Jane Doe(2)

I don’t think I was born this way. I suspect I used to feel things too deeply until my brain rewired itself to protect me.

My parents are still alive, still together, and they love me, I suppose. But they love me the way a careless child loves a pet. Too much attention one day, absolute neglect the next. The changes in current were too much for me to survive when I was young, so my brain learned to ride above them. It’s not something I think about now. It’s natural. I observe people’s emotions, but I rarely participate.

I talk to my parents occasionally, but I only initiate contact on Christmas. If I happen to be in Oklahoma, I’ll stop in for a visit—but, really, who ever happens to be in Oklahoma? I send money on each of their birthdays. They always need it.

I don’t hate them; I just don’t understand why people feel the need to try over and over with toxic family members. I know who my parents are. They’re not the worst, but they’re still awful, and I don’t need their chaos spinning in and out of my life when I’m not expecting it. They used up all their chances to hurt me when I was very young, and they can’t hurt me now even if they want to. That’s all.

When I call them on Christmas, I listen to their tales of misadventure and bad luck, and I offer a couple of stories about living and working in Malaysia. They tell me what my brother, Ricky, is up to. I don’t speak to him. I have nothing to say to a redneck asshole who’s somehow managed to create five children with four women during his brief stints of freedom from incarceration.

That’s my family.

As for friends . . . well, Meg was my best friend from the first day we met. She’s dead now.





CHAPTER 4

A month ago I was still working as an American import-export attorney for a big Asian manufacturing conglomerate. I lived in a gorgeous apartment in a modern high-rise in Kuala Lumpur outfitted with Western luxuries. I’ve always found it funny that the expat Americans rarely cook anything but need the biggest, best kitchen appliances. I include myself in that observation. I loved my shiny six-burner stove.

I had a view of the whole city, which was rather brown and hazy during the day but sparkled like a universe at night. I went to parties. There were always parties. I bought designer dresses and shoes. I don’t need beautiful things, but I like them fine.

Now I live in a run-down one-bedroom apartment three blocks from my new job. I rent it for its proximity to this office and because it has nice security measures for its price point—which is low. I could almost afford to live here on the pittance of an hourly wage I’m making now. The furniture is all cheaply rented.

My Malaysian employer thinks I’m caring for a dying relative. I now have less than fifty days for this little adventure. If I stay longer, I’ll lose my job. And I like my job. I like my life. I like my condo in Kuala Lumpur. I want to get back to it—but not until I’ve finished this.

I like Minneapolis too, but I’ll be happy to leave. There are too many memories of Meg here. Or should I want to stay so I can remember her and pretend I might run into her at any moment? I don’t know how grief works. I have no idea what I should expect or even what I should want.

Regardless, my kind doesn’t worry much about the future. If I lose my job, I can sell the place in Malaysia and move to New York. I’ve always loved Manhattan. Instead of depending on Meg’s vibrancy to keep me human, maybe I could rely on the crazed heartbeat of that city. Melodramas playing out on every street and on every floor of every building. It might be good for me to be surrounded by that kind of emotion.

Kuala Lumpur is like that, but I don’t speak enough Malay to truly sink into it. Minneapolis is fine during the summer but too empty during winter. And I have too much ice on the inside to live with the dark and cold.

Today I don’t run into Steven in the break room, and I’m concerned that I haven’t snagged his interest. When he joins a supervisor at a desk two rows from mine, I take off my cardigan and toy absently with the button at my dress’s neckline. Unfasten, fasten. Unfasten, fasten. I let my fingertips rest against my bare skin. I drag them lower. When I look up, he’s watching, and I gulp and smile and drop my face in shame.

A few moments later I glance through my lashes. He winks. I let him see me giggle.

All in all, it’s a decent show. I hope it works.

I work until 5:30, then go home to my dingy apartment, which shares a wall with the apartment of a single dad who has custody three nights a week. Sometimes I like hearing the squeals and laughter of his kids, but tonight they’re excited about going to the store to pick out Halloween costumes, and I hate them for their happiness and for my memories.

For our sophomore Halloween at the U, Meg made me dress up, the first time I’d bothered since I was ten. She went as a sexy nurse. I was a sexy teacher. The whole point of college costumes was the sexy, of course, and it worked. That night I got laid, and she met a boy who became her boyfriend. Kevin, I think. He was fine for a college boy, and I liked him. It only lasted three months, though.

Meg always fell hard and fast, and I was good at giving her the space for that. That was my role in her love life: to be there waiting when it all fell apart. To help her understand the logic of getting over it and moving on when she couldn’t see past her torrent of tears.

Her role in my love life was to encourage me to give each guy a chance. He’s nice! He likes you! He’s so cute! Most of my college dating was just to humor her. To try it her way for a little while. I liked the physical closeness, the sex, but I could never get to the part where you opened up to the other person.