I put the ripped blouse in the closet on top of my old sewing supplies, pausing for just a second to touch a bit of satin and chiffon I bought years ago at a craft store in the city. A purchase from back when I first moved here and had design dreams dancing in my head. Dreams that were crushed inch by inch with every day spent at Blue Wave, every time I put on a black or gray sensible outfit, every phone call from Mother exhorting me to work harder, to be better, until there was nothing left.
With purposeful movements, I place my cell phone inside a paper bag and then put in in my briefcase, closing up the whole thing and setting it in the bathroom, under the sink, then closing the bathroom door to keep everything inside. I triple and quadruple check my ducky PJs are in the hamper. Then I put on an old oversize Les Mis T-shirt.
I get in bed and stare at the ceiling.
I can’t sleep, the thoughts spinning and lurching through my mind like a busted merry-go-round.
When Mark first started flirting with me, I ignored him. Avoided him. I thought he was messing with me, and I’m good at avoidance, it’s practically an art. But he was persistent.
After the first month of constant attention, compliments, and flirting, I started to believe he actually liked me.
He told me he appreciated my shyness and nerves. It made me different. Unique. He thought it was cute.
Then we were at the office late one night working on a project alone. He kissed me, and then we . . . well, it went further. And then it turned into a thing. But only around the office. Over the course of a month or two, the thoughtfulness and conversation became less and less until it was purely physical.
I should have stopped it before. I was weak. I am weak, and I regret it. All of it.
This whole day is an exposure of every fault I’ve tried to hide, every time I’ve tried to pretend I’m happy when I’m not.
I lie in the dark forever, judging myself and coming up lacking over and over.
I can’t sleep.
Then the broken sobs whisper through the walls.
This happened last night too. Or this night. Whatever. I thought it was me drunk weeping, but it’s not.
It’s coming from Hugo’s. The music man. Why is he sad? His cries are the perfect soundtrack to the past two days. One day. Ugh.
I take deep breaths and try to calm my mind. I just need some sleep.
Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be Tuesday. This was just a weird blip. It has to be.
Otherwise . . . what if I’m dead? Or something is wrong with me? Anxious thoughts crowd my head. I can’t let myself spiral.
I focus on my breathing.
Everything will work out. It always does . . . doesn’t it?
Chapter Five
Burping.
Music bumping.
Bass thumping.
I open my eyes and stare up at my ceiling, moving from dead sleep to full-blown panic in half a second.
What is happening?
I lurch up in bed, taking in the contents of my bedroom with a sharp glance.
My briefcase is there, next to my desk.
“No. No no no no no.”
I’m in the ducky PJs. My phone’s on the nightstand. I pick it up. Dead.
I try to take deep breaths, but I can’t. My throat closes up. It’s not working. I think I might throw up. Black spots cloud my vision.
“Sprinkle me,” the music says.
“Sprinkle yourself!” I yell and then immediately gasp for air.
Blackness surrounds me, coalescing into a dark tunnel of denial, anger, shock, depression, you name it. I’m a living stew of swirling emotions.
Knocking.
I’m breathing heavy, air sawing in and out, and still I go out to the hall and stare at neighbor man in his red robe outside Hugo’s door.
“It’s Monday! I have a call in thirty minutes. Help me out here, huh?”
I slam the door, leaning back against it and blindly staring into the living room. I haven’t had a full-blown panic attack in a while. I’ve been safe. I’ve had a routine. I’ve avoided doing things that trigger too much anxiety. And now, all of that hard work has been shattered to smithereens.
Think, Jane, think.
I race into my bedroom. I can’t make sense of any of this. What do I do? Isn’t the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting something to change?
But what are my other options? Hiding from the world sounds great, but . . .
I stop by the chair in my bedroom and stare at the clothes set out. The blouse is gone. Only the pants are there, laying in the same position they were the past two days. The shirt’s missing. Why is the shirt missing?
I open the closet. There it is. Where I put it, yesterday, which was also Monday. The blouse is still there, on the sewing box. I pick it up. And it’s still ripped.
My mind isn’t working at an efficient enough pace to figure this puzzle out. It’s still Monday. Yesterday, the second Monday, when I woke up, the tear was gone and it was sitting on the chair, where I had left it before. What does this mean? Why is this the only thing that’s different? Is this the only thing that’s different?
I press both hands against my head. Why did the torn shirt stay in the closet where I put it, but everything else is the same as it was that first Monday? But it’s still Monday!
The closet is magic? Sounds about as rational as any other theory right now.
There’s no time to ponder the ramifications of a mystical closet. I have to go to work. I have to . . . Why am I going back there to be fired again? How can I make