One of the few things Jeanie missed from her old life was her computer. Access to the Internet. Although she knew the library had computers, They were always busy.
She entered the cool interior of the library one hot afternoon not long after Mrs Smithson had died. She loved this room with one wing for the children and one with overstuffed seats for adults’ comfortable reading. She headed for the desk and asked the librarian when was the best time to get onto the computer.
‘Right when we open at nine is best,’ Jeanie was told. No good, her job started at nine.
‘Next best time?’
‘Just before three. The kids aren’t here yet and the mothers have gone to pick them up from school. Usually quiet then.’ Jeanie thanked her and organized her next day so she could be on the computer by two-thirty.
Wigs: it didn’t take long. For under a hundred dollars she could buy a tousled blonde head of synthetic hair with a heavy fringe to cover the forehead. Delivered, in a plain brown wrapper. They think of everything. And she could pay with a money order sent in beforehand; just in case she decided to go ahead with this crazy scheme, Jeanie bought the money order that afternoon. It slimmed down her roll of notes.
Two days later she was on the Internet again searching for flight information. She printed off all the regulations and prices from several airlines. That evening she read it all. Passports needed to be outside of a six-month renewal date. That put some urgency into the situation. She looked at the other regulations. Weight of bags, what she could carry onto the plane with her. She studied the layout of the Gold Coast airport, remembering her foray to mail her letter. Lots of people but outside of family groups, nobody bothering much with anyone else. Suited her.
She had never flown before. At one level, planning a trip was quite exciting, even though it felt illusory. She had not been lying when she told Mrs Smithson Pete wouldn’t travel. He was flight phobic, coach phobic, car phobic when required to be in it for longer than an hour and boat phobic. That meant they stayed where they were. He was a control freak, and he couldn’t control the pilots, bus drivers or other drivers on the road and it drove him nuts. Enough to drive a man to drink, he used to say. And he did drink. Then took it out on her. Oh, he didn’t always hit her. Mostly he wasn’t physically violent. Certainly not sexually violent. But he was a past master at verbal abuse. He became an expert. An expert in psychological torture. Jeanie wrenched her mind away from Pete.
Damn, she needed the passport again. Late that night she retrieved it and put it in the bottom of her knapsack. After work and before going home, Jeanie paid for a colour copy of the passport down the road from the hospice. She had the young man show her the machine but waited until he was busy with another customer before she took out the passport and enlarged the photo page three times. That way she could use the copies while the precious document stayed hidden. When she returned to the caravan, she cut away the words and the signature on one of the copies so it no longer looked like a passport photo if any one should spot it; just a portrait of a smiling and attractive woman. It was quite a good copy, all in all. She tore up the extra bits and flushed them away. That night the passport went back under the caravan.
In the morning before work she drew eyebrows on pieces of paper. Cut them out and held them over her own. Trying to match them to the photo. She didn’t want to start plucking until she had the shape exactly right. It was amazing how eyebrows changed a person’s looks. She hid the cut outs and photocopies beneath a loose corner of the linoleum in the caravan.
After all her cleaning duties were done for the day and she had her usual swim, she sat in her private space behind the caravan and plucked the first few hairs from her rather bushy, natural-looking eyebrows. Too bad, she liked her eyebrows, and plucking them was a bit Jeanette-ish. She didn’t want to change them to the new shape right away. Just a little bit each week. She started with those hairs distributed sparsely under the brow proper. The result was not bad. It did neaten them up.
That night she had the first nightmare. It was all in slow motion. She brought the cricket bat down on his head, no sound. He opened his eyes and smiled at her. She tried to lift the bat again, but it suddenly weighed a ton. Pete just smiled and shook his head. She woke in a drenched sweat. Sleep was impossible for the rest of the night.
