Page 32 of Jane Deyre
He uncrosses his legs and leans into me. “So, tell me more about yourself, Jane Deyre.”
I’m taken aback. No man has ever taken an interest in me. Especially one as breathtakingly handsome as he is. I take several consecutive sips of my wine before setting the glass on the coffee table. I feel myself loosen up a bit.
He starts me off. “So, you mentioned you were in foster care...”
“Yeah, my whole life.”
“You never knew your parents?”
I shake my head. “No. Their names were Juan and MariaDEER-ray.D-E-R-E.”
“You’re Hispanic?” He looks surprised and I don’t blame him. I’m as fair as Snow White.
“My original name is Juanita. That’s Spanish for Jane... little Jane.”
“Juanita,” he repeats back, enunciating the “t.” “What did your parents do?”
“They were Mexican farm workers. They lived in an impoverished rural area not far from Tijuana.”
I go on to tell him about their tragic fate. When I was nine months old, they traveled across the border in their pickup. Soon after entering California, their truck was hit by someone who went through a red light. A hit and run. The vehicle was totaled and they died on impact. I miraculously survived.
“Wow. No wonder you were so adamant about a car seat for Adele.” He sets his half-drunk wineglass on a knee. “So, tell me more.”
“There’s not much more to tell. The Deres had no next of kin, so I was left an orphan. The investigative officers took pity on me and rather than sending me back to Mexico, they put me into the American foster care system where my name was changed to Jane Deyre. D-E-Y-R-E. Don’t ask me why. I drifted from family to family. Some were better than others. Most did it for the money, often taking in several kids at a time. The more the merrier. The bigger the monthly child care check. No one wanted to adopt me because that would mean paying for my health insurance and college education.”
Mr. Rochester listens intently without interruptions. He seems to have forgotten about his wine.
“When I was eighteen, I aged out of the system, even though in California there’s the EFC program.”
“What’s that?”
“The Extended Foster Care Program. It goes till you’re twenty-one.”
“Wouldn’t it have made sense for you to continue?”
“No. I’d had enough.” I’d been in some really bad foster homes. But nothing was as bad as my last one. I couldn’t wait to get away from John Reed. I almost didn’t.
A shiver shoots through me at the thought of my last night in the Reed household. John Reed’s birthday-slash-going away present. When will I ever stop reliving that night? I force myself to expel the horrific memory and continue.
“So, I got some odd jobs. Worked several at a time. From waitressing to being a sales clerk at Target.”
“No wonder you knew the store so well.”
“Yeah, I know it like the back of my hand.” I look him straight in the eye. “You should have been nicer to that checkout girl. She was trying to be nice. Do her job.”
My companion shrivels a little and looks at me sheepishly. “Sorry.”
I have the urge to tell him how spoiled and privileged he is, but instead bite back my tongue. I need to hold on to this job. Being a nanny with an attitude isn’t wise.
“So, there you have it.” TheCliffsNotesversion. Leaving out the sordid details of my life. “‘My Pathetic Life’by Jane Deyre.” The air quotes hurt my middle finger.
“Is that what you’re going to call your autobiography?”
While he drinks more of his wine, I let out a laugh. “I don’t think I’m capable of writing a book, and I’m sure no one would be interested in my story.”
Thinking he’ll leave now that he’s almost finished with his wine and is probably bored to death by my story, he surprises me by saying, “I’m interested,” and then tops off our glasses.
“Jane. There’s more to you. I’m a writer. Part of my job is to read people. See through them. I’ve seen that board of yours and you have dreams. You don’t want to be a nanny for the rest of your life.”