Looking for Jane (53)

“Dr. Sheen’s office, this is Martha.”

“Hi, Martha.” Nancy braces for the verbal stabbing. “I’m looking for Jane. I was told to ask for Jane. Is she there?”

“Uh, no, we don’t have a Jane here, but I think I may know who you’re trying to reach. Do you have a pen?”

Nancy scrambles to grab the pen in her sweaty fingers. She cocks her head over her shoulder to hold the receiver against her ear. “Ready. Go ahead.”

Martha gives her a number, which Nancy jots down, then repeats back.

“You got it,” Martha says. “Good luck, honey.”

Nancy’s eyes sting again. “Thank you.”

Martha hangs up, and Nancy follows suit. Steeling her resolve, she exhales quickly and dials the given number before she loses her nerve. The rotary dial on the old phone whirs back into place seven times, the zeros taking an eternity to complete their rotation. Nancy’s foot jiggles as the phone rings through eight times. She’s just started to panic about whether to leave a message on the answering machine or hang up when a woman picks up the line.

“Dr. Taylor’s office.”

“Um, hi, there. I’m looking for Jane. Someone told me I could speak with Jane here. She gave me your number.”

“Please hold.”

Some generic elevator music kicks in on the line, and Nancy waits, hardly daring to breathe. A minute or two later, a different woman comes on.

“Hi, there, I understand you’re looking for Jane.” She sounds older. Her voice is deeper and resonant, and it feels familiar and somehow calming to Nancy.

“Yes.”

“Have you ever met Jane before?”

Silence. Nancy isn’t sure how she’s supposed to answer. Is this some kind of test, a second stage of the code she hadn’t been told about? “No, I haven’t. This is my first time.”

“Okay. What’s your name, miss?”

“Nancy. Nancy M—”

“No, no! No last names, Nancy.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Okay,” the woman continues. “So, I understand you’re running late. What time is it where you are? And by that, I mean, between one p.m. and nine p.m.”

What?

The silence stretches the tension even tighter.

“Think about my question for a moment, Nancy.”

She does, and starts to feel anxious again. And stupid. The butterfly has returned. She rakes her fingers through her hair, her ragged, chewed fingernails catching on the brown strands. And then two pieces snap into place in Nancy’s mind.

“Oh! Yeah, I guess I’m—I’d guess it’s about one o’clock or so.”

“Very good, we can definitely accommodate that timeline. I’d like to have you over to visit Jane fairly soon. Are you free to come in to the office…” The voice trails off, and Nancy can hear the riffling of pages. “At seven-thirty next Saturday night?”

The butterfly is in her throat, flapping against her tonsils. “Saturday?”

Her major paper is due the following Monday and she hasn’t even started it. But this can’t wait, can it? No. She’s certain in her decision. She just wants it done. She takes a deep breath.

“Yeah, I can do Saturday night. Seven-thirty, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. Do I need to bring anything, or…?”

“No, just you. It’s better that you come alone, actually. Do you have a pen?”

Nancy jots down the address the woman gives her. “All right. And how much is the fee?” Nancy braces for it. She’ll just have to eat nothing but Kraft Dinner for the next few months.

“There is no fee. I do this for free for those who need it.”

“Oh, wow. Okay, thank you. That’s really helpful, honestly.”

“I’m happy to help. But one last thing, Nancy: it’s important that you knock seven times, loudly, when you arrive. Make sure you are here precisely at seven-thirty, okay? My nurse will come let you in. What do you look like?”

“Dark brown hair, brown eyes. I’m about five-six. I’ll be wearing a red coat.”

“Wear a black one.”

Nancy shakes her head. “I’m sorry?”

“Wear a more discreet colour, and knock seven times. We’ll see you next Saturday night. Take care.”

And with a sharp click, the line goes dead.



* * *



Saturday has arrived. The Day.

A chill, damp March 21 smothered in steely grey cloud cover. It hasn’t stopped raining all week, unless you count the hour of sleet and hail that lashed down on the city on Wednesday in the middle of afternoon rush hour. The pathetic remnants of winter are still evident along the street gutters: the ugly brown crust of dirt and salt and car exhaust that signals the end of winter’s death grip and—finally—the beginning of spring.

Nancy hates winter. The end of it is usually a significant cause for celebration in her book. But not today. She can’t ever remember feeling more unlike herself, and utterly unfocused on anything but the task at hand. And she’s decided to think about this ordeal as exactly that: a task, a chore. She’s packaged it up in her mind as something that she just needs to get through to move on to the Next Step, whatever that might be. If she’s being honest with herself, she has no idea. She can’t see much beyond the grey cloud of this evening.