Chapter III
(Maura)
Lost in thought, I step out of my car and search my bag for my keys. The night air is cool, carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers mixed with the more pungent aroma of city life—exhaust fumes, distant food vendors, and the faint, musty odor of the subway grates. The day has been quiet, too quiet for my taste. I had too much time to think, and more than once, my thoughts drifted to Jane. More than once, I had to pull myself together to concentrate on the few reports I had to write. In the end, I was so slow and so reluctant to return to an empty house that I didn't leave the office until 10 PM.
I shake my head, annoyed because I can't find my keys again, and my frustration grows with every passing second. Stood up in the morning, disorganized throughout the day, and now scatterbrained at night — a day best forgotten. The keys seem to elude me like mischievous sprites, hiding just beyond my reach, mocking my growing impatience.
The sounds of the city at night are both soothing and unsettling—the distant wail of sirens, the occasional honk of a horn, the murmur of late-night conversations. I'm only a few feet away from the first step to my porch when I notice a person huddled and apparently sleeping by my front door. I stop dead in my tracks and squint. Has a homeless person made themselves comfortable on my porch? Should I call the police?
Before I can think further, the person jumps up. The motion sensor light switches on, flooding the area with brightness. At first, it's so bright I can't see anything. But as my eyes adjust, my vision clears.
Standing before me is Jane. She's wearing black, overly baggy sweatpants, a tight white tank top, and a gray, equally oversized hooded sweat jacket hanging off her shoulders. Both sleeves hang loose at her sides, the left arm in a cast and sling against her body, while her right arm is wrapped around her middle. Her lips are chapped, and her left eye is swollen and bruised.
"Jane?" I call out, and in a few steps, I'm at her side. She looks so fragile, so uncertain. All the built-up anger and the constant frustration vanish instantly. The worry etched on her face makes my chest tighten, and I feel a pang of guilt for having been upset with her.
"What happened? Are you okay?" I'm shocked and have so many questions that I can't even verbalize most of them. "Let's go inside!"
"Maura, calm down!" Her voice is rough and somehow broken, a rasp that hints at more than just physical pain. "Everything's fine. I fell down the stairs this morning. I broke my arm and got a black eye. It looks worse than it is. I'm a bit clumsy; it's not the first time, and it won't be the last."
Her smile and words are meant to reassure me, and maybe they would have if I hadn't looked into her eyes. Suddenly, her smile seems forced, strained, the words empty and not at all in sync with the emotions I can see in her eyes and hear in her voice. Again, there's that look that sends a chill through my every bone, making the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Emotions I can't put into words.
Just as I think I can decipher some of those emotions, she looks down. As if she sensed—no, feared—that I might glimpse behind her facade.
"Jane?" I look directly into her eyes, firmly, maybe even a bit mercilessly. "Are you sure?" What exactly should she be sure about? That she's okay? Or that she fell down the stairs?
"Maura, please, everything is okay."
Is there a hint of 'Please, let it go, please don't ask further'? I don't know, but this nagging feeling that something is so very wrong, that Jane is not okay at all, almost overwhelms me.
I feel an irresistible urge to touch Jane, and before I can stop myself, I touch the injured side of her face with my index and middle fingers. She flinches slightly, her eyes widening for a moment before she leans into the touch and closes her eyes for a brief moment.
"Is there anything I can do, Jane?" I whisper, as if afraid of scaring her.
"May I get a glass of water? And maybe a painkiller? My arm hurts like hell."
I nod slightly and bring Jane a glass of water along with an ibuprofen. She accepts gratefully, and we sit silently on my couch for a moment.
"I'm sorry I stood you up this morning, Maura. I wanted to call, but I... I couldn't find your card. Please forgive me." Her voice is so sincere that I don't doubt her for a second.
"It's okay, Jane." The anger and my insecurities are forgotten.
"I should go, Maura; it's late, and you have work tomorrow."
Though she's right, and it's already past 11 PM, I don't want her to leave. My logical side wins, however, and we say goodbye shortly after exchanging phone numbers and her assuring me that she'll contact me once she can jog again.
She stands at my front door, head down, looking so lost that I instinctively take a step towards her and gently hug her. I feel her tense up and stand rigidly for a moment before she relaxes and loosely wraps her healthy arm around me.
"See you soon, Maura," she whispers before releasing me, smiling, and walking away.
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Three days later, she waits at 7:10 AM with a coffee cup in each hand on "our" park bench.
"If I can't jog, at least I'll bring you coffee."
Her smile is so broad that it must hurt with her chapped lip and the now yellow-green bruise on her left cheek.
"Hello, Jane. I missed you too."
I wink and gently nudge her with my shoulder. She reacts almost panicked at first, her smile turning into a grimace, before her facial features relax again. I make a mental note not to touch her unexpectedly again.
"Thanks for the coffee. How's your arm? Your lip and eye look much better," I observe with relief as I take the coffee.
Jane walks back to my house with me, we chat and laugh, then part ways again.
The next morning, she waits again at the same time and place, and every following morning, always with coffee. During her "injury break," which lasts a full eight weeks, a new routine develops.
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"Does this make us friends, Jane?" I ask her one beautiful Thursday morning in early May as she hands me a coffee cup. I look down and chew on my lower lip. Have I crossed the line of social appropriateness with this question?
