Good Neighbors

by Joanne Serling

  “Do you realize that Paige and Gene have never had a birthday party for Winnie?” I blurted out, guilty for repeating it but relieved to be sharing it. Uncertain whether this was backstabbing or necessary.

  Lorraine shutting off her engine. A single line appearing between her eyebrows, which I’d never noticed before. Lorraine fiddling with her car keys for a moment before saying, “A lot of people don’t have parties for their kids when they’re little. They think it’s a waste of money.”

  I sighed. I knew this. But did Paige and Gene ever worry about money? And besides, this wasn’t their excuse. I closed my eyes, then opened them, determined to make Lorraine believe me. That something was wrong. That something didn’t sit right.

  When I opened them, Lorraine was staring at me quietly. Not trying to change the subject for once.

  I told her about the oppositional defiant disorder. I told her how Paige claimed that Winnie didn’t have any symptoms in public, which was why we hadn’t seen the problems. That Paige said I didn’t know the real Winnie. That she was manipulative. Falsely cute. Hoping I was capturing the flavor of the conversation, not putting my already biased spin on it.

  Lorraine listened intently, fingering her pearls and occasionally looking over my shoulder, taking in my porch and my walkway, like she was preparing to comment on my new low-level lighting. Not that I blamed her. Not exactly. The story about the Edwardses stifling. Claustrophobic. The story without beginning or end and certainly lacking any concrete conclusion. But I forced myself to continue. Forced myself to describe the praying routine. To try to explain how uncomfortable it had been.

  When I finished, there was a long and awkward silence. Both of us no doubt trying to sort out fact from fiction. Aware we knew next to nothing about adoption. Even less about childhood psychiatric disorders. Even if we thought we knew a lot about Paige. Her tendency to blame other people for everything. Her increasingly unkind demeanor toward Winnie.

  “They found a babysitter for Winnie. In Nevis,” Lorraine finally said.

  I stared at her. Waiting for her to go on.

  “She said the trip’s so much better now that they don’t have to revolve their day around Winnie.”

  I felt like crying. Pinpricks pushing at my eyes. Not wanting to cry in front of Lorraine, who would no doubt think I was overreacting. Maybe she wouldn’t think that, but I couldn’t imagine crying in front of her. Showing her how helpless I felt, how cruel I believed the world could be. Lorraine, who believed every problem had a solution. Lorraine, who devoted her entire waking life to telephone calls with clients and friends. To planning her social calendar and offering people advice about where to go on vacation. All her actions and reactions merely proof of what I knew and wished I didn’t about her: that she refused to deal with the truly tragic and completely unfixable. Disturbed by Lorraine’s complacency, still unsure whether Winnie fell into that category.

  “Maybe she’ll bring the new nanny home with her,” I joked. Willing myself not to let my voice catch. Not to let Lorraine know how upset I was.

  Lorraine laughed, adding, “Or maybe she’ll leave Winnie there with her.”

  The air suddenly prickly between us. The joking abruptly over. Lorraine aware that she had crossed a line, spoken a fear that neither of us had ever acknowledged. That Paige seemed not to love Winnie like a real daughter, that she might regret her decision to have adopted her. The harsh possibility making my chest hurt, my breath catch.

  I looked toward Lorraine to see if she would add anything. When she didn’t, I asked, “Now what?” not because I expected Lorraine to have a solution—I knew there was no solution—but because I knew that Lorraine would still think there was one.

  Lorraine swallowed, then looked at me seriously and said, “Remember when you took Winnie to that Build-A-Bear place? Maybe you could do that again. Or something like that.”

  I breathed deeply, disappointed that this was all Lorraine could come up with. Even though I appreciated the sentiment, the simplicity not entirely without merit. Nodding my head as I considered it. Hopeful that giving Winnie some love was better than nothing. Remembering the rocks I’d picked up on the beach in Bermuda last summer. The single streaks of white in their dull gray backgrounds making the stones something to collect, something to cherish.

