The Good Neighbor

by A. J. Banner

  Eris returned with two wineglasses for us. She sat in a high-backed Victorian armchair. “Johnny is a dermatologist, and Sarah writes children’s books. Kadin is an investment manager, and Theresa is in restoration. Did I miss anyone?”

  “Restoration?” Johnny said, looking at Theresa. “What’s your specialty?”

  Theresa crossed and uncrossed her shapely legs. “Fine arts. I’m restoring a Turkish decanter. The spout broke off. Now it’s almost as good as new. You can’t see the seams.”

  Johnny smiled appreciatively. “You perform magic.”

  She laughed. “We can’t fix everything.”

  “Who can? It’s hard when we’re expected to perform miracles.” Johnny and Theresa traded a look, some unspoken message passing between them.

  “Readers expect perfection, as well,” I said.

  “You’re writing a book, then?” Kadin said with interest.

  “I’m supposed to be writing, yes, but it’s a little difficult right now—”

  “Did you always know?” Theresa cut in. “That you wanted to be a writer, I mean? Some people start writing when they’re older, after they retire or raise their kids.”

  “I loved writing as a child, yes,” I said. “But I didn’t return to it until much later. I got a degree in psychology, thought I would go into research, but I became a reporter for the campus newspaper. I interviewed a cartoonist—and he reminded me of how much I’d loved writing when I was young.”

  “So you returned to it,” Theresa said, smiling warmly. “How wonderful.”

  “Our son likes to write,” Kadin said.

  “Kadin Junior,” Theresa said. “He just turned eight. He plays and runs like other kids, but the writing thing . . . We can’t stop him. He uses his little computer, taps away—”

  “He’ll be a famous author someday,” Kadin said, as if such a thing were easy to do. “He’s got the keyboard fingers.”

  “And white patches on his arms,” Theresa said, looking at Johnny. Here it came, the casting of a line to reel in free medical advice. “Any idea what that might be?”

  Only I could detect the tightening of Johnny’s fingers on the wineglass. “Hard to say without seeing him,” he said. “Could be eczema or a superficial yeast infection.”

  “A yeast infection!” Kadin said. “I thought only women got yeast infections.”

  Theresa gave him a scolding look. “Kadin.”

  “Sorry. Couldn’t help it.”

  “Could be psoriasis, vitiligo . . . ,” Johnny went on.

  “You mean what Michael Jackson had?” Kadin said.

  “It’s uncommon,” Johnny said. “I would have to see your son. We can try to fit you in this week.”

  “He’s the best,” Eris cut in. “A miracle worker.”

  Johnny blushed. “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “He cured me.” Eris pointed to her cheek.

  Theresa leaned in and squinted at Eris’s cheek. “Cured you of what?”

  “Exactly. It’s gone,” Eris said triumphantly.

  Theresa sat back. “What was it? A minuscule pimple?”

  “Melanoma,” she said.

  I remained quiet, a bit shell-shocked. Johnny had not told me that he already knew Eris, as well. I thought he’d met her through Maude.

  Theresa gasped. “You had skin cancer?”

  Eris touched her nose lightly. “Also here. My internist, who shall not be named, gave me a death sentence. He said I had six months to live.”

  “Six months?” Theresa’s voice rose. “I had no idea.”

  Eris patted her arm. “Now you know. Dr. McDonald cured me. So far, no recurrence. We’ve had a couple of follow-ups.”

  Johnny fell silent, looking into his wine. He wouldn’t divulge any privileged information about a patient, even if she revealed the information herself. But he could have told me. I was his wife, after all, and didn’t husbands share secrets with their wives?

  Theresa gave him an open look of admiration. “I’m glad to know a medical magician lives so close.” She leaned forward to put her glass on the table, revealing ample cleavage.

  Johnny smiled. “We can’t fix everyone.”

  “Touché,” Theresa said.

  Tears came to Eris’s eyes. “You gave me a whole new lease on life. The least I could do to return the favor is give you a place to live for as long as you need it.”

  It dawned on me then that Eris was not charging rent for the cottage. She meant to be generous, but I couldn’t help feeling like an outsider, and I didn’t want pity or charity.

