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.

“What do we do?” Millicent says.

He has some ideas for how to make Jenna feel safe. First, twice-weekly appointments in his office. They are $200 apiece, no insurance accepted, cash or debit card only. Second, do everything you say you will do. Never let Jenna down. Never let her think you will not be there for her.

“But we don’t,” I say. “We always—”

“Always?” he says.

“At least ninety percent of the time,” Millicent says. “Maybe ninety-five.”

“Make it a hundred.”

Millicent nods, as if she can wave a magic wand and this will happen.

“Last but certainly not least,” he says. “Get her away from the media—from this serial killer, from all the stories about his victim. I realize I’m asking the impossible, especially in this day and age, but try to do it as much as possible. Don’t watch the news at home. Don’t discuss Owen or anything about him. Try to act as if he has nothing to do with your family.”

“He doesn’t,” I say.

“Of course not.”

We write the doctor a big check and leave. Jenna is in the waiting room. The TV on the wall is showing cartoons. She is staring at her phone.

Millicent frowns.

I smile and try my best. “Who wants breakfast?”

* * *

• • •

The weekend is a flurry of meetings: with the whole family, with Jenna alone, with Rory alone, with both the kids, and with just Millicent. So many meetings with Millicent. By Sunday evening, we have a new set of rules, and they revolve around eliminating the news from our lives. All news programs are banned, as are newspapers. We will stream movies and avoid live TV as much as possible. No live radio. All of these are easy compared to the Internet. The kids use it for school, for fun, for communication.

Millicent tries anyway, beginning with the password. No one will be able to connect unless she does it herself.

Mutiny.

“Then I can’t live here.” Rory goes for broke with his opening statement.

Jenna nods, agreeing with her brother. A rare moment of solidarity.

I agree with the kids. Millicent has proposed something that is impractical, unworkable. Absurd.

But I say nothing.

Rory looks from me to his mother, sensing weakness. He lists all the reasons the password idea will not work, beginning with Millicent’s long hours.

Jenna finally pipes up. “I’ll fail English.”

That does it.

English has been difficult for her this year. She has worked twice as hard at it to stay on the honor roll, and the idea of Jenna falling off it changes Millicent’s mind. She downgrades to a lesser set of rules.

Parental controls, laptops moved to the family room, all news apps removed from phones. Psychological rather than practical, but we all get the point. I have no idea if Jenna will follow the new rules.

A hairdresser tries to shape what’s left of Jenna’s hair. Now that it’s even, it does not look bad—just different. Millicent buys all sorts of hats and caps in case she wants to cover up. She lays them all out on the dining room table, and Jenna walks the length of it, trying on each one. At the end, she shrugs.

“They’re nice,” she says.

“Do you have a favorite?” Millicent asks.

Jenna shrugs again. “I’m not sure I need a hat.”

Millicent’s shoulders slump a little. She is more concerned about Jenna’s hair than Jenna is. “Okay,” she says, gathering up the hats. “I’ll just leave them in your room.”

Before bedtime, I go see Rory. He is on his bed reading a comic book. He slides it under a pillow, and I pretend not to see it.

“What,” he says. Irritation everywhere.

I sit down at his desk. Books, notebooks, empty chargers. A full bag of chips, and a drawing of something that looks half monster and half hero. “It’s not fair,” I say. “None of this is your fault, but you have to live with it anyway.”