Wake

She says good-bye to Miss Stubin. Touches her cold, gnarled hand and gives it a little squeeze. 10:31 p.m.

Janie drives home slowly, windows rolled down, hand ready on the parking brake. She takes Waverly. Past Cabel’s house.

Nothing.

She falls into bed when she gets home.

There are no notes, no phone calls, no visits. Not that she was hoping for anything, of course. That bastard.

October 22, 2005

Janie works the day shift. It’s Saturday. She is assigned to the arts-and-crafts room. This makes her happy. Most of the residents at Heather Home don’t sleep through the craft. At her lunch break, the director is there, even though it’s a weekend. She calls Janie into her office and closes the door.

Janie is worried. Has she done something wrong? Has someone caught her in a dream and thought she was slacking off? She sits down tentatively in the chair by the director’s desk.

“Is everything okay?” she asks nervously.

The director smiles. She hands Janie an envelope.

“This is for you,” she says.

“What is it?”

“I don’t know. It’s something from Miss Stubin. We found it in her belongings after the coroner came. Open it.”

Janie’s eyes grow wide. Her fingers shake a little. She breaks open the seal and pulls out a folded piece of stationery. When she opens it, a small piece of paper flutters to the ground. She reads. The handwriting is barely legible. Crooked. Written with a blind hand. Dear Janie,

Thank you for my dreams.

From one catcher to another,

Martha Stubin

P.S. You have more power than you think.

Janie’s heart stutters. She draws in a breath. No, she thinks. Impossible. The director picks up the small rectangle of paper from the floor and hands it to Janie. It’s a check. It says, “for college,” in the memo line.

It’s five thousand dollars.

Janie looks up at the director, whose face is beaming so hard, it looks like it’s about to crack. She looks down at the check, and then again at the letter.

The director stands and gives Janie’s shoulder a squeeze. “Good job, honey,” she sniffles. “I’m so glad for you.”

3:33 p.m.

There is a phone call for Janie.

She hurries to the front desk. What a strange day.

It’s her mother.

“There’s this hippie on the porch, says he ain’t leaving until he talks to you. You coming home soon? He wants to know, and I’m going to bed.”

Janie sighs. She writes her schedule down every week on the calendar. But she is amused. Maybe because she got a check from Miss Stubin. Maybe because her mother calls Cabel a hippie.

“I’ll be home a little after five, Ma.”

“Do I need to worry about this character on the porch, or can I go to bed?”

“You can go to bed. He’s…ah…not a rapist.” That I know of, anyway. They hang up. 5:21 p.m.

Cabel is not on the porch.

Janie goes inside. There’s a note on the counter, underneath a dirty glass, in her mother’s scrawl. Hippie said he couldn’t stay. Be back tomorrow.

Love, Mom.

It said, Love, Mom.

That was the most notable thing about it.

Janie rips the note into shreds and throws it in the overflowing garbage can.

She changes her clothes, pops a TV dinner in the oven, and pulls out her college applications. Five thousand. Just a drop in the bucket, she knows. But it’s something. Just like Miss Stubin’s note.

That was really something.

Janie can’t wrap her mind around that one yet.

She looks over everything in her piles of papers. It all looks foreign to her. Financial aid forms, scholarship applications, writing a request essay? Jeez. She needs to get moving on this. She has no idea what she wants to do with her future.

But science, math…maybe research. Maybe dream research.

Or not.

She really wants to forget that part of her shitty, shitty life.

She calls Carrie. “What’re you doing?”

“Sitting home. Alone. You?”

“I’m wondering if there’s a party somewhere at one of your rich friends’ houses.”

Carrie is silent for a moment. “Why?” Her voice is suspicious.

“I don’t know,” Janie lies. “I’m bored. Can’t I get in with you? As your date or something?”

“Janie.”

“What.”

“You don’t want to go there.”

“What? I’m just bored. I’ve never been to one of those organized ‘Hill’ parties. You know, where the parents are gone and leave all the booze and shit for the kids to drink.”

Carrie is quiet again. “You’re looking for him, aren’t you. I’m coming over.” She hangs up.

Carrie arrives ten minutes later with her sleeping bag. “Can I stay over?” she asks sweetly. “We haven’t had a sleepover in forever.”

Janie looks at her skeptically. “What’s going on?” she says. “Just tell me.”

Carrie throws her stuff on the couch. “You got munchies? I haven’t eaten.” She sniffs the air and opens the oven. “Eww. Can’t we cook something real?”

“Fine,” sighs Janie. She rummages around in the kitchen. The refrigerator is surprisingly full today.

“Fajitas okay?”

“Perfect,” says Carrie gleefully. She mixes two vodka tonics, adds a splash of orange juice, and hands one to Janie.