  A VISIT

  PAIGE CALLED ME BEFORE I could call her. The day after she got home from Nevis, her name flashing on my caller ID. Staring at the phone while my hands turned clammy—not yet ready to talk to her. To be fakely nice to her! Lucas shouting, “It’s the Edwardses!”, picking up the receiver before I could stop him. Lucas saying, “My mommy’s right here” and handing me the phone, which made me want to slap him. For being so impulsive. For not letting me be the grown-up and answer my own damn telephone! My temper roaring in my head. Resisting the urge to squeeze his arm in punishment. Trying to breathe deeply, willing myself to say, “Hi, Paige!” with friendly enthusiasm.

  “We’re back!” Paige cooed into the phone.

  “You are!” I said. Trying to sound as enthusiastic as she did.

  “It was amazing. The hotel was incredible.”

  “Lorraine told me!” I said, hoping to cut her off at the pass. Hoping to find out what she was calling about! Paige launching into the story that I’d already heard from Lorraine. About the plunge pool and the waiter service. About the swim lessons and the babysitting amenity. I murmured surprise and then pleasure. I murmured support and agreed it was fantastic. Forced to pretend I was interested.

  “Anyway, besides my blah, blah, blah, I have a favor to ask you,” Paige said when she’d finally finished her story. “You can say no. But I know you once said you wouldn’t mind taking Winnie. And you have such a nice way with her.”

  “Anything, Paige. You know that,” I said. Meaning it. Which was so confusing. How well I lied. How I still sort of meant it!

  “Would you mind taking Winnie this Thursday while your boys are at soccer? I have Cameron’s dress rehearsal for the school play, and for once it would be nice to not have Winnie ruin something.”

  “Of course I don’t mind,” I assured her. “Drop her right after school,” I offered, hanging up the phone with a mixture of disgust and fear.

  * * *

  On Thursday, Paige dropped off Winnie at my house, obviously in a hurry. Starting to back out of my driveway before Winnie had even reached my porch steps. Waving at me on the porch and saying, “Thanks!” and “Talk to you soon” as she rolled down the street and away from me.

  I thought about getting out the gift that Jay had bought for Winnie, a giant dollhouse that required minimal assembly. But already I was worried we couldn’t build it in the time allotted to us. Aware that if I gave it to Winnie in the box, she might never see it again. That Paige might keep it away from her, insisting she didn’t take care of her things. Instead, I led Winnie upstairs to Josh’s room to pick out a book, pointing out the shellacked cardboard covers with the frogs and the mice, the lions and the chipmunks. We sat cross-legged on the carpet, Winnie next to me even though I wanted to put her in my lap, to hug her and kiss the top of her head. But I couldn’t. It felt wrong, like promising more than I could give her.

  Instead, we sat knee to knee, the sunlight falling on us, the books scattered in a half circle in front of us, the chosen book stiff and sleek in my hand, the cover nearly new. Josh and I had read it every day for two weeks one summer and then forgotten about the book completely. It was about Rabbit and Froggy. I remembered the story instantly. How Rabbit lived alone and liked it that way. How slowly Froggy had eased his way into Rabbit’s life. As I read, I told Winnie she could play the part of Froggy. She should knock on the hardwood floor next to the rug whenever I said, “Knock, knock, knock, it’s Froggy!”

  She knocked. Sometimes. Usually I had to remind her. She seemed happy in a distant, confused sort of way. Like she wasn’t sure what was happening in the story. Or what to do about the knocking. Which surprised me. I thought
she was more aware than this. Understood more. Had I made all that up? Was there something to what Paige had said about her disabilities and limitations?

  I tried to push Winnie. Just a little. “You say, ‘It’s me, Froggy,’” I suggested. “After you knock.” Winnie nodded. Cautiously. As if I were giving her a test she was uncertain she would pass. I turned the page. Froggy was at Rabbit’s door again.

  “Knock, knock, knock,” I read, looking at Winnie expectantly.

  Winnie smiled. Her giant American smile that split her face in two. Her smile telegraphing something pure and joyful from the inside. I was certain it was the smile that had gotten her adopted, or at least to the top of some list.

  “I like that!” she said, nodding her head and smiling emphatically now.

  What did she like? Was she following along or just trying to please me?

  “Do you remember the knocking?” I asked.

