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Jane Unchained
©2008 The Angst Guy
(theangstguy@yahoo.com)
Feedback (good, bad, indifferent, just want to bother me,
whatever) is appreciated. Please write to: theangstguy@yahoo.com
Synopsis: During a sensory deprivation experiment, Jane Lane
reveals a talent for getting her freedom—in a very unexpected way.
Author’s Notes: This story is based entirely on a single
work of art by Kemical Reaxion. Before, during, or after you read this story,
go to this link:
http://glitterberries.freehostia.com/fanart/kemicalreaxion/jane_pixie.gif
Kem later created artwork based
on this story, bringing the chain of inspiration full circle.
http://glitterberries.freehostia.com/fanart/kemicalreaxion/jane_unchained.jpg
This tale takes place during the summer after the Daria TV movie, Is It College Yet? A recent PPMB Iron Chef fanfic
contest on superheroes sparked my thinking here, but Kem’s artwork really did
it.
Acknowledgements: Extra-special thanks go out to Kemical
Reaxion for her marvelous picture of Jane as a pixie on her Glitter Berries
website. This story is dedicated to Kem. You totally
rule!
Special
thanks also go out to the beta-readers for their valuable feedback. In no
particular order, thanks to: Thea Zara, Brandon League, Deref, Crusading Saint,
Marcello, Nomad X, and Latecomer. U r0oL 2!
Lesser
but still important inspiration was gained from William Shakespeare (“A
Midsummer-Night’s Dream”) and James Matthew Barrie (“Peter Pan”). Thanks,
dudes!
And
now, “Jane Unchained.”
I
“Okay, so what you’re saying
is, you’re going to take part in this sensory deprivation experiment at
Middleton College next weekend because it will make you more creative.”
“Exactly.
It’ll force my mind to work harder in the absence of annoying reality.”
“I
wasn’t aware that you were well connected to reality to begin with.”
“Which
is why I work in my chosen field.”
“Uh-huh.
So, you’re going to let Middleton’s psych department—which for all you know is
staffed by the criminally insane—you’re going to let them put you inside a
totally soundproof, lightproof, upright water tank wearing a wetsuit, an air
mask, your eyes covered and ears plugged, and a catheter stuffed in—”
“Carefully—very
carefully—stuffed in.”
“Whatever,
and you’ll be lowered into this tank of warm water where you will float
weightless for one day with no contact with the outside world at all, not a
single external sense working, and you’ll get a hundred dollars and be written
up in a science journal for it, assuming you aren’t put in an asylum
afterward.”
“Right.”
“And
this will make you more artistically creative when you start your classes at
Boston Fine Arts College.”
“Or
just bored and sleepy for a day. Not sure which yet.”
“That’s
why we have research.”
“I’m
doing it for the betterment of my creative spirit, not for science.”
Daria
Morgendorffer sighed and shook her head. She took a bite of her pizza slice,
chewed, and swallowed. “How is it that you get all the fun summer jobs, Jane?”
Jane
Lane shrugged and put down her soda with a grin. “Just lucky, I guess.”
Daria
drove Jane to Middleton and walked her to the psychology lab on the appointed Saturday
morning that June. “I’ve got fifty that says you’ll wimp out by six p.m.
tonight,” Daria said in what she hoped was an encouraging tone.
“Make
it an even hundred, amiga, and I’ll do it,” said Jane, scanning door numbers
along the hallway. “Hit the bank on the way home and have the moolah ready when
you come get me tomorrow afternoon.”
“A
hundred. I dunno.”
“Chicken.”
“Buck
buck buck buck buck-AHH!”
“All
right, damn it, a hundred, and you’re not going to owe it to me, either! You’re
going to pay it out in toto when I dump your soggy butt at Casa Lane
tonight.”
“If
you want it in Toto, you’ll have to ask Dorothy for it first.”
“What?
What does—oh, I hate you.”
“Of
course, after it’s gone through Toto, you might not want the money,”
said Jane, pushing open a door marked LAB 13-X. Jane slowed, reacting to the
maze of equipment in the crowded room. “Whoa. Wow.”