She dragged herself through the next day. Keeping to her routine was important, and she had survived worse nights than this one. All she wanted was to go to bed and catch up on the sleep she had lost. Until the beach. She gave herself such a fright, all thoughts of sleepiness disappeared. She almost ran into Charlotte Latter. Wife of Rufus. He who had worked with Pete. Charlotte with the wide hips and measured tread, walking along the beachfront when Jeanie was coming out of the water after her swim. Charlotte knew Jeanette and had been to the same cocktail parties. Quickly, Jeanie bent down to scratch a non-existent bite, her brown hair swinging free and hiding her face. Charlotte didn’t change pace or say anything. Jeanie had a hard time straightening up, as if her muscles wouldn’t or couldn’t obey her request. Once up, she made herself continue on her way, grabbing her towel and winding it around her damp hair then putting her beach wrap on while she walked, not turning to look at Charlotte, not checking whether she was being watched. It wasn’t until she was well inside the campground she ducked into the edge of the bush and waited. Watched and waited, heart pounding, hands shaking and mouth as dry as Ayers Rock. She slowly sank her shaking body to the ground. Through the foliage she could just make out the office window and Ray’s shiny head through the glass. How long she stayed there, she had no idea, but nothing happened. Nothing. No police, no Charlotte, no Rufus. Carefully she stood up and made her way back to the caravan, her mind, by then, a disjointed mass of paranoid thoughts.
After dinner, she didn’t want to go outside, but not going for a walk was more conspicuous than going for it. So she set out, eyes darting, while she determined the urgency of her situation. Up till then, leaving Australia had been mostly a theoretical exercise. But seeing Charlotte Latter made it essential. So leaving Australia had to become Plan NZ, as carefully designed as the original Plan. Masses to do but some things more urgent than others. She could order the wig right away leaving her time to exchange it if it proved to be unsuitable, buy some sort of travel gear to go with the wig. Maybe she should go for a corporate image? A suit and pumps? Makeup. She needed to start practicing with dear Melinda Smithson’s gift. Doubts peppered her mind about whether she could pull it off. It was all too much. But in spite of it all, she was tired enough to sleep well.
Jeanie posted the money order along with the order number and a description of the blonde tousled-hair wig to the Internet site. Getting that away felt good. And it freed her to start the things which needed practice, primarily the signature. That was a biggie. Getting a signature right takes a lot of practice over a long period of time because it not only must look right but look right each and every time. Maybe half an hour’s practice morning and evening? She started right away. Mindi’s signature consisted of a stylized ‘M’, a flowing line; the ‘S’ for Smithson was also stylized with a line that wiggled in the middle and ended in a credible small ‘n’. It looked deceptively easy. Her first attempts were way off the mark. But it got her thinking.
Jeanie had no desire to become Melinda Smithson. Yet, she would need the passport not only to get into New Zealand but as identification once there, most importantly, to get a bank account. Melinda Elizabeth Smithson, née Rhodes. That was a thought. She could become Rhodes with no one becoming suspicious. Women did it all the time once divorced. So Rhodes. Maybe M. Elizabeth Rhodes? Liz or Lizzie Rhodes? Betty or Betsy Rhodes? Bess or Beth Rhodes? She didn’t like Lizzie; too reminiscent of Lizzie Borden who gave her father forty whacks. Betty? Kind of old fashioned, although that didn’t matter and Betsy was too American. Beth? She’d always liked Beth for a name. A little short and choppy, Beth Rhodes, but it would do.
All this thinking was unhappy-making. Yet another role when in her heart-of-hearts she wanted to be Jeanie again. But that was impossible. Too traceable. Certainly changing to Beth Rhodes would make the signature easier. Just invent a signature that had the first letters in it and wobbly lines for the rest of the letters. Something stylish and reproducible. Something enough like Melinda’s signature that no one would notice. It had a huge advantage in not having to imitate something exactly. She tried a few times. Big ‘B’ and short squiggle; Big ‘R’, slightly longer squiggle ended in a little ‘s’. She did it again and again. It slowly changed shape as it became easier. She held it against Melinda’s signature. Realistic even now, at least to her uneducated eyes. But she needed to be able to produce it whenever anything needed signing. It required practice and more practice for consistency.
Stepping out of the campground for the walk to the town brought up all the anxieties of the day before. She pulled her hat down over her eyes and purposefully lengthened her stride swinging her hips as if on a catwalk. Nothing Jeanette about that gait; nothing Jeanie about it either. But good exercise. By the time she arrived into the little town, she had worked up a sheen of perspiration.
