Lovely Girls(50)

“Any word?” Joe asked ten minutes later, when I let him in the front door.

I’d searched the house again, looking everywhere, calling her name. But I already knew she wasn’t there. The house felt too empty.

“I’ve tried calling her, but she won’t pick up. I texted her to call me immediately. And that phone is permanently attached to her hand.”

I felt tears welling and wondered whether I was overreacting. Alex was seventeen, not seven. But Alex didn’t have any friends in Shoreham. At least, none that I knew of. Where would she be at eleven o’clock on a school night? And why wouldn’t she have told me she was going out?

“I’m probably overreacting,” I said.

Joe shook his head. “I’m sure she’s fine. Do you have a way to track her phone?”

“No. I know those apps exist, but I never got around to getting one. And besides, Alex never goes anywhere. She’s always either here or at school or at tennis. Occasionally she goes for a run, but that’s about it.”

“Does she run at night?”

“Never. Should I call the police? But what would I say, my teenager isn’t home at curfew? They’ll just think I’m a crazy helicopter mom.”

“We could go look for her,” Joe suggested.

“But we don’t know where she is. Are we going to just drive around hoping we spot her on the street?”

“It’s better than nothing. Come on. I’ll drive.”



Joe’s SUV was almost freakishly neat. There wasn’t any of the clutter I always had rattling around in the back of my car—Alex’s tennis bag, library books, the odd travel coffee mug. It even smelled good, like sandalwood and pine.

We drove slowly up and down the streets near my house. I peered out the window, looking for my daughter and not seeing her. This seemed like a pointless exercise. I had no idea where Alex was. What were the chances we’d spot her out on the street?

“Has she ever done anything like this before?” Joe asked as he signaled and turned right onto another dark, quiet street.

“No, never. But Alex went through a traumatic experience last year.”

“When your husband died,” Joe said. “It was a car accident, right?”

“Yes. And Alex . . . she was with him. She was in the accident too.”

“Oh, no.” Joe exhaled and shook his head. “That must have been awful for her.”

“She doesn’t remember what happened. Any of it.”

“She was with her father when he died, and she doesn’t remember it?”

“It’s worse than that.” I turned to look at Joe. “Alex was the one driving the car when the accident happened. She ran a red light. I know she blames herself for the accident.”

And then I had to say the part I didn’t want to admit but that was getting harder to ignore. “Alex hasn’t been the same ever since it happened. It’s like she’s a different girl altogether.”

“She doesn’t remember running the light?”

“Not just that. She doesn’t remember any of it. The last thing she remembers that day is leaving the tennis courts. She and Ed had been practicing, and . . .” I stopped and rested my head against my hands. “I don’t know exactly what happened, but I think they argued. Ed texted me about it.”

I swallowed. It had been the last communication I’d had from my husband.

Alex told me she wants to quit tennis. Fine with me. I’m done with both of you.

It had been an ugly final message. And even though I had my issues with Ed, I was sad that the last moments he spent with Alex were so unhappy. Although, perhaps, not surprised. Ed hadn’t been a happy man.

“Ed was obsessed with Alex becoming the next Serena Williams,” I explained. “He read an article about how Serena’s father turned her into a superstar and decided he was going to do the same with Alex. It was all he thought about, all he talked about. It wasn’t healthy.”

We passed by a streetlight, and Joe’s face was momentarily lit in profile. He looked tired. It was late, and he’d been working. I felt a wrench of guilt that I was keeping him up, driving around, but I was also grateful for his company. He reached over to gently take my hand.

“That’s a lot of pressure to put on a kid,” Joe said.

“Yes, it was. I think Ed was clinically depressed. He’d go through periods where he’d withdraw. He’d lock himself in our home office and would spend hours watching old tennis matches online. I tried to get him to go see a doctor, but he refused. And then, eventually, he’d sort of snap out of it, and then it was like he’d become almost manic. Which, in a way, was even worse than the depression. Because that’s when his obsession with Alex becoming a tennis star would take over.”

“He sounds intense,” Joe observed.

I nodded. “He had a daily training regimen for Alex. He’d schedule her practices, her time in the gym, her daily runs. I kept trying to intervene and convince him that he was pushing her too hard. That it was all too much. But part of the problem is that Alex wanted it too. She wanted to be a professional tennis player. Or . . .” I stopped and shook my head. “She used to. When she was younger, she went along with it. But as she started to get older, she started pushing back.”