Format: Hardcover, 320 pages
Release Date: January 7, 2020
Publisher: Wednesday Books
Source: Publisher
Genre: Young Adult / Thrillers & Suspense
Bestselling author Laurie Faria Stolarz’s thrilling novel Jane Anonymous is a revelatory confessional of a seventeen-year-old girl’s fight to escape a kidnapper—and her struggles to connect with loved ones and a life that no longer exists.
Seven months.
That’s how long I was kept captive.
Locked in a room with a bed, refrigerator, and adjoining bathroom, I was instructed to eat, bathe, and behave. I received meals, laundered clothes, and toiletries through a cat door, never knowing if it was day or night. The last time I saw the face of my abductor was when he dragged me fighting from the trunk of his car. And when I finally escaped, I prayed I’d never see him again.
Now that I’m home, my parents and friends want everything to be like it was before I left. But they don’t understand that dining out and shopping trips can’t heal what’s broken inside me. I barely leave my bedroom. Therapists are clueless and condescending. So I start my own form of therapy—but writing about my experience awakens uncomfortable memories, ones that should’ve stayed buried. How far will I have to go to uncover the truth of what happened—and will it break me forever?
Jane Anonymous, by author Laurie Faria Stolarz, is an emotional story focusing on a girl who calls herself Jane Anonymous instead of her real name. In fact, she doesn't let readers know where this story takes place or for that matter, where she lived, or where she finally escapes. Jane was kidnapped for seven months. 3 month after escaping, she's trying
to get back to "normal" after the trauma that she went through. The story is told in alternating perspectives. BIWM - Before I Went Missing and AIWF - After I was Found. One that's set in the
past when Jane was kidnapped, including what happened and what she went
through. Then the other is in the present with her trying to survive
being back.
The stocked refrigerator of all the things she loves and the special treat she saved for her bestie. The
clothes that seem to fit her a little bit too well. The boy who claims
he too was taken by the kidnapper. Could the clothes actually belong to
Jane? If so, how did they end up in the kidnappers home? How long was
this man stalking her before he made his move? Was there any hints along the way that Jane was being stalked? Jane’s hyper awareness of certain smells, items, and people is a sign of someone having PTSD. As someone who put off PTSD therapy or 30 years, I can relate to Jane in a matter of speaking.
It's clear Jane is suffering from PTSD and as she starts this story,
she's doing her best to stay out of therapy, which is a really bad idea
because the sooner sufferers get help, the more likely that they can
turn it all around and not be a lifelong sufferer. There is a brilliant quote to nail down this point. "Healing starts the moment we feel heard." True cert.
Besides
her parents who, God help us that they felt like failures for allowing
the kidnapping to happen in the first place, there is also her best
friend Shelley who Jane's uses as a way to survive all that she's going
through.
One could blame the parents for not putting themselves in
therapy sooner rather than allowing themselves to stew in the what if's,
and what if we did this different etc. Jane being taken had nothing to
do with either parents. They try hard to bring normality back in play for Jane. But, things just can't revert to normal for Jane. Shelley
could have been a little better friend. Everyone in her life was left behind. Not just Shelley. Her return doesn’t automatically heal the wounds in all of them. I also like Jake, the
boyfriend who was supposed to take her to a concert that night she was
taken. The boy who spent every spare moment helping lead the effort to
find and bring Jane home. I adored Jake. I wish there were more Jake's
in this world.
I think that this book would be a great conversational topic to bring up between parents and their daughters, and yes, sons as well. We have got to protect our young at all costs. There are too many Jane's still missing in this country and the rise of sexual exploitation is a huge crises that needs to be addressed. Bar none, I think that sex trafficking and exploitation should be a major crime that brings about stiff penalities to anyone who is involved, anyone who supports it, and anyone who finances it.
Recommendation: If you find yourself liking this book, please pick up Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson.