  She nodded some more, tilting her head sideways to smile up at me, almost posing. Wasn’t that what Paige said she did? Pose? Act one way in public and another with her family? It unnerved me. Did she understand the story?

  “Do you remember what you’re supposed to do when I say, ‘Knock, knock, knock’?” I asked in my gentlest, most encouraging voice. If she couldn’t remember, I would understand something about her. That she had limited short-term memory. Her cognition most likely impaired. Winnie looked at me blankly, the smile fading slightly.

  “Let’s knock!” I said, desperate for her to catch on.

  Winnie knocked.

  “And now what do you say?” I asked.

  “I say, ‘It’s me, Froggy’?” Winnie asked, her voice faint, uncertain. But right. She was right. She had remembered. She could be taught! I thought, Screw Paige! Even if Winnie was nowhere near where she should be for her age. She was six—she should be nearly reading by now.

  We finished the story. Sometimes Winnie knocked, but mainly I did. Sometimes I would ask her to repeat something, make the voice of Rabbit, say the lines for Froggy. And she said some of them. Would get halfway through a sentence before she forgot the rest of it. I could see it was an effort. That it didn’t necessarily make sense to her. And I felt bad for pushing her, exposing her in a way that clearly made her feel embarrassed, or if not embarrassed, then at least less animated. Less sure of herself. Her smile diminishing as she struggled to speak, struggled to remember the steps I was suggesting to her.

  When we were through, I closed the book, set it down on the rug, and asked her if she wanted to read another. Winnie shrugging her shoulders and smiling broadly, tilting her head again to peer at me in that Disney-like gesture.

  “Is that yes or no?” I teased.

  Shoulders up, then down again. Still smiling. Still somewhat posed.

  “I have a better idea,” I said, suddenly pushing myself up from the rug and taking her hand to pull her along with me.

  We went into my bedroom. I told Winnie to sit in the middle of my bed, surrounded by my dozens of throw pillows, the ones Jay hated and I loved, their colors and textures and patterns so pleasing to me that sometimes they seemed the whole point of the bed—to display them. I retreated into my closet and pulled out a cigar box stuffed with old costume jewelry. Beaded necklaces. A spoon ring from my grandmother. Geometric earrings from an old boyfriend whom I’d never loved. The earrings not my style. But I couldn’t part with them, either.

  I kept rummaging through the box, pulling out pieces for Winnie to try on, to play with. Winnie loved it. I loved it. Winnie draping the jewelry from her wrist, her neck, even around her knees and ankles. Standing up on the bed. Laughing as the too-large pieces came shooting down her limbs. Only one item fitting her properly. A pale pink-and-green friendship bracelet I’d acquired in my late twenties.

  “I like,” Winnie said, holding up her wrist, posing with her hip out and her head tilted. She was manipulating me. A little. I knew that she knew I would give it to her if she smiled like that. Which annoyed me a little. That she wasn’t guileless. That she wasn’t as innocent as I’d hoped or once imagined. But so what? So what if she was working me over, trying to get her way? I was glad she was at least capable of manipulating me. Glad she was a survivor.

  “You can wear it when you’re here,” I said, not wanting to give in to her, not completely. Teaching her, I suppose, that she couldn’t manipulate me like she did other people. Or else afraid of what the gift might cause. Paige claiming the bracelet made her look cheap, or that Winnie had somehow begged for it. Paige’s coldness toward Winnie so much worse than her frustration with her. Even though I knew it was all part of the same mess, the beginning hard to tease out.

  “Okay,” Winnie said in that singsongy voice of hers. Okay with not getting the bracelet. Which was astounding for a kid that age. That she accepted my refusal so easily. Or maybe she’d already forgotten about the bracelet request? Winnie’s cognitive delays no doubt driving Paige crazy, filling her with fear that her daughter would be slow and require care for the rest of her life. Which I sort of understood, if I squinted and tried. But didn’t Winnie’s personality count for anything? Couldn’t Paige taste this? Feel this? How Winnie was such good company?

  I glanced at the alarm clock. It was nearly five o’clock. Time to make dinner. Time to return Winnie. Worried that I’d kept her too long. Gently removing the costume jewelry from Winnie’s dainty limbs before walking her back to the Edwardses’ property. Ringing Paige’s doorbell, readying myself to be nice. And then, the door opening not to Paige but to a brassy-haired middle-aged woman with a large mole on her cheek.

