The Book of Jane (9 page)

 

Back
in Manhattan, I walk until I find a Starbucks, roll in with my big suitcase, and get a cup of coffee and a stale scone. As the dry pastry crumbles in my mouth, I realize that I haven't eaten since the ill-fated breakfast this morning with my parents. I take a sip of coffee, and it warms me. My phone rings, and I grab it. See, I tell myself, a little prayer was all it took. God knows what I need. I flip the phone open, expecting it to be Raquel, or possibly Ty, calling to apologize for what he said.

“Hello?” I say.

An automated recording begins. It tells me about all the new text-messaging benefits they've added to my cell phone plan. I hang up and begin to bang my head on the table until I realize I might be causing a scene. I look around to see if anyone is laughing at me, but no one has even noticed me, which is even worse somehow. Okay, back to the task at hand. Enough with the self-pity. I just need to think of a place to sleep tonight, and I'll worry about the rest tomorrow. Suddenly, an idea pops into my head. I'm in Manhattan, for crying out loud. There are hotels on every street corner. I'll just go check in and get a good night's rest. I finish my coffee off and wheel my way out. I should have done this hours ago.

 

I start
out at the Marriott. We always stayed at Marriotts on family vacations and while they certainly aren't a Westin or the Plaza, a Marriott is pleasant and safe. But a Marriott in Manhattan is two hundred and fifty bucks a night, I am told by the night clerk. I am aghast. I only have a little in my savings and soon an expensive contractor is coming to fix my apartment and, what's worse, my mortgage is due. Oh, and I am now unemployed, so no money will be coming in for a while. I have to find somewhere cheaper. I turn around and wheel my suitcase out the door. Holiday Inn, here I come. I wheel myself in there, all set to go, only to find out that it is hardly any better. One hundred and eighty bucks. I steel myself to keep from crying. I know I could get a cheaper price on the Internet, but it is eleven, and I just need this day to be over. I go back outside and crane my neck to see if I can find a cheaper chain hotel. At the end of the block, looking a bit down at the heels, is the Big Apple Inn. I trudge toward the flickering neon sign and look through the windows uncertainly. It looks pretty dingy. Is it worth it? I take a deep breath and walk inside. If it's around a hundred bucks, then I will just have to take it. I need to get off the streets, literally. I ask at the desk, and it is a very reasonable $89.99 a night. I sigh with relief.

I wheel my suitcase up to Room 182, my eyes burning from exhaustion. I can't wait to get inside, take a shower, and go to bed. I play with the tricky door lock for a moment and finally get inside. I turn on the light and sweep my eyes over the room. I am horrified. There is a burn mark in the bedspread and two small, suspiciously shaped holes in the wall. This can't be happening. I run to the bathroom and discover the ceiling is sagging and brown, and I have exactly three squares of toilet paper and two tissues in the tissue box. The grout in the shower is brown, and there is a thick film on the surface of the tub. I shudder. I walk back into the living room and take a deep breath. It's okay, I tell myself. I can stay here one night. I resolve not to take off anything but my shoes, otherwise I might contract some weird disease from this place. I just need to wash my face and brush my teeth and go to bed. Morning will come soon enough, and everything will look different. I open my suitcase only to realize I've forgotten my toothpaste and toothbrush, so I dial the front desk.

“Front desk,” a bored voice says.

“Um, hi. I seem to have forgotten my toothpaste and toothbrush. Can you send some up?”

“Hey, Vinnie!” the voice shouts into the background. “Do we have toothpaste? Oh. Okay.” After a shuffle the voice speaks into the phone again. “The toothpaste is on order.”

“So you only have toothbrushes?” I ask.

“Yup.”

I pause, unsure of what to say. “Okay. Well, guess I don't need one without the other.”

