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She catches the outro of a Beach Boys song, fading into warm quiet, before the early morning DJ’s voice picks up over the waves.
“That was ‘I Know There’s an Answer’ from the album Pet Sounds, and you’re listening to WTKF 90.9, your one-stop shop for the new, the old, the whatever, as long as it’s good,” he says. “This next one’s a request from a frequent caller, one with a taste for the oldies. And this one’s a goodie. It goes out to August—Jane says she’s sorry.”
The intro comes up, drums and strings, and August knows it right away. The first song they chased a memory to, the one they played on her clumsy attempt at a first date.
Oh, girl, I’d be in trouble if you left me now.…
Her phone thumps down onto her chest.
The song buzzes over her little speakers and the music wells up wistful and heartsick, and she pictures that seven-inch single Jane told her about. For the first time, she really sees it: Jane, 1977, on her own and alive.
It’s hard to believe colors looked the same back then, crisp and bright and present, not washed-out, grainy sepia, but there it is. Strings and faraway vocals and Jane. There’s her skin glowing golden under crosswalk lights as she carries a bundle of new records home. There’s the stack of books on her nightstand. There’s the Indian place she used to like, the cigarettes she used to bum when she was stressed, the woman down the hall who makes the terrible pierogies, a tube of toothpaste rolled up at the end with CREST in the big block letters of a discontinued font.
There’s the bright red of her sneakers, fresh out the box, and the sun that used to fall across her bedroom floor, and the mirror where she checked the swoop of her hair, and the blue sky over her head. She’s there. Only leaving what she means to leave. Exactly where she’s supposed to be.
Jane’s been on the train thinking of home, and August has been at home thinking of Jane moving in, cooking breakfast, building a life with her. It feels like a million years ago that she sat over a plate of fries at Billy’s and told Myla that they had to help her no matter what. Even if she lost her. She really did believe it.
Another text. Jane.
Come back.
Maybe that’s the worst thing August can do. Maybe it’s the only thing.
She rolls out of bed and reaches for her keys.
13
Radio transcript from WTKF 90.9 FM
Broadcast November 14, 1976
STEVEN STRONG, HOST: That was “Unchained Melody” by the Righteous Brothers, and you’re listening to 90.9 The Mix, your home for everything you want to listen to at the push of a button. Hope you’re staying warm out there, New York—it’s a cold one tonight. Up next, I have a request from a Jane in Brooklyn, who wanted to hear from some of our favorite British boys. This is “Love of My Life” by Queen.
Jane’s not on the train.
August tries to pick her way through the people clogging the aisle, but it’s packed tight and she’s too short to see over their heads. She ends up jostled to the end of the car, and she clambers up onto the one empty seat to see if the boost helps.
It doesn’t.
Something lodges in her throat. Jane’s not there. She’s never not been there before.
No, no, no, not possible. It’s only been a few days since August saw her, less than an hour since she heard from her. That song was just on the radio. She doesn’t completely understand this tether between them, but it can’t be that fragile. Jane can’t be gone. She can’t be.
She drops down onto the floor, panic prickling along the bones of her fingers and wrists.
August didn’t have enough time. They’ve spent months digging Jane up, one scoop at a time, and she’s supposed to live. Jane is supposed to have a life, even if it’s not with her.
The track bends, and August stumbles. Her shoulders hit the metal wall of the car.
Maybe she missed her. Maybe she can get off at the next stop and try another car. Maybe she can grab a train in the opposite direction and Jane will be there, like always, book in hand and a mischievous smile. Maybe there’s still time. Maybe—
She turns her head, glancing through the window at the end of the car.
There’s someone sitting in the last seat of the next car over, absently looking back at her. The collar of her jacket’s flipped up around her jaw, and her dark hair is falling in her eyes. She looks miserable.
“Jane!” August shouts, even though Jane can’t hear her. All she must see is the cartoonish shape of August’s mouth miming her name, but it’s enough. It’s enough for her to jump out of her seat, and August can see Jane call her name back. It might be the best thing she’s ever seen.
She watches Jane lunge sideways—the emergency exit—and she reaches for hers. It comes open easily, and there’s the tiny platform she remembers so well, and Jane’s on the next one, close enough to touch, beaming out the back of a speeding train, and August was wrong—this is the best thing she’s ever seen.
