“We can identify you in some other way if you want,” the voice responded. Dispassionately. Unaware of my vulnerability or simply not caring.
“Will the Edwardses be able to identify me?” I asked, trying to breathe deeply and regain my composure.
“We do our best to protect the identity of those who call us, but we can’t guarantee anything.”
I wanted a guarantee. I wanted safety and protection. I couldn’t imagine what Paige might do to me if she thought I’d betrayed her.
A long pause ensued.
“Are you still there?” the voice asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“Would you like to identify yourself?” she continued.
“How about ‘a neighbor’? Can you say ‘neighbor’ as an identity?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then let’s begin,” I said. My voice shaking.
I told her how long I’d known the Edwardses. I told her I thought Paige was unkind to her adopted daughter and not to her biological son. Cringing as I said this. Aware that being mean wasn’t necessarily abuse, even if it was just as insidious and painful to tolerate.
The woman on the other end was silent. Was she typing? I kept talking.
“The nanny told me that they lock the girl in her room at night. They give her cough medicine to help her sleep at night.”
“How long have you known this nanny?”
I sighed. Embarrassed. “I just met her, but I have no reason to believe that she’s lying.”
“Are you concerned for the girl’s safety?” the voice asked. Clearly bored. Worse than bored. In deep disbelief that I was worth listening to.
I breathed deeply. Was I worried that Winnie was in life-threatening danger? No, not life-threatening. But I did think Paige might continue to scream at her. Possibly lock her in her room. Maybe even lose control if Paige was angry enough about Family Services being called in. Which I didn’t want to believe but I had to contemplate. Paige harming Winnie. Wasn’t that why I’d called the hotline to begin with?
“Yes, I’m afraid,” I said finally, feeling like a fraud when I said it. Someone who exaggerated circumstances. “The new nanny told me that the mother screams at the little girl so much that she hurts herself and throws fits.”
“So you’re saying the girl throws tantrums?”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hang up. How could I possibly convince this woman to take my claims seriously?
“The mother, Paige Edwards, admits that they’ve never had a birthday party for their adopted daughter!” I said stupidly. Aware this was insipid, not worth repeating.
“Okay,” the woman said. Obviously bored.
“Listen, they limit what the adopted daughter eats. And in what order she eats it. And she’s super skinny,” I insisted.
“So are you saying they starve her?”
“No!”
“What, then?”
“Maybe start with the girl’s teacher. See if there’s any basis for my concern.”
“Anything else?”
I clenched my fists. My fingers were cold, numb. What else could I add? That Paige was my friend and therefore I suspected things about her I couldn’t explain or even articulate, but that this made them more worrisome, not less?
“Are you there?” asked the bored voice on the other end of the line.
“I think that’s everything,” I said. Knowing that nothing else I said was going to convince her to open a case if the agency hadn’t already.
“Thank you for your call. Would you like your case number?”
“Yes, please,” I said, dutifully scribbling it down on scrap paper.
“Are you going to interview the girl’s teacher?” I asked.
“We can’t discuss the details of the case.”
“But I’m the one calling you.”
“We have a process,” the woman repeated.
“Does that mean you’ll open a case?”
“I just gave you the case number.”
“So you’re going to investigate my claims?”
“I will pass on your concerns.”
I hung up the phone and was immediately shocked by how messy my desk appeared. Invitations and bills scattered in half-formed piles, rocks and picture frames propped awkwardly as paperweights. Deciding immediately to buy a fancy bulletin board, the kind with quilting and ribbons that didn’t require pushpins. Something that would make my office look beautiful and naturally effortless. Getting up and heading for Target before I could change my mind. Aware that no matter what bulletin board I bought, the chaos would continue to spread.
