Zoe was two when Joan passed away. Alice inherited her Atherton apartment and after a few months of grieving, started her business, and began to fill up her day with clients. Problem was, she didn’t fill them with anything else. It had been a hard couple of years. Two deaths, a baby. At the end of the day, she pulled the blinds and snuggled up with her daughter, pretending the outside world didn’t exist. Zoe was happy with the arrangement. As long as she was snuggled up close to her mother, that beautiful smile remained on her sweet little face.
By the time kindergarten approached, Alice had fallen into a rut. Any friends she’d had in San Francisco had given up calling. She hadn’t been on a date since before Zoe was born. And Alice was determined to turn things around, for Zoe’s sake. School would be the beginning of something for both of them. She would be the queen of the PTA. Carpooling, canteen duty. Driving a carload of giggly girls to McDonald’s at the end of the school year, eavesdropping as they talked at full speed about whatever giggly girls talked about. Afterward, when their smiling mothers came to collect them, Alice would open a bottle of wine and they’d do some giggling of their own. She had seen it all so clearly.
But on the first day of school Zoe was hard to get going. It had taken ages to get her dressed and she barely ate a bite of breakfast. Alice had thought she’d be excited about school, but she’d been reluctant to talk about it—nervous, perhaps. She walked slower than usual on the way to school, and as they turned a corner and the school building came into view, she stopped walking entirely.
“Are you all right, Mouse?” Alice asked.
She followed Zoe’s gaze to the large redbrick building that loomed before them. Students moved through the gates like a caterpillar, exploding into the playground with tanbark churning at their heels. Boys of about seven or eight rolled, entangled, on the grass while girls of a similar age demonstrated the way their shoes lit up in flashing lights when they stomped their heels. The parents stood in closed circles, glancing outward only to reprimand an unruly child before returning their gaze to the center. On first glance it didn’t seem to be the most welcoming environment in the world. Which, Alice could admit, was a little disappointing.
Alice draped an arm around Zoe’s shoulder. “Everything is a little scary on your first day. But once you get to know everyone, it will be great.”
Inside the gates, signage directed them to classroom 1B, which was across the courtyard at the top of a flight of stairs. By the door, a woman attempted to pry a sandy-haired boy off his mother’s leg.
“Excuse me?” she said to the woman. “Is this classroom one-B?”
“It is,” the woman said. She spoke to Alice but her eyes were on the little boy.
“I’m Alice Stanhope,” she said. “This is Zoe.”
“I’m Mrs. Dawson,” the woman replied. She finally succeeded in separating the boy from his mother, and he promptly began to wail. “Head on inside and I’ll be there in a minute. Come on, now, Oscar—”
Alice regarded the woman, a little sadly. She was probably in her late fifties, with a helmet of brown hair and a stern jaw—the kind of woman, Alice thought, who prided herself on never wearing makeup and always telling people the truth, even when it hurt their feelings. In her imagination, she’d pictured a lively, smiling teacher—mid to late twenties—who’d greet Zoe (and maybe even Alice?) with a hug before leading her into the classroom by the hand.
“Go on, moms,” she’d say. “Don’t cry. We’ll be fine, won’t we kids?”
And they’d all shout “Yes!” and then the moms would go for coffee together and become firm friends.
Instead Alice led Zoe into the classroom. A few kids ran in wild circles around the tiny chairs and tables. One red-haired girl sat at a table, crying into her forearms. “Mom?” Zoe said. “My stomach hurts.”
Mrs. Dawson bustled in, pulling the sandy-haired little boy by the arm. “Now then,” she said to Alice. “Sorry about that.”
“Zoe’s not feeling well,” Alice said. “Sore tummy.”
Mrs. Dawson looked down at Zoe. “Are you nervous, Zoe?”
Zoe continued to look around the room, wide-eyed.
