TUESDAY

August 8, 2006, 11:13 a.m.

Janie wakes up, sweating like a marathoner. Her cheek is stuck to her pillowcase. Her hair is soaking wet. It’s at least 450 degrees in the house.

And she’s starving.

STARVING.

She stumbles to the kitchen and stands at the refrigerator, eating whatever she can find. She presses the cold milk jug against her face to cool it before taking a long swig from it. And then she takes an ice cube and runs it all over her neck and arms. “God almighty,” she mutters, grabbing a container of leftover spaghetti and meatballs. “I need air!”

Fifteen minutes later, she’s in the shower, water temp set to cold. It’s almost too cold, but Janie knows the minute she steps out of there, she’ll start sweating again, so she keeps the setting on freezing.

When she turns off the water and steps out of the shower, she hears her mother’s voice, talking on the phone. Janie freezes and listens for a minute, and then she whips a towel around herself, clutching it at her chest, and opens the bathroom door, her hair dripping all over the floor.

Dorothea, in her nightgown, hangs up the phone. Turns to look at Janie, her face haggard and old-looking. Pale, like the moon. “He’s dead,” she says simply. Shrugs. “It’s about time.” Shuffles back to her bedroom, but not before Janie sees Dorothea’s lip tremble.

Janie stands in the hallway, dripping, feeling numb. “He’s dead,” she echoes. It’s as if the sound of her voice makes it real. Janie leans back against the hallway wall and slides down until she’s sitting on the floor. She tips her head back until it bumps the wall. “My dad is dead.”

Still numb.

It’s over.

After a few minutes, Janie stands up and marches into her mother’s bedroom, not bothering to knock. Dorothea sits weeping on her bed.

“So. What do we need to do?” Janie asks. “I mean, like, funeral stuff.”

“I don’t know,” Dorothea says. “I told them I don’t want nothing to do with it. They can just handle it.”

“What?” Janie feels like yelling. She moves to call the hospital herself, but then she stops. Turns back to her mother. Says in a way-too-calm voice, “Call them back and tell them that Henry is Jewish. He needs to go to a Jewish funeral home.” Janie glances at Dorothea’s sparse closet. “Do you even have a single decent dress, Mother? Do you?”

“What do I need a dress for?”

“For the funeral,” Janie says firmly.

“I’m not going to that,” Dorothea says.

“Oh, yes, you are.” Janie’s pissed. “You are definitely going to my father’s funeral. He loved you, all these years. You might not understand why he left, but I do, and he still loves you!” Janie chokes on her mistake. “He loved you,” she says. “Now go call the hospital before they do something else with him. And then call the funeral home—the hospital should be able to recommend one.”

Dorothea looks confused, alarmed. “I don’t know their numbers.”

Janie eyes her coldly. “What are you, fucking eight years old? Look them up.” She storms out of the room and slams the door. “God!” she mutters, frustrated, as she stomps down the hallway and enters her room. Still wearing a towel, Janie fishes some clothes from her dresser, tosses them on the bed, and then rakes a wide-toothed comb through her tangled, wet hair.

She hears her mother’s door open. A few minutes later, Janie can hear Dorothea stammering on the phone. Janie flops back on the bed, sweating again in the heat.

Damn it.

“Henry,” Janie says.

She cries for all the things that could have been.

12:40 p.m.

Janie pulls her suitcase from the closet.

Climbs up into the attic to look for boxes.

She’ll have to move her stuff over slowly since she has to take the bus and walk.

Wonders briefly if the keys to Henry’s station wagon are hanging somewhere obvious in his little house. And then nixes that plan. That could really look like stealing if she got pulled over. No sense getting killed right before restarting her whole life, either.

She fills her backpack with clothing and grabs the suitcase.

Heads out the door.

1:29 p.m.

Janie sets her things down in the middle of the shack and sits at Henry’s desk to write a list of things to do:

• Get through funeral first

• Find rental lease and landlord address for rent payments

• Figure out if utilities are included or if I pay

• Clean house

• Study online store history to find out what sells

• Water garden!! And freeze veggies

• Switch to cable Internet if not too expensive

• Tell Captain the plan

• Tell Cabe

She stops writing and stares at the last two words.

Throws the pen at the wall. Slams her fists on the desk. Shoves the chair back so hard it flips over. Stands in the middle of the room and screams at the ceiling. “My life fucking sucks the meanest one of all! How could you force me to choose? How can you do this to me? Do you hear me? Anybody?”

She falls to her knees, covers her head with her arms, and bends forward into a ball.

Sobs rip through the house, but no one is there to hear her.

There is no comfort here.

3:57 p.m.

Janie stares out the bus window, cheek against the glass, watching Fieldridge go by.

As she walks from the bus stop to her mother’s house, she calls him.