Rosebush (30 page)

Wasn’t he?

I ran my hand over my hair, smashing it, trying to squeeze some reason out. “Somehow he must have known I’d handed the phone over.”

“How? You said he was talking.”

“I don’t know. We must have made a noise.” He’d been there. I heard him. I had.

Hadn’t I? Oh God. I really was going mad.

You just knelt there. You know you wanted it as much as I did. And you know why.
I could only imagine what Dr. Tan would make of that.

“What did he say this time, sweetheart?”

“What did who say?” my mother asked, breezing into the room. Joe lumbered after her, carrying a bag from the supermarket, with Officer Rowley, neat as always in her uniform, after him. Annie, today wearing a green dress, green leggings, and green sneakers, none of which were the same color green, brought up the rear.

My mother looked at me expectantly.

“My phone-caller,” I told her. “He called again.”

Instead of looking concerned or exasperated, my mother smiled. A warm, genuine smile. Clearly something had changed. “I don’t think we’ll need to worry about any more of those calls, will we, Officer Rowley?”

“I hope not,” the policewoman said.

“Why?”

“Because the fine police of this city have apprehended the convenience store robbers,” my mother announced. “Thanks in part to Joe’s reward.”

“Didn’t have anything to do with it,” he muttered, pawing around in his bag of snacks.

“Don’t be so modest,” my mother told him.

I said, “Did the robbers confess?”

My mother shook her head. “No, the Barney Brothers—that’s what they’re called—are refusing to speak. Lawyer’s orders. But they didn’t have to. The skid marks on the road are a good match to their tires, their car has dents on it that could be consistent with hitting a pedestrian, and they had your purse and your phone.”

“They did? Can I get my phone back?” Any concrete link to that night would be welcome.

“When we’re done processing it,” Officer Rowley said.

“But don’t you see,” my mother said, beaming. “This means it’s over. It’s all over.”

“It’s good news, kid,” Joe said.

“Tell that to the voices in my head.”

“What did those voices in your head say this time?” my mother asked, like she was talking to a toddler.

“They said—” I knew if I told the truth, it would make me sound truly suicidal. “They said it was time. For it to be over.”

“You see? We all agree. Me, you, and your subconscious.”

I felt myself getting angry. I wanted to be alone. I looked at Loretta. “Could I take a shower? I think I could manage by myself if you’d just turn the water on for me.”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

“Bye, Jane,” Annie said, coming over to give me a sticky kiss on the cheek.

“Eew,” I said, wiping it off. “What did you just eat?”

“Jelly doughnut. And now you can have some too.”

“Thanks but no thanks.”

She kissed me again, laughed at my disgusted expression, and followed Joe and my mom out of the room.

I was just rolling into the bathroom in my wheelchair when my mother came back and put her hand on the armrest. “One more thing, Jane.”

My jaw tightened. I looked at her over my shoulder. “Yes?”

“Dr. Malik told me he met you today. With his son, Peter.”

“Yeah. Pete was letting me get some air.”

“I’d rather you didn’t spend too much time with him,” she said.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Malik didn’t really look like my type.”

“With his son, Peter. He dropped out of high school and he has a history of drug use. His father found him with quite a large quantity of something heavy and that’s why he’s here. So he can keep an eye on him.”

The way my mother said “something heavy,” like she was down with the peeps, yo, made me have to stifle a laugh. “Sure. Whatever you want. Can I go now?”

“I’d also like you to be a little more gracious with Joe.”

“Why does everyone care about Joe so much?”

“He’s a wonderful, kind man,” my mother said.

“That’s what I hear.”

She pursed her lips together. “I don’t—” I heard her swallow. “I’m not trying to replace your father, Jane.”

“Maybe that’s the problem,” I said, and I could feel the tears quivering in my eyes. “Maybe you should be.”

“Darling—”

“I need to go.”

I don’t know how long I sat under the shower, not moving, letting the hot water wash over me.
They caught the people who did this to you,
I thought.
They had your phone. How else would they have gotten your phone unless they were the ones who hit you? Let your doubts, let your fears, let all the gaps in your memory wash away. Let your feelings about Joe wash away. Stop feeling stop missing stop caring stop worrying. None of that matters now. Everything is fine. Everything is safe. Your life as you knew it is intact. Just admit you’re crazy and everything will be okay.

When I got out, the mirror was steamed up. The palm prints I’d left the day before when I was trying to block out my hair came up, leaving an empty face-sized shape in the middle.

That was me. A blank space. Who was I? Who was Jane Freeman?

I cleared a space across the mirror so I could see only my eyes and stared at them, but they held no answers.

Chapter 27

That evening Joe
took my mother and Annie to Annie’
s
favorite pizza place for dinner while I enjoyed a selection of beige food in my bed with the TV. It was a dark rainy night and the sound outside my window reminded me of the rain the night of the party.

My eyes flipped open. I was in my hospital room alone. There was no one there, no one whispering next to my face.

Had it been a dream? Or was it a memory? Had someone really stood over me as I lay in the rosebush and said, “Jane Freeman, you’re a goner”?

