Chapter 10
Chapter 10
The first time involved a Christmas tree farm.
“A Christmas tree farm,” Dan repeated when Jane presented him with the idea. She had seen it on Instagram that morning in the three minutes she had to herself on the toilet. A picture-perfect farm in Vermont that looked like it was the movie set for every Hallmark holiday film ever created, and the couple who owned it wanted to retire and sell the entire operation, including their gorgeous six-bedroom Georgian farmhouse built in the 1800s, for the bargain price of $1.2 million.
“Yes! We can sell our house and—well, we’ll have to take out a business loan, but can’t you just envision it? The kids can have a hot chocolate stand—”
“Josh isn’t even walking yet.”
“In the future! And we’ll give horse-drawn sleigh rides and have bonfires with s’mores and—”
“Jane, be serious,” Dan said. “We don’t know anything about farming. Or…horses.”
“We can learn!”
“OK,” Dan said, but it was placating, not an invitation for further consideration of the idea. “Should we get pizza for dinner, or Thai?”
So Jane didn’t mention it to Dan again—but she didn’t put it out of her mind. She couldn’t. When Sissy was at preschool and Josh was napping, she was glued to the Internet for hours, staring at the listing for the farm, visualizing herself kneading dough on the butcher block island (never mind that she had never baked bread before and had no idea how). And then the fantasies started to bleed over into when she was with the kids—changing diapers and making bottles and filling sippy cups and having arguments with a three-year-old over the wrong-color spoon that often ended in tantrums that Jane felt ill-equipped to handle, she would find herself drifting off, her mind on the Christmas tree farm. She wasn’t so naive to think that all those parenting trials wouldn’t also exist at the farmhouse, but they seemed more manageable for some reason in an ideal setting, instead of her and Dan’s cramped two-bedroom starter home, the only place they could afford on Dan’s salary, every closet and cabinet overflowing with little-kid detritus.
She knew it was unhinged, obsessing over a farmhouse she couldn’t afford in a state she had never been to, but sometimes she also felt like it was the only thing keeping her afloat. She didn’t know how to explain it, but she couldn’t remember who she was before she was a mother. She’d had a job once—one at a marketing firm that she was competent at but didn’t love—and she and Dan decided she should quit after Josh was born, when they realized her entire paycheck would simply be turned over for day care. She didn’t miss working, necessarily, as much as she missed having an identity outside of being a caretaker for two very demanding children. And maybe the Christmas tree farm was a new identity she was trying on for size.
One afternoon when Josh was sleeping and Sissy was enthralled in an episode of Little Einsteins , Jane called the number on the listing and spoke to the real estate agent in quiet tones, asking serious and important-sounding questions: How old is the roof? How much do the monthly utilities cost? What are the schools like in the area? How much income do the Christmas trees bring in? She dutifully recorded the answers in a notebook that she’d later slip in her bedside drawer like a keepsake or a middle school diary. Would you like to make an appointment to come look at it? the real estate agent asked. I would , Jane said, which wasn’t a lie. I’ll look at my schedule and call you back , she said, which was.
And though she knew logically they would never buy the farm, that it didn’t make sense financially or otherwise, and therefore never once brought it up again with Dan, irrationally, she started to resent him. When she lay in bed at night, staring at the ceiling and four walls of their cramped bedroom that seemed to be pressing in on her, going over the mental checklist of the day ahead—was the green T-shirt for Sissy clean for Earth Day?; they were out of cheese sticks and running low on Goldfish; she’d forgotten to call the insurance company for the fourth time; the Subaru needed an oil change; was the mole on her left breast getting bigger or was it her imagination?—she would stare at Dan snoring beside her and feel like she was in somebody else’s bed, living someone else’s life. Her life—her real life—was out there, waiting for her. Maybe on a Christmas tree farm, maybe somewhere else altogether, and she was desperate to go find it.
