel. She must be calling to apologize.

“Hi Raquel,” I say and sit back to enjoy my bath.

“Jane, look—” she says quickly. “I need your help.” I scowl. So she's not sorry. “I need you to come and get Haven.” Oh, so she calls me when she needs help? Where was she when I needed a place to stay? I'm just about to open my mouth to really let her have it when she continues. “It's Olivia. She's having some kind of complication with her ear implants. We need to go to the hospital right now.”

I swallow hard and look around me. I take a deep breath. Yes, I'm tempted to just tell her I can't come. I can't leave all this. It's paid for and I have no way to get to her apartment. She'll have to find some married person who can understand her problems to help her. But when I open my mouth to tell her I'm not coming, what comes out is “Okay. I'll be there soon.” I can walk to her place and borrow a few dollars to get back here.

“Oh thank God, Jane. You're a lifesaver.”

I screw up my face, not sure how to feel. “Um, no problem. I'll pray for Olivia tonight.”

Raquel sighs. “Thanks, Jane. So fifteen minutes?”

“Sure. And tell Haven to pack a swimsuit. I've got a big surprise for her.”

Chapter 13

O
nyourmarkgetsetgo!
” Haven squeals as she takes off. I follow behind her, running down the dark hallway. She turns around to see if I'm following and smiles when she sees me close behind her. We round a corner and sprint to the end of the corridor, her little legs pumping as fast as they can go. It's impossible not to laugh as her terry-cloth robe, a miniature version of mine, sails out behind her and her feet in little white terry slippers slap against the plush carpet. She is having the time of her life.

“I beat you, Jane!” she yells proudly as she touches the ornately carved mahogany table at the end of the hallway.

“But that wasn't fair,” I whine as I straggle in behind her. “You totally cheated. You didn't even wait until you finished saying go before you took off. I demand a rematch,” I say, feigning indignation and leaning dramatically on the table. Her smile only grows wider.

“Onyourmarkgetsetgo!” she yells, and takes off again back down the hall toward our suite. She slaps the door just before I do, and we both giggle as we stumble inside to rest. I fall down on the leather couch, pretending to be exhausted, while Haven sits on the edge of the bed and bounces up and down. “You want to ride up and down in the elevators again?” she asks, her eyes lighting up.

“I think we got a pretty thorough tour last time,” I say and laugh. “We did see every floor. And that man who was stuck in the elevator with us didn't seem to enjoy it nearly as much as we did.”

“We can race in separate elevators and see who gets to the top floor first,” she suggests, undaunted. “Or crank-call the front desk again,” she says. “We could call them and make farting noises with our mouths!” The very idea causes her to dissolve into giggles.

“Nah, that was only fun until I realized they knew exactly who was calling.” Who knew they had caller ID for every room? “Plus, it's getting late, Haven,” I say. “It's about time to let the other guests rest. Why don't we stick around here for a while? You can go in the Jacuzzi again. Or we can eat some cookie dough and watch trashy television,” I say, throwing her the remote control.

“Ooh,” she says, her eyes lighting up. She turns the set on and flips quickly to Nickelodeon. They're showing a
SpongeBob SquarePants
marathon. Her eyes become glassy as they fixate on the television.

“This is trashy TV?
SpongeBob
? Isn't
The Bachelor
on or something?” I say. She shushes me without turning her eyes away from the screen for a second. She may try to act grown-up when she's with her friends, but she's still just a little girl.

“Okay, fine,” I sigh. “You watch
SpongeBob
. I'm going to exfoliate my feet.” She gives me a strange look and then turns back to the television. I wander toward the bathroom, but on my way I spot a small white card just inside the suite door. I bend over and pick it up and squint at it. My face flushes with shame as I see it's the business card of a neighborhood dermatologist. My hands instinctively fly up to my face to touch my rash, and my first impulse is to be outraged. How dare they! The concierge must have slipped it under our door while Haven and I were reenacting
Chariots of Fire
on the treadmills in the workout room. I can't believe how rude…I stop and take a breath. I walk into the bathroom and look in the mirror.

