The Woman Next Door

by Barbara Delinsky

  “No no no.” That fast, Graham was fired up again. “This is doctor number four. We agreed we liked her.”

  “We do, but she isn’t the one producing eight eggs, and she doesn’t know why all those sperm of yours can’t fertilize a single one.”

  He seemed taken aback. “It isn’t my fault.”

  “I know, but this is hard for me, Gray. It’s hard emotionally, because my hopes soar and plummet, soar and plummet. It’s hard physically, because the medication makes my breasts sore and bloats my stomach and makes me sweat—and don’t say I’d have the same symptoms if I were pregnant, because if I were pregnant, I wouldn’t mind. This is even hard professionally. Half of my referrals lately seem to be pregnant teenagers.”

  Putting his back to the column and his hands in the pockets of his jeans, Graham stretched out his long legs and snorted. “There’s an irony. They have sex once and—voom—instant baby. We’ve been trying for four years.”

  “Irony” was one word for it. Amanda could think of others, like “unfairness,” even “cruelty.” And while she was on the topic of everyone else having babies but her, she said, “Gretchen’s pregnant.”

  He didn’t seem to hear at first, lost in what well might have been self-pity—which, Lord knew, she was feeling enough of herself. After a minute, though, he looked up, startled. “Ben’s Gretchen?”

  “I saw her in the garden just now.” Amanda saw the image again, clear as day. “She’s pregnant.”

  Graham made a dismissive face. “I saw her, too. She’s not pregnant.”

  “You didn’t see her in the right light. It had to hit her a certain way.”

  He sighed, closed his eyes, rolled his head on his neck. “Come on, Mandy We’ve talked about this before. You see pregnant women where there aren’t any.”

  “No, I don’t. Now that it’s spring, coats are coming off, and those pregnant bellies are real. I see them in the supermarket, I see them at the mall. I see them at the drugstore, the library, the school.” She heard her voice growing higher, but couldn’t hold it down. “I swear there are times lately when I wonder what God wants. Is He sending us a message? Is He saying this wasn’t meant to be?”

  What she wanted, of course, was for Graham to deny it quickly and vehemently.

  But he didn’t. He just eyed her warily. “What wasn’t meant to be? Us?”

  She felt the same fear then that she had felt lying in that clinic room the last time. She was losing Graham. Life was pulling them apart. “Babies are supposed to be made by love. They’re supposed to be made in the privacy of a bedroom. What we’re doing is a mockery of that. The most precious part of our lives is a mess of doctors’ appointments, pills, charts, and timing. It’s taking a toll on us, Graham. We aren’t. . . fun anymore.”

  She was in tears now, physically shaky and feeling so isolated that Graham wouldn’t have been Graham if he hadn’t been touched. Coming close, he took her in his arms and held her, and for a minute, enveloped by his arms, his earthy scent, his solidity, she remembered what they’d had. She wanted it back. Wanted it back.

  Too soon, he released her. Facing the yard again, he once more slid his hands in his pockets. “About Gretchen?” he said. “You’re wrong. It was a trick of the light. She isn’t pregnant. Her husband’s dead.”

  Amanda wiped tears from her cheeks. “It isn’t always the husband who fathers the child.”

  Graham turned to her. “Are you talking about us, or her?”

  “Her. Her.”

  “So if she’s pregnant, who’s the father?”

  “I don’t know. But I know what I saw.” Needing to be right about this—more, needing to escape what was happening between Graham and her—she went down the back stairs and onto the flagstone path.

  Graham’s voice followed her. “Did you call the doctor?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Do we try it again?” he called.

  She called back without missing a step, “I don’t know.”

  “Where are you going?” he shouted, sounding annoyed now.

  “Next door,” she shouted back. “I’m asking Russ about Gretchen. He’s around during the day. He’ll know if she has a guy.”

  ***

  Leaving the flagstones, Amanda crossed a carpet of grass, slipped between bristly arms of junipers and yews, then cut through the pine grove that separated the Langes’ house from hers. The scent of moist earth and pine sap, so strong here, was a natural sedative. Or maybe it was the physical movement—or the distance from home—that eased the ache in her belly. Whatever, she was calmer by the time she reached her neighbors’ back steps.