Daria
almost said the same thing as she followed Jane inside. It was an impressive
set-up for a science lab, with banks of computers and machinery surrounding a
tall, jet-black cylinder in the middle of the room, over which a light crane
arm was suspended. A hydraulic lift was also by the tank to bring people and
equipment to its top.
The
project head, four laboratory assistants, a nurse, and two medical technicians
all shook hands with Jane and Daria, saving most of their chatter for Jane.
They quickly prepared to give Jane a short class in what would happen over the
next twenty-four hours in the sensory deprivation tank. Daria took that as a
sign to head for home. She and Jane waved goodbye to each other, and Daria
headed out of the building for her car in the campus parking lot. It was a
long, lonely drive on the Interstate back to Lawndale, and it was difficult to
push certain worries out of Daria’s mind about what might happen to Jane in the
tank if something went wrong.
“She’ll
be fine,” Daria murmured to herself. “She’ll call me tonight and ask me to come
pick her up, and I’ll let her pay me fifty and she can owe me the rest, or
maybe twenty, or whatever, I don’t care, as long as she comes back safe and . .
. this is stupid. She’ll be fine. The nurse and med techs will be there all
night monitoring her vital signs, and she and I will eat pizza when we get home
and nothing will change.”
But
what was a sensory deprivation tank really like? What possessed Jane to do it?
Well, the money and a bit of fame, sure, and maybe it would jump-start
her creativity, who knows? Stranger things had been shown on “Sick, Sad World.”
Still . . .
Daria
arrived back in Lawndale by one p.m. and stopped at the Cranberry Commons mall.
After some aimless shopping by herself, she gassed up the car, went home, and
was sitting in her room after supper trying to read the evening news off the
Internet when she realized she hadn’t gone by the bank. She glanced at the
clock on the computer monitor and groaned. The banks were now closed for the
weekend. For some reason, this came through as a bad sign. I didn’t get the
money because I was distracted, Daria told herself, but something else
inside her whispered, you didn’t get the money because she won’t be coming
back to collect it.
“Stop
it,” Daria said aloud. “Stop it now.”
The
thought returned.
“Stop
it!” Daria got up and paced her room for several minutes, then lay down on her
bed, facing the ceiling. It was still light outside. The phone hadn’t rung.
Jane was supposed to put down the Morgendorffers’ phone as well as her own home
phone as emergency contacts. The phone hadn’t rung, so nothing was wrong—unless
Jane had forgotten to write down Daria’s number. She’d never forget to do
that—but Daria had forgotten to pick up the money from the bank. She had never
before welched on a bet with Jane. It’s not a problem, I can get the money
tomorrow morning at the drive-through ATM, Daria thought irritably.
Strange, how a few hours earlier she hemmed and hawed about a hundred dollars
because it seemed like a lot out of her college fund, but lying on the bed
alone, she had a wild thought that if she knew it would save Jane’s life, she
would empty out her entire savings account in a heartbeat and never miss it.
Daria
thought about calling the Middleton Psychology Department, decided against it,
decided to do it, decided not to, and so on for many long minutes. She was
afraid, and she couldn’t say why, and she hated it.
Come
home, Daria thought. She took off her glasses and put an arm over her eyes.
She was very tired and very afraid. Come home, Jane. Just come home.
Daria
began to wake up. She thought someone had called her name. She blinked and
rubbed her eyes, then found and put on her glasses.
“Fell
asleep,” she muttered. She rolled over and sat up in her bed, feet dangling
over the side. It was dark outside her window. The bedside clock said 11:16.
She’d fallen asleep in her clothes and now felt grubby and sweaty. She let her
elbows rest on her knees, removed her glasses again, and rubbed her face. Time
for a shower, then bed. She’d wasted the whole day thinking about—
“Surprise,
Big Eyes,” said a small clear voice beside her right ear.
She
turned her head. Her vision was blurry without her glasses, but she saw—
Daria
shrieked and rocketed off her bed. Her hip slammed into her television set and
almost knocked it off its wheeled table. When she reached the padded closet
door across from her bed, she spun around, her back pressed to the padding as
she gasped for air. She realized then that she still had her glasses in her
hand, and she put them on.