Jeanie pawed through the clothes at the charity shop and found nothing suitable. She could go flowery as there were several diaphanous dresses suitable for a garden party with the queen, but nothing corporate. Should she stick with corporate? It had the advantage that Jeanette had never been corporate. A big advantage, because Beth Rhodes was blonde and used makeup just like Jeanette did. Or she could go sporty, with trainers, tracksuit and knapsack. A backup plan, anyway.
Jeanie bought nothing, but changed three hundred Australian dollars into Kiwi money. That would have to be it for this little town. She didn’t want to call attention to herself any more than she had already.
The wig arrived only three days after posting the money order. Impressive, as was the wig itself. The instructions were to gather her own hair up in a roll at the top of her head and secure with pins. Then carefully pull the wig down so the sideburn area was situated just in front of her ears. Then tuck all loose strands of her own hair carefully underneath. She stood back from the mirror. It was amazing. The heavy fringe hid her forehead and the fashionable curls were totally different from anything Jeanette had ever had. It completely changed her looks. Jeanie was fascinated and delighted. She picked up her hand mirror and examined herself from each side and the back. Extraordinary! She went through all the criteria. It was not the same style as the passport photo, but clearly related. The colour was a good match for the photo, and the blonded tips added extra pizzazz. Except for the hair being luxuriously full, the whole effect was natural.
Jeanie bent down and tossed her head. The wig seemed secure. It was only when she wanted to scratch her scalp she ran into difficulties. If she scratched naturally, the whole wig moved with her finger. Comical. Maybe reach up underneath the wig? But when she tried it, the whole thing tipped. Silly. If she developed an itch, she would have to do her best to ignore it. The main problem was the wig was suffocatingly hot, which naturally generated itchiness. She couldn’t wait to get the thing off. A minor problem in the grand scheme of Plan NZ.
That left her eyebrows. Now top priority, she needed to get rid of those heavy, almost black eyebrows. She put the eyebrow cut outs over her own and plucked a few more hairs away. It was tempting to do the lot, but although Plan NZ was urgent, it was not so urgent it could get compromised by doing something silly that could ruin her resemblance to Melinda Smithson. Hair by hair, day by day, and those eyebrows would soon look like Mindi’s. The Mindi of the photo, when she had all her hair.
Charlotte Latter’s appearance at the beach had shaken Jeanie, although, with time, her paranoia lessened. She was still on high vigilance whenever on the street or taking public transport. She had taken to sitting at the back of the bus, better able to observe anyone coming or going. Dark glasses perched on her nose and she jammed a hat on her head whenever she could get away with it.
Work at the hospice continued to be undemanding, and Jeanie was getting used to the signs of impending death. She was meeting some incredible people, brave, fearless some of them, but with every belief and philosophy going. She had some good talks with Mr Jensen. He was a Christian with a firm belief Jesus would save him.
‘Save from what?’ Jeanie rather naïvely asked.
‘From Hell,’ he replied. ‘No one is without sin, and that includes me and most likely you too.’
‘Oh yes, I am a sinner,’ she agreed. ‘What is the cut-off? For Jesus to save a person. I mean, when is a sin too great?’
He looked kindly at Jeanie. ‘No sin is too great for Jesus to forgive. That is, if the person sincerely repents. That’s the big part. To repent.’
‘To repent,’ Jeanie repeated. ‘To feel sorry? To regret what you did?’
‘All of that,’ he said confidently. ‘Do you repent what you have done in the past?’ He was compassionate, but compassionate with zeal.
‘In a way,’ Jeanie said honestly. ‘I have done some things….’ She made it plural, just for protection. ‘I have done some things where I look back and can still see there was no other way, but still they were bad things.’
‘I’ll pray for your soul.’
Jeanie was just finishing the cleaning under his bed. She muttered, ‘Thank you, Mr Jensen. I would appreciate it.’
‘And you must truly repent.’