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THEN
1
It was raining that morning, ten months ago. I remember because I’d gotten up early, hoping to go for a run. But it was already 8:15, and I was still waiting for the weather to clear. The streets were covered in puddles, and I’d recently gotten new running shoes—purple Nikes with lime-green swooshes and thick pink treads. Funny to think about them now, that I’d been so concerned about protecting my shoes, I’d let nearly a year of my life slip away.
Already dressed in my running gear, I turned from the window, knowing the clouds weren’t going to suddenly part. The sun wasn’t going to magically appear. The oil-stained puddles, with their spirals of blue and green, wouldn’t be evaporating anytime soon.
I’d wanted to be on the road by eight o’nothing. There was a cute runner boy I’d been hoping to see. We had this thing where we nodded to one another each time we passed, usually by the water fountain and always around 8:30. What were the odds that he’d be running in the rain? Should I just suck it up and wear old shoes?
I went to go grab a pair when my phone quacked with a text. From Shelley: Surprise! I’m home from Camping Hell a day early. Long story short: I rly need 2cu. Can we meet @9? Eggs & Stuff? Let’s salvage my bday disaster.
My gut reaction? Excitement. I hadn’t seen Shelley, my best friend, in over a week. But not two seconds later, my brain took over and I remembered: I’d left her birthday present at work.
Can we meet a little L8R? I texted back. I’m going for a run.
Pleeeeeease, she typed, adding a bunch of frowny-face emoticons.
I didn’t want to let her down. Her summer had sucked harder than leeches, and having to spend her seventeenth birthday on a camping trip with her show-tune-singing fam, with no cell phone reception whatsoever, was sure to have been no exception.
Ru there? she continued to type.
I looked at the clock. If I left now, I could open the store, grab the gift, and still have ample time to make it to Eggs & Stuff by 9:00. Cu then, I typed back.
Mom was already up, sitting at the kitchen table in her snowflake-printed bathrobe (even though it was summer). “Hey there.” She peeked up from her magazine—Knit Wit. The cover featured a dazed-looking chicken knitting a scarf that reminded me of candy corn. “Going for a run?”
“Not anymore.”
“Great, we can chat over coffee.”
“Sorry, no time. You’ll have to chat with Dad.”
“Except Dad’s still in bed—that sleepyhead.” She grimaced. “Seems our days of Sunday brunch are a thing of the past.”
“Time to wake him up?”
“I already tried. But he worked late last night … didn’t get in until well past midnight.”
“I’d stay,” I told her. “But I promised Shelley I’d meet her for breakfast.”
“She’s home already?”
“Yes, so I need to get her birthday present—stat.”
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. I have plenty of gifts.”
I didn’t want to argue, but when it came to gift-giving, my mother and I were from two entirely different planets. While she resided on Planet I-got-this-on-sale-but-have-no-real-use- for-it-and-so-it-goes-into-an-already-overflowing-bin- of-tacky-random-stuff, I lived on Planet My-friends-are-my-family-and-so-each-gift-has-been-carefully-hand-selected.
Still, Mom popped up from the table and bounded across the kitchen, en route to the linen closet, where she stored her trove of “treasures.” The idea of turning over some of the stuff in her stash was evidently far more enlivening than the dark-roasted coffee beans my dad had imported from New Guinea.
She came back a few moments later with a bin full of her finds and pulled out a baseball cap with melon-patterned fabric. “This would look adorable on Shelley, with her heart-shaped face.”
What melons had to do with hearts, I had absolutely no idea. Mom could sense my inner snub and dove back into the bin, producing a snowball-maker (!), faux-fur glovelettes, and a turquoise watch that screamed old lady.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked, reading the repulsion on my face.
I bit my tongue in lieu of commenting. “I already bought a gift. I just left it at Norma’s. Can I borrow the car to go pick it up?”
Mom gazed out the window, and the corners of her mouth turned downward. She has this weird hang-up about letting me drive in rain or snow (not to mention fog, slush, sleet, hail, and darkness).