Nothing.
There was nothing by the bed.
But
I saw—!
There was nothing by the
bed. Nothing above it, nothing around it, nothing but her usual stuff. Nothing.
Weak
with terror, Daria sank back against the padded door. Her legs trembled. For
just a moment, she thought she had seen—it had looked just like—
Daria
put a hand to her forehead. No fever, and she was definitely awake. She
struggled to slow down her breathing and pounding heart, finally taking a deep
breath and holding it for several seconds. She let out her breath, feeling
vaguely foolish though still in the backrush of that sudden jolt of unspeakable
fear.
She
thought of her younger sister in the next room and sighed heavily. “Good thing
I didn’t wake up Quinn.”
“She’s
on a date and not yet in,” whispered the feminine voice by her right ear.
The
shock of terror was so bad that Daria couldn’t move. A dreadful paralysis
robbed her of the ability to lift even her fingers. She waited, staring at her
bed but seeing nothing, listening.
A
tiny breath was drawn by her right ear.
“The
night is young, the heavens clear,” said a tiny familiar voice. It came closer.
“Why don’t we both get out of here?”
Slowly,
Daria turned her head.
The
thing she had seen only inches from her face while sitting on the bed—that
frightening thing was back.
It
was Jane.
Jane,
hovering in the middle of the air on whirring bumblebee wings that sprang from
her back. Jane, only one foot high, a live Barbie doll wearing a short magenta
gown with a ragged hem and magenta slippers on her miniature feet. Her wings
moved so fast they could hardly be seen, buzzing softly in the still air.
Daria
took a step back, then another, and bumped into a padded wall. She pressed back
against it, her mouth wide open and eyes goggling in disbelief.
The
tiny blue-eyed Jane smiled with glee and hovered a foot closer, her arms
stretched out at her sides. “It’s me! It’s me! Good Jane is free!” she piped in
a high but extremely Jane-like voice. “Please come outside and play with me!”
“Whuh?”
said Daria.
“I’ve
just escaped the lonely doom, that dreadful tiny darkened room, then crossed
the great and starry night until I saw your welcome light!” shouted the
Tinkerbell-style Jane. “I’m free, I’m free, and we’re together! Let’s go
outside and test the weather!”
Daria
blinked. She knew she had completely lost touch with reality. A psychotic
episode—she was unquestionably awake, as her side still hurt where she’d hit
the TV set—but she was hallucinating wildly, riddled with fear for her friend,
and—
Tinker-Jane
(as Daria was starting to think of her) put her hands on her hips, hovering in
the air, and gave Daria a mock frown. “You ought to see the way you look. You’d
think you’d read a scary book, or maybe even seen a ghost—” Tinker-Jane
suddenly darted a foot closer, glaring “—but not the friend you care for most.”
Daria
swallowed, regaining a little equilibrium. “I’m, uh, a little . . . slow
tonight,” she said, her voice too high. “Sorry.”
Tinker-Jane
grinned again, her glare gone. “Then let’s be off and brave the dark! There’s
prob’ly no one in the park, so we can chase a firefly or eavesdrop where the
lovers lie, or gaze up at the silver moon and dance below, or hum a tune, or
maybe sing an aria!” Tinker-Jane gave a hopeful smile. “Please say you’ll
follow, Daria.”
Daria licked her lips. “Okay, sure,” she said, not believing for a second that any of this was actually happening. She’d go along and just ride out the hallucination, wherever it led. Daria pushed away from the padded wall, standing straight. Tinker-Jane backed up in the air, then darted to the door and twisted the knob until it clicked. She struggled to pull the heavy door open, but in vain.
“Let
me,” said Daria, walking slowly over. She reached for the doorknob, waiting
until Tinker-Jane flew back from it. She twisted the knob herself and pulled
the door open. No one was in the hallway outside.
“Coast
is clear,” Daria said. What the hell did I just say? she thought. The
last time I said that, I was a kid.
A
tiny, whirring figure in magenta zipped past Daria and out the door, hovering
in the hall. Tinker-Jane pointed to the stairs. “Let’s follow where adventure
beckons!” she sang. “And leave your watch—we won’t count seconds.”
