Olivia had started running again, too, even before getting the jogging stroller. She loved finding new trails at every turn, such a different feeling than running in Central Park where she knew every path by heart. But it hadn’t yet seemed to make a difference with the baby weight.
“It’s only been a few months!” Spencer would say when Olivia complained about her body. “I don’t even notice it,” he’d insist.
That is true, Olivia thought. Spencer didn’t seem to notice her body anymore. Even when he finally returned home that morning and she jumped him, covering him with kisses and thanking him for the painting, he laughed and swatted her off.
“I’m so sweaty, Olivia. Stop, I’m gross.”
The rejection stung, and the sting registered on her face. He noticed, placed a kiss on her forehead, and pulled back to look at her, his blue eyes were sparkling like those of an expectant child.
“Do you love it? Are you surprised?”
She did love it, more for the effort than the aesthetic. She was also thinking that the old Spencer wouldn’t have cared how sweaty he was if sex was on the table. He would have jumped her right back. She was thinking about that again now, while tossing and turning.
She was well aware that she and Spencer had only had sex once since Lily was born. It had been too early and way too painful, and when she couldn’t finish, he was very understanding. She knew that her body was healed by now. She had reached her hand inside after a somewhat erotic part of the novel she’d been reading had stirred her. Everything was in working order internally, but she didn’t feel attractive. Being a new parent was taking its toll on her libido and, surprisingly, Spencer’s as well.
It’s probably normal, she thought. It would be a great post for one of those parenting groups she was on, but she worried hearing other mothers respond that their husbands were all over them, and vice versa, would make her feel worse.
Olivia found online forums addictive. She was still a member of an Upper East Side group from her brief mommy stint in the city and loved cruising through that one, too. It made her laugh now to compare the different tones of the two communities. The Hudson Valley feed was filled with ways to do it yourself, while the Upper East Siders were busy sharing referrals on who best to do it. Recurring themes on the UES group involved noise complaints from downstairs neighbors, nannies playing Candy Crush on their phones while their charges picked up syringes in the sandbox, and which sends the right message to a co-op board—a Kelly bag or a Balenciaga? The suburban ladies were more interested in debating the best age to introduce lacrosse, the scourge of the drop-off line at school, and whether the coveted Williams Sonoma redwood chicken coop delivers the most cluck for their buck.
Raising chickens aside, Olivia was surprised to find herself relating more closely to the Hudson Valley group than to the group based in the city where she had grown up. Having Lily really had her questioning the value of raising a child in Manhattan. If they had stayed, she was sure that Lily would be able to tell the difference between a Monet and a Manet by the time she was five, but she sometimes wondered if the accoutrements of the city were more for the benefit of the parents than for the betterment of the kids. She wondered if she would ever be sure. The feeling that the grass is always greener seemed to be a commonality among mothers everywhere.
But she knew herself too well. Her newfound zeal for the country was more likely due to her natural inclination to make a case for her choices. In the end, there were more similarities between any of these groups than there were differences.
Most groups boast ongoing threads recommending what books to read, which television shows to binge-watch, and which gastronomical treasures are must-haves from the shelves of Trader Joe’s. Much time is spent comparing strollers, private and public schools, and imperfect spouses, and all seem to share a great affinity for coconut oil, along with an abundance of suggested and sometimes sinful uses for it.
The groups felt oddly supportive for a sea of strangers. Olivia was more a liker than a poster, benefiting from the group’s perspective on a plethora of things from baby names to finding a new doctor to what is this weird rash on my arm. She knew, even right now, if she were to write on either site, “Help! I can’t sleep!” sympathy and remedies from A to Zzzzzzz would pour in. There was a strength-in-numbers effect that provided real emotional support. She was new to Hudson Valley but had noticed that the women on the Upper East Side were especially game to tackle any problem. Once a woman posted a photo of her daughter’s lost lovey, dropped somewhere between the Ninety-Sixth Street playground and their Sixty-Sixth Street home. It felt as if the whole of the Upper East Side banded together; they had it back by bedtime.
She did miss the level of adult interaction she’d had in the city, precipitated by walking everywhere. Getting in and out of your car all day doesn’t allow for much communication. Being a part of this group, and a smaller one that she just joined, Valley Girls, helped give her the illusion of local friendships. Parenting did feel lonelier to her here. She opened up the Hudson Valley Ladies’ Bulletin Board on her phone to combat it. There seemed to be a big hoopla over whether or not a fourteen-year-old girl should use tampons. People were really giving it to the poor mom who asked the question, except for the one lady who consistently responded to everything with: Follow your mom gut! You’re a great mom! It was all quite entertaining. She loved the voyeuristic aspect—the brief peek into other women’s lives and concerns.
When there was a fight or a disagreement about ideas, as there was today with the tampon post, it was like watching a car crash on the side of the highway. Everyone slowed down to take a look or to comment. There was no way the majority of these women would say in person what they wrote online. She’d bet the most nail-bitten fingers typed the most venomous comments.