  She started up, stepping quickly aside when the door flew open. Allison Lange, newly fourteen, passed her in a blur of long dark hair and gangly limbs.

  “Sorry,” the girl said with a breathless laugh.

  Amanda caught the door in her wake. “Everything okay?”

  Already down the steps, Allison jogged backward across the lawn. “Fine, but I can’t talk now. Jordie needs algebra help.” Turning, she ran off into the Cotters’ yard.

  Jordie Cotter was Karen and Lee’s oldest son. He and Allison had been best friends since grade school. They were freshmen in high school now, and though Allison was a year younger, an inch taller, and more academically inclined than Jordie, they were as close as ever.

  Amanda loved Allison, who was warm and decidedly open for a girl her age. Jordie was a tougher nut to crack.

  “I’d greet you at the door,” Russell Lange called from inside the kitchen, “but this sauce needs stirring.” Russ, a tall, lanky guy with auburn hair that was rumpled, if sparse, was at the stove, his small, round, rimless glasses perched halfway down his nose. He wore an apron over his T-shirt and shorts, and nothing at all on his feet, which was largely how he went about his day, regardless of the temperature outside. He liked to say that living barefoot was a major perk of being a househusband, but Amanda had always suspected that he simply hated caging his feet, which were huge.

  Russ was a journalist. The better part of his income came as a book reviewer, but his joy was writing a weekly column on parenting. His wife, Georgia, was the CEO of her own company, an operation that required she be on the road several days a week. That made Russ the children’s major caretaker. From what Amanda had observed, he had become a commendable parent. He had also become a marvelous cook.

  “Something smells wonderful,” she remarked.

  “It’s veal marsala, light on the vino given the presence of these two kiddos, though I think I just lost the girl.”

  Eleven-year-old Tommy, who had the same thick black hair as his mother and his sister, put in his two bits from the table, where he was doing homework. “Allie said if you added more wine she’d be back.”

  Amanda squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “What do you know about wine?”

  “Just that Allie likes to drink it.”

  “And where does she do that?”

  “Right here,” Tommy said with an innocent look. “She sips from Mom’s glass.”

  “How is your mom?”

  “She’s cool. She’ll call later.”

  Amanda amended the question. “Where is your mom?”

  “San Antonio. She’ll be back tomorrow.” The boy slipped from his chair. “I have to go in the other room, Dad.”

  Russ aimed his long wooden spoon toward the den. “If it’s to chat on-line with Trevor and John, forget it.”

  “It’s to pee.”

  “Ah.” Russ shot Amanda a dry look. “I asked for that. Okay, pal. But come right back. You need to finish your essay.” He watched until the boy disappeared. Stirring his sauce again, he gave Amanda a questioning smile. “How are you?”

  “I’ve been better.” She went to his side and peered into the saucepan. What simmered there looked every bit as wonderful as the veal that waited, lightly browned, in a pan on the next burner, and suddenly she felt guilty about this, too. She never cooked anything fancy. Graham was a meat-and-
potatoes kind of guy, an easily pleased, grilled-whatever kind of guy. When they ate at home, they cooked together, but they went out as often as not.

  This night she wasn’t sure she could eat at all. “I need your help. Gray and I are having an argument. I say Gretchen’s pregnant. He says no. What do you say?”

  She would have sworn Russ went red. Then it occurred to her that it was heat from the stove.

  “Pregnant?” he echoed. “Wow. I don’t know anything about that.”

  “You haven’t noticed her shape?”

  His color deepened. No cooking heat this time. His glasses weren’t steamed in the least. “Her shape?”

  Of course he had noticed her shape. He, Graham, and Lee were abundantly aware of her shape. “Her stomach?” Amanda prodded. “You haven’t seen the change?”

  “No. I haven’t noticed anything.” But he didn’t tell her she was imagining things. “Pregnant? How could that happen?”

