1 - The Face on the Milk Carton by Caroline B. Cooney

Author:Caroline B. Cooney
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Juvenile Fiction, Social Issues, General
ISBN: 9780307567505
Publisher: Laurel Leaf
Published: 2009-06-30T23:00:00+00:00

The nightmare came like mud: thick. Oozing filth. The mud hung on to her feet and her brain. It was filled with reaching hands and cackling laughter. Car wheels spun in the mud and fingers pointed. Janie ran but her feet did not move. Trucks tried to run her over, and when she screamed for help, her parents were busy with other things.

She woke up. The bed was drenched with her sweat. What time is it? thought Janie, groping for the clock. If only it could be dawn, so she could go downstairs and start coffee, be done with this horrible night.

But it was two A.M.

She wept briefly. Her mother had said, “We love you. It’ll be all right.” But did love conquer all? Could love conquer the theft of a child?

It will never be all right, she thought.

She did not turn on the lights. The room was entirely dark except for the faint-blue glow from the digital clock. Yet she knew every object in the room; everything around her was normal. She did not feel kidnapped. She felt chosen. Adopted. Needed so desperately by Frank and Miranda that perhaps they didn’t even know what they’d done to acquire a second daughter. Temporary insanity.

But if it came out, thought Janie, it would be permanent insanity. For all of us.

New Jersey must vanish. Jennie Spring must never be.

She resolved to be Janie Johnson with all her heart, mind, and soul.

She fell asleep feeling better but the dreams came again, and this time they were of falling. Bottomless falls. Evil below. Evil above. When she woke up, she was hanging on to the pillow with a grip so tight she had ripped the lace trim off the pillowcase. She went silently into the guest room and retrieved more pillows, which she arranged around herself in bed like walls. Huddled in a white percale fortress, she managed to sleep a couple of hours.

In the morning, breakfast was desperate and silent.

Her mother drove her to school, as if Janie might escape otherwise. “Mom,” said Janie. “I promise. Okay?”

Her mother nodded shakily. “I’m staying home,” she said. “I’ve canceled everything. If you need me—if you feel upset—if you think even for a minute about running off again—Janie, promise you’ll telephone me.” It was cold with the beginning of winter and the car heater had not yet begun to warm the car, but her mother was perspiring. She looked as exhausted as if she had just mowed several acres of lawn with a push mower. She looked old.

“I promise,” said Janie. “But I’m not going anywhere except class. Today’s your hospital day. Go to the hospital.”

“It’s my tutoring day.”

“Then tutor.”

“I don’t want to tutor.”

They giggled. “We sound like two-year-olds slugging it out,” said Janie.

Her mother took Janie’s hand, turning it over, examining it, as if she might never see the hand again and needed to memorize the texture and shape.

“Mom!” said Janie. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

“Okay. Have a good day.” Janie bolted before either of them broke down.

“Earth to Jane Elizabeth Johnson, Earth to Jane Elizabeth Johnson!” trilled Sarah-Charlotte.

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