Because if someone had, it meant that my getting hit was no random accident perpetrated by the Barney Brothers. It meant that I’d been run down by someone I knew. Someone who knew my name.

My heart started to pound. If that was true, it meant the killer had to be one of my friends.

I jumped at the sound of Scott’s voice.

“You look like someone in the middle of an existential crisis,” he said. “Or they’re not giving you enough fiber.”

It had to be one of my friends
, my mind repeated. One of my friends who had been at the party. Which meant anyone
but
Scott.

“I am so glad to see you,” I said. “And it’s probably both.”

“Which existential crisis are we dealing with? The ‘Why are we here’ one? Or the ‘What should I do with my life’ one?”

“More basic. The ‘Who am I’ one.”

“Uh-oh, that’s a bad one. What brought it on right now at”—he squinted at the clock—“seven forty-five on a Sunday?” He slid into the chair next to my bed and leaned forward. His white shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his strong forearms.

“I got another call from the killer today.”

“Ah.”

“Only as much as no one believed me before, now that they have the convenience store robbers—I’m sorry, the Barney Brothers—in custody, they
really
don’t believe me.”

“Oh.”

“And this time the killer said, ‘You just knelt there. You wanted it as much as I did.’”

His eyes crinkled and he sucked in his cheeks. “Ugh.”

“Which means that either it’s the real killer—because how else would anyone know that? Or else I made it up and it’s a sign from my subconscious that I wanted to die.”

Now his eyes got wide. “Uh-oh.”

“Exactly. So I’m left with two bad options. But it doesn’t really matter because my mother would rather think I’m crazy than entertain the idea that this wasn’t the Barney Brothers.”

He leaned back. “That’s a really bad name. I mean, it wouldn’t even make a good band name.”

I laughed. “You’re right. At least they didn’t succeed. I wouldn’t want to have that in my obituary.”

“I like your attitude. And I’ve got a diagnosis for your existential crisis. You’re a victim of shutter-click syndrome.”

“What’s that?”

“You know how on digital cameras the shutter still makes a sound when it clicks? Even though that sound was originally the mechanical noise the lens made opening and closing and on digital cameras it’s just programmed in?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s because people like to have markers. They like to maintain their expectations, not question things. It sounds like that’s what your mother’s doing. For some reason, it’s really important for her that this is an accident perpetrated by strangers. Even if they have an unfortunate name.”

“Why?”

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“That’s a novel approach.” I thought about it. “I wish I just had one thing, one solid fact that contradicted the stranger-accident theory.”

“To bolster your case or simply to annoy your mother?” I shot him a mean look. He shrugged. “Just asking. What about the car that hit you? There had to be damage, right?”

“There’s damage on the convenience store getaway car that ‘could be consistent’ with what they found.”

“But they stopped looking at other cars.” He thought for a moment. I was struck for the millionth time by how handsome he was—especially when thinking deeply, a favorite pastime of his. “Listen, do you really think it was someone at the party?” he said now.

“I remember someone saying, ‘You’re a goner, Jane Freeman,’ when I was in the rosebush. So if we assume that was true, it would have to be someone who knew me, and the only people on the Jersey shore who knew me were at the party. Why?”

“I did a story for the school paper about auto-repair places—a lot of our ‘graduates’ end up working in that field. I could ask around at some of the places and see if any Livingston High kids have brought in cars for work this weekend. It might be a stretch, but—”

Here was someone who believed in me. Someone who would stand by me. Or, at this moment, sit by me.

In the chair next to my bed, his head was at the same level as mine. I pulled his mouth toward me and kissed him.

“Was that just to say thank you?” His confidence seemed to have evaporated and suddenly he was shy. Even timid.

“I don’t know. Do you want it to be just thank you?” Somewhere in my mind a warning bell went off. But how did I know that wasn’t the same part of my mind that was going crazy?

He gazed at me. “You’d have to be a fool not to know how I feel about you, Jane. How I—how much I like you.”

“Tell me.” At that moment, I needed all the reassurance I could get.

“Let’s just say I think you’re neat.”

“That’s it?”

“I’m holding my
A
material. I want you to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“Sure that you want to be with me because it’s your thing, not because it will make me happy.”

“I’m not like that.”

“Jane Freeman, you are the biggest people pleaser I know. You’d order popcorn at the movies even though you like peanut M&M’s better if you think the person you’re with would rather have popcorn and might want to share yours.”

I stared at him. “Are you a mind reader? Peanut M&M’s
are
my favorite.”

“I know a few thousand things about you,” he said teasingly.

“Then you’ll know that this will make me happy.” I kissed him again.

He kissed me back. Then he
really
kissed me back. His lips were warm. He smelled like sandalwood and baby powder. He kissed me long and soft and expertly with his hands cradling my head in a way that made my toes wriggle.

I pulled away, panting. “My toes wriggled! You made my toes wriggle.”

It took a moment for his eyes to focus, but then he grinned. “Really? Or do you say that to all the guys?”

“No, really. Look.” We both watched as first the toes of my left foot and then the toes of my right foot wriggled. “Kiss me again, let’s see if I can’t get all the way up to my knees back.”

“Are you just using me for my medicinal lips?”