“Oh, crap.” He steps toward her, sorry-eyed. And she steps back.
Shakes her head and looks away, fingers to her mouth, eyes filling.
“Don’t, Janie. I didn’t mean it.”
Janie closes her eyes and swallows hard. “No,” she says slowly. Doesn’t want to say it, but knows it’s true. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She gives a morose laugh. “It’s good for you to say it like it is, you know? Healthy. And shit.”
“Come on,” he says. “Come ’ere.” He steps toward her again and this time she goes to him. He runs his fingers through her hair and holds her to his chest. Kisses her forehead. “I’m sorry too.
And that’s not like it is. I just . . . it just came out wrong.”
“Did it? Are you really saying that you aren’t concerned about what’s going to happen to me?
About how that will affect you?”
“Janie—” Cabel gives her a helpless look.
“Well?”
“Well what? What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to tell the truth. Aren’t you worried? Not even a little bit?”
“Janie,” he says again. “Don’t. Why are you doing this?”
But he doesn’t answer the question.
To Janie, that says it all. She closes her eyes. “I think I’m a little stressed out,” she whispers after a moment, and then shakes her head. At least now she knows. “Got a lot on my mind.”
“Oh, really?” Cabe laughs softly.
“Some great vacation week, huh?”
Cabel snorts. “Yeah. Seems like forever since we were lazing around in the sun.”
Janie’s quiet, thinking about her mother, her father, and everything else. Cabel, and her own stupid problems, as Cabel calls them. And now, she wonders, Who’s going to pay this hospital bill? She hopes like hell Henry has money, but by the looks of him, he’s homeless. “No insurance,” she groans aloud. Bangs her head against Cabel’s chest. “Ay yi yi.”
“It’s not your problem.”
Janie sighs deeply. “Why do I feel so responsible for it then?”
Cabel’s quiet.
Janie looks up at him. “What?”
“You want me to analyze you?”
She laughs. “Sure.”
“I’ll probably regret saying anything. But it’s like this. You’re so used to playing the responsible one with your mother. Now you see this dysfunctional guy, somebody tells you he’s your father and boom, your instinct is to be responsible for him, too, since he appears to be even more fucked-up than your mother. God knows we never thought that was possible.”
Janie sighs. “I’m just trying to get through it all, you know? Get through the messes one by one, hoping each time it’s the last one, and then I look beyond it and realize, crap, there’s one more.
Just hoping that someday, finally, I’ll be free.” Janie looks over at Henry and walks over to the side of the bed. “But it never happens,” she says. Looks at her father for a long moment.
Thinking.
Thinking.
Maybe it’s time to change.
Time to be responsible for just one person.
“Come on,” she finally says to Cabel. “I don’t think there’s anything we can do for him. Let’s just go. Wait for them to call my mother when he’s . . . when it’s over.”
“Okay, sweets.” Cabel follows Janie out of the room. He nods to Miguel at the desk and Miguel offers a sympathetic smile.
“Now what?” Cabel says, grabbing Janie’s hand as they walk out to his car. “Food?”
“I think I’d rather you just drive me home, will you? I need some process time. Better check on my mother, too.”
“Ah. Okay.” Cabel doesn’t sound thrilled. “Tonight?”
“Yeah . . .” Janie says, distracted. “That would be good.”
1:15 p.m.
Janie flops onto her bed. Sinks her face into her pillow. Her fan full blast and blowing on her, window and shade closed to keep the heat out. It’s hot in the house, but Janie doesn’t care.
She’s still recuperating from last night. She falls hard into an afternoon sleep. Her dreams are jumbled and random, flitting from a creepy, hairy homeless man chasing her to her mother stumbling around drunk in the front yard naked, to Mr. Durbin threatening to kill her, to a parade with all the people from the Hill lined up along the street, watching. Pointing and laughing at
Janie the narc girl.
Then she dreams a horrible dream about Miss Stubin dying, and even though she’s already dead, it still hurts. In the dream, Janie cries. When she wakes, her eyes are wet.
So is the rest of her. She’s sweating so hard her sheets are damp.
And she feels like somebody beat the crap out of her.
Janie hates naps like that.
4:22 p.m.
She slips on her running shoes, stretches, and heads out the door, water bottle in hand. Thinks maybe this is what she needs. She hasn’t worked out all week.
She walks down the driveway, feet crunching the gravel, and eases into a jog. Pounds the tarpatched pavement, her shoes making dents in the black blobs that are made even softer by the sun. Sweat pours down her back, between her breasts. Her legs are tired but she keeps going, waiting for that rush to hit. She runs all the way to Heather Home without realizing where she’s going. The rhythmic step, the measured breathing, both slamming bad thoughts and memories through her head, trying to pound them out.