GARBAGE
A DAY PASSED. THEN three. I tried to forget about the call. I tried to pretend I hadn’t really made the call. Slowly resigning myself to the fact that no faded blue Chevy would pull up to the Edwardses’ driveway. Slowly resigning myself to the fact that people might judge me for inserting myself into the case to begin with. Wasn’t Gene getting help for Paige? Wasn’t Paige herself seeing an expert who had told her about the oppositional defiant disorder? What could the government do for Winnie that Gene and Paige couldn’t? And yet I was glad I had voiced my fears. Glad I had tried to do something to help Winnie.
It was early the next week, the sun barely up, when Paige snuck up on me. My head buried in a garbage can, my mind on how to shove the remaining bags into the bin, worried that I was revealing my underwear in my too-short nightgown.
“Nicole, I wanted to catch you,” Paige said, her voice suddenly right beside me in the driveway, causing me to jerk free, drop my bag.
“You startled me!” I said, reaching down to pick up the dropped garbage, swiping at something gooey that was starting to drain out of a hole in the bottom of the bag. It was disgusting. Viscous and slightly smelly. And I had nowhere to wipe it but on myself. Which I refused to do! Paige didn’t notice. Or she noticed but didn’t care, her own distress clearly so much larger than mine. Her whole countenance so nervous, she appeared to be subtly shaking.
“This will only take a minute,” Paige said, crossing her arms in front of her Burberry trench coat, crossing her ankles, revealing her brown suede boots. It clogged my brain. That she looked so stylish despite her ragged countenance. Why was she so dressed up at this hour of the morning?
“I know you were there when Family Services came. Lydia told me,” Paige began.
So she’d gotten it out of her. What could I say? I nodded like I knew she wanted me to, trapped already in some sort of alarming web she’d created.
“Well, I just wanted you to know we’re all right. Everything’s fine. I’ve told Lorraine about it, just so we’re all on the same page,” she continued.
“I’m so glad,” I said, my own voice shaking, unsure what stance to take, friendly or accusatory, doubting or reassuring.
“So, they came back again last night. Did you know they were coming back?” she demanded.
I was so stunned, I couldn’t answer her. Instead, I breathed in and out, which seemed good enough for Paige.
“We had all our paperwork in order documenting Winnie’s problems,” Paige continued. “I have copies of the doctors’ reports, if you want them,” she said, looking at me squarely in the face now, forcing me to look at her.
“It’s not my business, Paige,” I said. Willing myself to sound helpful and supportive instead of judgmental and disgusted. Not sure I’d gotten the tone right.
“Someone else called Family Services. Not just Yazmin. A neighbor,” Paige said, taking a step closer. I willed myself not to move. Not to be afraid. My mouth dry. My face as blank as I could muster.
“I know you wouldn’t betray me,” she said, walking still closer. Our faces only inches from each other. I could smell her minty toothpaste. See the sleep still crusted in the corner of her right eye. I wanted to brush it away. To hit her. But I stood perfectly still. My throat closing. Afraid to speak.
“How could someone do this to us?” Paige asked angrily, her face narrow and sunk
en, as if she hadn’t slept all night. As if she had lain awake pondering this betrayal. Determined to root it out. Determined to confront each of us. Or maybe only me. I couldn’t be sure. I couldn’t think straight. Sweat had begun to drip down my leg and onto my ankle, despite the freezing cold. I wanted to reach down and wipe myself dry, but I couldn’t move. Afraid to break the tension. The silence ballooning and growing heavy. I had to take command or she would accuse me. Possibly harm me. I set my face, prepared my voice before I asked coolly, “What did the people from Family Services say?” Looking Paige in the face, daring her to doubt my loyalty.
“They said that a neighbor had called and said we never had a birthday party for Winnie. You were the only one who knew about the birthday parties!” she hissed.
“I would never do anything to hurt you,” I said, clenching my stomach muscles tight beneath the nightgown. Willing my face to appear kind. My eyes warm. Aware that I was lying to her. Aware that I’d been lying my whole life. My betrayal the first true thing I’d done for as long as I could remember. A fact I clung to desperately as I watched Paige watching me. Paige turning on her heel. Paige walking away from me without another word. Which relieved me. That she wasn’t going to stand in my driveway and threaten me. Even though I was terrified of what she might do to me now.