Actually, I do need to see a dermatologist. I know this myself. Haven mentioned that I looked like a pizza when she saw me today, bless her little heart, and the rash is starting to itch. I feel like a circus freak. Why am I so proud that I can't take the help I so obviously need? I slide the card onto the counter. I'll give him a call tomorrow.

I dig through the gift basket for the sloughing cream, reminding myself to call Matt Sherwin first thing in the morning to thank him, when I hear sniffling from the other room. I walk into the bedroom to find Haven on the bed, still staring at the TV, tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Oh, Haven, what's the matter?” I ask, sitting down and pulling her into my arms. She buries her face in my robe and puts her arms around me.

“Is my sister…going…to be okay?” she gulps, trying to keep the sobs from overtaking her. She suddenly looks so small and frail. She's been such a good sport about all this I forgot she'd be worried.

“Oh, honey,” I say, stroking her hair. The truth is, I have no idea if she's going to be okay. I don't know what's going on at the hospital, or what happened to get Olivia there in the first place. I know her ears are sensitive and an infection in them could be dangerous. I know Raquel is in her second trimester and the stress of this is bad for her and the new baby. And I know that even when everything is going right for you, your whole world can suddenly collapse around you. And yet, I think, looking around, the God who created us knows what we need and strips away from us the things that keep us from seeing straight.

“Everything is going to be fine,” I say, kissing the top of her head. “Let's pray for her.”

 

“What
is that noise?” Haven moans, lifting her head up groggily.

“Ungh…,” I say, reaching for the phone on the nightstand next to my side of the king-sized bed. I open it and push the talk button just to get it to stop ringing. “Hulloo?” I whine into the mouthpiece.

“Jane? It's Raquel. Are you okay?” The sun is streaming in my window. Raquel's worried voice masks the vague noises in the background that suggest she's still at the hospital. “How's Haven?”

“She was sleeping like a baby until a minute ago,” I say, sitting up. Haven puts a pillow over her head. “How is Olivia doing?” I ask, waking up a little.

“She's doing much better,” Raquel says, tension draining from her voice. “They have the infection under control, her fever is down, and the doctors say she's going to be just fine.”

“I'm so glad,” I say, relieved. “When do you think you'll be able to take her home?”

“This afternoon,” she says, sniffing. “But I thought I would come take Haven off your hands so you could get to work. Is it okay if I stop by your apartment in a little bit?”

Work? My apartment? Raquel either has stress-induced dementia, or, oh yeah. Wow. Has it really been that long since we talked? Or rather, has all this happened that quickly?

“Sure, you can come get her. But we're at the Four Seasons,” I say, throwing a pillow at Haven to wake her up. She scowls and rolls over.

“Oh my goodness. Are you serious?” she says and laughs. “I'll never understand how you have such an amazing life, Jane.”

 

“It
was about three a.m. that it hit me,” Raquel says, pushing a thick piece of French toast around the puddles of syrup on her plate. “They finally had Olivia stabilized and I was just pacing in her hospital room, praying about all the things I'm thankful for. And when I got to your name, I froze. It all came back to me.” I smile sheepishly at her and shrug. She shoves a huge bite of her French toast into her mouth and then wipes it on the white linen napkins room service brought up with our breakfast. We have opened the curtains to enjoy the view of Manhattan and decided to have breakfast in bed, so all three of us are sprawled on the giant mattress, trying not to drip syrup on the eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. Haven finished her croissant in one minute flat and is now ignoring us for the television. “I'm so sorry. I'm not even sure what to say to make it right again.” Her hands rest on her burgeoning belly.

“Say no more. I'm just glad everything is okay.”

“Jane, you should be angry at me. In fact, I demand that you be angry with me. You called me when you needed a place to stay, and I practically hung up on you. That's really some kind of best friend you've got there.”

I frown and then have a sip of fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. “You didn't exactly hang up.”

“You're right. I believe I ridiculed you first, denigrated your problems, and then I hung up.”

I smile a little. “That might have been the order. But you were stressed.”

“Does it matter? Is there ever an excuse to fail your friend?” Raquel throws her hands in the air in frustration with herself.