  Amanda would have laughed had her life been different. “The normal way, I assume. I told Gray you’d have seen if someone had been coming around to visit.”

  Russ stirred diligently. “Not me. I’m glued to my computer all day.”

  “Wouldn’t you notice if a car came down the street?”

  “I used to, but the parade got boring—mailman, exterminator, UPS guy. I don’t bother looking anymore.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, pondering something.

  “What?”

  “Just thinking about Ben. He’d have loved fathering a child at his age.”

  Amanda suspected that men loved fathering children at any age. It was a sign of virility. She wondered how much that bothered Graham.

  “Ben’s kids wouldn’t have liked it much,” she said. “They had enough trouble accepting Gretchen. A baby would pour salt on the wound. But this can’t be Ben’s. The timing’s wrong.”

  “Are you sure she’s pregnant?”

  “She sure looked it.”

  “How far along?”

  “Five months, maybe six.” Amanda paused. “Just a guess. I’m not exactly an expert.”

  Russ was silent. Softly then, he asked, “Anything doing with you?”

  Amanda studied his sauce. “No. Maybe I need cooking lessons. I’ve never made anything like this. Maybe cooking is the key to fertility.”

  “Home and hearth?”

  “Mm.” She went to the door. She was suddenly feeling guilty about having walked out on Graham. He was suffering, too.

  “I could run over and ask Gretchen,” Russ offered. “Maybe I’ll do that after the kids are fed and settled in. I haven’t talked with her in a while. You don’t see people in winter the way you do in summer, and summer was eight months ago. Besides, I’m always inside working, then taking care of the kids, and romancing my wife when she stops in at home.” The phone rang. “It’d be really interesting if Gretchen’s pregnant.”

  Having mixed feelings about that, Amanda went out the door but had barely reached the bottom step when Russ stuck his head out. “That was Graham. He wants you home. You have an emergency call.”

  She nodded, setting off just as Karen Cotter came across the grass carrying a foil-covered tray.

  Karen was of average height and weight, a woman who rarely bothered with makeup and routinely used headbands to keep her brown hair off her face. On all physical counts, she was more neutral than bright, but that had been secondary once. When Amanda had first met her, what she had lacked in appearance, she had more than made up for in energy. Back then, she rode the perpetual high of a busy life, buoyed by running yet another of a series of successful charity events—and still she’d had time for the occasional night out with Georgia and Amanda. They hadn’t done that in a while, and through no lack of interest on either of the other women’s parts. On each proposed evening, Karen either had a meeting, a sick child, or a headache. Lately, all that remained of her smiles were lines that left her looking tired and tense.

  “There’s a bake sale at the school tomorrow,” she explained now. “I told Russ I’d save him the worry and make extra cookies for Tommy to take in.”

  “You’re a good soul,” Amanda said in what was probably the understatement of the year. Karen was the designated driver of the parent community, as well as perennial room mother, yard sale chairman, art-day coordinator, PTO head. What with handling all that, plus four children between the ages of fifteen and six, she worked as hard as any woman Amanda knew. Amanda looked up to her for that. She hoped that as a mother she would have half the stamina Karen had—or used to have.

  “How are the kids?” Amanda asked.

  “The twins’ asthma is kicking up because of the pollen, but otherwise we’re fine. How are you?”

  “Not bad.”

  Karen raised her brows, inviting news.

  Amanda shook her head. “It didn’t take.”

  “Oh, Mandy I’m sorry.”

  “Me, too. Getting pregnant is so easy for some people. Speaking of which, have you talked with Gretchen?”

  “Talked? Not quite. We wave when we pass. That’s about it.”

  “I think she’s pregnant.”

  Karen recoiled. “Pregnant? Oh, no, I don’t think so. She can’t be pregnant. She isn’t seeing anyone. She doesn’t go anywhere. She’s still mourning Ben.” Her voice went lower. “What makes you think she’s pregnant?”

  “I saw her earlier, and she looked it. She’s always had great breasts, but her stomach used to be flat.”