Olivia reminded herself to think twice before posting anything. The tampon post comments were relentless:
Teach your daughter to choose what she does with her own body starting now.
Is it your vagina or your daughter’s?
Please tell me you’re not worried about penetration. Tampons do not affect virginity. Sex does.
My mother taught me tampons were evil. I still can’t look at them. Don’t be like my mother.
And then the bohemian comment from a woman who made Olivia chuckle just last week when she asked: “Anyone know where to buy hydroponic, vertically farmed celery?” This time she wrote:
Don’t let her plug her delicate organ with bleached-out fibers of oppression.
Olivia laughed out loud, which stirred Spencer.
“Olivia, what are you doing? Turn off your phone.”
“I’m sorry. I was just trying to make my eyes tired.”
“Well, the phone does the opposite. I have an early meeting with my dad tomorrow to discuss transitioning me to CEO. Come on.”
Spencer was always threatening a big meeting with his father to discuss his becoming CEO. In Olivia’s opinion, his father’s retirement was anything but imminent. But still, out of respect, she knew she should turn off her phone and try to sleep. She scrolled down a little farther.
Anonymous: I just moved here from the city with hopes of starting over after an affair that my husband knows nothing about. The man I was having the affair with followed me here and keeps showing up at my door. Today I pretended I wasn’t home. He was banging so hard it scared me. I’ve told him I want to end things, but he won’t have it. I know it’s wrong to cheat. That’s why I want to break it off and start fresh. Please only comment with constructive advice.
“Wow,” Olivia said.
“What are you reading?” He flipped over toward her.
“That local bulletin board where I got the jogging stroller.”
“Let me guess. Is it about the KonMari method? Did someone throw out their husband because he wasn’t sparking joy?”
Olivia rolled her eyes as he continu
ed what felt like his first foray into dad jokes.
“Did a shipment of cauliflower gnocchi arrive at Trader Joe’s? Should I warm up the car?”
He propped himself up on the pillow thinking he was quite funny. Olivia defended her enthusiastic “Wow.”
“Actually, it’s pretty scandalous stuff.”
“I’m sure,” he grunted.
“It is! This woman just moved here to get away from a bad affair, and the guy followed her. Page Six has nothing on this town!”
Spencer sat up and flicked on the light.
“Let me see that.” He grabbed her phone and read. He seemed to read it three times. Olivia noticed.
“One hundred sixty-one comments. I told you, it’s pretty scandalous,” she said victoriously.
“Well, now that you woke me, I have to go to the bathroom.” He held his stomach, indicating it may be a while.
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m taking your bulletin board for reading material.”
“Ha! I told you, I see a Real Housewives of Hudson Valley spin-off!” she yelled out, to no reply. She waited to see if Spencer was OK, but eventually she fell asleep. In the morning, he was already gone.
CHAPTER 8
Eliza
Eliza set her alarm for 6:00 a.m. She had much to prepare for the day’s guests. She loved a full house, especially when it included the twins’ friends. She had missed the comings and goings of their posse since they’d been in college—the cheerful shouting, the stomping around overhead, and the whirlwind left in their wake. In contrast to her own childhood home, Eliza always tried to make hers the house that the kids flocked to. She mostly accomplished this with food.
Eliza’s Jewish grandmother was a first-generation American, and though not a particularly religious woman, she was deeply connected to her Judaism through food. The kitchen was her temple. And while Eliza’s own mother rebelled against it, Eliza was quite happy to become a member of that congregation.
Eliza’s grandma, or Bubbie as she affectionately called her, would spend hours in the kitchen replicating the recipes for stuffed cabbage or kreplach or kugel that had been passed down by her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother before her. While Eliza’s mother had no interest in cooking, Eliza, as her Bubbie would say, took to the kitchen like nobody’s business. Together the two of them formed a bond linking generations of Jews, not through the Talmud but through brisket. It bothered Eliza’s mother to no end, the way it does when you introduce two of your friends and suddenly they’re meeting for coffee without you.
Eliza headed to the kitchen to preheat the oven, then made a beeline for her desk. By the time they were all done catching up the night before, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. It was wonderful to have her children home. Being a whole family again made her feel more like a whole person again. The goings-on of the bulletin board seemed trivial in comparison. But this morning, not so much. As she turned on her computer, she crossed her fingers, superstitiously hoping her scandalous post had been a success.
One hundred eighty-five comments—wow! she thought. That is an epic thread—take that, Valley Girls! We’re not going anywhere! She was even happier to see that the post about tampons was gaining traction as well. It felt as if more people were suddenly spending time on the bulletin board. She did a little cross-referencing of the comment sections on both sites, hers and Valley Girls, to see if any names popped out on both—and they did. The whole thing thrilled her, to the point of embarrassment.
