My Lovely Wife Page 15

  Trista.

  I see her, and the reflection of her, on the glass. The last time I saw her, she was drugged into a near coma. As promised, I never told Andy.

  Trista is smiling, motioning for me to roll down my window. When I do, she leans in to kiss me on the cheek. Her apricot-colored lipstick feels sticky.

  “Well, hey there,” I say.

  She laughs. It makes her look younger, and so does the daisy-print visor on her head. “Sorry. I’m in a good mood.”

  “I can see that.” I get out of the car and face her. Trista’s eyes are clear, her pupils not too big or too small. Her skin is a faint shade of pink, like she spent yesterday on the beach. “You look great.”

  “I am great.”

  Relief hits, making me realize how stressed I’ve been about her. “I’m so happy to hear that. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “I left Andy,” she says.

  “Left him where?” I look behind her, thinking he is in the coffee shop. Really.

  “No, I mean we aren’t together anymore.”

  I cannot hide my shock. Andy and Trista married not long after Millicent and I did. We attended their wedding. Neither has ever hinted at trouble, not to me and not to Millicent. She would have said something.

  “He didn’t tell you?” Trista says.

  “No.”

  “Well, I did it. I left him.”

  I want to tell her I’m sorry her marriage has broken up, because I am. Because they are my friends. But she looks so happy I don’t say a word.

  Trista rolls her eyes. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. But you know what? I never really loved him. Not the way you love Millicent.” She smiles, not embarrassed at all. “It’s true. I married Andy because he ticked all the boxes. That sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Go ahead, you can say it. I’m horrible.”

  “I never said you were horrible.”

  “But you’re thinking it. You have to—you’re Andy’s friend.”

  “I’m your friend, too.”

  She shrugs. “The lessons have to stop. I am sorry about that, but I can’t come to the club with Andy there.”

  “I get it.”

  “You really helped me, you know,” she says. “That day we talked helped sort everything out.”

  The talk helped me as well. Because of Trista, I knew things about Owen I would not have otherwise known and was able to write a convincing letter to Josh. But this is not what she means.

  “I didn’t do anything,” I say. Maybe to convince myself I did not break up my friend’s marriage.

  “If you hadn’t listened like that, I would never have gone on and on about Owen. No one wants to hear all that. They just want him to be a monster.”

  “Isn’t he?”

  She thinks about this while sucking on her straw. “Yes. And no. Remember I told you that sex with Owen was good? Not great but good?”

  I nod.

  “Lie. It was great. It was fantastic, actually. Owen was, he was . . .” Her voice drifts off. She stares out over the parking lot outside the coffee shop, lost in a memory I cannot see. It feels awkward to just stare at her, but it would be even more awkward to speak, so I don’t.

  “I loved him,” she says.

  “Owen?”

  She nods and then shakes her head. “That sounds terrible. I don’t mean I’m going to run off and be with him or anything. Not that I would know where to find him. Oh god, that didn’t come out right.” She throws up her hands, giving up on the explanation. “I’m sorry. This is weird.”

  “No, it’s . . .” I cannot think of another word.

  “Weird.”

  I shrug. “Okay, it’s weird.” And horrible.

  “Loving a monster isn’t bad?”

  “You didn’t know when you fell in love with him, did you?”

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t fall in love with him because he was a monster, did you?”

  Now she shrugs. Smiles. “How would I know?”

  I have no answer.

  Thirty-one

  A CHURCH CALLED THE Fellowship of Hope has become a gathering place for anyone who wants to talk about Naomi, pray for her, or light a candle. It began with her friends and coworkers, perhaps started by that walrus-looking guy or the nasally girl, and now it has expanded to the wider community.

  I have not been inside the church, but I have stopped by on my way home from work and watched the people go in and out. Some stay awhile; others, just a few minutes. I recognize a few of them from the club, and I bet none of them had met Naomi. These are not the people who hang out with hotel desk clerks.

  Word gets back to Millicent, perhaps through one of her clients, and she decides our family should go to the church on Friday.

  That evening, we are all in a rush. I get home late from a lesson and jump in the shower. Rory went to a friend’s house after school, but he forgot the time, and Millicent drives over to pick him up. Jenna is getting ready in her room. We have no time for dinner at home, so we’ll go out after our visit to the church. Millicent starts a group text about which restaurant we will go to. Rory wants Italian, Millicent wants Mexican, and I do not care.

  When the car pulls into the garage, I call up to Jenna.

  “Let’s hit it,” I say. Jenna always tells me I sound like such a dad when I say that.

  Now, she says nothing.

  “Jenna?”

  When she doesn’t answer the second time, I go upstairs and knock on her door. She keeps a small whiteboard on the door. It is decorated with rainbow-colored ribbons, and the words No, Rory are written in her bubbly handwriting.

  Downstairs, the door to the garage opens and Millicent calls out. “Ready?”

  “Almost,” I say and knock on the door again.

  Jenna does not answer.

  “What’s going on?” Millicent says.

  The door is unlocked. I open it a few inches. “Jenna? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah.” A tiny sound. It comes from the bathroom.

