My Lovely Wife

“He didn’t tell you?” Trista says.

“No.”

“Well, I did it. I left him.”

I want to tell her I’m sorry her marriage has broken up, because I am. Because they are my friends. But she looks so happy I don’t say a word.

Trista rolls her eyes. “It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. But you know what? I never really loved him. Not the way you love Millicent.” She smiles, not embarrassed at all. “It’s true. I married Andy because he ticked all the boxes. That sounds horrible, doesn’t it? Go ahead, you can say it. I’m horrible.”

“I never said you were horrible.”

“But you’re thinking it. You have to—you’re Andy’s friend.”

“I’m your friend, too.”

She shrugs. “The lessons have to stop. I am sorry about that, but I can’t come to the club with Andy there.”

“I get it.”

“You really helped me, you know,” she says. “That day we talked helped sort everything out.”

The talk helped me as well. Because of Trista, I knew things about Owen I would not have otherwise known and was able to write a convincing letter to Josh. But this is not what she means.

“I didn’t do anything,” I say. Maybe to convince myself I did not break up my friend’s marriage.

“If you hadn’t listened like that, I would never have gone on and on about Owen. No one wants to hear all that. They just want him to be a monster.”

“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.