She tried to concentrate on the words of her book, but her mind kept wandering to the Klonopin in the bathroom cabinet. How easy it would be to take one, to feel the delicious ooze of tension fading from her body. Too easy. After all, you didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to get why so many people with social anxiety disorder became addicts. Alcohol, drugs, whatever it was—the option of escape was just too irresistible. It was why Zoe refused when Emily suggested they sneak a couple of glasses of her mom’s wine. It was why she rarely took Klonopin. Life was hard enough for her. She didn’t want to make it harder.
When she was a kid, Zoe used to hide in her mom’s bed under the covers when she was feeling anxious. Sometimes her mom would come under too, for what felt like days. She’d bring popcorn or apples or toast. Sometimes they ate dinner in there. “Going to Comfytown,” they called it. Zoe never felt more cozy and safe than when she was in Comfytown.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t always stay in Comfytown. But when she did have to venture out into the big wide world, her mom still helped her to hide. Zoe remembered the time when she was six and her class performed “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” in front of the whole school. Her mom drove all the way to San Francisco to procure a two-man horse costume so Zoe could be onstage alongside her classmates and never have to be seen. Even now she sometimes, affectionately, called Zoe “my little horse’s ass.”
Zoe remembered the time she was ten, at school sports day, when she had a panic attack as she approached the starting line. Her mom burst from her seat in the grandstand. “What’s wrong with her?” people were saying. Even in her stupor, Zoe was dying at being so cruelly exposed—while the entire school and their parents watched. She’s having a panic attack, people would whisper. She has anxiety. The shame of such a humiliating defect.
“Asthma,” her mom had said without missing a beat. “I forgot her Ventolin. I’d better take her home.”
Zoe had lost count of the times her mom had said she had laryngitis (when she became dumbstruck in public) or was unwell (when she couldn’t make it to an event at the last minute). If she were here now, Zoe knew, she’d make her feel better somehow. She’d put on a movie or some jolly music. Tell her a story about a time she’d humiliated herself a lot worse and get Zoe laughing. Maybe they’d even go to Comfytown. She was, Zoe realized, her only true friend in the world. The one who would never turn her back on her.
Kenny was purring now. If only she could share his bliss.
Someone was banging on the door again, more insistent now. Zoe lifted Kenny and let him nuzzle against her neck. She shrank back into the cushions. “Go away,” she whispered.
20
Sonja had knocked twice on Alice Stanhope’s door when the old lady on the folding chair finally piped up.
“Alice isn’t home.”
“I know.” Sonja looked at her. “Actually, I was looking for her daughter.”
“She came tearing up the stairs half an hour ago. Nearly knocked me off my chair.”
So she was home, Sonja thought. She knocked on the door again.
“Oh, she won’t answer it,” the lady said. “Zoe never answers the door.”
Sonja turned. “She doesn’t?”
“Nope. She’s agoraphobic or something.”
“But … wasn’t she was just outside? If you saw her run in.”
The old lady squinted. “Okay, maybe not agoraphobic. But she’s scared of people. People-phobic.”
Sonja turned away from the door. “What makes you say that?”
“Like I said, she doesn’t answer the door. If anyone talks to her she turns beet red and mutters something unintelligible. She doesn’t have any friends. She and her mother are rather strange. A pair of hermits, those two.”
Curious. And it didn’t sound at all like the girl was fit to be home alone.
“Do you know them very well?” Sonja asked.
“As well as you know anyone these days. In my day people used to keep their elderly neighbors company. Not anymore.”
Sonja turned back to the door, knocked again, harder this time. She listened at the door and thought she heard a faint shuffle. The old lady was right. Zoe was there.
“Zoe, it’s Sonja, your mother’s social worker. I’d like to talk to you. Can you come to the door, please?”
She put her ear to the door again, but this time there was silence. When she turned, the old lady was smiling a closed-mouth smile, eyebrows high in her hairline. “Told ya.”
Just as Sonja was trying to figure out what to do, the door handle turned and the door opened a few inches.
“Hello,” Sonja said, startled. “Are you … Zoe?”
“Yes,” she said finally, as though she herself wasn’t certain. Through the crack between the door and the frame, she looked younger than Sonja had expected. For some reason, perhaps the fact that she was happy to stay home alone, Sonja imagined her to be tall. Plucky. Full of adolescent attitude. But this girl was small. Timid-looking. She stared at the floor—not meeting her eyes at all.
Sonja fished a business card from her pocket. “My name’s Sonja. I’m your mom’s social worker.” As she spoke Sonja heard the note of confidence in her voice that was absent in all but her professional life. She was glad that at least in some areas of her life she was in control.
“My mom’s…?” Now the girl’s eyes did flicker to meet Sonja’s and the color drained out of her face. “Is my mom okay?”
“She’s still in surgery. But that’s not why I’m here.”
Her face registered relief, but was still hesitant. She was familiar-looking, Sonja realized. She had the bone structure of a doll, almond-shaped eyes and black hair. She also had a red mark on her right cheek. Sonja zeroed in on it.
“Do you mind if I come in and have a look around, Zoe, make sure everything is shipshape for your mother’s release?”
Sonja sounded reassuring, she realized. Calm. Nevertheless, for a moment it looked as if Zoe was going to refuse. She glanced at Sonja’s business card again, and then over her shoulder, back into the apartment. Finally she took a step back, widened the door.
She’d failed the first test. Letting a stranger inside.
“Looks like you’re getting a shiner there,” Sonja said, as casually as she could. She stepped into the apartment, gesturing to Zoe’s cheek.
“Oh.” Zoe’s gaze dropped. “I … I ran into a wall at school today.”
“Ice helps,” she said with a smile. “Is it okay if I…”
“Sure,” Zoe said. “Look around.”
Zoe remained in the hallway while Sonja did a loop of the apartment. It didn’t take long—there wasn’t a lot to see. The place was a little messy, but cozy. Photographs were dotted around in frames. It looked perfectly habitable.
“Why does my mother have a … social worker?” Zoe asked when Sonja returned to the living room.
The question stopped Sonja for a moment. It hadn’t occurred to Sonja that Alice wouldn’t explain all this.
“Well, the hospital put us in touch,” she explained. “It’s my job to take care of patients and make sure they have everything they need once they are released. For example, some people need help getting to and from appointments. Some people need to be put in touch with community services.”
Zoe blinked. “Does my mom need that kind of help?”
Sonja hesitated. “I’m not sure yet. We’ll know more after today.”
“Oh.”