The Mother's Promise(29)

“Social anxiety?”

“It’s similar to generalized anxiety disorder, but is characterized by excessive fears being linked to social situations—school, church, outdoor events, large spaces, that kind of thing.”

“Is this my fault?” Alice asked. “For not taking her out more when she was younger?”

“We believe people develop social anxiety regardless of how they are socialized.”

“Oh.” Alice struggled to take it in. “So … how long will it last?”

“We don’t know. If symptoms do continue, people see the best results with a combination of medication—usually SSRIs and/or benzodiazepines—and psychotherapy such as cognitive behavioral therapy. Alice?”

The doctor looked at her, standing now. She hadn’t even felt herself get out of her seat.

“Benzodiazepines? Like Xanax? For my five-year-old?”

“We’re getting ahead of ourselves. But they can be helpful. Depending on the severity of Zoe’s anxiety. For some people this is a lifelong condition that needs to be managed.”

Alice sat back down. Okay. They were getting ahead of themselves. That was what she wanted to hear. In a minute the doctor would tell her that drugs and therapy were only required in a small percentage of cases—that in most cases kids would snap out of it in a couple of weeks. Zoe would definitely snap out of it. Alice waited for him to say that.

He didn’t.





19

Whoever was knocking on the door would have to go away.

In her apartment, with Kenny the cat on her lap, Zoe was trying to read The Outsiders. She had never been so grateful for locks. She wanted to stay behind the locked door and never go back to school again. Maybe she wouldn’t go back for a few days. How could she, after the way Emily had looked at her? After the way she’d run out of there like a crazy woman?

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.”