Gone (13 page)

She pleads with him. “Please, please just die. Please.” She whispers it over and over, begging Henry to let go, begging his invisible captors to let him go. “I don’t know how to help you.” She buries her face in her hands. “Please, please, please . . .” The words brush the air in rhythmic patterns like willow branches shushing the waves on the shore of Fremont Lake.

But Henry doesn’t die.

A half-hour ticks away on the clock. It feels beyond real in the dark, quiet room, like they are in a world cut off from everyone else. Janie snacks on the last sandwich from her backpack, trying to regain some strength, and then she starts talking to her father to help pass the time.

She tells Henry about Dorothea, choosing her words carefully so as not to say anything too negative—she knows Henry doesn’t need to hear negative stuff in his condition. Janie talks about herself, too. Tells him things she’s never told anybody else, like how lonely she’s been.

She tells him that she’s not mad at him for not knowing about her. And she talks about her secret dream-catcher life, that she is just like him. That she understands. That he’s not crazy—and he’s not alone. Everything comes rushing out—dream catching, her job, Miss Stubin, and Janie’s plan to just stop all of the dreams and have a nice quiet life like Henry. “I’m doing it too, Henry,” she says. “I’m isolating, like you. You probably didn’t even know about the real choice, did you? About the blindness and the loss of your hands.”

And then Janie tells Henry that she understands why he did what he did to Dottie, even though he loved her so much. She understands that horrible choice. She tells him about Cabe. How much she loves him. How good he is, how patient. How torn she is about what this isolation plan means.

How scared she is of telling him.

Saying good-bye.

It’s amazing, having someone who is just like her.

Someone who understands.

Even if he’s unable to respond.

Suddenly, Janie feels like she’s wasted so much time these last few days, when she could have been here for Henry.

She tells him how hard it’s been, discovering all this stuff in the past few days, and she cries a little.

She talks deep into the night.

Talks until she has emptied out her soul.

Henry’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t move at all.

When Janie is too tired to think or say another word, she drifts off, all curled up in the chair.

All is quiet.

4:51 a.m.

She dreams.

Janie’s in her bedroom, sitting up in bed, disoriented. Her tongue feels dry, parched, and she wets her lips. Her tongue leaves a film on her lips—it feels gritty like sand. When Janie reaches up to wipe away the grittiness, her lips give way. Her teeth collapse and tiny pieces break off in her mouth. Crumbling. The sharp, stumpy remains cut her tongue.

Horrified, Janie spits into her hands. Bits and pieces of the crumbled teeth come out. Janie keeps spitting and more and more tooth shards pile up in her hands. Frantically, Janie looks
up, unsure what to do. When she moves her eyes, everything is blurry. Filmy. Like she’s trying to see in a steamed-up mirror or a waterfall. She dumps her teeth on the bed, forgotten, and wipes at her eyes, trying to clear them, trying to see. But she’s blind. “I’m isolating,” she cries. “I’m not supposed to go blind! No! I’m not ready!” She claws at her eyes, and then realizes that she has vertical slits—holes in her face—next to each eye. Something pokes out from each.

Janie takes hold of whatever it is and pulls.

Slivers of soap slide out from the slits.

Janie’s eyes itch and burn like crazy. She swipes at them and pulls more pieces of soap out, but the pieces seem to reproduce. As she pulls out soap slivers, she runs her tongue over the jagged remains of her teeth, tasting blood. “No!” she cries.

Finally, she pulls out the last of the soap and she can see again. She looks up, relieved.

And there.

Sitting in his chair. Watching Janie with a look of calm on his face.

Henry.

Janie stares at him.

And it dawns on her, after a minute, what she should do.

“Help me. Help me, Henry.”

Henry looks surprised. Obediently he stands and approaches Janie.

Janie shows him her handful of teeth. “You can help me change it, you know. Is it okay if I put these back in?”

Henry’s eyes speak. They are filled with encouragement. He nods.

Janie smiles a brickle smile. Nods back. Pushes the teeth back into place as if they are Lego pieces. When she is done, she pats the bed and smiles.

Henry sits. “You’re just like me,” he says.

“Yes.”

