My Lovely Wife

Millicent is just a few minutes from the doctor’s office, but she does not come here. She goes to a deli, and she is still there when the office door opens and Jenna comes out. My daughter looks neither happy nor sad, which is about the same as when she went in.

It is her turn to wait while I speak to the doctor. Dr. Beige. To me he is always Dr. Beige. The name is neither fair nor accurate, because only his office is beige; his personality is not. The doctor is a colorful, arrogant asshole. I have never met a doctor who is not.

“I’m glad I asked Jenna to come in,” he says. “This new attack was quite a surprise.”

Dr. Beige does not say Jenna was surprised, but it’s what he means. This is how he gets around the doctor-patient confidentiality. “It certainly was a surprise,” I say.

“The important thing is to let her know nothing has changed. That she’s safe.”

“She is safe.”

“Of course.”

We stare at each other.

“Have you noticed any changes in her behavior?” he says. “Any kind of change.”

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something. Jenna has been having some issues with her stomach. Nausea.”

“And this started when?”

“Not that long ago, and it’s been getting worse. Is it possible these are connected?”

“Oh, absolutely. Mental stress can absolutely manifest into physical issues. Has there been anything else?”

I pretend to think about it and shake my head. “No, I don’t think so.”

I wonder if he can tell I am lying. No one knows about the knife under the bed.

Our talk is over when my phone vibrates. Millicent.

Sorry I couldn’t make it, how did it go?

Her blue dot is just leaving the deli.

Jenna is in the waiting room, doodling in a notebook while watching a daytime talk show. Her short hair makes her eyes look huge, and she is wearing a long T-shirt with her jeans and sneakers. I tell her we are going to grab a bite before picking up her brother. She smiles.

Joe’s Deli is a seven-minute drive by my watch. When I pull into the parking lot, Millicent is long gone. The deli has seen better days, perhaps because of the location. Joe’s is in the older part of town, which has been losing the battle against the newer and shinier side.

Inside, it is bright enough to see the scratches on the counter and display case. The meats, cheeses, and premade salads look a little warped. We are the only ones in the deli, and it is silent until Jenna spins the display of potato chips, which creaks, perhaps from rust. A woman appears, as if she had been sitting down and suddenly stood up. She is plump and blond and looks tired, but when she smiles her whole face lights up.

“Welcome to Joe’s,” she says. “I’m Denise.”

“Nice to meet you, Denise,” I say. “We’ve never been here before. What’s your specialty?”

She holds up a finger, telling me to wait, and disappears behind the counter. Her hand slips into one of the glass cases and she grabs a platter of sliced meat. She sets it down in front of us. “Sugar spice turkey. A little heat, a little sweet. Not too much of either.”

I look at Jenna.

“Cool,” she says.

We get two sandwiches, hers on seven-grain, and mine on a kaiser roll, both dressed with only lettuce and tomato. “You have to be able to taste the turkey,” says the woman.

Joe’s Deli has an outdoor patio on the side, not visible from the front parking lot. A few tables are scattered within a walled-in area; it is clean and neat, but without any character. After a minute, it does not matter, because the turkey is that good. Even Jenna is eating.

“Did you find this place online?” Jenna says.

“No. Why?”

“Seems like something you’d do. Search for weird sandwich places.”

“It’s not weird. It’s good.”

“Mom would hate it,” she says. “It’s not organic.”

“Don’t tell her we came here.”

“You want me to lie?”

I ignore that. “What do you think about your doctor? Does he help?”

She shrugs. “I guess.”

“Are you still scared?”

Jenna points. Through the side door of the deli, she has a view of the TV above the glass counter. The blond woman is sitting on a chair near the register, watching the news. The headline says that Jane Doe will hold a press conference tomorrow night.

Forty-two

Millicent and I are standing in the empty parking lot of the Ferndale Mall. The only sound comes from the highway behind us. It is Friday night, and Jenna is at a slumber party while Rory is spending the night with a friend playing video games.

Jane Doe’s press conference ended an hour ago. Millicent and I watched it at a popular restaurant and sports bar attached to the mall. The press conference was broadcast on every screen. The latest twist in our serial killer drama became a Friday night social, complete with chicken wings and beer. We watched it with another couple, the Rhineharts, who believed every word Jane Doe said.

Millicent is leaning against the car, arms folded over her chest, a stray hair blowing in the breeze. She always wears something appropriate for the occasion, even for this serious occasion at a sports bar. Her black jeans are paired with a T-shirt that reads WOODVIEW UNITY, a slogan that has popped up since Naomi’s disappearance. Her hair is braided down her back, except for that one strand.

She shakes her head. “I don’t like her,” she says. “I don’t like her story.”

I think of Lindsay being held captive. Maybe Millicent hadn’t liked her, either.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

“We don’t know that.”

“So what—”

“We just need to know more,” she says.

“You aren’t thinking—”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

We stand in silence for a moment before Millicent turns and opens the door. I watch her get into the passenger side of my car. She shuts the door and looks over at me. I have not moved. I can almost hear her sigh as she opens the door and steps back out. She is wearing shoes with rubber heels, and they are silent as she walks to me.

Placing her palms against my chest, she looks up at me. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

I shrug.

“That means no,” she says.

It is my turn to sigh. Or huff. Breathe hard. Something. “We’ve screwed up, you know,” I say.

“Have we?”

“I think so.”

“Tell me.”

I don’t know where to start; everything is so jumbled, and I do not want to mention the wrong thing. Like Petra, whom I have never mentioned. Or Rory’s blackmail. She knows about Jenna, but not everything. Trista’s suicide. The tracker on the car. Joe’s Deli.

There is so much Millicent does not know. And still, I feel like there is so much more to discover.

“The Owen thing,” I finally say. “It’s out of control.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about Jenna?”

“I should have seen that coming.”

Her response surprises me. It is not often she makes a mistake, let alone admits it. Because of this, I decide not to tell her what Dr. Beige said. It doesn’t seem like a good time to tell her this whole thing is making Jenna physically sick.