“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 do to 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.