“I think everyone is a little nervous on the first day,” Mrs. Dawson said, looking back at Alice. “Including Mom?” She lowered her voice. “Sometimes we can pass our nerves on to the little ones without meaning to. It’s probably best that you leave us to it, Mrs. Stanhope.”
Alice hated it when people called her Mrs. Stanhope. But she fought the urge to correct her and instead looked at Zoe, who was white as a sheet.
“Would it be all right if I stayed awhile? I think Zoe would feel better if—”
“We have a no-parent policy in the classroom, Mrs. Stanhope. It’s really best for everyone. I promise, she’ll be all right.”
“Oh,” Alice said. A no-parent policy. No matter how ridiculous that sounded—for a kindergarten class!—Alice was, first and foremost, a rule follower. It was one of the things she loathed most about herself.
She kneeled down beside Zoe. “I’ll be right here at the end of the day. You’ll be okay, right hon?”
“Yes,” Zoe whispered.
Mrs. Dawson was standing over her, as though ready to strong-arm her out the door. Zoe looked on the verge of tears.
“I just—”
“She’ll be fine, Mrs. Stanhope,” Mrs. Dawson said. “We know what we’re doing.”
And yet, Alice found herself reluctant to leave.
All mothers found it difficult when their children started school, Alice told herself. That was all it was. She just needed to keep her mind busy until three thirty that afternoon, when Zoe would reassure her that it had been the greatest day of her life. And with that, Alice summoned all of her strength and walked out of the school grounds and back to her apartment, where she got into her car and drove to Mrs. Stephens’s house. Mrs. Stephens had a doctor’s appointment that morning. Alice drove her there and while she was waiting, she checked her messages. Her phone had been on silent so it didn’t ring in the waiting room.
Eighteen missed calls.
She picked it up and listened to her voice mail. “Alice, it’s Angela Dawson here. Please give me a call at 650-555-4102 as soon as you get this message. Zoe’s been taken to the hospital.”
Alice didn’t remember how she’d got to the hospital, whether she’d driven Mrs. Stephens home first or if she’d just run out of the waiting room. What she did remember was the bizarre report when she got there.
“The tests were all clear.” The doctor smiled at Alice.
“But … Zoe’s teacher said Zoe was having chest pains,” Alice said. “She hyperventilated. She couldn’t breathe.”
“We tested her for several things and everything came back clean. This is good news, Mrs. Stanhope.”
“But … her teacher called an ambulance! It was very dramatic.”
“In any case, I’m just glad she’s feeling better now.” The doctor closed the manila folder in front of him, then lifted it and tapped the edge against the desk. Alice’s cue to leave.
Alice leaned back in her chair, her stance saying I’m not going anywhere.
“I’m not trying to downplay it, Mrs. Stanhope.” He gave her a patronizing smile. “What happened to Zoe must have been very scary.”
“It was. And I’m not leaving until I find out why it happened.” Alice meant it. Mrs. Dawson had successfully bulldozed her out of Zoe’s classroom when Alice’s instincts had been telling her to stay. She wasn’t going to ignore her instincts again when it came to Zoe.
The doctor’s smile faded. “Look, sometimes these things just happen. We never know why. The good news is that Zoe isn’t suffering from asthma, her heart and chest look fine, her blood pressure is good. Your daughter is perfectly healthy.”
So Zoe went back to school a week later. And, despite Mrs. Dawson’s no-parent policy, Alice had brought a chair and sat at the back of the room. If her daughter was going to have another attack of whatev
er it was, she was going to be there. But Zoe was fine. She followed instructions—sat on the mat for story time, did her cutting and pasting as she was supposed to. She was shier in this environment, not as likely to put up her hand or volunteer to help the teacher as Alice expected, but she was coping quite well. So the following week Alice decided to leave her to it.
Alice’s phone was already ringing by the time she got to the car.
“Mrs. Stanhope, can you please come back? Zoe’s hyperventilating again.”
Back at the hospital, the doctor told Alice she had a perfectly healthy five-year-old girl. Which, of course, was positively unacceptable. “So you’re telling me you have no idea what is wrong with my daughter?”
