What Janie Saw Page 3

  I can’t control the news, thought Janie, but I can control the future. I can control college.

  She saw Manhattan. She saw skyscrapers and sidewalks, crowds and subways and taxis and the surging, noisy climate that was New York City. She saw herself invisible there.

  Brave, she reminded herself. My best friend actually thinks I’m brave.

  “The scary part,” said Sarah-Charlotte, “is that the kidnapper might see that video. Hannah’s out there someplace, you know.”

  They never used the kidnapper’s name.

  Janie did not like thinking about the actual woman who was the actual daughter of Frank and Miranda, the actual pretty suburban teenager who turned into a monster. She did not want to be reminded that that woman’s hand had held hers and that they had smiled at each other. That she, age three, had cooperated in her own kidnapping.

  “I’ve always wondered if Hannah is proud of what she did,” said Sarah-Charlotte. “If she’s like an arsonist who comes back to see the fire and the damage. If Hannah would like to come back and see you.”

  “Stop it!” said Janie. “Hannah was a kidnapper once. She’s not going to be a kidnapper twice. All she is now is a person hiding out. Which isn’t a person at all. Forget Hannah. Meanwhile, I forgot to listen to that speaker. Did she say anything that matters?”

  “Apply early. Write a good essay. Keep your grades up. Visit the campus.”

  “I’m going to go to college in New York City,” said Janie. “NYU or Columbia or Hunter. Think I can get into any of those?”

  “Come on, you’re famous. Just mail them your flattened milk carton and they’ll give you a full scholarship.”

  Never, thought Janie. I will never go to college as the face on the milk carton.

  I’ll apply as Elizabeth Johnson. Or Marie Spring. Girls who haven’t previously existed and who have no profile.

  Of course, they had no high school transcripts either.

  Well, she would conquer that.

  She would conquer everything.

  Easy to say in school.

  Not so easy at home.

  Every time Janie came home, her mother was either trying not to cry or had just finished crying. Poor Daddy was just sitting there, glad to see Janie, but his speech mangled and his thoughts confused. Mom was less and less able to care for him. Janie had coaxed her mother to move Daddy to an assisted living facility. Miranda needed no assistance, but she refused to leave her husband’s side. So Miranda too would enter The Harbor next year.

  It was the end of home.

  Janie had another home, in New Jersey, but she had assumed there would always be two homes, that she and Mom would get some cute apartment.

  At three-fifteen that afternoon, Janie walked into the house that would never be her refuge again.

  In preparation for selling the house, Janie and her mother were emptying the attic, clearing out the basement and dealing with the debris of a two-car garage and workshop. They were cutting ten rooms of furniture down to three. It was literally driving Miranda Johnson nuts. Poor Frank did not grasp what was happening. He was confused and frightened by every change in every room.

  But today Janie’s mother was not tearful. She was singing along to some aching love song from decades ago.

  She hasn’t seen the video, thought Janie.

  But then, Miranda and Frank had no knowledge of popular culture. They barely knew what music videos were.

  Miranda hurried over. “Guess what I did all by myself?” she said, breathless as a kindergartner who needed her confidence boosted.

  The desire to leave for college was suddenly so strong Janie almost shouted, I’m going! I can’t be here any longer! I can’t help you anymore! I have to lead my own life. You have to do this yourself!

  She choked it down.

  I’m a pillar of strength, she reminded herself. “Tell me,” she said, smiling.

  “In the attic? Those three trunks of Hannah’s stuff? I took the deepest breath in the entire world, emptied every single thing into big black plastic grass clipping bags, tied them tight and took them to the dump. I just chucked them into that Dumpster. Without a twinge. And next I loaded the three empty trunks in the van and dropped them off at the thrift shop.”

  The name Hannah was never used in this house. Hannah was the biological daughter who grew up to be evil. She did not murder her little victim. She handed the toddler to her parents, pretending Janie was her own child and therefore the grandchild of Frank and Miranda. She drove away. The destruction of Janie’s birth family and the eventual destruction of the little family in this house were crimes for which Hannah would never pay. The victims paid daily.