“Okay.”
Daria undid her watch and tossed it on her desk as she left her room and closed
her door. She glanced at her parents’ closed bedroom door. “Won’t they hear us
or notice I’m gone?” she whispered.
Tinker-Jane
snorted and rolled her eyes. “Your ‘rents will never know at all. They’re out
like logs, post-coital.”
Daria
stopped and stared at Tinker-Jane. “You didn’t really say that, did you?” she
whispered, shocked.
Tinker-Jane
gave Daria a “duh” look. “You’d disapprove and send me ducking? I never
said that they were fffffffffffff—” Tinker-Jane finished by sticking out her tongue
at Daria and blowing a very spitty Bronx cheer. She then covered her mouth with
both hands and giggled, wings whirring away.
Daria
shook her head, mortified, and went to the stairs. “Let’s get out of here
before someone sees you—or worse, hears you.” I’m afraid someone will
hear my auditory hallucination? She shook her head again and wondered what
sort of medication she’d soon be getting. With luck, the antipsychotics would
be cherry flavored.
Daria
unlocked and opened the front door, letting Tinker-Jane outside before shutting
the door with care behind her. It occurred to her that she could have just
locked Tinker-Jane out, but she discarded the idea in a moment. She was
becoming attached to the idea of wandering around with this faerie-like
creature. Despite its habit of speaking only in rhyme, it sounded just like
Jane—a grade-school Jane, but Jane.
Daria
walked down to the sidewalk and looked around. A full moon rode the warm summer
sky overhead (Figures it would be a full moon out tonight, Daria
thought), and the subdivision was bathed in silvery radiance. Shadows fell
everywhere, cast by the bright silent orb above.
Daria
idly wondered how long it would be until the police picked her up for
questioning. (“No, officer, I’m not a runaway. I’m following my foot-high
flying friend, Tinker-Jane.”) Good thing her mother was a lawyer. She wouldn’t
spend more than a night in the slammer or hospital psych ward before Helen got
her out on a technicality.
“Where
to?” Daria asked her hallucination.
“Out
about most anywhere, above the earth, below the air, through the
moonlight—where to play?” Tinker-Jane pointed. “Let’s take our chances
that-a-way.”
The
faerie Jane pointed toward Lawndale’s Village Green, a small park in the
direction of downtown. Daria sighed and set out at a steady pace. Tinker-Jane
kept up admirably, humming an unidentifiable tune with a Beach Boys quality.
A
disturbing thought edged into Daria’s consciousness as she walked, eyeing
Tinker-Jane all the while. She didn’t recall a lot about traditional faeries,
except for the fact that in European folklore they were strongly connected with
death.
“I
have one question,” said Daria, trying to keep her voice level. “Are you here because
something happened to—” She almost couldn’t finish the sentence “—because
something happened to Jane?”
“Oh,
no, I’m Jane—not orthodox, just all that could escape that box.” Tinker-Jane
waved her arms in aggravation as she flew by Daria’s side. “I floated
weightless, feeling bored, and wondered if that damn reward would be enough to
compensate for wasting time inside a crate. No light to see, no music too, just
yearning for some time with you.” Tinker-Jane looked significantly at Daria.
“I’ve thought about you lots today: the dev’lish things you like to say,
delivered with sarcastic touch—I fear I’ve missed you very much.” Tinker-Jane
shook her head in sorrow. “I really thought this would improve my creativity,
remove the cobwebs from my hobbled brain—I’d lose a day but what I’d gain would
clear out my artistic rot.” She sighed. “It did not work as I had thought.”
“Oh,”
said Daria. “I was sort of afraid that . . . something went wrong, and . . .
forget it.”
“You
worried for me, feared me lost, despite the hundred this will cost?”
Tinker-Jane grinned at Daria in exactly the way Jane always grinned at her. “I
really shouldn’t take your dough, but it was your bet, as you know.”
Smart-ass
faerie, Daria thought in annoyance, though she was relieved as well. “Do
you want to come out of the big box, then?”