  In our home, no one has just a bedroom. We have suites, with a bathroom attached. Four bedrooms, four and half baths—this is how all homes are built in Hidden Oaks.

  “Come on!” Rory yells.

  Millicent is walking up the stairs.

  I cross Jenna’s bedroom, through the childhood toys and the clothes, shoes, and makeup of a blossoming teenager. The door to the bathroom is open. Just as I look inside, Millicent appears in the hallway outside Jenna’s room.

  “What is going on?” she says.

  Jenna stands on the white tile floor with her feet surrounded by locks of dark hair. She looks at me, and her eyes seem larger than ever. Jenna has cut off all her hair. Shorn down to the scalp, no more than an inch long.

  Behind me, Millicent gasps. She rushes past me, to Jenna, and holds her head with both hands. “What have you done?” she says.

  Jenna stares back, unblinking.

  I say nothing, though I know the answer. I know what Jenna has done. The realization makes me freeze; my body roots itself right into the persimmon-colored rug on Jenna’s floor.

  “What the . . .” Rory is in the room now, staring at his sister, at the hair on the bathroom floor.

  Jenna turns to me and says, “Now he won’t take me, will he?”

  “Jesus,” Rory says.

  Not Jesus.

  Owen.

  * * *

  • • •

  WE DO NOT go to church. We do not go out at all.

  “A doctor,” Millicent says. “Our daughter needs a doctor.”

  “I know a doctor,” I say. “He is a client.”

  “Call him. No, wait. Maybe we shouldn’t use one of your clients? Maybe we don’t want them to know?”

  “Know what?”

 
“That our daughter needs help.”

  We stare at each other, having no idea what to do. Surreal does not cover it.

  This is a new problem for us. An answer for everything can be found in child-rearing books. Millicent has them all. Physically sick, go to doctor. Not feeling well, go to bed. Faking it, go to school. Problem with another child, call their parents. Throwing a tantrum, give them a time-out.

  Not this problem, though. The books do not say what to do when your child is afraid of a serial killer. Especially not one like this.

  We are in our bedroom, our voices low. Jenna is downstairs on the couch, watching TV with a baseball cap on her head. Rory is with her. We have told him not to let his sister out of his sight. We also told him not to make fun. For once, he does as we say.

  Millicent decides to call our family doctor. Dr. Barrow is not a client. He is just a family practitioner we have been seeing for years. He treats our sore throats and tummy aches, checks for broken bones and concussions, but I do not think he can be helpful in this situation. He is a much older man who may or may not believe mental health is a real thing.

  “It’s late,” I say to Millicent. “He won’t answer.”

  “The service will call him. There’s always a way to get hold of a doctor.”

  “Maybe we should—”

  “I’m going to call,” she says. “We have to do something.”

  “Yes. I suppose we do.”

  Millicent gives me a look as she picks up the phone. It is rare when I cannot decipher what her look means, but this is one of those times. If I had to guess, I would say it looks a bit like panic.

  I go downstairs to check on Jenna. Both she and Rory are on the couch. They are watching TV while eating sandwiches with potato chips stuffed between the bread. Jenna looks up at me. I smile at her, trying to convey that everything is fine, that she is fine, that the world is fine and no one will hurt her. She looks away and takes another bite of her sandwich.

  I have failed to convey anything.

  Back upstairs, Millicent is on the phone. Her voice is too calm, too even, as she explains to an answering service that, yes, this is an emergency and, yes, she does need to speak with Dr. Barrow tonight. She hangs up, waits five minutes, and tries again.

  Dr. Barrow finally calls back. Millicent sounds rushed as she explains what has happened, what our daughter has done. She cannot get the words out fast enough.

  This is a crisis for her, for us, for our family. My part is in between.

  Jenna, the one in crisis.

  Millicent, the one doing something about it.

  Rory, the one staying out of the way. Out of the line of fire.

  Me, the one running up and down the stairs, checking on everyone and deciding on nothing. I am in the middle again.

  Thirty-two

  DR. BARROW RECOMMENDS a child psychologist, who agrees to meet us on Saturday for twice his usual fee. Everything in his office is beige, from carpet to ceiling, and it feels like we are in a bowl of oatmeal.

  The psychologist specializes in this kind of thing, because it is a real thing, and he says Jenna does not feel safe. He suspects she has some kind of media-induced anxiety disorder, although the real name is irrelevant. So are the reasons she is acting out, which do not matter, because they do not make sense. Reason has no place here.

  “You can explain that Jenna is safe until she repeats it in her sleep, but it won’t make a difference.”

  Millicent sits in front of the doctor, as close as possible. She spent the night in Jenna’s room, barely slept, and she looks like hell. I look about the same. Jenna slept fine last night. Cutting off her hair seemed to bring her peace. When I try to tell the doctor this, he holds up his hand.

  “False.”

  “False,” I say. I try to mimic his tone, but the arrogance is too much.

  “The peace is likely temporary, until some other piece of news sets her off again,” he says. He has spent the last hour with Jenna, part of the emergency Saturday morning session arranged by Dr. Barrow. We are the second part.

  “What do we do?” Millicent says.