  Janie imagined her mother in the hot, dusty attic, tugging at the trunks, pulling them under the bare lightbulb. Looking down into the piles of Hannah’s childhood finger paintings and mittens and book reports and baby shoes. Miranda cherished the contents of those trunks, proof that she and Frank had lavished love and time and ballet lessons and orthodonture and vacations and attention on their Hannah.

  “That must have been awful, Mom.”

  Her mother went from smiles to tears. “Everything was ruined anyway. The FBI had it all for a year. I don’t know why they gave it back. I guess there wasn’t anything to help them find Hannah. But they put their hands all over it. Oh, Janie!” said her mother brokenly. “I was a good mother. I was.”

  Janie hugged her fiercely. “You still are. Look at me. I turned out pretty well.”

  I can never leave, thought Janie. I’m the living proof that my mother is a good person, not a bad person. That horrible song claiming I don’t know right from wrong is a song against this mother and father.

  Her New Jersey mother was far calmer. Donna always had good advice. “Don’t worry so much,” she had said during the last visit. “Make the best choice you can. Have some fun for a change.”

  Whatever else today had been for Miranda Johnson, it hadn’t been fun. Janie tried to think of fun possibilities to distract her mother. There weren’t many, especially when they had to bring along a drooling man in a wheelchair.

  “Let’s go get ice cream!” cried Janie. Miranda loved ice cream, always agonizing over what flavor to choose as if she might never have another chance.

  “We can’t leave Frank. I don’t have an aide here right now.”

  “I can get him out of the wheelchair and into the van,” said Janie. “Hi, Daddy,” she said, giving him a kiss. He beamed at her with the innocent pleasure of a small child.

  But he was not so innocent. His kidnapper daughter had never been found. Not by the FBI or the police in several states. But Frank Johnson had always known where she was … and sent her money to live on. It was the worst secret Janie had ever had to keep, and she had not kept it well.

  She drove to the family’s favorite ice cream shop. You could order gummy bears or chocolate shots or crushed Oreo cookies mixed into your ice cream, but Janie liked her ice cream pure. She usually ordered one cup with three different flavor scoops. In childhood, she had had milk allergies, or so they’d thought. But either she’d never had them or had outgrown them or ice cream transcended all problems.

  From a placard in the big windows, Miranda read the choices out loud to Frank. He seemed to perk up at mint chocolate chip. “And I’ll have a scoop each of tiramisu and mocha,” said Miranda happily.

  Thank you, ice cream, thought Janie. You will give my poor mother a few minutes’ rest. “You stay with Dad,” she ordered, “and I’ll go inside.”

  She got in line behind a big family who would probably take a large chunk of time, which was fine with Janie. She had a lot of thinking to do.

  She glanced at the unopened messages on her cell.

  There were none from her New Jersey family. Neither her New Jersey mom nor her New Jersey dad had texted, although they usually were in constant communication. Stephen, Jodie, Brendan and Brian would not only have seen the Visionary Assassins video, they would have it memorized. Bren
dan hardly knew that Janie existed, but the others usually copied their messages to Janie.

  And what did they think, these three brothers and this one sister who had suffered so many years on her behalf? Did they agree with the terrible sentiments in those lyrics?

  Janie Johnson, gone so long,

  Can’t remember right from wrong.

  And her New Jersey parents, on whom she would like to lean, at whose house she would rather live right now than the sad, difficult house of Frank and Miranda—what did they think?

  She knew. They would think that Janie had done the best she could, and they would love her even if she hadn’t. She wanted her real parents so badly at that moment she thought she would start bawling.

  But if you started crying, you might not stop.

  I’ll visit New Jersey this weekend, she thought. We have to talk.

  “Miss?” said a loud voice. “You ready to order?”