“You could bring me yourself,” I suggested, fairly confident she wouldn’t take the bait. “As long as you’re okay with waiting while I wrap the gift, and then driving me to Eggs & Stuff right after. I can text you to pick me up, unless of course you’d be willing to drive Shelley and me to the mall or a movie aft—”
“Take the car,” she said, cutting me off. “Just drive carefully.”
“Thanks,” I perked, snagging the keys from the hook.
When I finally made it home, nearly seven months to the day later, my pretty purple running shoes—with the lime-green swooshes and the thick pink treads—were still fully intact, sitting in the hallway closet, spared from the wretched rain puddles.
While I, on the other hand, was far beyond repair.
Nearly broken.
In every.
Way.
NOW
2
When I wake up this morning, I find my mother staring back at me.
On the floor.
Lying by my side.
In the middle of the hallway, right outside her and Dad’s room.
She reaches out to touch the scars on my hand—dark pink lines extending from my knuckles to my wrists like broken spiderwebs. Her blue eyes are illuminated by the soft glow of my flashlight. She starts to hum—one of the songs from The Sound of Music—just like she used to when I was little, when I’d crawl into bed between her and Dad after having a bad dream.
A puffy comforter covers me. She obviously did that. I only brought my pillow and the cold sheet from my bed.
How long has she been here, watching me sleep? I want to ask her, want to give some explanation as to how I got here too. My closet just didn’t feel secure enough last night.
Once she pauses from singing, I open my mouth to explain, but I can’t find the words.
“Sleep now,” she whispers, tucking her arm beneath her head. No pillow or blanket for her, just skin, bones, and the thin layer of her cotton nightgown against the cold, hard wood. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
Except I don’t want to think about tomorrow. I want to stay in the space between days—the space where I don’t have to worry about letting people down or saying the wrong thing.
The space with no expectations.
Copyright © 2019 by Laurie Faria Stolarz
1
It was raining that morning, ten months ago. I remember because I’d gotten up early, hoping to go for a run. But it was already 8:15, and I was still waiting for the weather to clear. The streets were covered in puddles, and I’d recently gotten new running shoes—purple Nikes with lime-green swooshes and thick pink treads. Funny to think about them now, that I’d been so concerned about protecting my shoes, I’d let nearly a year of my life slip away.
Already dressed in my running gear, I turned from the window, knowing the clouds weren’t going to suddenly part. The sun wasn’t going to magically appear. The oil-stained puddles, with their spirals of blue and green, wouldn’t be evaporating anytime soon.
I’d wanted to be on the road by eight o’nothing. There was a cute runner boy I’d been hoping to see. We had this thing where we nodded to one another each time we passed, usually by the water fountain and always around 8:30. What were the odds that he’d be running in the rain? Should I just suck it up and wear old shoes?
I went to go grab a pair when my phone quacked with a text. From Shelley: Surprise! I’m home from Camping Hell a day early. Long story short: I rly need 2cu. Can we meet @9? Eggs & Stuff? Let’s salvage my bday disaster.
My gut reaction? Excitement. I hadn’t seen Shelley, my best friend, in over a week. But not two seconds later, my brain took over and I remembered: I’d left her birthday present at work.
Can we meet a little L8R? I texted back. I’m going for a run.
Pleeeeeease, she typed, adding a bunch of frowny-face emoticons.
I didn’t want to let her down. Her summer had sucked harder than leeches, and having to spend her seventeenth birthday on a camping trip with her show-tune-singing fam, with no cell phone reception whatsoever, was sure to have been no exception.
Ru there? she continued to type.
I looked at the clock. If I left now, I could open the store, grab the gift, and still have ample time to make it to Eggs & Stuff by 9:00. Cu then, I typed back.
Mom was already up, sitting at the kitchen table in her snowflake-printed bathrobe (even though it was summer). “Hey there.” She peeked up from her magazine—Knit Wit. The cover featured a dazed-looking chicken knitting a scarf that reminded me of candy corn. “Going for a run?”