···
The kitchen door swings open, jolting Jane out of her thoughts, and a young man in glasses, army green pants, and a black tank top, clutching a gun, walks through first. He holds the door open and a man in a chef’s coat comes through next, shuffling backward as he carries the end of a white tablecloth that’s been turned into a sling or a hammock for a supine body. Jane’s eyes widen, wondering if it’s a dead body, until she sees its face—very much alive and grimacing. Dan is holding the other end of the tablecloth at the man’s head and shouting commands: Careful. Watch the door. Don’t jostle him. He looks tired, and his hands and his white shirt are covered in dried blood.
Paisley gasps beside her, and Jane says “It’s not his blood” before she realizes it’s likely not Dan the girl is concerned about. Regardless, it comforts Jane to have said it out loud.
She doesn’t remember Dan taking off his jacket, but makes a note to herself to find it and retrieve it before they leave, as if they are merely at a work holiday party and don’t want to leave anything behind. His captor leads Dan and the chef to the far wall, away from Jane, and she finds that she’s disappointed. Not only because she was worried about him and wants him by her side (She needs her arm back! Her weighted blanket!), but because she also wants to tell him what’s happened, fill him in on what he’s missed, like they used to do routinely in the evenings after a day apart—back in the beginning, when things were good.
She would tell him about peeing with Vaughn and Paisley. About the mulberry silk and how she laughed so hard she thought perhaps she was having a nervous breakdown. She would tell him about Brick holding the gun to Paisley’s head and how terrifying it was. The girl could have died ! Right in front of Jane’s eyes.
Though she’s staring at Dan as she thinks about all these things she would tell him, it takes her a minute to realize he’s trying to tell her something. He’s sitting beside where the chef lies against the wall, and he’s staring at her intently; his mouth is moving up and down, repeating the same unintelligible phrase over and over, while he keeps nodding his head to where the men with guns who had been in the kitchen are now conferring with Tink and Brick.
Jane can’t make out what he’s saying, but he looks absolutely unhinged and she wonders if it’s something to do with the chef. She frowns. The chef’s skin is quite pale.
What? she mouths back. And that’s when she notices the proximity of the cell booster to Dan. It’s on the table closest to him, not more than five feet away. And though it would be risky for him to move, to close the gap, grab the cord, and plug it in at the wall, it wouldn’t be impossible. And then Jane remembers the noise of all the phones coming to life, which would certainly alert their captors. Still, maybe she’d have time to dial 9-1-1 before they unplugged it again. But who knows what the consequence to Dan would be?
As her mind buzzes with the risks versus benefits, the pointy end of an elbow connects with Jane’s stomach, and she thinks it’s an accident until she looks to the left at her fellow diner and finds Vaughn staring directly back at her. “Do you still have the phone?” she whispers.
“Yes,” Jane says, ever aware of the weight of it against her breast.
“I need to text Otto.”
“OK,” Jane whispers back, though if she got the phone to work, the first thing she’d do would be call the police. “I need to figure out how to get the booster turned back on.”
“What about the Wi-Fi?”
“What Wi-Fi?” Jane’s eyes dart around the room again as they speak, ever vigilant of their captors. It reminds her of elementary school—the heightened anxiety of passing notes to her friends without getting caught by the teacher, but with obviously more catastrophic consequences.
“This place must have Wi-Fi, so they can run credit card charges and the employees can use their cell phones.”
“Oh,” Jane says. She hadn’t thought of that, mostly because she doesn’t really understand technology at all. She relies on Sissy and Josh to help her with even basic tasks, like setting up her iPhone when she finally bought one six years ago. “How do I get on it?”
Vaughn stares at her a beat, and Jane braces for the judgment at her technological ineptitude, but Vaughn simply whispers: “Go to settings? Wi-Fi? And click on the one for the restaurant.”
“OK,” Jane says. She tries to swallow, but finds her mouth is too dry. “Keep a lookout.” She glances up first, making sure no one is looking at her—and they’re not. Brick is at a table, deep in conversation with Tink. They’ve all shed their backpacks, which now sit in a heap in the middle of the floor.