“Physically speaking, nothing is wrong with her—”
“But this is the second time she’s had an attack,” Alice interrupted. “I can’t keep spending my days wondering if I’m going to get a phone call telling me that my daughter can’t breathe.”
Any form of cool that Alice had hoped to exhibit was gone. Her voice was full of emotion and, unfortunately, tears.
“Has Zoe been under any stress lately?”
“Stress?” Alice exploded. “She’s five!”
“Any changes in the home? A divorce, a death?”
“No divorce. My great-grandmother died when she was two, I doubt she’d remember it.” These questions didn’t make any sense to Alice. What did any of this have to do with Zoe hyperventilating? “Please. Please. Help her.”
The doctor sat forward. His movements were slow and deliberate, even the pushing of his glasses back against his face. It rankled Alice. Why was he so calm? Why was no one worried?
“Actually Alice, the clinical diagnosis of Zoe is likely to be anxiety.”
Relief nearly bowled Alice over. “Anxiety?”
Anxiety was all right, wasn’t it? Didn’t Alice get anxious all the time? When she wasn’t sure if she’d get the bills paid, when she thought she’d left the oven on after leaving for work?
“I think it’s the most logical conclusion,” the doctor said.
“But the hyperventilating—”
“A panic attack, most likely.”
Alice stared at the doctor. A panic attack? She’d never had a panic attack over the bills.
“But … Zoe’s happy. I mean, she was until she started school.”
“Typically social anxiety does have a sudden onset. Many people report happy toddlers suddenly changing in childhood. Starting school is a common time for symptoms to start.”
“Social anxiety?”
“It’s similar to generalized anxiety disorder, but is characterized by excessive fears being linked to social situations—school, church, outdoor events, large spaces, that kind of thing.”
“Is this my fault?” Alice asked. “For not taking her out more when she was younger?”
“We believe people develop social anxiety regardless of how they are socialized.”
“Oh.” Alice struggled to take it in. “So … how long will it last?”
“We don’t know. If symptoms do continue, people see the best results with a combination of medication—usually SSRIs and/or benzodiazepines—and psychotherapy such as cognitive behavioral therapy. Alice?”
The doctor looked at her, standing now. She hadn’t even felt herself get out of her seat.
“Benzodiazepines? Like Xanax? For my five-year-old?”
“We’re getting ahead of ourselves. But they can be helpful. Depending on the severity of Zoe’s anxiety. For some people this is a lifelong condition that needs to be managed.”
Alice sat back down. Okay. They were getting ahead of themselves. That was what she wanted to hear. In a minute the doctor would tell her that drugs and therapy were only required in a small percentage of cases—that in most cases kids would snap out of it in a couple of weeks. Zoe would definitely snap out of it. Alice waited for him to say that.
He didn’t.
19
Whoever was knocking on the door would have to go away.
In her apartment, with Kenny the cat on her lap, Zoe was trying to read The Outsiders. She had never been so grateful for locks. She wanted to stay behind the locked door and never go back to school again. Maybe she wouldn’t go back for a few days. How could she, after the way Emily had looked at her? After the way she’d run out of there like a crazy woman?
She tried to concentrate on the words of her book, but her mind kept wandering to the Klonopin in the bathroom cabinet. How easy it would be to take one, to feel the delicious ooze of tension fading from her body. Too easy. After all, you didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to get why so many people with social anxiety disorder became addicts. Alcohol, drugs, whatever it was—the option of escape was just too irresistible. It was why Zoe refused when Emily suggested they sneak a couple of glasses of her mom’s wine. It was why she rarely took Klonopin. Life was hard enough for her. She didn’t want to make it harder.