The man on the other end slams the phone down. I put the phone down too, find my purse, and dig out my cell phone. I'll call Lee for an update about Charlie. I dial his number, but realize that I don't get any cell phone service in this hotel room. I look at the landline and see that all local calls cost money. I sigh and grab my purse. I'll try again outside the building.

As I walk down the hall to get back to the lobby, I hear a couple screaming at each other inside a room. A creepy man wearing nothing but boxers smiles at me from his open room door as I pass by. I try to ignore him and run quickly outside. Once on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, I look down at my phone. Good. I seem to get reception out here. I walk away from the door a little way and dial.

I am leaving a message for Lee when I feel somebody grab my arm. I try to scream, but suddenly a hand covers my mouth and another arm grabs me, pinning my arms at my side. I try to fight, but I am literally frozen in fear.

“Give me your purse,” a husky voice says in my ear. “If you try anything funny, I'll shoot.” I hear the click of a gun being cocked and realize he means business. Please God, I pray, please help me. My arms are trapped, but I open my hand to let the purse drop on the ground. I hear it hit the pavement, and I feel something small and hard and cold press into my back.

“Do not turn around,” he says, emphasizing each word in a threatening whisper, “or I will shoot.” I nod, as tears stream down my face. “I want you to close your eyes and count to ten.” He presses me up against the cold stone of the building and smashes my face against the wall.

Quickly, before I even know what's going on, I'm free, and he's gone, the sound of his running footsteps disappearing in the distance. I don't know where he is or if he is still watching me, so I dutifully count to ten, praying for strength and protection. I wait quite a while before I turn around. No one is there. My purse is gone. I walk quickly back inside the hotel, still clutching my phone, and between sobs ask the desk clerk to call the police. He looks bored as I tell him what happened and suggests I go back to my room and wait, promising to make the call for me. I nod and trudge back to my room.

Locking the door behind me, I look at the bed and cringe. Slowly, I sink down to the floor and cry. Thank you, God, I repeat again and again. Thank you for sparing me. A few minutes later, I hear a knock at my door, and I pull myself up. Through the peephole, I see a badge. I pull the door open, and two cops enter my room. It takes a full hour to fill out a report and explain what happened, and they promise to try to find the assailant but warn me how slim the chance is that they will actually find the man. I nod, feeling no comfort in their words, then show them out the door. I lock it carefully behind me.

Not knowing what else to do, I lie down on the bed. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something moving. I sit up and watch in horror as a rat scurries across the floor of my hotel room. A day ago I would have screamed, but now after everything I've been through, a rat is only a mild annoyance. I lie back down and stare at the stained, sparkling ceiling plaster.

How on earth did I get here, God? What is going on? What are you trying to teach me? I think about my perfect life, crumbling under me. It's easy to be a Christian when life is good. But what happens when life doesn't turn out the way we plan? My mind whirs, thinking back to Lee's suggestion that I'm cursed. Has God abandoned me? Was he ever really there to begin with?

Chapter 11

I
am
awakened by a knock at the door of my hotel room, but when I look out the peephole, no one is there. Despite the heavy curtains, the room is flooded with light, and I deduce it must be morning. I quickly toss my belongings back into the suitcase and walk to the front desk. The clerk took my credit card information when I checked in, so I sign the forms quickly and burst out the front door. I don't know where I am going, but I have to get out of here.

Outside, it is a beautiful, warm sunny day. All around, New Yorkers are going on with their lives as if the world hasn't gone mad. I shake my head and wander west, dragging my suitcase behind me. I stroll aimlessly amidst the rush hour chaos, wishing I had fifty cents to buy coffee from a little stand. For lack of a better plan, I decide to just keep on walking until I hit the river. I'll rest on the little stretch of green that runs up and down the west side of Manhattan along the Hudson. When I finally get there, weaving my suitcase in and out of traffic and elderly people out for an early morning stroll, I find an oasis of peace in this crazy city. The only people here are joggers running along the path, and I have the small green lawn all to myself. I sit down on a patch of grass and take a deep breath.

