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“But it’s my job to worry,” I said.

He turned away from the television and glared at me. “About who?”Advertisement

“Well,” I said in a tender voice. “About you, bud.”

He muttered something else and turned back to the TV screen.

I had heard what he said. And even though I did not want him to repeat it, I couldn’t help myself.

“What did you say, Rob?”

And then he repeated it without difficulty or shame.

“You’re not my father so don’t boss me around.”

“What are you . . . talking about?”

“I said”—and now he spoke very clearly, his back still to me—“you’re not my father, Bret.”

I was so weakened by this admission—something resentful that had been building up for a long time—and the entire day leading up to it that I was rendered silent. I was exhausted. I carefully stood up from the bed when Jayne entered the room and Sarah shouted out “Mommy!” and instead of saying, I am your father, Robby, and I always have been and I always will be I simply floated out of his realm, letting their mother replace me.

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I walked down the hallway, the wall sconces flickering as I passed, and went into the master bedroom, closing the door behind me, and then I leaned against it, and for one brief, awful moment I had no idea who I was or where I was living or how I had ended up on Elsinore Lane, and I checked my jacket pocket for the Xanax that was always there and swallowed two, and then, very carefully and with great purpose, began undressing. I pulled a robe over the boxer shorts and T-shirt I was wearing and then I stepped into my bathroom and closed the door and started to weep about what Robby had said to me. After about thirty minutes passed and I came out of the bathroom, I simply said to Jayne, who was standing in front of a full-length mirror inspecting her thighs (cellulite paranoia), “I’m sleeping in here tonight.” She made no response. Rosa had already folded down the sheets and Jayne, wearing a T-shirt and white panties, slipped into bed and hid herself under the covers. I stood in the middle of the vast room, letting the Xanax wash through my system until I felt calm enough to say, “I want Sarah to get rid of that thing.”

Jayne reached for a script that lay on the nightstand and ignored me.

“I want her to get rid of that doll.”

“What?” she asked irritably. “What are you talking about now?”

“There’s something . . . unwholesome about that thing,” I said.

“What are you overreacting to now?” She flipped the script open and stared at it intently. It occurred to me that I couldn’t remember what day she was leaving for Toronto this week.

“She thinks it’s real or something.” My slacks were lying on my side of the bed, and I moved toward them and picked them up and draped them delicately on a wooden hanger—wanting Jayne to notice how careful and deliberate my movements were.

“Sarah’s fine” was all Jayne said when I walked out of the closet.

“But we were told that she doesn’t hold hands with the other kids at school.”

Her jaw tightened.

“I think she needs to be . . . tested again.” I paused. “I think we need to accept that.”

“Why? Just because she has good taste? Because she’s not the kind of kid who cares about winning Miss Popularity? Because judging by what a mistake it was sending the kids to that horrible school—well, good for her, and by the way . . .”—and now Jayne looked up from the script (its title was Fatal Rush)—“why are you suddenly so concerned?”

I realized that what the teachers had told Jayne that night had offended her deeply, beyond what I had even imagined. Either Jayne did not want to believe the truth about her children—that there were problems not even the meds could alter—or she could not accept that they were damaged in some way related to her behavior and the stress in the household. I wanted to connect with Jayne, but really, all I could think about were the awful drawings Sarah had made of the black doll swooping down on the house, and the things that I knew it was capable of.

“Well, it’s a peer culture, Jayne,” I said as gently as possible. “And that’s—”

“She’s just at an awkward age,” Jayne said, her eyes refocused on the script. And then: “She was tested again, and she attended group therapy for three months and the new meds seem to be working and the speech disability has minimized itself—in case you haven’t noticed.” Jayne turned a page in the script, but I could tell she wasn’t reading it. pqdm.com