When she was a kid, Zoe used to hide in her mom’s bed under the covers when she was feeling anxious. Sometimes her mom would come under too, for what felt like days. She’d bring popcorn or apples or toast. Sometimes they ate dinner in there. “Going to Comfytown,” they called it. Zoe never felt more cozy and safe than when she was in Comfytown.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t always stay in Comfytown. But when she did have to venture out into the big wide world, her mom still helped her to hide. Zoe remembered the time when she was six and her class performed “Old MacDonald Had a Farm” in front of the whole school. Her mom drove all the way to San Francisco to procure a two-man horse costume so Zoe could be onstage alongside her classmates and never have to be seen. Even now she sometimes, affectionately, called Zoe “my little horse’s ass.”
Zoe remembered the time she was ten, at school sports day, when she had a panic attack as she approached the starting line. Her mom burst from her seat in the grandstand. “What’s wrong with her?” people were saying. Even in her stupor, Zoe was dying at being so cruelly exposed—while the entire school and their parents watched. She’s having a panic attack, people would whisper. She has anxiety. The shame of such a humiliating defect.
“Asthma,” her mom had said without missing a beat. “I forgot her Ventolin. I’d better take her home.”
Zoe had lost count of the times her mom had said she had laryngitis (when she became dumbstruck in public) or was unwell (when she couldn’t make it to an event at the last minute). If she were here now, Zoe knew, she’d make her feel better somehow. She’d put on a movie or some jolly music. Tell her a story about a time she’d humiliated herself a lot worse and get Zoe laughing. Maybe they’d even go to Comfytown. She was, Zoe realized, her only true friend in the world. The one who would never turn her back on her.
Kenny was purring now. If only she could share his bliss.
Someone was banging on the door again, more insistent now. Zoe lifted Kenny and let him nuzzle against her neck. She shrank back into the cushions. “Go away,” she whispered.
20
Sonja had knocked twice on Alice Stanhope’s door when the old lady on the folding chair finally piped up.
“Alice isn’t home.”
“I know.” Sonja looked at her. “Actually, I was looking for her daughter.”
“She came tearing up the stairs half an hour ago. Nearly knocked me off my chair.”
So she was home, Sonja thought. She knocked on the door again.
“Oh, she won’t answer it,” the lady said. “Zoe never answers the door.”
Sonja turned. “She doesn’t?”
“Nope. She’s agoraphobic or something.”
“But … wasn’t she was just outside? If you saw her run in.”
The old lady squinted. “Okay, maybe not agoraphobic. But she’s scared of people. People-phobic.”
Sonja turned away from the door. “What makes you say that?”
“Like I said, she doesn’t answer the door. If anyone talks to her she turns beet
red and mutters something unintelligible. She doesn’t have any friends. She and her mother are rather strange. A pair of hermits, those two.”
Curious. And it didn’t sound at all like the girl was fit to be home alone.
“Do you know them very well?” Sonja asked.
“As well as you know anyone these days. In my day people used to keep their elderly neighbors company. Not anymore.”
Sonja turned back to the door, knocked again, harder this time. She listened at the door and thought she heard a faint shuffle. The old lady was right. Zoe was there.
“Zoe, it’s Sonja, your mother’s social worker. I’d like to talk to you. Can you come to the door, please?”
She put her ear to the door again, but this time there was silence. When she turned, the old lady was smiling a closed-mouth smile, eyebrows high in her hairline. “Told ya.”
Just as Sonja was trying to figure out what to do, the door handle turned and the door opened a few inches.
“Hello,” Sonja said, startled. “Are you … Zoe?”
“Yes,” she said finally, as though she herself wasn’t certain. Through the crack between the door and the frame, she looked younger than Sonja had expected. For some reason, perhaps the fact that she was happy to stay home alone, Sonja imagined her to be tall. Plucky. Full of adolescent attitude. But this girl was small. Timid-looking. She stared at the floor—not meeting her eyes at all.
Sonja fished a business card from her pocket. “My name’s Sonja. I’m your mom’s social worker.” As she spoke Sonja heard the note of confidence in her voice that was absent in all but her professional life. She was glad that at least in some areas of her life she was in control.
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