MISSING
A SENSE OF UNREST followed me to bed and into my dreams. Waking in a cold sweat at five the next morning, remembering the sequence of terrifying events I’d vividly imagined. A summer house with no working phones and yet a message that kept ominously following me. “You have an emergency.” Panicked because I couldn’t figure out who was having the emergency or how to get in touch with them. Walking through the summer house looking desperately for a telephone, finding myself without warning in a car, trying to steer from the backseat, my arms stretched uncomfortably around the headrest; the car gaining speed of its own accord. Unable to reach the brake to avoid veering off into oblivion.
My body clammy and cold beneath the duvet cover, my mind racing with fear and anxiety about what the dream meant and what I should do about it. Telling myself it was merely about my dislike of driving, particularly carpools, and the knowledge that I wasn’t as watchful as I should be when driving them. Aware that something else was wrong and unable to face it. Aware that it was coming toward me like a slow-moving freight train. That my unconscious mind had perceived the rumble of something black that was bearing its way toward me. The dream a preparation. The dream a reminder to be watchful and careful. I promised myself that I would be, then lay awake till morning trying to think of ways to prepare myself.
Penny called in the afternoon as I was contemplating my messy kitchen. Annoyed that it was still in disarray from breakfast. Annoyed that I’d let my daily housekeeper go. Even though I’d grown to dislike her presence. Eager to have my own space. To make my house more fully my own. My sister crying before I’d finished saying hello, telling me our mother had been in a car accident.
“What happened?” I asked, immediately recalling the dream, convinced that this was what it had been portending.
“She fell asleep at the wheel,” Penny wailed.
“Jesus Christ,” I said, my hand to my heart, my breath tight and constricted in my chest.
“The other woman wasn’t even hurt. Mom had six stitches in her neck where she hit the steering wheel. They found traces of diet pills in her bloodstream. Illegal ones, I think.” I felt queasy. Certain this was my fault. Even though it wasn’t at all what I’d told my mother to do.
“She’s, like, jittery all day, is totally erratic, and then gets in the fucking car. Who does that?”
I wanted to say that Penny did. Or had. I wanted to say that everybody made mistakes and that my mother had made her fair share. But all I really wanted to know was whether anyone was dead.
“Dead?” Penny said. “No, not dead. Why would you even ask that?”
“Is anyone pressing charges? Will she be sued?”
“Why are you all about money and not how someone is feeling?”
I wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her. I wanted to tell her I was sick of being the responsible one! Instead, I asked, “How long has Mom been on the diet pills?” hoping it was long before I had suggested she go on a diet. Long before I confronted her about her health and the fact that she was killing herself.
“You can ask her yourself. I’m walking into Mom’s hospital room now.”
I felt my mouth open in shock, then closed it as I heard my mother say hello. Her voice groggy and gentle.
“Mom,” I said, choking up with tears. “Are you okay?”
“Never a dull moment,” my mother joked. Even though she didn’t sound like herself. Her words weak. Her spirit diminished.
“Where were you coming from?” I asked, unable to ask her what I really wanted to know. Was she medicated? Unstable? Not taking care of herself in the way I had begged her to?
“If you really want to know, Al-Anon,” she answered. Which shocked me more than the possibility of diet pills.
“Okay,” I said, curious how Penny felt about this change in our mother. Realizing suddenly that she hadn’t called her Phyllis the whole time she spoke with me.
“I’ve had a lot of nice visitors. People I barely know who were there when it happened.”
“I wish I could be there,” I said, sorry I couldn’t comfort her in person. Wondering if I should get on a plane in the morning.
“Don’t come now,” she said. Her breath labored. “I’m going to rehab in a few days.”
“Why rehab?” I asked, worried she was more injured than I’d realized.
