My Lovely Wife(47)

“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.

“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.