  The symmetry of her life struck Janie as violently as the chords of Visionary Assassins.

  When Hannah had walked away fifteen years ago with toddler Jennie Spring, she had bought that little girl’s trust with ice cream. Now here that little girl stood, in her Janie Johnson life, ordering ice cream for Hannah’s parents.

  Janie placed her order. Then Reeve’s ringtone filled the tiny ice cream shop and his photograph smiled at her on the cell phone screen.

  She wanted to leap back into being his girlfriend. If only she didn’t have the sordid knowledge of how low Reeve could stoop. “Hi, Reeve,” she said softly. She loved his name. She loved saying it.

  “Janie,” he said. “Listen.” He always started conversations that way, as if otherwise she would not. Although listening to Reeve was one of life’s pleasures.

  She didn’t want to lean on him again. She wanted to stand alone. But standing alone was hard. Not to mention lonely. “I saw the video,” she told him.

  “I wondered when you’d want to talk about it. I’m so proud of you, being so calm and shrugging it off like nothing. They’ll probably dance to it at your senior prom, although I’ll bribe the DJ not to play it.”

  Janie paid for the three ice creams. Frank would be able to feed himself, but he would make a mess. They were used to that now. Handsome, tall, laughing, unflappable Frank Johnson. A mess.

  Like my life, thought Janie.

  And then she shook herself. My life is wonderful. I am loved by two families. I’m smart enough to get into a good college. I have friends who worry about me and a guy who still loves me. “Okay, so we’re not actually dating,” she said to Reeve, “and we’re still in a state of half forgiveness, but I want to reserve you for that very senior prom. Will you take me?”

  Reeve gave that great burst of laughter she loved so much, the one that made entire rooms laugh along with him, the one that consigned any problem to nothingness. She felt herself moving Reeve up on the forgiveness scale. Three-quarters now.

  “I’ll take you,” he said. “And guess what. I’m coming home for the weekend.”

  When she needed to be in New Jersey, seeing yet another set of parents.

  “That’s wonderful, Reeve,” she said. “I miss you. Especially right now. And maybe on Saturday, we could drive to New Jersey together, because I need to talk about the video with my family.”

  “Whoa. That’s intense. You don’t need me around during that, Janie.”

  “I do need you. You’re my safety net.”

  “That’s not the description I have in mind.”

  “Best friend?”

  “Better. But I’m waiting for you to say boyfriend again.”

  I’m waiting too, she thought. But I’m not there. Oh, Reeve, I love you, but I’m not able to take you back. Not now. Maybe not ever.

  Janie Johnson, gone so long,

  Can’t remember right from wrong.

  Reeve, who had done her wrong, was the right person.

  Or was he?

  The woman formerly known as Hannah went back to her computer, but it had turned itself off! Her time was up! Probably that librarian had looked at the screen while Hannah was busy! It had probably been open to her Janie Johnson search! She could never come here again!

  It was all that librarian’s fault!

  Hannah stuck her hand into her tote bag and wrapped her fingers around the rough surface of her rock. The sharp edge dug into her palm. She would smash it into the stupid screen. That would show this stupid librarian.

  She thought about what she would do to that Janie Johnson if she ever ran into her.

  And then Hannah thought, It doesn’t have to be an “if.” I know everything. The Internet gave it to me. I know where she lives. I’ve seen the house on Street View and I printed out a Google map.

  Smiling, Hannah walked out of the library.

  She had a future after all.

  She had Janie in her sights.

  As the months went by, it turned out that a high school senior class had bigger things to think about than some video. Janie’s friends cared about college. Where to go? How far from home? At what cost? Studying what major?

  As the video slipped down the charts, replaced by new albums, Janie seemed to be the only one who noticed. The music and ugly words slid away, getting smaller and harder to hear. Now that the crazed, pulsing little video had less power over her, Janie yearned to talk about it with her best friend.