She discarded a request from a mother selling essential oils and another starting the hundredth conversation on the HPV vaccine and posted an announcement sent to her by the local library:
Circle Time for new moms begins this Friday at 11:00.
She had so much to do, but she gave herself a few minutes to read more comments and enjoy the sensation her made-up post had sparked. She imagined other women doing the same—carving out time from their busy lives to scroll. It was gripping stuff. She thought about the old days when the only place to ask anonymous advice was a column in the newspaper. By the time the answer was printed she could only imagine the person asking it had moved on to their next problem. This forum was much more satisfying.
Look internally to why you cheated before moving on. If you don’t fix that, it will happen again.
Are we supposed to feel sorry for you? You made your bed, literally!
I don’t think monogamy is natural.
Well kindly stay away from my man!
Mine too! LOL!
It’s just a matter of time until your husband finds out. I think you should tell him before this crazy guy you got involved with does.
This! Plus marriage counseling.
I agree, too. Assuming you moved here to save your marriage. Tell him now!
Do you have children?
I feel for you. This is very stressful.
You feel for her? Anonymous did this to herself. I feel for the other woman.
You’re assuming there is another woman. That’s what’s wrong with anonymous posts. She can’t respond, and we only know half a story.
Yes, her half. Anonymous is clearly selfish. Cheaters always are.
Give her a break. Every life has secrets. Every marriage certainly does. It’s just a matter of whether you can live with them or not.
That last comment really struck a chord. As much as she had loved being with her family last night, she had felt like a fraud. Kevin copped to having anxiety about pledging, Kayla about feeling lonely sometimes. Even Luke spoke about missing them more than he’d imagined. Why was she so dead-set on keeping her secret from her family? Maybe it was time to tell Luke, to tell the kids. But even thinking about that conversation was too much for her. As she always did, she buried her feelings and kept scrolling.
The thing that struck her most about the words the women wrote was just that—they were just words. Their tone was up to the reader to determine, and judgment was based on the content alone. No “Never trust a woman in pearls” or “That skinny bitch has no idea what she’s talking about.” Faceless words.
She further considered how the anonymous posts made it hard to have any back-and-forth. She wondered if she should post a follow-up. She couldn’t stop reading the comments and couldn’t believe how open the women were being. If company wasn’t coming, she would have considered making popcorn and scrolling to her heart’s content. She looked at the time. Just five more minutes, she promised herself.
Eliza used to love this time of day—the quiet that only existed in the early morning before the noise of alarms and car pools and phones ringing off the hook. When the twins were home, she would often set her alarm for 6:00 a.m., an hour before she needed to wake them, just to have some time for herself. She hadn’t done this in months. Lately she was eager to make her day shorter, sleeping in as long as her perimenopausal clock would allow. But back then, like today, she would relax at her desk with a cup of coffee and alternate between social media, the news, and watching the birds out the window. She would sit there until 6:45, when the neighbor’s sprinklers rose from the ground like a maestro’s baton, prompting her to rise from her chair. She looked at the clock again—6:45. No whoosh-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-whoosh of the sprinkler. She guessed the new neighbor had reset it. As she stood up, the next chapter of the drama played out right before her eyes.
Ashley Smith left her house, closing the door behind her. She looked down at her phone before panning the street with her eyes. There, across and to the left behind the Williamses’ old oak tree, stood Not-Mr.-Smith. Ashley paused to do a few stretches, signaling with her body for him to run left. He got it and ran that way. Eliza could still see him one house up the street, retying a tied shoe, trying to look natural. Now she was even more convinced that there was some truth to her made-up post. Ashley turned back toward her own house and studied its windows. Eliza assumed that she was double-checking to see if her
husband was watching and stepped back from the window. She was well aware that one glance her way could do her in.
Ashley jogged off as if she was acting as opposed to really running. Eliza squinted through the window carefully as they stopped in their tracks. The man showed her his phone. She threw her hands in the air. He shook his head in disbelief. Eliza played out the words in her head.
“Is this about us? I know this is us!”
“I don’t even know what this is. You’re so paranoid.”
She took the phone from him to read it more carefully. She looked confused. She put her hand to her head in worry.
“I swear I didn’t write this,” Eliza imagined her saying.
He didn’t seem to believe her. How could he? It was spot-on. He looked like he wanted to believe her as he wiped what Eliza imagined to be a tear from Ashley’s eye. They hugged briefly and ran off.
Eliza sat down at her computer. She was shaking. She wasn’t sure if it was due to exhilaration or fear of getting caught. The whole episode filled her with an excitement she hadn’t felt since shoplifting in middle school, that thrill of stepping out of the Hudson Valley Mall with a strawberry Bonne Bell Lip Smacker tucked into her training bra. Either way she knew that she had no business messing in people’s lives like that. She vowed never to do it again.
CHAPTER 9
Eliza Starts a Rumor Page 4