The few guys who had just been in conversation with Brick are—to Jane’s surprise—nowhere to be found, and she wonders if they went into the kitchen to get food. Her stomach growls, and she presses her hand to it, slightly embarrassed, as though she shouldn’t be thinking of eating at a time like this. But they hardly got to eat anything before their meal was so rudely interrupted.
Even though no one is paying any attention to her, her underarms dampen and her heartbeat revs as she awkwardly reaches into the top of her dress with her bound hands and grasps her phone, quickly pulling it out and holding it down at her side between her and Vaughn. She enters her passcode and maneuvers her way through the steps with her thumb. Aha! She sees the network pop up: LaFinduMondeNet. She clicks it, and Vaughn says “You might need the password,” at the same time Jane’s screen says “Enter Password.”
“Shit,” Jane says. “How do I get that?”
“The people on staff should have it,” Vaughn whispers. She nods at Monica, tied up at the far end of the row. Javier hasn’t returned from the bathroom, and Jane hopes he’s somehow been able to trip the alarm and trying to get cell service to her phone will be moot. Before Jane can ask her to do it, Vaughn turns and whispers to the woman to her left, and Jane watches as each hostage sends the message down the row, like a game of telephone. She’s hopeful this yields better results.
While she waits, she pulls her knees up to her chest and nestles the phone between her thighs to block the view of it from others—even though it means her underwear is likely on display. She quickly maneuvers with her thumb to the text screen and decides to punch out a text to 9-1-1 so it’s ready when she gets the password.
Help! In La Fin du Monde. Man has been shot. We are being held hostage by men with guns. Send help!
She stops. Reads it over. Considers. Technically it’s not just men. Should she change it to people , maybe? Also, she said help twice, which is redundant.
She shakes her head. Occupational hazard. Now’s not the time for edits. It’s succinct and gets the point across. But…do they need to know who she is?
She types: This is Jane Brooks.
Deletes it.
Types it again.
She presses send, even though there’s no service, and waits, glancing nervously around the room again, making sure no one is looking at her, but this time, someone is. Brick’s gaze locks on hers and he tilts his head curiously.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit . She blinks and casually continues her gaze around the room, hoping that it wasn’t plainly obvious what she was doing, and knowing she looks guilty as sin. Her stomach in her throat, she waits for him to approach her, to find the phone, and then…what? She can only imagine how angry he’ll be, what he’ll do. She closes her eyes and swallows, tries to slow her breathing. When she opens them, she expects Brick to be hovering over her, but his gaze has moved down the row of hostages.
“Oy,” he shouts. “No talking.” He glares until he’s sure the hostages have complied and then turns back to his conversation with Tink. Jane exhales a long, shaky breath and glances down the row, where it appears no one is continuing to pass her message along. And who can blame them?
Her stomach growls again, and Jane’s not sure if it’s acid eating away at her innards from nerves, or hunger, but she realizes she’s no longer under the impression that this whole matter will be wrapped up quickly and she’ll get back to her table for the remaining eight courses. This is not a blip, a small interruption to dinner. This is the trajectory of the evening now. A train she has gotten on and is unable to get off—even though she’s unsure of where it’s taking her.
She feels the hard edge of her cell phone with her hip and wishes for the hundredth time she could call her kids.
“They don’t know it,” Vaughn whispers, her lips barely moving.
Jane tenses. “What?”
“The password. Says the chef changes it every day and doesn’t give it to them so they don’t get distracted by their phones.”
“Seriously?” Jane mutters. God, the man really is a dictator. And then she remembers that dictator who knows the password is sitting—well, lying —across the room from her…and right next to Dan.
She looks at her husband and finds he’s staring at her, like he’s been waiting for her to look to him again—and she feels that buzz of connection. Of course! They’ve been married for nineteen years; of course he would know she needed him.