  He has some ideas for how to make Jenna feel safe. First, twice-weekly appointments in his office. They are $200 apiece, no insurance accepted, cash or debit card only. Second, do everything you say you will do. Never let Jenna down. Never let her think you will not be there for her.

  “But we don’t,” I say. “We always—”

  “Always?” he says.

  “At least ninety percent of the time,” Millicent says. “Maybe ninety-five.”

  “Make it a hundred.”

  Millicent nods, as if she can wave a magic wand and this will happen.

  “Last but certainly not least,” he says. “Get her away from the media—from this serial killer, from all the stories about his victim. I realize I’m asking the impossible, especially in this day and age, but try to do it as much as possible. Don’t watch the news at home. Don’t discuss Owen or anything about him. Try to act as if he has nothing to do with your family.”

  “He doesn’t,” I say.

  “Of course not.”

  We write the doctor a big check and leave. Jenna is in the waiting room. The TV on the wall is showing cartoons. She is staring at her phone.

  Millicent frowns.

  I smile and try my best. “Who wants breakfast?”

  * * *

  • • •

  THE WEEKEND IS a flurry of meetings: with the whole family, with Jenna alone, with Rory alone, with both the kids, and with just Millicent. So many meetings with Millicent. By Sunday evening, we have a new set of rules, and they revolve around eliminating the news from our lives. All news programs are banned, as are newspapers. We will stream movies and avoid live TV as much as possible. No live radio. All of these are easy compared to the Internet. The kids use it for school, for fun, for communication.

  Millicent tries anyway, beginning with the password. No one will be able to connect unless she does it herself.

  Mutiny.

  “Then I can’t live here.” Rory goes for broke with his opening statement.

  Jenna nods, agreeing with her brother. A rare moment of solidarity.

  I agree with the kids. Millicent has proposed something that is impractical, unworkable. Absurd.

  But I say nothing.

  Rory looks from me to his mother, sensing weakness. He lists all the reasons the password idea will not work, beginning with Millicent’s long hours.

  Jenna finally pipes up. “I’ll fail English.”

  That does it.

  English has been difficult for her this year. She has worked twice as hard at it to stay on the honor roll, and the idea of Jenna falling off it changes Millicent’s mind. She downgrades to a lesser set of rules.

  Parental controls, laptops moved to the family room, all news apps removed from phones. Psychological rather than practical, but we all get the point. I have no idea if Jenna will follow the new rules.

  A hairdresser tries to shape what’s left of Jenna’s hair. Now that it’s even, it does not look bad—just different. Millicent buys all sorts of hats and caps in case she wants to cover up. She lays them all out on the dining room table, and Jenna walks the length of it, trying on each one. At the end, she shrugs.

  “They’re nice,” she says.

  “Do you have a favorite?” Millicent asks.

  Jenna shrugs again. “I’m not sure I need a hat.”

  Millicent’s shoulders slump a little. She is more concerned about Jenna’s hair than Jenna is. “Okay,” she says, gathering up the hats. “I’ll just leave them in your room.”

  Before bedtime, I go see Rory. He is on his bed reading a comic book. He slides it under a pillow, and I pretend not to see it.

  “What?” he says. Irritation everywhere.

  I
sit down at his desk. Books, notebooks, empty chargers. A full bag of chips, and a drawing of something that looks half monster and half hero. “It’s not fair,” I say. “None of this is your fault, but you have to live with it anyway.”

  “Take one for the team. Got it.”

  “What do you think?” I say.

  “About what?”

  “Your sister.”

  He starts to say something. I can tell by those green eyes that he is going to be a smart-ass.

  But he stops. Pauses. “I don’t know,” he says. “She’s been a little obsessed with this thing.”

  “Owen.”

  “Yeah. Like, more obsessed than usual. You know how she gets.”

  He is referring to Jenna’s ability to laser-focus on a topic, whether it be soccer or ribbons or ponies. Rory calls it obsession because he doesn’t have it.

  “How’s she been at school?” I say.

  “Fine, as far as I can tell. Still popular.”

  “Can you let me know if anything changes?”

  He thinks, perhaps about asking for something in return. “Yeah,” he says.

  “And don’t be too much of an asshole to her.”

  “But that’s my job. I’m her brother.” Rory is smiling.

  “I know. Just don’t be so good at it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  MILLICENT AND I are finally alone late Sunday night. I am exhausted. Worried. I dread the next story about Owen or Naomi or Lindsay.

  Naomi. For the first time in two days, it occurs to me that Millicent has not left our side. She has been with Jenna, me, us, since Friday night. It makes me wonder where Naomi is, if she is still alive. She must have water. She would not survive without that.

  I never wanted to think about where Naomi was, how she was restrained, what her surroundings were like. I forced myself not to think about it. Still, the images come. The ones I have heard about, the underground bunker or basement, the soundproof room in an otherwise normal home. Restraints—I think about these as well. Chains and cuffs, made of steel so they cannot be broken.

  But it may not be like that. Maybe she is just locked in a room and free to roam around. It could be like a regular room with a bed, a dresser, a bathroom, maybe a refrigerator. Comfortable and clean. Not a chamber of horrors or torture or any of those things. Maybe she even has a TV.