“Oh, no, I’ll stay there till it’s through. Then come tomorrow, I’ll see you with wads of cash that will be mine, and then at Pizza King we’ll dine. I’ll laugh about it, play it small, and of my fears say naught at all. Just seeing you will set me right—”
“But
don’t you see me here tonight?” Daria interrupted. She suddenly smacked her
forehead. “I can’t believe I’m finishing your rhymes! Damn it!”
Tinker-Jane
laughed. “Oh, sure! I see you! There you are! And—oops, excuse me! There’s a
car!” As headlights flashed over Daria’s figure, Tinker-Jane whirred to Daria’s
right shoulder and landed there. Daria flinched, startled that she actually
felt Tinker-Jane’s tiny weight—or perhaps it was a stick that had fallen on her
from a tree, or a pinched nerve from sleeping wrong. Daria then felt little
Jane’s arms wrap around a lock of her thick brown hair and hold on. (No,
she thought, my hair is snagged on something—it isn’t really her!)
Jane’s wings stopped whirring. “Shhh!” she whispered in Daria’s ear. “Play it
straight, whatever comes, and greet your sister and her chums!”
Daria
stopped, noticing the car approaching her was slowing and stopping, too. The
windows were rolled down. Puzzled faces peered out from the vehicle when it
reached her.
“Daria?”
Quinn called from the back seat. She stuck her head and shoulders out the
window, frowning. “What the hell are you doing out here this late? Where’s
Jane?”
“Uh,”
said Daria, “I was just—”
“You’ve
got, like, something on your arm,” said Sandi Griffin from the driver’s window,
squinting at Daria’s right shoulder.
“Make
it plain, made by Jane,” whispered Tinker-Jane, sitting motionless by Daria’s
head while holding her hair.
“Jane made it,” said Daria, walking closer to the car. Sandi, Quinn, and the other two members of the Fashion Club stared and gasped.
“Wow!”
said Stacy Rowe. “Jane made that? That is the coolest doll in the world!”
“Aren’t
you a little old to be playing with Barbies?” Sandi asked Daria in disdain,
raising an eyebrow.
“Heeey,”
said Tiffany Blum-Deckler in the seat by Sandi, “does it have wiiings?”
“Yeah,”
said Daria, inventing an answer on the spot. “They’re really hard to make.
Takes hours for just one. This one’s got four, I think.”
“Awesome!”
said Stacy in delight. “That is just too cool!”
“Duh,”
said Sandi in disgust. “Let’s go and let whatzername finish taking her pet for
a walk.”
“When
will you be home, Daria?” Quinn called from the rear window as Sandi pulled
away.
“Don’t
know!” Daria called back. The car was out of conversation range in moments. She
turned and walked for Village Green again.
“So
I’m a pet? Well, just you wait,” hissed Tinker-Jane, looking back. “I’ll find a
goblin you can date!”
“Leave
her alone,” said Daria. “You know how she is.”
Tinker-Jane
flew off Daria’s shoulder and faced the departing car, flying only a few feet
away from Daria. She put her right thumb on her nose, waggled her fingers, and
stuck out her tongue. Satisfied, she resumed her normal flight, with an
occasional evil glance backward.
“I
feel like I’m watching the Disney Channel,” Daria murmured, overcome with the
unreality of the moment. “Disney crossed with Nickelodeon, maybe, or—worse—MTV.
No, there would be a song, then.”
Tinker-Jane
apparently overheard. She wiggled her posterior back and forth in midair as she
paced Daria’s walking speed. “Shake, shake, shake!” she cried. “Shake, shake,
shake! Shake your bootie! Shake your bootie!”
Daria
nearly walked into a telephone pole watching Tinker-Jane’s antics. This
isn’t real, she reminded herself. Bear with it, and you’ll wake up soon.
I hope.
The
two wandered until they reached Village Green. Having nowhere to go in
particular, Daria walked up to the statue in the center of the tree-surrounded
city park and sat on a stone bench there. Tinker-Jane amused herself by doing
loop-the-loops and circling the statue’s legs at high speed.
“Maybe
you could go into the superhero business,” said Daria, too stressed out to care
anymore if this was real or not “You could call yourself . . . hmm, no, Tank
Girl is already taken. So’s Wasp. Tinker-Jane isn’t butch enough. You need a
name that will strike fear in the hearts of evildoers. And I need a cherry-flavored
major tranquilizer with an hour of electroshock.”
