Page 99 of Jane Deyre

The voice again: “Die!”

With a wild keening cry, the burning baby hurls herself at me, and I awaken, bolting upright. My flesh feels scorched, but my whole body’s shivering. Cold sweat coats my skin but does nothing to cool it. My heart is thudding so loud I can hear it in my ears. See its rapid beat under my T-shirt. My foot with the bone spur is throbbing. Burning.

I’m dazed and confused. Scared. Not sure if my dream is real or imagined. Because I still hear a baby wailing. And outside my door, that voice:

“Die.”

The locksmith can’t get here soon enough.

CHAPTER 50

Jane

I’m a zombie.

After my nightmare last night and the terrifying voice outside my door, I couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Not even a strong cup of black coffee (the way Ms. Fairfax likes it) can restore me. In fact, after the coffee I feel worse. I have a blazing headache and feel nauseous. And my skin feels clammy to my touch. Chilled. Despite the August heat, I’m bundled up in a hoodie, knit cap, and a scarf. In this debilitated state, I decide to low-key it. Fortunately, Adele is happy as a clam cavorting in the backyard while I sit in a lounger, watching her with one eye while I finish Edwina’s memoir.

I pick up where I left off, coming to a section of glossy black-and-white photos. Photos of Edwina as a child with her glamorous parents... from her many movies... tying the knot with Bertrand in Vegas... accepting the Oscar for Best Actress in her legendary red dress... sharing martinis with Georgia at Musso & Frank... posing at one of her famous star-studded pool parties... and several holding her beloved Charlotte. There’s also a beautiful photo of thirteen-year-old, already so handsome Ward seated next to Edwina, with him cradling the baby and kissing her on her head. Mesmerized by the heartwarming image, I feel the strong connection between young Ward and little Charlotte—his love—and can’t help thinking how traumatized he must have been by her kidnapping. Does his protectiveness of his own daughter, Adele, stem from his fear of losing her? I move on to the last photo, courtesy of the Associated Press, of Edwina with Lieutenant Billings at a televised news conference, begging for the safe return of her abducted child. How different she looks in this snapshot from those taken only months earlier. Her skin is sallow, her cheeks sunken, her body gaunt. She looks likes she’s aged at least twenty years. Grief can do that to you.

I’m almost done with the book—having read about Edwina’s long bout with depression and her traumatic hair loss... the unexpected death of Bertrand in a boating accident... Georgia moving into Thornhill with Ward to be with her... the love and kindness Georgia bestows on her until tragedy once again strikes. About to read Edwina’s account of Georgia’s suicide, I feel dread pool in the pit of my stomach.

I heard his scream coming from the great room. “Mother!” Ward cried out. It resounded through the house and through my bones. Loud and chilling enough to wake me from my drugged-out stupor. With all the strength I could muster, I bounded out of my bed and treaded to the staircase. There she was hanging from the balustrade like a limp puppet, all the life in her extricated. Her vibrant floral dress a sickening contrast to her bone-white, lifeless flesh. The last great love of my life dead. I fell to my knees, too weak and devastated to cry out, and instead shared the sobs and tears of the shocked, beautiful adolescent boy—my godson—below. And in that moment, I knew I had to stop mourning and start living. Be strong again... for him.

Following her cremation, a heavy weight settled on my chest. A cinder block of grief, confusion, and regret. I didn’t understand why Georgia took her life. Yes, she had manic-depressive tendencies and drank too much, but during this dark period in my life, our love was never greater. I needed her and she was there for me. Her suicide note that was found in the kitchen—“I can no longer go on”—typed on a single sheet of paper haunted me. Did she blame herself for Charlotte’s disappearance? And the question I was afraid to ask myself: Did she have something to do with it? As I write these words, I stare at her ashes and know I’ll never have answers.

A wave of sadness washes over me. How hard it must have been for Ward to write this section of Edwina’s memoir. To relive his own grief. To question his mother’s involvement with Charlotte’s kidnapping.

With Ward on my mind, eyes misting, I read to the end. Edwina recovers and resumes her life, dedicating herself to finding missing children and building her foundation, Gone Baby. Four hundred forty pages from the start of the memoir, the last paragraph:

I will never stop thinking about my beloved Charlotte. Never stop believing she’s out there somewhere. I hope she’s known all the love I would have given her. And that someday we will be reunited. Hope is being able to see all the light despite the darkness. Trust me, it’s a mistake to ever look for hope outside yourself. It’s the eternal light inside you.

Let it burn bright.

THE END

With silent tears in my eyes, I close the book, not reading the acknowledgments or anything further.

Hope.The four-letter word sings in my ears. Almost involuntarily, I pick up a pencil and open to a clean page in the sketchbook I’ve brought along. I put the sharpened point to the paper and soon a face is taking shape. The jaw defined, the nose manly, the smile lopsided and bracketed by a dimple, the eyes dark and penetrating, the hair thick and unruly.

As I’m filling in the latter, Adele skips up to me and startles me, so lost am I in the drawing. She studies the sketch and her eyes light up.

“That’s my papa!”

“Yes.” I barely hear myself.

“When is he coming back? I miss him.”

“Soon.” Hope propels my quasi-lie. Deep inside me, I believe he’s never coming back. Or at least not without his wife. Céline. The happily-ever-after Cinderella fantasy I created in my head will never become a reality. A fresh round of tears swims in my eyes. One escapes, landing on the drawing.

“Jane, why are you crying?” asks Adele. “You’re going to ruin your drawing.”

“A-allergies,” I stammer, and at this moment, the only person I’m allergic to emerges from the house. She stomps up to me.

Ms. Fairfax.

She studies my portrait and sniggers. “Miss Deyre, I must say you have another talent. And that’s having a delusional imagination.” She laughs again. “I just wanted to let you know the locksmith will be here later this afternoon to work on your bedroom door.”