‘I promise I will give it some serious thought.’ She pushed her cleaning cart towards the door.
‘I’ll look forward to your coming in tomorrow.’
Jeanie did give it serious thought. How did she really feel about Pete? Why did he have to be killed? Most people would have advised her to leave him. Use the same Plan even, only without killing him. No need to kill him. They would have told her to go away. Just leave. But she knew what would have happened. He would have used all the resources he had, call in every contact to search and search and finally drag her back. After all, he had done it before. No women’s refuge would have hidden her. No caravan campground would have been safe. There would have been nowhere to go, because he would have found her. Absolutely nowhere. And this fact provided the most telling argument that he was now dead. This she sincerely believed. He destroyed her life over years. She destroyed his over minutes. The law sanctioned most of his behaviour. It certainly did not sanction hers.
Did she regret what she did? Yes, when she searched in her heart. She regretted she didn’t have the guts to keep going. To just accept this was her lot in life. If she had been stronger willed, she wouldn’t have been destroyed throughout her marriage. That was her biggest regret. She hadn’t been strong enough. Jeanie was on her nightly walk going over and over this in her mind. She was unseeing and again on automatic pilot. It was only when she realized the world had lost its light that she came to. She must have walked for over an hour. She stumbled back to the caravan and turned on all its lights.
But the question was unresolved. Did she repent? Strange word. But she thought the answer was yes. Did she feel sorry for what she did? Yes, that too. She was profoundly sorry she had to kill him to finish it. But she had to kill him. She had agonized about it for a year or more, as she retreated further and further away from life. By then she was an automaton. Playing the Jeanette role when needed, but otherwise she was just a breathing, eating machine. A machine which devised the Plan. As the only way out.
Jeanie had no doubt Pete would have married again if she had done the alternative. She found it hard to put in words, even in her thought. Suicide. Killed herself. Always on the cards over these past few years. Flirting with depression. Hopelessness. Suicide would have fixed that. Then he would have been free to find someone else. And he would set out to destroy that unknown woman too. Because Pete didn’t dislike his life once Jeanie was no more. Jeanette suited him. The automaton suited him too. Killing him was a necessity, or commit suicide. One or the other. But killing him would stop it; stop him destroying someone else. Killing herself would not.
‘Aha! My little cleaner!’ Mr Jensen said when she pulled the vacuum cleaner into his room. ‘Have you been thinking of our conversation yesterday?’
‘All the time,’ she answered. ‘Going over and over my sins.’
‘And do you repent, truly repent?’
‘I was weak,’ she said. ‘That’s my real regret.’
‘We are all weak sinners,’ Mr Jensen said. The frailty in his voice was noticeably evident, more so than in the previous several days. ‘Shall we pray together?’
‘I wouldn’t know what to say or do,’ Jeanie said. ‘I have never prayed before. Never been to church.’
‘Oh, my poor child,’ he said. A bit strange when he was less than ten years older than her. ‘Just kneel here where I can touch your head.’ He pointed to a spot near the bed.
Jeanie knelt down and his hand settled lightly on the top of her head. Comforting. Mr Jensen started to mumble. She could only catch bits and pieces, but ‘poor sinner’ was prominent and ‘repent’ and ‘save her, dear Jesus’ was there too. He seemed calm and peaceful himself afterwards. Jeanie bid him farewell that day thinking this might be the last she saw of him.
He died overnight. The nurse in charge handed Jeanie an envelope when she reported to work the next day. His daughter had left her a note. ‘Thank you for your kindness to my father. He spoke of you and asked that we all pray for you. Please be assured we will do so. Sincerely, Gayle Jensen.’ Lovely Mr Jensen. She hoped Jesus met him and forgave whatever sins he had committed when he passed over. She wondered how important belief systems were. Does one see what one expects to see? If so, she hoped Jesus treated Mr Jensen well.
Pete had no belief system. Except that he was the centre of the universe. And that the universe treated him badly. Somehow she couldn’t imagine Mr Jensen thinking he had been treated badly over the years. Much the same age, the two of them. Couldn’t have been more different. Would Jesus have met Pete? Forgiven his sins?