This is exactly what I need, I decide. The sun is shining, the park is peaceful, and I can think. I will sit here and close my eyes and relax and figure out what I'm going to—

“You look terrible.”

My eyes fly open, and I gasp. Just what I need. Coates Glassman. Of all people. Coates Glassman, wearing running shorts and covered in sweat. Shirtless. What a way to start the day. You are a cruel God.

“You look like you need a shower,” I counter before I can stop myself.

“I could say the same about you,” he smirks, wiping beads of sweat off his brow. He surveys my tangled greasy hair, my rumpled clothes, and my giant suitcase. “I just ran six miles. What happened to you?”

“Oh, just thought I'd get some fresh air,” I say, trying to sound carefree. “You know, it's such a beautiful day I thought I'd just make sure to take advantage of it.” I force my face into a smile, even though all I feel like doing is crying.

“Really?” he asks, smiling skeptically. I notice the thin layer of sweat covering his body creates a sheen that sets off his taut muscles. I look away. It shouldn't really be surprising he is built, right? He probably tramples puppies every morning for exercise. It's funny, because no matter how much Tyson worked out, he was always so thin and lanky.

“Are you okay, Jane?”

I look up to see what, if I didn't know better, might actually pass for real concern on Coates's face. I cringe.

“Of course I'm okay,” I say, and I think I even manage to sound convincing. “Why wouldn't I be?” I look at him, then look away.

“For one thing,” he says, plopping himself down on the grass next to me, “you have a rash that needs to be looked at.” I try to hide my face, reddening. “And I'd guess there has to be something drastic going on to keep you from taking care of it.” I refuse to look at him. “And you have big bags under your eyes, you look like you slept in your clothes, and you're wheeling around a suitcase large enough to fit a small child in. I'm just guessing that things may not be going well for you at the moment,” he says. I keep my eyes on the ground as a tear leaks out. I will not give him the benefit of looking at him. I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing he is right. He sits beside me, silently, waiting.

I look out at the river. New Jersey looks so peaceful from here. Small pleasure boats out to enjoy the beautiful summer day and large oceangoing vessels move slowly up and down the river. Down there, at the mouth of the river, stands the Statue of Liberty. I take a deep breath, remembering how everything I was unwilling to give up for Ty a few days ago has been taken from me anyway. And I lose it. Tears come quickly, and I can't hide them. My shoulders shake, and I bury my head in my hands. This can't be happening. Coates slips his hand onto my back and begins to rub. While Coates is sweaty, and smelly, and despicable, it is somehow comforting.

“My parents hate me,” I finally stammer. “Because Ty broke up with me.” He nods. I cringe, remembering how he was shocked that Ty was even my boyfriend. I shouldn't have told him that. But I can't stop my mouth from continuing. “And we were supposed to get married. My Girl Scouts were taken away from me. And my roof caved in, so now I'm homeless,” I say wiping my eyes with my hand. “My best friend's mom is dying, and my other best friend doesn't have time for me. I got mugged last night. I thought I was going to die. I spent the night in a dirty hotel where I was afraid for my life, and none of my friends seem to believe that I am not the most selfish person on the planet with silly little problems.”

So this is what it's come to, then. Spilling my guts to my ex-boss's nefarious nephew. I really have never been lower. Slowly, I turn my head to see how he is reacting to this news. He is looking across the river, stone-faced.

“And what do you plan to do about it?” he asks, turning back to me, squinting at the sun in his face.

“I'm still trying to figure that out,” I laugh, looking around. “I'm sure if I sit here long enough inspiration will come to me.”

“Perhaps,” he says, nodding. “Or maybe,” he says, brushing his damp hair back, “this isn't yours to figure out.”

I look at him, lifting my eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I just mean, maybe this is bigger than you are, Jane. And maybe you are just supposed to trust.”

His turns his face away from me, looking at the river. His profile is clean, even a little handsome. I have no idea how to respond, so I just nod.