  “Well, well, well,” the woman said, smiling like she’d discovered a treasure, bending down to hug Winnie.

  “Come, come,” she said to me, motioning me inside. Her accent heavy, possibly Greek. Reaching out my hand to her. The woman’s handshake limp but warm. The woman saying, “I’m Lydia, the new nanny.”

  Where was Yazmin? I wanted to ask, was trying to think how, when I heard a car door slam behind me in the street. Was Paige parking on the curb in front of her house? I braced myself to greet her, turned around with my lips stretched into an almost smile, but there was no white Lexus at the curb. No silver-haired woman in elegant clothes hurrying toward the house, irritated and pretending to be happy. Instead, a tiny blue Chevy was parked in the street. Its paint faded. Two women in skirts and coats coming up the walk. Church ladies with slow, careful steps.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?” one of them called.

  “I don’t live here,” I said, hoping this would cut them off, excuse me. I didn’t want to be pressed into a discussion about God at the moment.

  “Can we talk to you?” the taller of the two said while the shorter one reached into a purse and pulled something out. She held it up in the sunlight, the contents hard to see behind the plastic. But I could tell even from a few steps away that it was some sort of badge. Some sort of official government emblem. I stepped closer. Squinting. Department of Children and Family Services.

  “We’d like to speak with you about this child,” the taller one said, walking closer, her face a blotchy shade of tea, as if she’d bleached it accidentally. A beige overcoat buttoned up to her neck.

  “This is my neighbor’s daughter,” I said, hoping I sounded clipped and intimidating instead of scared and alone. Why had they come?

  “She’s the neighbor,” Lydia confirmed from the doorway, the glass door still pushed open, Winnie pressing herself into Lydia’s waist as if fearful or just aware that a drama was about to take place. How many dramas had she already witnessed?

  Meanwhile, Lydia’s face betrayed nothing, a faint mustache of sweat above her lip but her look and demeanor still confident. As if she’d been expecting the women. Or wasn’t worried about their arrival. Shouldn’t she tell them to go away until the Edwardses returned? Shouldn’t I? My impulse to protect the Edwardses kicking in before I remembered that I didn’t fully trust them! My ears hot, my breath short.

  “All right,
then,” said the one with the tea-colored skin. I looked from her to the shorter one, taking in her yellow parka. Her bored, solemn face. What was she bored with already?

  “I think I should leave,” I said, willing my voice to sound calm. Steady. Willing my wave to appear jaunty. Unafraid. And then I ran. Actually turned and ran down the front yard to the street, my clogs slapping the pavement, my toes clinging tight to the front of them as I loudly made my way up my porch steps and to my front door, resting only when I’d reached my kitchen, standing next to my granite island, breathing deeply, my toes aching, terrified to tell Lorraine or Drew or Jay that Family Services had come. Terrified that this meant something truly awful had happened. Or was happening. That we had failed to detect it.

  I drank some water. Thought about having something stronger. A shot. White wine straight from the bottle. But I knew it would only make me queasy. Already I felt queasy. Instead, I went outside to wait for the boys’ carpool. Sitting on my porch steps despite the cold against my butt, eager to feel the weak sunshine on my face and legs and shoulders, to hear the hum of the distant cars on the streets just beyond mine. The little blue Chevy visible to my right if I peeked around the side of our house, strained to catch it in my sight. I stood once, saw it there, then returned to my spot on the porch steps, fixing my gaze instead on the shiny leaves of my holly bush. Touching the leaves to see if they were as sharp as I remembered them to be. Pricking my fingers over and over again.

  * * *

  As soon as dinner was served—mac ’n’ cheese with frozen peas, apple juice—as soon as the plastic bowls had been stacked in the dishwasher and the kids were bathed and parked in front of the TV set, I waited near the kitchen door for Jay to get home, believing his presence could save me, could make me understand this thing that had happened. Jay listening intently, then rubbing his greasy face with the palm of his hand, a five o’clock shadow already creeping around his chin, up his cheeks.