  When Eris called us all into the grand dining room for dinner, I barely tasted the spinach lasagna, despite my hunger. I wanted to run back to the cottage and hide. The laughter grated on me, the conversation trivial. Halfway through the meal, the doorbell rang, a melodic ding-dong reverberating through the house.

  Eris dabbed at her mouth with a cloth napkin, slid her chair back, and stood. “Excuse me. I don’t know who that could be this late.”

  Her pumps tapped the floor as she left the room. Everyone fell into uncomfortable silence as her voice drifted in, the rumble of a lower, male voice, then Eris’s surprised laughter. “You’re in luck! She’s here. Come on in.”

  Eris returned to the dining room with a man in tow—bearded and slightly plump, he appeared to be in his thirties, in a yellow button-down shirt and blue jeans. Stitched into the shirt pocket was a badge reading Harborside Florist. He held a crumpled invoice in his hand. He looked a bit bewildered as he took in the dinner party, the well-dressed guests (all except me), the elaborate meal.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he said, clearing his throat. “Delivery for Theresa Minkowski?” He looked at me.

  “Not me,” I said, smiling.

  Theresa put her fork on her plate and looked up at him. “That’s me. I’m Theresa.” She glanced sidelong at Kadin. He betrayed no emotion.

  The deliveryman shifted his gaze to Theresa. “I had the wrong address. Looks like a seven at the end. Should’ve been a one. I drove all around looking for two twenty-seven.”

  “We’re two twenty-one,” Theresa said.

  The man sighed with visible relief. “I’ll be right in with your delivery. I’m running late today. Looks like the order was placed this—”

  “Please do bring them in,” Eris said, sweeping her arms around the room expansively. “We’re all curious.”

  The man returned a minute later carrying a spectacular, living turquoise hydrangea plant in a red ceramic pot. A small envelope was attached to a stick, propped in the soil.

  The man looked around. “Where should I . . . ?”

  “Why not right on the table?” Eris said, and grinned at Theresa. “What’s the special occasion?”

  “I’m not sure,” Theresa said, but she was beaming.

  As the man placed the pot on the table in front of Theresa, she stared at the hydrangea with delight.

  “They’re beautiful,” I said, recalling the whole hedge of hydrangea plants in the backyard on Sitka Lane. Gifts from Johnny.

  He sat motionless now, watching the scene unfold.

  “Thank you very much,” Theresa said to the deliveryman, who stood awkwardly in the arched entryway to the dining room.

  “You’re welcome,” he said, tipping an imaginary hat. “Have a wonderful evening. I apologize for the interruption.” He left in a hurry.

  Eris sat, and we were all silent a moment, admiring the blooms. “Aren’t you going to read the card?” she said.

  Theresa reached for the card. We all watched her intently. She looked at Kadin and smiled. “You shouldn’t have.”

  He grinned, but the grin did not reach his eyes. “They must be from your secret admirer.”

  “I don’t have any secret admirers, except you.” She turned the envelope around in her hands.

  “Of course you do!” Eris said. “Open the card. You don’t have to tell us what it says.”

  “I don’t mind,” Theresa said. She ope
ned the card and read it in silence, then she smiled. “It says, To an incredibly talented woman. A token of my appreciation for you only, and only you.”

  I froze, the words sharp, hanging in my mind like stalactites in an ice cave. Could more than one couple in the world share the same intimate expression? It wasn’t exactly the same. But what were the chances? Theresa had received a hydrangea, Johnny’s first present to me.

  A clear truth struck me then. None of this was meant to happen here, at Eris’s house. The plant was meant to go to Theresa, while her husband was away. I looked around at each person, seeking a sign that anyone else was thinking what I was thinking. They were all smiling. Perhaps I was the only paranoid person in the room. The concussion had done a number on my brain.

  Theresa flung her arms around Kadin’s neck, kissing him on the lips. “Thank you, sweetie!”

  He remained stiff, unyielding. When she let go of him, a shadow of confusion crossed his face, and then he took the card from Theresa and read it to himself, then gave the card back to her. “You’re welcome.”

  “What’s the occasion?” Eris said. “Are you going to spill? Birthday? Anniversary?”

