Lunar Park - Bret Easton Ellis [92]
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.
“But you heard what the teachers were telling us.” I finally sat down on the bed. “They said she doesn’t know where her personal space ends and someone else’s begins and she can’t read facial expressions, and she’s nonresponsive when people are talking directly to her—”
“The ADD was ruled out, Bret,” Jayne said with barely contained fury.
“—and I mean, my God, didn’t you hear all that shit tonight?”
“You’re not her parent,” Jayne said. “I don’t care if she calls you ‘Daddy,’ but you’re not her parent.”
“But I did hear a teacher tonight tell you that your daughter stands too close to people and talks too loudly and she’s unable to put her thoughts into actions and—”
“What are you doing?” Jayne asked. “What in the hell are you doing right now?”
“I’m concerned about her, Jayne—”
“No, no, no, there’s something else.”
“She thinks her doll is alive,” I blurted out.
“She’s six years old, Bret. She’s six. Wrap your head around that. She’s six.” Jayne’s face was flushed, and she practically spat this out at me.
“And let’s not even get into Robby,” I said. My hands were in the air, signifying something. “We were told he walks around like an amnesiac. That was the word they used tonight, Jayne. Amnesiac.”
“I’m taking them out of that school,” Jayne said, placing the script on the nightstand. “And let’s just stick to your ranting about Sarah. You have thirty seconds, and then I’m turning out the lights. You can either stay or go.” The corners of her