As if sensing my insecurity, she takes my hand—for the first time since we've known each other, Jane initiates the touch—and gives it a brief squeeze before answering simply but sincerely, "Yes, it does, Maura."
I smile. I can't remember ever feeling so happy before.
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Over the weeks, our conversations have deepened, mainly on my side. I've told Jane a lot about my childhood and teenage years, often seeing her eyes darken, angry, and more than once, she's expressed her dismay at how I was treated. It always made me smile. Sometimes I imagine what it would have been like if I had met Jane much earlier in my life. Would we have been friends back then?
Despite my many stories, Jane only slowly opens up. She talks more often about her brothers, her parents, and sometimes even her old job. When she talks about the "old days"—as she often calls them—Jane's eyes light up, and she gestures wildly. I get the feeling she loves losing herself in the memories, and my heart aches when I see the almost glorious sorrow that veils her eyes at the end of each story. "I loved those days," she often says, followed by a sarcastic comment to shake off the sadness. I usually smile at her then and don't press any further. Once, I asked her about her family, whether she still had much contact with them, but her short and very curt "No" stunned and unsettled me so much that I never dared to ask again.
If I've learned one thing about Jane in the past three months, it's that she doesn't like being pushed. She rarely trusts, and it's a privilege to know as much about her as I do. And so, I've shared many of my well-kept secrets and insecurities, knowing that they are safe with Jane and that she will slowly but surely come to trust me as much as I trust her.
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Time flies, and by early June, Jane can jog again. There's no more sign of the injury, only the slight lag in her training due to the two-month break.
In the tight jogging clothes, I immediately notice that she has lost more weight. Jane has undoubtedly a well-shaped body. But right now, her hip bones, shoulder blades, and collarbone seem more pronounced. My good upbringing forbids me from mentioning this fact, and I swallow my concern.
"Would you like to come over for breakfast on Saturday?"
It took me three days to ask Jane this question, and I'm sure she detected my nervousness. I blurted out the sentence in one breath and almost tripped over my own tongue. I don't even know why I'm nervous, but lately, I've been nervous more often when it comes to Jane.
Jane's expression darkens, as it often does, and once again, without me knowing the reason. "Um...I-...I have to ask Casey first if he has plans for the weekend, okay?"
I nod silently, wondering why she's suddenly so vague. Maybe she doesn't want to deepen our friendship?
Before I can think further, a police officer in uniform approaches us and calls out much too loudly and enthusiastically, "Jane? Jane RIZZOLI?" before clapping on Janes shoulders, greeting me with a light "Good morning, Dr. Isles," and then quickly excusing himself — he's on duty and doesn't have time to chat.
I'm a bit perplexed myself and only realize a few seconds later that Jane is standing next to me, completely distraught and trembling. She has her arms tightly wrapped around her body and is hyperventilating. Her gaze is unfocused, her eyes wide open.
I recognize a panic attack when I see one.
"Jane?"
I try to touch her arm lightly, but she flinches and takes a step back before collapsing and curling up against a streetlight. Still hyperventilating, her hands now in her hair, her body rocking slightly back and forth. I know she'll pass out soon if I can't calm her down.
"Jane! You need to calm down. Look at me, Jane! Breathe!"
Somehow, it's not working, her gaze still distant, and I decide to take a drastic step. With a lot of effort, I grab her and hug her tightly, so she can't wiggle out despite her resistance. I press her head to my chest and whisper repeatedly for her to listen to my breathing, to breathe with me, to listen to my calm heartbeat. A few dreadful seconds later, she relaxes and matches her breathing to mine.
"That's it, sweetheart. Inhale. Pause. Exhale."
I gently stroke her back over and over and slightly loosen my embrace while continuing to whisper things like "You're doing great, Jane." followed by a "Shhhh, it's okay." alternating with "I'm here."
We sit there for about 45 minutes, Jane in my arms, her breathing almost entirely normal again. She slowly pulls away from me, and I only now notice that my shirt is stained from her tears. She keeps apologizing and assuring me that she doesn't know what triggered the panic attack, which I don't believe at all. I ask if she wants to talk about it, but she says there's nothing to discuss. I sense her rebuilding the walls that sometimes crumble in my presence.
I realize she wants to leave as quickly as possible, that she's embarrassed by the situation, and from my own experience, I know she probably wants to be alone now. I bite my lip and know she needs time.
"Thank you, Maura. Bye."
She looks at the ground, turns without another word, and rushes away before I can say anything in return.
The next morning and the morning after, she doesn't show up for our morning run. That breakdown, her strange behavior, everything about Jane, stays on my mind. I miss her while jogging, and I know I shouldn't push her. So I send a simple text:
M: I'm here, sweetheart. Always.
I don't get a response and doubt she'll show up on Saturday, but I'm pleasantly surprised when I receive a reply on Friday morning.
J: I know. Thanks. Is the offer for breakfast tomorrow still on?
M: Yes, it is.
J: Great. What time shall I be there?
M: 10 AM?
J: Perfect. Is there anything I can contribute? I'm looking forward to it.
My heart skips a beat, and I have to sit down for a moment to calm myself.
M: No, nothing. Just bring yourself. I'm looking forward to it too.