But instead of waiting for her to say what she needs, he mouths the unintelligible phrase he was trying to tell her earlier—this time a vein is throbbing in his neck; his eyes are wild. She knows it’s a stressful situation and he’s worried about the chef, but she shakes her head, trying to convey that her need in this moment is more pressing.
He stops and looks at her, waiting.
She darts her eyes around the room again, and, satisfied no one—namely Brick—is paying attention, she mouths I have my phone , exaggerating each word.
His eyes go wide.
Emboldened, she continues: I need the Wi-Fi password.
He narrows his eyes and nods.
From the chef . She points at the chef.
He points at the chef, as if to underline what she’s saying.
Yes! She nods, waiting for him to ask, but Dan stares back at her blankly.
Ask him , she mouths.
He scrunches his nose. And then mouths the same phrase he’s been mouthing since he first sat down. Jane closes her eyes and clenches her fists and tries not to scream . Of course Dan can’t understand her. He can’t even read her facial expressions at his god-awful work parties, once leaving her for more than an hour trapped in a conversation with Bob, an older podiatrist in his practice who was telling her all the particulars of his latest trip to some New Jersey toy train museum. Bob was a miniature-train enthusiast—also known as a “railfan,” Jane learned against her will that evening—and his entire basement was home to his overwhelming collection. Jane understood at this point why Bob had never remarried—and why his wife, Camilla, had divorced him. Jane had been making eyes at Dan for the entire conversation to come save her, but when he finally approached and she began to feel a sense of relief and gratitude, he merely dropped off a fresh glass of champagne and said, Didn’t mean to interrupt! Carry on , and promptly left Jane alone for another thirty minutes of statistics about the museum that Bob had apparently memorized when he was there (8 miles of track! 403 tunnels! 260,000 figurines!) that Jane had to pretend to be enthralled by. When really, the only thing that impressed her was the seemingly masculine ability to hold such mounds of trivial data in their brains but have no idea where they left their wallet.
All that to say, Jane doesn’t have hope that Dan will suddenly be able to read her lips, and she’s no closer to getting the password for the Wi-Fi.
Javier appears at the doorway, jerking Jane’s attention from Dan. Caden leads him back to the wall next to Monica, and Jane wills him to look at her. Was he successful? Did he trip the alarm?
“Mom,” Paisley whispers.
“Yeah?” Vaughn says.
“I have to tell you something.”
“OK,” Vaughn says. “What is it, baby?”
Paisley swallows and then: “That’s Isaac.”
“Who?”
“Isaac!” she says, pointing at one of the younger guys who was in the kitchen and now sits alone at a table, one hand on his gun and the other up to his mouth, where his teeth are nibbling a hangnail. “ That’s the guy who ghosted me.”
“What?” Vaughn says, straightening her spine.
“He’s the one who suggested I come here for my birthday!” she whispers. Jane watches as Paisley’s shock morphs into anger and then embarrassment and self-flagellation. “This really is all my fault.” And though Vaughn of course contests it, assuring her it’s not true, Jane has to agree with Paisley’s assessment. Had Paisley not fallen for Isaac’s deviousness, Jane would be on her second gin and halfway through the nine courses by now.
“Hey!” Brick shouts in their direction. “I said no talking.”
Paisley buries her head in her mother’s shoulder, and Vaughn locks eyes with Jane, who tries to keep her schadenfreude-esque grin at bay and force a sympathetic frown in its place, the universal one that conveys from one parent to another: Kids, huh?
It’s not that she takes pleasure in Paisley’s mistake—she’s a kid, after all, and Jane did all kinds of dumb things as a teenager. It’s that motherhood is hard, and sometimes the only bright spot is when you see someone having a harder time at it than you are, and you can momentarily dwell in the comforting reminder that comparatively, you’re doing just fine. While Jane may not have the money to take her children to ridiculously expensive restaurants to celebrate birthdays, and Josh plays too many video games, and she can’t seem to have a simple conversation with Sissy lately without it blowing up into an outright war—at least Jane can say with 100 percent certainty that none of her children are consorting with criminals.