“I'm sure it'll all work out,” Coates says abruptly, then begins to stand up.

“Yeah, maybe,” I mutter.

“You'll be fine,” he says, then turns and begins to jog away. I watch him go, openmouthed.

I tell him everything, and he begins to act like a human being, then he just jogs off? Unbelievable. I watch his tan shoulders as he runs uptown. He really is despicable. I should have known better than to trust him, I think, kicking myself as I watch his inky black hair vanish into the distance. The nerve. What was I thinking, talking to him? I don't need his sympathy—or his derision.

And then and there I make a decision. If I'm stooping low enough to talk to Coates, I know it's time to stop feeling sorry for myself. I take a deep breath. I am still here. And though I don't know why this all happened, maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe I'm just supposed to trust. The sun is still shining, and though he hides it well, God must still be in charge. He always is, right? I sigh. How did I let the things I did and the things I owned become who I was?

Looking out at the river, glistening in the sun, I feel better already. Why, this isn't the end of everything. This is the beginning. Maybe it is tough to tell the end from the beginning, but the more I look at this situation, I know that this too is God's plan. A whole new Jane. I'll start over from scratch. After all, this is New York. People do it every day here. I lie back in the grass and let the sun warm my face, at last at peace. Thank you, I pray. Thank you.

I wander
through the streets, watching New Yorkers go about their day. I walk past Union Square but can't bring myself to stop there. I wander into a Starbucks and wash my face, and I try to brush my greasy hair out as best I can. I manage to get in touch with the contractor, who says he can't begin work on my apartment until Monday. I call the bank and cancel all my credit cards. They promise to send replacement cards immediately. I try calling Raquel, but she doesn't pick up. I think about my parents. Maybe Raquel is right. Maybe I should just call them. They would bail me out. But when I think of their disdain, I can't bring myself to dial the number. Maybe in a little while. I wander through Times Square, looking at the bright lights, trying to enjoy them, but mostly I find myself annoyed by the throngs of people staring up at the giant billboards. Where can I go? I feel awful, and all I want is a hot shower, a bed with clean sheets, and a roof over my head without a hole in it. I stumble across Seventh Avenue.

My phone rings, and I stop and pull it out of my pocket. Maybe it's Lucifer calling to say there's more in store for me. Perhaps I'll suddenly go blind? When I see it's a Manhattan area code, I decide to risk it and answer the phone anyway. Satan doesn't use Verizon, right?

“This is Janice from the Four Seasons Manhattan. I'm looking for a Ms. Jane Williams. Is she available?” the woman asks.

“This is Jane,” I say, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Ms. Williams, I am calling to let you know a room has been booked in your name at our hotel. I have been asked to let you know you are free to stay for as long as you need to, and you can check in immediately,” she says, as if this were an ordinary task for her. “Do you need directions to the hotel? Or should we send a car?”

“What? A room?” I ask, trying to figure out what is going on. “Is this a joke?” I am going to kill my brother. This is not funny.

“No, ma'am,” she says. “I am one hundred percent serious.”

“But, how?” I stammer. “How did you get this number?”

“I am afraid I am not in a position to tell you that,” she says. “The room was booked under the agreement that it would be absolutely confidential. My job is to call and offer it to you. I can't make you accept it, but as the first night has already been paid for, it seems to me that you—I'm sorry, did you need directions to our hotel?”

“No, thanks,” I say. “I, um, I know where it is.” We used to send our most important clients there when they came into town. Who on earth would do such a thing?

“Then we look forward to seeing you,” Janice says and hangs up the phone. I look around, waiting for the hidden cameras and Ashton Kutcher to pop out of the bushes. Surely I'm being punk'd. But I don't see anything. What do I have to lose? I shake my head. Even if they laugh at me as I walk though the door, I won't be any worse off than I am now. I turn and begin to walk uptown.