For the first year I was Janet Wood, my first love. I needed her sensible brain to ground me, to fully settle me into my new world. In the morning I woke as Janet Wood, and I stretched in my bed as Janet Wood, wearing the same navy-blue nightgown emblazoned with the number zero that Janet Wood wore, and my alarm clock was set for 7 a.m., Janet Wood’s wake time, the light barely penetrating the ugly curtains that shrouded Janet Wood’s bedroom window, and when I turned off my alarm I was Janet Wood, and when I clicked on the lamp I was Janet Wood, and when I looked in the mirror I saw Janet Wood’s dark and shiny hair, and my eyes were newly brown.

I’d rise from bed and put on my robe and bedroom shoes, and I’d say hello to ghost Chrissy, who, within days of beginning this routine, became real Chrissy. “Get up, Chrissy!” I’d call softly as I passed her bed to exit the room. And Chrissy would wake with the groan of a child and stretch and yawn, and I’d go to the bathroom and splash my face with cold water before shuffling into the kitchen. The dog followed me everywhere but I ignored it. In the kitchen I might find Jack standing in front of the stove. The overhead light would be on, plus the morning light coming through the window at full glare. Rainy days were best, gloomy and dark outside, the orange-yellow kitchen happily glowing inside. And if Jack was already there I would make coffee, do my part, and if he hadn’t arrived yet I would make toast for myself, maybe pour a glass of orange juice. I’d also set the table for my roommates if they were behind schedule, and I’d wait until they bustled in, sleepy but bright, friendly. “Good morning!” each of them called to me. “Oh, morning!” I’d reply back.

On the days Jack cooked breakfast, I was his sous chef—I fried eggs or whipped together simple mixtures I knew by heart. Eggs and bacon, or gourmet oatmeal, toast, coffee, orange juice, milk. Wanting to get the dog away from me, I threw scraps of bacon or rubbery scrambled eggs across the kitchen, where they splatted in a far corner. Together Jack and I created a serviceable meal, usually finishing up just as Chrissy breezed in, still sleepy-eyed. Afterward we washed the dishes, each of us taking turns according to the day. We were responsible adults, always doing the dishes immediately following a meal and rarely later, though on the days it was not my turn I often found dirty dishes lingering in the sink hours after eating, the egg residue drying into an implacable scum, but instead of complaining I washed them myself, enjoying harmless, catty thoughts.

In the living room, in its cage, the canary chirped. I fed it or cleaned up after it while keeping my mind blank.

After a leisurely breakfast I brushed my hair and dressed for work. The dog nipped at my heels and I ignored it. I had a wide collection of pantyhose I rolled on day after day, sometimes taking them down from where I’d draped them over the shower rod after washing them the night before, and my closet and bureau were stocked full of bohemian jumpers and bell-bottom jeans, modest skirts and turtlenecks, though the longer I was Janet the sleeker my wardrobe became—tailored jeans and blouses, professional midi dresses. After dressing and doing my makeup I left the apartment and caught the bus on the corner.

Every day, the dog followed me outside. Then, as soon as the bus doors hissed shut, it would turn toward the woods and disappear. Watching it flee from my bus seat, I would close my eyes, relieved.

The bus began its daily trek, stopping with a hiss at several places as I patiently waited. Sometimes I observed the buildings and road; sometimes I looked at the sky, noticing the weather; sometimes I stared into space and thought of the workday ahead, anxious to get the day started, or of the news I had read that morning over breakfast. My head was pleasantly calm. When the bus stopped a block away from Arcade Florists, my workplace, I disembarked and walked the remaining distance, happy to be out in the fresh air, moving my body. This was forward motion, this was progress. My penchant for industrious, righteous movement infected every one of my waking Janet moments, the anxiety of sloth, of idleness, always pricking at the edge of my mind, prodding me forward.

At first I was merely a full-time associate who worked the register and fed and watered the plants, and who sometimes assisted in flower arranging, but six months in, during Season 2’s “Janet’s Promotion,” I was promoted to shop manager. Readying the shop for opening became one of my many new duties, which included counting the money, spritzing the ferns, getting the merchandise in order, looking over yesterday’s figures, preparing for the day ahead. I checked the paperwork—was today the Benson wedding, that fateful event in Season 2’s “Jack in the Flower Shop”? No, nothing major today, just a few phone pickup orders made last night before closing, and I got right on them, efficiently and expertly gathering the materials needed. Then I unlocked the doors and turned the sign over to say OPEN.

Days in the shop often passed in meditative quiet. I tended to the flowering plants and nursed the dying ones, breathing in the earthy scent of all the fauna and counting myself lucky to be surrounded by so much life, a tiny oasis in the middle of a city. I created and rotated window displays. I made phone calls, I processed new plants that appeared in the back room, getting them ready for sale. I did and redid the price sheets. Customers came in and browsed but rarely bought.

Around 6:30 p.m. I closed up the shop, double- and triple-checking the door, and I waited for and caught the bus back to the apartment building. The ride home was filled with the light of sunset as the year waned, and I leaned my head against the window, occasionally dozing off until my stop. Upon exiting the bus I often met Chrissy at the curb, who’d just hopped off another bus coming from Westwood, and we walked the remaining block and entered the building together, trudging up the stairs to 201. Then we opened the door and threw ourselves on the couch, flopping our purses and jackets lavishly on whatever furniture was closest, the joy of being home and free exhaling from every pore, the whole evening ahead of us.

The dog would return around this time and paw at the door. Reluctantly I’d let it in. Tucked away, in the farthest corner of the fourth wall in the apartment, was an auto-feeder and water bowl Ray had left.

And what did I do in the evening? Jack arrived home from cooking school before us and often had supper on the stove waiting to be served or in its final stages. After eating we sometimes watched television together, depending on the night and whether we could agree on the channel (I liked Police Woman until it ended its run in March of 1978, and The ABC Friday Night Movie), and sometimes I read or took the bus to the library, and sometimes I went on dates with men who turned out to be cartoonishly evil. How do I end up with such men? I’d ask Chrissy later, speculating that I’d been cosmically cursed with bad luck in romance, and she sympathized—being blonde, and more naive, she attracted men twice as terrible.

At night the apartment glowed, and I sometimes had the rooms to myself, and on the cozy occasions I was in the living room alone, I’d lie on the couch with a bowl of popcorn on my chest, drowsing, listening to the drone of the television in front of me and Jack clacking in the kitchen as he tested a new recipe, filling the air with new and wonderful smells, and Chrissy was in the bathroom showering, the patter of the water adding to the white noise, and I ignored the bird, and the night was at the window but the rooms were all bright and sheltered, full of warm colors, and the hum of contented happiness, of freedom, echoed back at me and allowed me to doze off, flush with the dream of a life I had always believed, in another life, as another person, was impossible.

When bedtime came Chrissy and I usually retired at the same time to avoid disturbing the other since we shared the bedroom. Each night I read a book or magazine in bed and then wrote a letter to my parents back home in Indiana. I told them about my day and gave a mini weather report. I always told them it was sunny. I wrote about the flower shop and what I ate for dinner. My letters were reassuring and detailed, full of exclamation marks and hearts. I would have been ashamed to show them to another person, it’s true, but these letters were to people who’d known me as a child and still thought of me as a child, and with these small flourishes I answered the questions every parent had: Was I happy? Yes. Was I safe? Yes. Was I still their good girl? Yes.

Afterward I switched off the light by my bed, turned over, and fell into a heavy, uninterrupted sleep.

On the couch, the dog snored.