  But Sarah-Charlotte’s sole topic of conversation was the Massachusetts university to which she was applying. “You come too, Janie. It’s not that far from all four of your parents. You can get home any weekend by train. And we’ll be in the same place, taking the same classes—and maybe we can even be roommates!”

  The video was becoming history. Janie was sobered to find that she wanted other things in life to become history too. She did not want to be roommates with her best friend. She did not want to share a campus. Her best friend knew too much, and Janie wanted to say good-bye to the past.

  It was risky. It was scary. But Janie Johnson wanted strangers.

  “School in Massachusetts is a nice thought,” she said carefully. “But I’m going to look at schools in New York City as well. It’ll be even easier to visit both New Jersey and Connecticut parents if I’m in the middle.”

  “But then you’ll be in the middle of all that family hassle,” Sarah-Charlotte said.

  It doesn’t have to be a hassle, thought Janie. I can divide my families evenly. Especially from New York. I don’t have to tell anybody why I have two families. And being in the middle of two families sounds pretty good, actually. It sounds loved.

  With her daughter Janie so frequently visiting New Jersey, Miranda Johnson suffered in an empty house through empty hours. Frank was no longer company. Facing her final move, Miranda kept feeling the ghostly presence of her biological daughter.

  A terrifying mental dialogue never stopped.

  Took me to the dump? hissed the vanished Hannah. Threw out every piece of paper and memory of me? You are the monster!

  Frank and I did our best, Miranda would argue. We struggled with you. We loved you. We could not save you, Hannah. Your heart and soul were twisted from the beginning. No amount of counseling or love or pharmaceuticals changed that. I still love you, Hannah. I still think of you every day. But fifteen years ago, you brought me your little girl. I believed your lie that the little girl was really my granddaughter! You chose to vanish, Hannah, and I chose to let it happen.

  I chose Janie.

  It broke Miranda’s heart. It would always break her heart.

  No mother steps away from her child lightly, she would tell Hannah. Remember that you abandoned us, not the other way around!

  Memories of Hannah drifted around Miranda like an evil fog.

  Miranda yearned for The Harbor, where she would have the comfort of strangers and dinner on a tray, where the ghost of Hannah could not follow.

  Hannah worked nights that year.

  Days she spent going from library to library, following ever
y Internet clue she could turn up. She needed a route to Janie where neither the FBI nor Janie would see her coming.

  And one rainy day, when the library was packed with children for story hour and the computer cubes had lines waiting, she found an online forum. It was about a subject she had not previously considered. Her heart leaping with excitement, Hannah followed a thread with hundreds of posts and dozens of tips and clues. These people had given themselves a difficult assignment and most of them were failing.

  But I’m way smarter than they are, thought Hannah. I am brilliant. I can do this easily! It’s my destiny.

  And it’s the road to Janie.

  Hannah smothered her laughter.

  After all this time. It was perfect. She could destroy that so-called mother and father of hers now. They were the kidnappers! They had snatched Hannah’s life and handed it over to that red-haired girl, who had no right to it!

  Those three thought they had found happily ever after.

  They were wrong.

  You can’t find me, Janie Johnson, taunted Hannah.

  But I found you.

  And I’m coming.

  The First Piece of the Kidnapper’s Puzzle

  The woman who had once been known as Hannah barely remembered that day in New Jersey.

  It was so many years ago, and anyway, it had been an accident.

  It happened because she was driving east. There was no reason to head east. But when she stole the car and wanted to get out of the area quickly, she took the first interstate ramp she saw. It was eastbound.

  She had never stolen a car before. It was as much fun as drugs. The excitement was so great that she had not needed sleep or rest or even meals.

  Everybody else driving on the turnpike had experience and knew what they were doing. But although the woman once known as Hannah was thirty, she had done very little driving.

  Back when she was a teenager and everybody else was learning to drive, her cruel parents had never bought her a car. They rarely let her drive the family car either. They said she was immature. And in the group she joined, only the leaders had cars.