  “Yeah. Like a model. Lee tells me not to compare myself to her, but how not to? Our men drool when they look over there. They fall over themselves volunteering to help her with chores. Is that because she’s a riveting conversationalist?” Slowly she shook her head. “I don’t think so.” She looked suddenly worried. “I’ve never seen a car there overnight, but someone might have parked in the garage.”

  Possibly, Amanda reasoned. “But wouldn’t one of us have noticed a car coming or going?”

  “Maybe not. Maybe he parks elsewhere and sneaks in.” Looking a bit pale, Karen insisted, “Gretchen can’t be pregnant. She really can’t be.”

  “Mandy,” Graham hollered across both yards.

  “Emergency call,” Amanda explained and gave Karen a quick hug. Her heart went out to this woman who was so unappreciated by those she catered to most—her husband, Lee, being the major offender.

  But Karen insisted that he had his good points, and Amanda could do nothing but give her support. Just then, though, a hug was all she could spare. Graham sounded impatient.

  She would have jogged home if her stomach hadn’t been cramping again. She didn’t often get calls at night, though between the tension of upcoming exams and end-of-the-year transition issues, the time was ripe for it. And then there were the usual family traumas—domestic violence, parental separation, even death. Affluence didn’t exempt Woodley from those. If anything, their presence in such a privileged population was all the more stark.

  She went up her back steps and into the kitchen; Graham was leaning against the counter, not far from the phone. The look on his face said that he hadn’t appreciated her running out on their conversation—at least, that was the reading her guilty conscience gave it. He seemed upset. He was uncharacteristically idle, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. She would swear he had been standing in the same spot the whole time she was gone, grappling with their problem, waiting to continue the discussion.

  “So is she?” he asked.

  It was a minute before Amanda followed. She had been thinking of her own pregnancy, not Gretchen’s. But Gretchen was indeed where they’d left off.

  “No one knows for sure,” she said and glanced at the slip of paper in his hand.

  He held it out. “It was Maggie Dodd.”

  Maggie was the vice principal of the school, but the number on the paper was for the office of the principal himself. Lifting the phone, Amanda punched it in. After barely a ring on the other end, a male voice said a low, “Fred Edlin
.”

  “Fred, it’s Amanda Carr. Maggie just called.”

  “Here she is. I’ll let her explain.”

  Maggie came on the line. “I hate interrupting your evening, Amanda, but we have a problem here. There was an incident at baseball practice this afternoon. Quinn Davis was involved.”

  Amanda’s insides twisted—guilt telling her she should have more actively followed up on his e-mail, sought him out, stayed longer at school.

  “Quinn Davis?” she repeated for Graham’s benefit. He would know the name. Hard not to, living in a town whose weekly paper loved a hero, and Quinn was currently that. It helped that his family was so visible. One Davis or another was mentioned in the paper each week.

  “He and a little group of friends showed up at practice drunk,” Maggie said.

  Amanda let out a breath. “Oh no.”

  “Oh yes. The coach marched them right over here. I’d have called you sooner, only it was a while before we reached Quinn’s parents. They were at the statehouse canvassing for wetlands regulations and weren’t pleased to have been called back. They’re in the other room arguing with the coach and Fred about what the punishment should be. We need your input. His parents want the thing hushed up. They say that their son does too much for the school to allow him to be used as an example. The problem is that the whole team saw him drunk. If there’s no punishment, what message does that send to the others?”

  Amanda knew what message it sent. She didn’t want to give that message to them, any more than she wanted to give it to Quinn. He had to be responsible for his actions, all the more so for the exalted position he was in.

  That said, she had to wonder why he had contacted her that day—had to wonder what was going on with him that he would drink after school.

  “Have the others been punished?” she asked.

  While Maggie gave her the peripheral information, Amanda held Graham’s gaze. He was struggling to be patient, but barely succeeding. Many times he had indulged her in student emergencies; this wasn’t one. His eyes were ink green and intense, demanding equal time. The conflict was tugging at her. There was a crisis right here in this house that needed tending. He wanted her to deal with their own problem first.