  Theresa looked down at her hands in her lap, and her face turned a deep shade of pink. She looked up at Kadin, and he nodded slightly, as if giving her permission to speak. She smiled shyly at everyone and bit her lip.

  “It’s been a secret the last couple of months, until we could be sure things were going well. And they are, so we can tell you. Kadin and I are expecting our second child in the spring.”

  “What? Congratulations!” Eris exclaimed. She burst up from the table and ran around to hug Theresa and Kadin. He smiled distantly. Congratulations were dispensed all around, and even I got up to hug Theresa and Kadin, although I had only just met them. I was happy for Theresa, happy for her good news, but her pregnancy also accentuated my own emptiness. My throat felt parched, but I kept smiling—what else could I do?

  Johnny smiled in his magnetic way and raised his wineglass. “A toast,” he said grandly. “To romance, new neighbors, and happy family surprises.”

  “A toast,” everyone said and raised their glasses in unison.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  When I arrived at Harriet’s house in the afternoon, the neatness had fallen victim to the whims of a little girl who had spilled juice on the carpet, left a sprinkling of crumbs on the countertop, and pulled picture books off the shelves. Her greasy fingerprints had christened every available surface, including the remote control for the television, doorknobs, and the kitchen table. A dusting of flour on the countertops hinted at a recent baking experiment. Puzzle pieces were scattered on the coffee table, a jungle animal tableau beginning to form from chaos.

  Harriet had left in a hurry, late for her appointment, with vague instructions to let Mia take a nap if she needed one, to give her animal crackers and juice if she got hungry. She sat on the living room carpet, a jumble of crayons laid out on the coffee table, scribbling in a Disney princess coloring book with her tongue protruding from her mouth. Her hair looked more jaggedly cut today, as if a miniature lawnmower had gone berserk on her head.

  I sat on the couch, distracted. When Johnny and I had returned to the cottage the previous night, I’d mentioned the note in the hydrangea, its phrasing similar to the words we had shared for nearly three years. Johnny had denied knowing anything about the flower delivery. Why would he? He’d apologized for not sending me flowers, and in the morning, he’d brought me coffee with plain soy milk. He knew exactly what I liked. Browned toast, never burned. Smooth, creamy peanut butter, no salt added.

  “Look, the queen’s eyes are . . . purple!” Mia was coloring outside the lines, creating new shapes beyond the Disney boundaries.

  “Good for her,” I said.

  Mia dropped the purple crayon, picked up indigo, began coloring in the princess’s gown. “And blue.”

  “You know your colors.”

  “This picture is for my mommy.” Mia ripped the page out of the coloring book and held it up for me to see.

  I smiled sadly. “Beautiful.”

  Mia turned the page to the outlines of happy bunnies and fawns. “This one is for my daddy.”

  “It’s nice that everyone gets a picture.”

  “Nana, too,” Mia said solemnly.

  “Nana, too.” Monique survived in the flourish of Mia’s arm as she reached for a green crayon to color the trees. She drew a little heart and a few squiggles above the forest. “And one for you.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly.

  She pointed to the squiggles. “It says ‘I love you.’”

  “I love you, too, sweetie.”

  She grinned at me, then flipped the page again. “One for my teacher.”

  “You can’t forget your teacher!” With a sting of tears in my eyes, I got up and organized the books on the shelves, straightening up. Harriet’s room, right across from Mia’s, was still tidy—frilly rose bedspread, pink curtains, even a dressing table with a rose carving on the wood above the mirror.

  In the guest room across the hall, a single bed was pushed up against the wall, a sewing table and machine in the opposite corner, fabric and patterns piled on a chair next to a desk and a filing cabinet. I checked back on Mia again. She was still coloring, so I returned to the guest room, drawn by the stack of papers, sympathy cards, and files on the desk. Aware of my nosiness, and touched by guilt, I nevertheless looked through the cards from doctors, teachers, Harriet’s old friends, her family on the East Coast. A manila folder caught my eye. It was labeled “Mia.” Inside were copies of Mia’s medical records, and beneath the medical records, a copy of her birth certificate. Mia had weighed seven pounds, one ounce. She had been born at 2:35 a.m. at Cove Hospital on February 13. Her mother was Monique Beaumont, but no father was listed. Not even a blank line for the father’s name.