“You're right. I think we burn you at the stake later.” I give her a little nudge, but she doesn't answer and won't look up from her breakfast. “You're being too hard on yourself.”

“Jane, I wasn't there for you. And then I reversed the tables on you, and called you in my time of need and you didn't even hesitate to bail me out,” she says, motioning at Haven at the foot of our bed.

“Please,” I say. “I love hanging out with Haven.”

At the sound of her name, Haven looks up from the cartoons.

“I said you're cool,” I say to her.

Haven nods, unsurprised, and goes back to her television program. Apparently she gets that all the time. Then I look at Raquel, and she's still staring at her plate. I lean over and give her a hug and hear her sniffle a little in my arms.

Haven looks back again at the sound of the sniffling and cocks her head to the side. “Mommy, are you crying?” she asks.

I pull back from our hug and look at Raquel's tear-stained cheeks.

“No. She's not. She just has something in her eye,” I say to Haven, who rolls her eyes at us and flips over onto her stomach. And then I turn to Raquel. “Raquel, I knew you were going through a tough time. And the hormones. You weren't yourself. You've got to stop beating yourself up.”

She shakes her head. “I'm so sorry,” she says. “I'll make this up to you somehow. I was selfish and stupid.”

“I know you're sorry,” I say, taking a sip of my juice. “And I'm chalking it all up to temporary insanity. We're all selfish and stupid sometimes.” My mind instantly flashes to Ty, and I shake my head to make it stop.

“Thank you,” she says, smiling at me. I smile back and thank God for her friendship.

“Are you okay now?” I ask.

She takes a deep breath and exhales. “Tell me something funny to snap me out of it. Otherwise I might continue to sit here and remember everything I did to you.”

I look around. Something funny. Something funny. The Four Seasons is like heaven on earth, but it isn't particularly funny. I take another sip of my ruby-red grapefruit juice. “Um.”

“Yes?” she says, eyes alight.

“Did you know that Tropicana is trying to brand grapefruit juice ‘Sass in a glass'?”

Raquel and I exchange a funny look and laugh for a moment, and then she goes quiet and looks around the room with a funny expression on her face.

“A penny for your thoughts?” I ask.

“I was just wondering, who on earth is paying for you to shack up in the palace?”

I look at the balcony, the Jacuzzi, the marble flooring. “This isn't even where the story begins,” I say and have a sip of coffee. I begin to fill her in on all of the sordid details of my cursed life, from the breakup to the sick dog to the roof caving in, even pulling the copy of
Star Power
out of my suitcase to show her. Raquel's mouth hangs open, and as I go on, she covers her ears and insists she can't hear another detail.

“This is so much worse than I thought. Tyson? Your job? I just thought you were having some kind of apartment trouble. Oh Jane,” she says and covers her mouth. “And you thought he was going to propose,” she says.

I look at my lap and swallow back the tears. How stupid I was. “I misread all the clues. There were clues all right. But they were spelling out ‘He's leaving you, dummy.'”

She leans over and gives me a hug. “And the mugging? You got mugged at gunpoint? How are you even still standing?”

I shake my head. “I'm just trying to look at this as some kind of test from God. He has always been good to me. I have to trust him even now that my life is in shambles. I've decided he's working on something big up there, and I just don't know what it is yet.” I nod and smile confidently.

Raquel nods and bites her lip. “I guess so. I'm really impressed with you. Some people might just give up and call the whole faith thing quits.”

I look at my lap. “Whenever I start to pray, I feel like God is there.”

Raquel grabs my hand and holds it, silently looking around the room. “Okay, I get the rest. But I still don't understand the hotel room.” She looks around, shaking her head. “I sure didn't do it, and your parents are far too practical to do something like this. So who did? I mean, you're great and all, but really, all this?”

“Matt Sherwin.”

“No,” Raquel says, shaking her head. “Didn't you say he was a him-bo?”

I giggle, remembering the term my assistant taught me for male bimbos.

“This isn't the gesture of someone like that. Besides, how could he get away with it? Wouldn't that just make all the rumors look true?”

I bite my lip, shrugging. The only other person it could possibly be…No.

“Then I don't know.”