“I heard you—all the things you told me. I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad. Glad you heard, I mean. You don’t have to be sorry. You didn’t know.” She stares at Henry’s empty chair.

He turns to her. “I think . . . I think I would have liked to know you.”

Janie chokes back a sob.

He takes her hand. “I miss her. Dottie. Is she good to you? A good mother?”

She stares at his hand in hers for a long minute. Not sure what to say about that. Finally she shrugs. Says, “I turned out all right.” Looks up at Henry’s face.

Smiles a crooked smile through her tears.

6:10 a.m.

The door to Henry’s ICU room opens.

It’s the first shift nurse, checking vitals. Janie startles awake, sits up and rubs her eyes.

“Don’t mind me,” the nurse says, checking Henry’s pulse. “You look like you could use some more sleep.”

Janie smiles and stretches. She glances at Henry, remembering. It was weird, having someone in her dream for the first time.

Then she sucks in a breath, surprised, and hops to her feet to get a better look. “He’s—” she says as the nurse turns to go. “He looks different. His face.”

The nurse glances at Henry and checks her chart. “Does he?” She smiles, distracted. “Better, I hope.”

But Janie’s staring at Henry.

His posture has relaxed, his face is no longer strained, his hands are unclenched and resting gently now by his face. He looks peaceful. The agony is gone.

The nurse shrugs and leaves. Janie keeps staring, thrilled to see him looking better, hoping he’s no longer experiencing the horrible nightmares. Wonders briefly if there’s a chance he could pull out of it.

Knows there’s a better chance he’ll finally get to die.

6:21 a.m.

Janie, with a plan, goes into Henry’s private bathroom and closes the door. She knows she doesn’t have much strength, but closing the door is a no-brainer if she gets stuck.

She opens the door and gets sucked in. Slowly. Gently. No static, no bright walls slamming into her.

It’s just a dark gymnasium, just one patch of light streaming though the high window.

The hallway’s rooms are empty, now.

Miss Stubin, Henry, both gone.

All that remains is Henry’s chair.

And on the chair, a note.

My dear Janie,

Much has been demanded of you. And yet, you remain stronger than you think.

Until we meet again,

Martha

P.S. Henry wishes you to consider Morton’s Fork.

6:28 a.m.

Janie closes the door on her last dream.

When she is able, she escapes the dream again and trudges through the hallways and outside to the bus stop, takes the bus home, and falls into bed.

August 8, 2006, 11:13 a.m.

Janie wakes up, sweating like a marathoner. Her cheek is stuck to her pillowcase. Her hair is soaking wet. It’s at least 450 degrees in the house.

And she’s starving.

STARVING.

She stumbles to the kitchen and stands at the refrigerator, eating whatever she can find. She presses the cold milk jug against her face to cool it before taking a long swig from it. And then she takes an ice cube and runs it all over her neck and arms. “God almighty,” she mutters, grabbing a container of leftover spaghetti and meatballs. “I need air!”

Fifteen minutes later, she’s in the shower, water temp set to cold. It’s almost too cold, but Janie knows the minute she steps out of there, she’ll start sweating again, so she keeps the setting on freezing.

When she turns off the water and steps out of the shower, she hears her mother’s voice, talking on the phone. Janie freezes and listens for a minute, and then she whips a towel around herself, clutching it at her chest, and opens the bathroom door, her hair dripping all over the floor.

Dorothea, in her nightgown, hangs up the phone. Turns to look at Janie, her face haggard and old-looking. Pale, like the moon. “He’s dead,” she says simply. Shrugs. “It’s about time.” Shuffles back to her bedroom, but not before Janie sees Dorothea’s lip tremble.

Janie stands in the hallway, dripping, feeling numb. “He’s dead,” she echoes. It’s as if the sound of her voice makes it real. Janie leans back against the hallway wall and slides down until she’s sitting on the floor. She tips her head back until it bumps the wall. “My dad is dead.”

Still numb.

It’s over.

After a few minutes, Janie stands up and marches into her mother’s bedroom, not bothering to knock. Dorothea sits weeping on her bed.

“So. What do we need to do?” Janie asks. “I mean, like, funeral stuff.”

“I don’t know,” Dorothea says. “I told them I don’t want nothing to do with it. They can just handle it.”