“Not anymore.”
“Great, we can chat over coffee.”
“Sorry, no time. You’ll have to chat with Dad.”
“Except Dad’s still in bed—that sleepyhead.” She grimaced. “Seems our days of Sunday brunch are a thing of the past.”
“Time to wake him up?”
“I already tried. But he worked late last night … didn’t get in until well past midnight.”
“I’d stay,” I told her. “But I promised Shelley I’d meet her for breakfast.”
“She’s home already?”
“Yes, so I need to get her birthday present—stat.”
“Well, you’ve certainly come to the right place. I have plenty of gifts.”
I didn’t want to argue, but when it came to gift-giving, my mother and I were from two entirely different planets. While she resided on Planet I-got-this-on-sale-but-have-no-real-use- for-it-and-so-it-goes-into-an-already-overflowing-bin- of-tacky-random-stuff, I lived on Planet My-friends-are-my-family-and-so-each-gift-has-been-carefully-hand-selected.
Still, Mom popped up from the table and bounded across the kitchen, en route to the linen closet, where she stored her trove of “treasures.” The idea of turning over some of the stuff in her stash was evidently far more enlivening than the dark-roasted coffee beans my dad had imported from New Guinea.
She came back a few moments later with a bin full of her finds and pulled out a baseball cap with melon-patterned fabric. “This would look adorable on Shelley, with her heart-shaped face.”
What melons had to do with hearts, I had absolutely no idea. Mom could sense my inner snub and dove back into the bin, producing a snowball-maker (!), faux-fur glovelettes, and a turquoise watch that screamed old lady.
“What’s wrong?” Mom asked, reading the repulsion on my face.
I bit my tongue in lieu of commenting. “I already bought a gift. I just left it at Norma’s. Can I borrow the car to go pick it up?”
Mom gazed out the window, and the corners of her mouth turned downward. She has this weird hang-up about letting me drive in rain or snow (not to mention fog, slush, sleet, hail, and darkness).
“You could bring me yourself,” I suggested, fairly confident she wouldn’t take the bait. “As long as you’re okay with waiting while I wrap the gift, and then driving me to Eggs & Stuff right after. I can text you to pick me up, unless of course you’d be willing to drive Shelley and me to the mall or a movie aft—”
“Take the car,” she said, cutting me off. “Just drive carefully.”
“Thanks,” I perked, snagging the keys from the hook.
When I finally made it home, nearly seven months to the day later, my pretty purple running shoes—with the lime-green swooshes and the thick pink treads—were still fully intact, sitting in the hallway closet, spared from the wretched rain puddles.
While I, on the other hand, was far beyond repair.
Nearly broken.
In every.
Way.
NOW
2
When I wake up this morning, I find my mother staring back at me.
On the floor.
Lying by my side.
In the middle of the hallway, right outside her and Dad’s room.
She reaches out to touch the scars on my hand—dark pink lines extending from my knuckles to my wrists like broken spiderwebs. Her blue eyes are illuminated by the soft glow of my flashlight. She starts to hum—one of the songs from The Sound of Music—just like she used to when I was little, when I’d crawl into bed between her and Dad after having a bad dream.
A puffy comforter covers me. She obviously did that. I only brought my pillow and the cold sheet from my bed.
How long has she been here, watching me sleep? I want to ask her, want to give some explanation as to how I got here too. My closet just didn’t feel secure enough last night.
Once she pauses from singing, I open my mouth to explain, but I can’t find the words.
“Sleep now,” she whispers, tucking her arm beneath her head. No pillow or blanket for her, just skin, bones, and the thin layer of her cotton nightgown against the cold, hard wood. “Tomorrow is a new day.”
Except I don’t want to think about tomorrow. I want to stay in the space between days—the space where I don’t have to worry about letting people down or saying the wrong thing.
The space with no expectations.
Copyright © 2019 by Laurie Faria Stolarz
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