Tinker-Jane
hovered low over a waste can and peered inside, wrinkling her nose. “I’m not
the superhero type,” she said. “I’d never live up to the hype. Besides, I’d
really hate to think that every day I’d need to sink myself inside a water
barrel, popping out in this apparel.”
“You’d
probably talk the villains to death, anyway,” Daria said absently. “The
Anti-Crime-er Rhymer, that’s what you could call yourself.” She watched
Tinker-Jane fly down, pick up an Ultra-Cola can and peer inside it, then drop
it again. “Jane? Do you think you’re astrally projecting? You know, from inside
the sensory deprivation tank?”
Tinker-Jane
smirked at Daria and patted her rear. “Can I project my ass? You bet! But how I
did it, I forget. What I recall is not in doubt: I got real bored and wanted
out.”
“Are
you aware of what the rest of you is doing in the tank?”
“Can’t
say I do. For all I know, they’ve shipped my bod to Idaho. I’m not in pain, nor
am I dead, so I’ll keep dreaming this instead.”
Daria
raised an eyebrow. “You think you’re dreaming?”
Tinker-Jane
laughed. The sound sparkled like water in the moonlight. “Is this a dream? Do I
look real? ‘Tis just a break from my ordeal!” Her expression changed, her mirth
fading to puzzlement. “All dreaming—though it be confessed, you look more real
than I’d have guessed.”
This
was a new wrinkle. “I thought I was dreaming when I saw you,” said Daria. “Then
I thought I was hallucinating. Now . . . now I don’t know what to think.”
Tinker-Jane flew up to Daria’s face, hovering only a foot away, and she stared intently into Daria’s brown eyes. Daria did not recoil, instead taking a long moment to examine this new incarnation of her only friend. Tinker-Jane was flawlessly real in the illumination from Village Green’s overhead lights. Her onyx bangs were finer than silk. Daria carefully raised a hand and held it out, palm up, under Tinker-Jane’s feet. The pixie carefully lowered herself until her feet touched the palm. Her wings stopped whirring, and she stood, balanced and steady, on Daria’s hand.
Daria’s
breath caught in her throat. Tinker-Jane weighed about a pound—a pound of real
weight. The faerie creature quickly sat down on Daria’s hand, dangling her legs
over the side of the palm. Daria felt the pressure of Tinker-Jane’s hips and
thighs, the bounce as the tiny figure swung her legs back and forth in space.
“My God,”
Daria whispered. A new shock sank in as every previous excuse for feeling
Tinker-Jane’s presence failed. “You are real! This is happening!
Oh, my God!”
Tinker-Jane patted Daria’s hand and felt her fingers. A strange look of awe came over her as she peered up at Daria’s face. “Your hand is warm, and smooth your skin,” she whispered. “Your fingers huge, and my arms thin. I’m half afraid that I was wrong, and dream it wasn’t, all along!”
“Why
would you wear that dress, then?” Daria asked, unable to think of anything else
to say.
Tinker-Jane
looked down at her magenta outfit. “My clothing brings to mind the days of
second grade, of two school plays in which I starred and Mother ran:
‘Midsummer-Night’ and ‘Peter Pan.’”
“So,
you were once both Puck and Tinkerbell,” said Daria, dazed. “Yeah, I can see
that—the merry wanderer of the night. That’s you. Maybe you brought up that
memory while you were sleeping in the tank and transformed yourself, or your
spirit, or your astral something, into . . . Tinker-Jane.” A new thought came
to her. “Did you go trick-or-treating dressed like this when you were little?”
Tinker-Jane
nodded. “On Halloween, I did indeed. From all that doubtless came the seed to
fly about, just as I am. I wonder if—” Tinker-Jane abruptly seized the hem of
her magenta dress and pulled it up to her neck, looking down at herself. She
wore nothing underneath. “—I don’t! Hot damn!”