“What?” Janie feels like yelling. She moves to call the hospital herself, but then she stops. Turns back to her mother. Says in a way-too-calm voice, “Call them back and tell them that Henry is Jewish. He needs to go to a Jewish funeral home.” Janie glances at Dorothea’s sparse closet. “Do you even have a single decent dress, Mother? Do you?”

“What do I need a dress for?”

“For the funeral,” Janie says firmly.

“I’m not going to that,” Dorothea says.

“Oh, yes, you are.” Janie’s pissed. “You are definitely going to my father’s funeral. He loved you, all these years. You might not understand why he left, but I do, and he still loves you!” Janie chokes on her mistake. “He loved you,” she says. “Now go call the hospital before they do something else with him. And then call the funeral home—the hospital should be able to recommend one.”

Dorothea looks confused, alarmed. “I don’t know their numbers.”

Janie eyes her coldly. “What are you, fucking eight years old? Look them up.” She storms out of the room and slams the door. “God!” she mutters, frustrated, as she
stomps down the hallway and enters her room. Still wearing a towel, Janie fishes some clothes from her dresser, tosses them on the bed, and then rakes a wide-toothed comb through her tangled, wet hair.

She hears her mother’s door open. A few minutes later, Janie can hear Dorothea stammering on the phone. Janie flops back on the bed, sweating again in the heat.

Damn it.

“Henry,” Janie says.

She cries for all the things that could have been.

12:40 p.m.

Janie pulls her suitcase from the closet.

Climbs up into the attic to look for boxes.

She’ll have to move her stuff over slowly since she has to take the bus and walk.

Wonders briefly if the keys to Henry’s station wagon are hanging somewhere obvious in his little house. And then nixes that plan. That could really look like stealing if she got pulled over. No sense getting killed right before restarting her whole life, either.

She fills her backpack with clothing and grabs the suitcase.

Heads out the door.

1:29 p.m.

Janie sets her things down in the middle of the shack and sits at Henry’s desk to write a list of things to do:

• Get through funeral first

• Find rental lease and landlord address for rent payments

• Figure out if utilities are included or if I pay

• Clean house

• Study online store history to find out what sells

• Water garden!! And freeze veggies

• Switch to cable Internet if not too expensive

• Tell Captain the plan

• Tell Cabe

She stops writing and stares at the last two words.

Throws the pen at the wall. Slams her fists on the desk. Shoves the chair back so hard it flips over. Stands in the middle of the room and screams at the ceiling. “My life fucking sucks the meanest one of all! How could you force me to choose? How can you do this to me? Do you hear me? Anybody?”

She falls to her knees, covers her head with her arms, and bends forward into a ball.

Sobs rip through the house, but no one is there to hear her.

There is no comfort here.

3:57 p.m.

Janie stares out the bus window, cheek against the glass, watching Fieldridge go by.

As she walks from the bus stop to her mother’s house, she calls him.

“Hey,” he says.

And suddenly, Janie can’t speak. A garbled sound comes from her throat instead.

“Janie, you okay?” Cabel’s voice turns immediately concerned. “Where are you? Do you need help?”

Janie breathes, tries to steady her shaky voice. “I’m okay. I’m home. I’m . . . my . . . Henry died.”

It’s quiet on the line for a moment. “I’ll be right over,” he says. “Okay?”

Janie nods into the phone. “Yes, please.”

And then Janie calls Carrie. Gets her voice mail. “Hey, Carrie, I just thought I should let you know that Henry died. I’ll . . . I’ll talk to you later.”

4:43 p.m.

Cabel raps on the door. He’s carrying a potted plant and a bakery box from the grocery store.

“Hey,” he says. “I didn’t have time to make you, like,
a casserole or whatever. But I stopped by the store and brought you this. I’m so sorry, Janers.”

Janie smiles and her eyes fill up. She takes the box and the plant, sets the plant near the window. “It’s really pretty,” she says. “Thank you.” She opens the box. “Oh, wow—doughnuts.” She laughs and goes to him. Hugs him close. “You rock, Cabe.”

Cabel shrugs, a little embarrassed. “I figured doughnuts are good comfort food. But I’m going to fix you ladies some dinner, too, so you don’t have to mess with it.”