  Nothing at all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  On the drive back to Shadow Bluff Lane, I found myself making a detour, turning into Eris’s driveway. I tried to process what I had just learned about Mia. I’d assumed Chad was her biological father, but what if my assumption had been wrong? Monique had mentioned a quick wedding four years ago, which meant Mia might have already been born when Monique and Chad had tied the knot. In any case, Mia’s parentage was nobody’s business.

  When Harriet had returned home, she’d asked me to take Mia for the night the following weekend. She had to return to the hospital for more extensive tests. She’d looked drawn and tired, like a walking wisp.

  I had agreed. But we didn’t own any toys or books, and there was no place for Mia to sleep in the cottage, so I’d called Eris to ask if we could borrow an extra bed, and now, when I approached the newly painted porch, I found Todd Severson working on the railing, hammer in hand. His dark hair, the angles of his face, seemed to absorb the sunlight.

  “Go on, she’s upstairs exercising,” he said. He gave me a long, penetrating look.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Maybe I shouldn’t disturb her?”

  He sat back on his heels. “You gonna carry the bed yourself?”

  My cheeks flushed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “It’s heavy. She said I should help you out.”

  “I appreciate that. I wanted to ask you what you meant—”

  “About what?”

  “You were about to tell me something before.”

  “Nope. Don’t remember that.” He returned to hammering again.

  Fine, then. Maybe he had nothing to tell me. I opened the heavy front door and went inside. Eris’s house felt cool, drafty. The overwhelming smell of orange polish wafted through the air, a reminder of Sunday mornings on Sitka Lane, when I’d made freshly squeezed orange juice. The memory followed me up the wide staircase to the second floor.

  A thumping, repetitive drumbeat came from a room at the end of the hall. Several framed photos lined the walls. Landscapes—forest and ocean vistas—and a photograph of
Eris as a teenager, standing between a man and woman with kind faces, probably her parents. Soft, classical music emanated from a room to my left. I knocked, but nobody answered. The door was locked. I waited a moment, listening. Opposite kinds of music were coming from the other end of the hall.

  The drumbeat stopped, and Eris emerged. “Sarah! I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Sorry—I—Todd said to—”

  “Of course. The bed.” Eris smiled as she strode toward me, springing on the balls of her feet. She nodded at the room with the locked door. “That’s my quiet room. I was in my Zumba room.” Her skintight Lycra exercise pants shone, a sweatband around her forehead. “Come on. Follow me.” Eris led me across the hall, into an extra bedroom that had become a storage room. She dragged out a cot from behind a large framed photograph of the Seattle Space Needle. “Camp cot, see, folds out.”

  “Perfect,” I said. “I appreciate this.”

  “I was saving this for my boyfriend. I think he would love camping.” She winked at me as we maneuvered the cot past obstacles toward the door.

  “Oh? A boyfriend?”

  Eris gave me a conspiratorial look. “Don’t tell anyone. I’m still in the middle of my divorce. I know, I move fast.”

  I smiled. “Good for you. Congratulations.”

  “He’s still caught up in difficult entanglements. But the pieces will fall into place, and we’ll be together.” She reached the door, shouldered it open.

  “I hope everything goes smoothly.”

  “So do I.”

  We carried the cot downstairs and out onto the deck. The bed felt surprisingly heavy. Todd hoisted the cot over his shoulder and strode to his blue truck.

  “I could meet you over there later, if you have time for a walk in the woods?” Eris said. “I could show you the trail to the river.”

  “Great. I’ll see you there.”

  I waved good-bye to Eris and drove back to the cottage, with Todd following in his truck. He took the cot inside and set it up for me in the extra bedroom. He picked up a photograph from the table. It was a picture of Monique, Chad, Johnny, and me skating on the only ice rink in town, two winters earlier. I’d forgotten about the photo. Johnny had kept it in his wallet. Todd stared at the picture and frowned, sadness in his eyes. “The fire burned so damned hot.” I could almost see the flames reflected in his eyes. Then his face crumpled, and a tear slipped down his cheek.