Appalled,
Daria tried not to stare at the faerie, who appeared to be anatomically correct
for a miniature teenager. “Jane, this isn’t like when we had to shower together
in gym class. Cut it out. And you’re sitting on me with your—um—”
Tinker-Jane let her dress fall back into place, looking up at Daria in surprise. She then pointedly shifted her position, rubbing her bare tush on Daria’s palm as she grinned wickedly.
“Oh,
thanks loads,” said Daria with a glare. “I’m going to wash that hand
with soap and hot water for hours once I get home. Maybe I should wipe it off
on you.”
“You’d
wrong me for my harmless caper!” protested Tinker-Jane, grinning. “Go find
yourself some toilet paper.”
“Why
don’t we find a bug zapper and see if it works on pixies, too?”
Tinker-Jane
stuck out her tongue. After a moment, however, her smirk faded, replaced by a
look of mild anxiety. “If this is real, we shouldn’t roam. You’ll need to get
your sleep at home so you can drive to Middleton and pick me up at half-past
one.”
Daria’s
irritation disappeared. It came to her that she didn’t want Tinker-Jane to get
up from her hand. The experience of being with her was too novel and wonderful.
It would never happen again, and Daria knew it.
“We
can take a few moments more,” said Daria softly. “I didn’t bring my watch,
remember?”
Tinker-Jane
looked relieved beyond measure. She gazed up into Daria’s brown eyes. “It’s
lonely there inside the dark. I own the night and all the
park, but feared that you would tell me, go . . . and you’re the only friend I
know.”
Daria
felt her face flush and her eyes water. She felt a response was required, but
she hated to get emotional, even now. Still—well, it hardly needed to be said,
but—
“And
you’re the only friend I know, whatever your size,” Daria replied in a low
voice. She swallowed. Her throat hurt.
“I
have a secret, never shared,” said Tinker-Jane softly, her face both solemn and
radiant. “Inside me hidden, never dared to speak it, write it, call it true.
Please hear me say it!” Tinker-Jane reached her arms out to Daria, motioning
her closer. Daria brought her face down to Tinker-Jane, whose tiny hands
touched her eyeglasses, her hair, her cheek, and gently pushed to turn her
head. Tinker-Jane rose up on her knees on Daria’s hand and leaned close to her
left ear. Daria felt and heard the stir of a tiny breath, and then heard three
soft words whispered in Tinker-Jane’s voice.
The
air crackled just the tiniest bit.
Tinker-Jane’s
weight vanished from Daria’s hand. Daria turned her head, surprised.
Tinker-Jane
was gone.
Daria
lowered her hand and looked around her. She was alone in the park.
“Jane?”
Daria called. She stood up, looking all around her. “Jane?” No response. “Jane!”
she shouted. “Jane! Don’t hide, Jane! Damn it, Jane, where are you?”
She
ran halfway home before her energy deserted her. Two Lawndale cops in a patrol
car found her panting and staggering up a deserted sidewalk just after midnight
and took her the rest of the way. Quinn met her at the door in the middle of
redoing her nails.
“Hey,
where’s your doll?” Quinn asked, but Daria brushed past her and stomped up the
stairs to her room without a word of explanation. As soon as the door was
locked and she was alone, Daria grabbed the cordless phone and dialed
information, then the Middleton psych department’s robotic directory. Two
minutes later, she was talking with a medical technician at Lab 13-X.
“Miss
Lane is fine,” said the yawning tech, once assured of Daria’s identity as
Jane’s friend. “She apparently woke up about twenty minutes ago, from the
recordings, but she’s asleep again. Everything’s okay. She’ll be ready for
pickup at one-thirty tomorrow unless we call earlier.”
Daria
hung up. She noticed her glasses were smudged and took them off, preparing to
wipe them clean. She lifted them to a light to see where the smudges were—and
froze, staring at the lenses. After a long moment, she put her glasses away in
their carrying case and took out her emergency pair and put those on instead.
She did not go to sleep until three a.m., when she lowered her head and closed
her eyes while sitting at her desk, looking up Internet information on faeries,
astral projection, and sensory deprivation—three topics that were, of course,
not connected at all.