“Because I live alone. They don’t want me to be in the apartment without an aide and insurance won’t cover someone decent.”
I closed my eyes and pictured my mother shuffling from room to room with her stitches. I wondered if I should offer to pay for someone, but knew this wasn’t really what she wanted.
“Maybe I’ll bring everyone for spring break,” I offered. Quickly. Before I could change my mind. Aware that once it was out there, it would be hard to take it back. Aware that once I committed, there would be no end to the fighting. Between Jay and me over why I wanted to go. Between the boys, who hated long car trips. And of course, between Penny and my mother and me. Over all of the usual stuff, and things I hadn’t even dreamed up yet. But still. I wanted to go. To ensure the boys had some sense of their family. To ensure that I didn’t lose them completely. Swallowing and trying to quiet my breathing when I glanced at my watch. Shocked when I realized what time it was. Panicked that I’d missed school pickup by a full fifteen minutes.
* * *
I drove fast out of our cul-de-sac, aware of the older children who were already dotting the sidewalks heading toward home. When I arrived at the pickup spot, nobody was waiting for me. I cursed myself. Prayed the boys weren’t already in the school office calling me. Or worse, calling my emergency contact, which was Jay, of course. Jay having no tolerance for lateness. Jay worrying obsessively that something could happen to the boys if they walked anywhere alone for even a minute. I got out of the car and sprinted toward the school. Telling myself not to worry. Not to make too much of this. It was impossible for something to happen to them on the two-hundred-yard walk from the schoolyard to my car and back again. Not with so many parents walking by. Not with the crossing guard and the two of them together.
I ran, calling, “Josh?” and “Lucas!” Hoping that they would magically appear from behind a hedge or a tree. Hoping they were merely playing a trick on me. I promised myself I wouldn’t yell at them if this was the case. Wouldn’t raise my voice and tell them how stupid it was to frighten me. If they appeared right then, I would hug them. I would save the lectures for another time, maybe never. I would apologize for my own lateness and inconsideration!
When I reached the office I quickly glanced inside, scanning the two small chairs, the secretary desk crowded with folders and papers.
“Who are your boys, exactly?” Miss Mallory asked, her glasses pushed toward the tip of her nose. Her hair framing her freckled face in a frizzy halo.
“Lucas and Josh Westerhof,” I said. Trying to smile. To win her over. She needed to help me.
“What do you mean, exactly, you can’t find them?” she asked with irritation.
“They usually walk to my car together, and they didn’t show up today,” I said, my voice shaking, tears rushing in. “I was late,” I admitted. Embarrassed in front of Miss Mallory.
“What grades are they in?” she asked, the glasses still hanging on the tip of her nose. Eyeing me from beneath them.
“Second and fourth,” I answered.
Miss Mallory shuffling some papers, looking up numbers, finally saying absentmindedly to me, “I’m calling their classrooms.”
I could have told her the teachers’ names. She didn’t need to waste precious time looking them up! Turning from her to look around the office again, hopeful I had merely overlooked the boys, that they were in fact sitting somewhere. Which, of course, was impossible. The office was too small.
“Should I go back outside and look for them?” I asked, even though Miss Mallory was just hanging up the phone.
“The teachers said the boys left together, but they’re coming down to talk to you.”
Waiting. Pacing the office. My armpits sweating profusely in the hot, stale air of the school. The teachers looking worried when they saw me. Mrs. Meade assuring me that Josh had left with Lucas. All of us agreeing to go back out into the schoolyard. Mrs. Meade canvassing the back of the school while Lucas’s teacher, Mrs. Likely, took the front. I walked from the school to my car again, calling their names wildly into the wind. Knowing I looked out of control, that other mothers who saw me would surely gossip about me in the morning. Arriving at my Subaru and seeing nobody waiting there. Running back the way I came and finding Mrs. Likely and Mrs. Meade deep in conference in the schoolyard. Neither Josh nor Lucas anywhere near them.
Good Neighbors Page 19