She tries to find his door so she can close it. She tries, and she can’t feel anything. She doesn’t know if she’s touching something, or nothing. She is paralyzed. Numb. Desperate. On the bloody beach, Mr. Reed looks at her and beckons her to come with him. “Behind here. We’ll be safe behind here,” he says.
“No!” she tries to scream, but no sound comes out. She can’t get his attention. Not behind there! She knows what will happen.
Mr. Reed’s fingers drop off first.
Then his nose and ears.
He looks at Janie.
Like always.
Like she’s betrayed him.
“Why didn’t you tell me,” he whispers.
Janie can’t speak, can’t move. Again and again, she fights, her head feeling like it might explode any moment. Just die, old man! she wants to yell. I can’t do this one anymore! She knows it’s almost over.
And then, there is more. Something new.
Mr. Reed turns to her as his feet break free from his ankles and he stumbles on his stilty legs. His eyes are wide with terror, and the battle rages around them. “Come closer,” he says. Fingerless, he shrugs the gun into her arms. His arm breaks off his shoulder as he does it, and it crumbles to the beach like powder. And then he starts crying. “Help me. Help me, Janie.”
Janie’s eyes widen. She sees the enemy, but she knows they can’t see her. She is safe. She looks at the pleading eyes of Mr. Reed.
Lifts the gun.
Points.
And pulls the trigger.
10:59 p.m.
Janie is curled on a portable stretcher in the east hallway when the roaring gunfire in old Mr. Reed’s dream stops abruptly. She blinks, her vision clears slowly, and she sees two Heather Home aides staring
down at her. She sits up halfway. Her head pounds.
“Careful, Janie, honey,” soothes a voice. “You were having a seizure or something. Let’s wait for the doc, okay?”
Janie cocks her head and listens for the faint sound of beeping. A moment later, she hears it.
“Old Mr. Reed is dead,” she says, her voice rasping. She falls back on the stretcher and passes out. June 22, 2005
The doctor says, “We need to do some tests. Do a CAT scan.”
“No thank you,” Janie says. She is polite, but firm.
The doctor looks at Janie’s mother. “Mrs. Hannagan?”
Janie’s mother shrugs. She looks out the window. Her hands tremble as she fingers the zipper on her purse.
The doctor sighs, exasperated. “Ma’am,” he tries again. “What if she has a seizure while she’s driving? Or crossing a street? Please think about it.”
Mrs. Hannagan closes her eyes.
Janie clears her throat. “May we go?”
The doctor gives Janie a long look. He glances at Janie’s mother, who is looking down at her lap. Then looks at Janie again. “Of course,” he says softly. “Can you promise me something? Not just for your safety, but for the safety of others on the road—please, don’t drive.”
It won’t happen when I’m driving, she longs to tell him, just so he doesn’t worry so much. “Sure. I promise. We don’t have a car, anyway.”
Mrs. Hannagan stands. Janie stands. The doctor stands too. “Call our office if it happens again, won’t you?” He holds out his hand, and Janie shakes it.
“Yes,” Janie lies. They walk back to the waiting room.
Janie sends her mother outside to the bus stop. “I’ll be right there.”
Her mother leaves the office. Janie pays the bill. It’s $120, pulled out of her college stash. She can only imagine how much a CAT scan would cost. And she’s not about to spend another cent just to hear somebody tell her she’s crazy.
She can get that opinion for free.
Janie waits for her mother to ask what that was all about. But she may as well wait for flowers to grow on the moon. Janie’s mother simply doesn’t care about anything that has to do with Janie. She has never really cared.
And that’s fucking sad.
That’s what Janie thinks.
But it sure comes in handy, sometimes.
June 28, 2005
There’s something about a doctor telling a teenager not to drive that makes it so important to do so. Just to prove him wrong.
Janie and Carrie go see Stu at the body shop. He sees them coming. “Here she is, kiddo,” Stu says. He calls Janie “kiddo,” which is weird, since Janie is two months older than Carrie. Janie nods and smiles. She runs her hand over the hood lightly, feeling the curves. It’s the color of buttermilk. It’s older than Janie. And it’s beautiful.
Stu hands Janie the keys, and Janie counts out one thousand, four hundred fifty dollars cash. “Be good to
her,” he says wistfully. “I started working on this car when she was seventeen years old and I was thirteen. She purrs now.”
“I will.” Janie smiles. She climbs in the ’77 Nova and starts her up.
“Her name’s Ethel,” adds Stu. He looks a little embarrassed. Carrie takes Stu’s oil-stained hand and squeezes it. “Janie’s a really good driver. She’s driven my car a bunch of times. Ethel will be fine.” She gives Stu a quick kiss on the cheek. “See you tonight,” she says with a demure smile.
Stu winks. Carrie gets into her Tracer and Janie slides behind the wheel of her new car. She pats the dashboard, and Ethel purrs. “Good girl, Ethel,” she croons. June 29, 2005
After the incident with Mr. Reed, the Heather Home director made Janie take a week off. When Janie shuffled and hemmed about taking that much time off, the director promised her shifts on July 4 and Labor Day, where Janie gets double pay. She is happy.