Daria
waited at Lab 13-X from eight-forty a.m. until one-twenty p.m. on the following
day. She fell asleep while reading an old library copy of Thomas Keightley’s The
Fairie Mythology. A lab tech woke her up when they lifted Jane out of the
tank at noon, set her on the hydraulic lift, and lowered her to the ground.
Once stripped of her diving mask, Jane sent a tired smile to Daria but then
looked away, as if embarrassed. Daria hid her book in her backpack and zipped
it up.
Jane
was whisked away for a checkup by the nurse and medical techs, reappearing
after a debriefing and shower in a bright blue t-shirt, black jeans, damp black
hair, and a weary face. Walking appeared to be a little difficult for her but
was manageable.
“Well,
that’s over with,” Jane mumbled in the corridor outside the lab. “I’m beat.”
“I’ll
bet,” said Daria. She suddenly glanced at her right hand, then wiped it on
Jane’s t-shirt sleeve.
Jane
looked at her, puzzled. “Why’d you do that?”
“What?”
“Wipe
your hand on me.”
“It
was dirty.”
“What?”
Jane did a double take and stared at Daria with a strange look on her face.
“Dirty?”
“Never
mind,” said Daria. “Let’s go home.”
The
drive back on the Interstate was light on conversation. Jane finally fell
asleep, forehead pressed against her cool window.
Daria
poked Jane in the arm when they reached Jane’s house several hours later.
“Hey,” she said. “End of the line. Everyone out.”
Jane
rubbed her face. Her half-dried hair was spiked out in all directions. “Oh,
man,” she mumbled. “That was weird. And my crotch hurts from that damn
catheter.”
“Really?”
said Daria, and got out of the car. She helped Jane into her house and into the
kitchen, where Jane began eating nonstop out of the refrigerator.
“That’s
not necessarily good for you, you know,” Daria remarked, watching Jane finish
an apple in one minute flat. “Take a break so your stomach gets used to it.”
“Mmm,”
said Jane, killing off a slice of pie and a soda. “Okay, rest now.”
“I
thought you spent the last twenty-four hours resting.”
“That
was a hell of a rotten rest. I was bored out of my gourd. Man, I had the
craziest dream, too.”
“Mmm,
I bet,” said Daria impassively. “Feeling more creative?”
“What?
Oh, I dunno. Wait and see.” She yawned. “I didn’t sleep well. It wasn’t
uncomfortable, it was just . . . I dunno. Boring. Hated it. Wanted to get out
early, but I made myself stick it out.” She winced. “Damn catheter.”
“Oh,”
said Daria, reaching in a pocket of her jacket, “here.” She pulled out five
twenties, fresh from the ATM, and put them in Jane’s hand.
“No,
forget it,” said Jane, handing the money back. “This one doesn’t count.”
“I
insist,” said Daria, not taking the money. “It was my bet, as you know.”
Again,
Jane glanced at Daria strangely, but she finally pocketed the bills. “I want to
be by myself for a while, if you don’t mind,” she said, looking uneasy. “Let’s
get together later tonight, get pizza, same old same old. I have to tell you
about this dream I had. It was . . . it was really weird.”
“Sure,”
said Daria. “Oh, and there’s this.” She reached in her other jacket pocket and
took out her glasses case. She opened it and held up her glasses. “Don’t touch
the lenses. Interesting smudges, wouldn’t you say?”
Jane
frowned and took the glasses by the earpieces, lifting them up to the light.
Across
the outside of the left lens were two oily handprints, each the size of an
adult human’s thumb.
Jane
stared at the handprints for a long time. All expression faded from her face
except for blinding amounts of shock mixed with fear and awe. She looked at
Daria for a long moment, then looked at the handprints again. Her fingers
trembled.
“How,”
she finally croaked, her throat dry as a bone, “how did . . . how—”
Daria
carefully took back her glasses and put them away again without touching the
lenses. She snapped the case shut and put it in her jacket pocket.
“I
have a secret, never shared,” said Daria, “but you know what it is.” She turned
to go. “See you tonight.”
She
got only two steps toward the door before her best and only friend caught her.
Original: 05/19/03, updated 04/07/05, 09/18/06,
06/04/07, 07/06/08
FINIS
