Women Who Stay, Chapter 34

Chapter 1 ... Chapter 33

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With dawning horror, I realized there was no one left to talk with. Or rather, somehow worse: I could talk about Janie forever -- with her children, with her acquaintances, even with her if she were still alive -- and it wouldn't help me write. Because I was stuck at a crossroads.

The only thing left to do was to make choices. I had to pick through all the gnarled reflections she cast and make her whole again. I had to decide what I believed; I struggled to do so.

I spent weeks shuffling my outline, halfheartedly attempting a paragraph every few days. But I wasn't brave enough to choose my path. I didn't know yet. Maybe the knowledge just needed more time to settle in me.

I cleaned my apartment. I reconnected with my friends. I barhopped. On one of my nights out, I clustered with a group of journalists in a crowded bar corner. Three drinks in, I complained about my slow progress.

"It's just like, I can feel the story there. It wants to be told. But am I the right person to tell it? I feel so much pressure to get it right. It's paralyzing me."

There was a chorus of supportive truisms from the women around me, hyping me up to tackle this mystery project I refused to elaborate on. I felt a growing kernel of disdain for them -- two were on Janie's list. They could have been in this conundrum, but they hadn't made the cut. I did. What did they know about anything? What help could they possibly offer me?

Eleanor pulled me outside to share a cigarette. We pushed thick curls of smoke at one another through the chilly spring air.

"I've gotta ask you something," she said, passing me the nearly-finished American Spirit. "Is your project, the one that's got you so hunkered down, about the woman who wouldn't answer your questions?"

"What do you mean?" I asked. I knew what she meant.

"You called me, like a year ago. You asked me for advice about how to handle a difficult subject. Remember?"

"Oh, yeah!" I said, faking an epiphany. "No, she turned out to be someone else entirely." Privately, I smiled at my little manipulation. I wasn't lying to her, not really -- I'd just misdirected her, disguising my response as drunken rambling. Janie was, after all, a different person than I thought when I'd first asked Eleanor for help. I stamped the cigarette butt on the edge of a trashcan. "Let's go back in, I'm chilly."

"Ok, but before we do -- are either of the women Janie Robichaud?"

Another choice to make, one that would set my path. Because Eleanor was one of the other women Janie talked with. She had lasted longer than most of the others, almost two weeks. Just about half the amount of time I spent with Janie.

I fear, Janie wrote her, that you're not smart enough to put it all together. I have lost confidence. My lawyer will follow up.

But I knew Eleanor was smart, and could have done this story justice if given the chance. She had helped me immensely before. Maybe she could again. Maybe I needed another voice to help me get it right.

My stomach clenched. No, I decided. The story was mine. Janie chose me.

"Who's that?" I asked, turning from the trash can. "Come on."

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Back home, I started drafting.

Janie, practical and cunning, was in the dark. She got what she wanted and controlled what she could, but it wasn't enough to save her.

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Read on to Chapter 35