Neighborly: A Novel

by Ellie Monago

  “Funny you should say that.” Oliver leans against a counter and sips amber liquid from a highball glass. “I was actually one of the bidders on the house.”

  “On our house? Really?” It shoots out of my mouth like a cannonball. It makes sense, though. At the block party, Gina seemed to know insider information about the bidding war.

  “He’s a real-estate developer,” Gina inserts. “He had a real vision for that house.”

  Oliver shrugs with something like false modesty. “It wasn’t meant to be.” Then he seems to switch tracks to a different spiel, as if someone’s hit a button on his remote control. “I’m all about customization.”

  “Oliver is right. The future is all about customization. That’s what matters in a trans-urban, trans-suburban world.”

  “She’s always going on about that.” Oliver smiles at her affectionately.

  Gina never sits down. Even after we all move into the living room with our glasses in hand, she’s still constantly in motion, calling up to the boys to make sure they’re OK, straightening, aligning, calibrating. I gather that she used to have some sort of high-powered job. Oliver jokes that she transferred all that energy to their home, and that sometimes her need to be hyperorganized means she is thisclose to losing it anytime someone fails to use a coaster. I look down quickly to confirm that I did, indeed, use a coaster.

  Gina’s like me, on steroids. A cautionary tale. A worst-case scenario.

  No, there are definitely worse scenarios.

  Oliver starts doodling on a cocktail napkin with a pen that probably cost more than our month’s groceries. “I had all these plans for your house,” he says, “and I’m happy to give them to you.” He smiles. “Free of charge.”

  He talks and draws, saying that frankly, our lot is more valuable than the house. “I was debating between razing and renovating,” he tells us. “You could expand the kitchen, easily. Turn that utility closet into a half bath. I’ll put you in touch with some fantastic contractors.”

  “That’d be great,” Doug says. I stare at him, not sure if he’s just humoring Oliver or if he’s delusional. I would have assumed the former, until he spent all that money on bikes and a trailer that he’ll put Sadie in over my dead body. She can barely hold her head up.

  As Oliver continues to pontificate and Gina putters and expounds on his ideas with talk of expensive finishes and upgrades, I start to feel distinctly uncomfortable. They’re saying, essentially, that our house is second-rate. We paid everything we had (and much that we didn’t) to get into it, as is. That’s what it said on our offer: as is. No contingencies. We waived them all, gave ourselves no outs, just so we could make it onto this block and be condescended to by Oliver.

  “. . . and you can always build up. Another floor, with a guest room and an office, maybe, would increase the value exponentially. I can put you in touch with an architect who’s really well connected to the zoning board . . .”

  I can’t help feeling that there’s an edge to Oliver’s speech, to this whole evening. He wants to rub our noses in all that he has and all his professional connections, but he didn’t get our house. We won, and he lost. Maybe he was even the highest bidder, but Nils and Ilsa chose us. They knew Oliver, and yet, they didn’t want their house going to him.

  Or maybe he really is just trying to help us improve our house. He doesn’t know that we used up all our savings. Gina e-mailed me all her preschool research today, just like she said she would. They’re well-intentioned know-it-alls.

  I’m not really upset with Gina or Oliver. My problem is with Doug. I can’t sit here for another minute, choking on his sycophancy.

  I stand up, explaining that Sadie hasn’t had her bottle yet, daring Doug to expose the lie. “Stay,” I tell him, “for as long as you’d like.”

  I almost mean it, in that I don’t really feel like being in the same room with him, yet I don’t actually expect him to remain seated. “I’ll be home soon,” he says. “Love you.”

  Back out on their doorstep, I hear the dead bolt sliding into place behind me. I have the distinct and disturbing impression that none of them—not Gina, nor Oliver, nor my own husband—was sorry to see me go.

  Session 28.

  “It’s just so hard for me to trust people.”

  “Men or women?”

  “Everyone. But in a way, it’s more women.”

  “Because of what happened with your best friend?”

  “It’s not just ‘what happened.’ It’s what she did.”

  “You can’t change the facts of your past. But you can change how they influence your present and your future. You can take back your power.”

  “I get so angry sometimes. Can you fix that?”

  “We need to figure out what’s underneath the anger. Hurt, disappointment, sadness. Loss. You’ve lost a lot.”

  “I don’t think I feel those things.”

  “Because you cover them up with anger. Because you don’t want to be powerless. Anger can make you feel powerful.”

  “You’re wrong. Anger makes me feel out of control.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Hey!” Andie’s in sunglasses and a black sundress that looks like macramé but in a good way. Her strappy wedges are three inches high. She’s holding Fisher in her arms, his sleek Eurotrek stroller left at the base of the porch steps. “Are you up for a walk, by any chance?”

  I’m torn. All things being equal—all husbands being equal—Andie is the AV woman to whom I feel most connected, the one I’d most want for a confidante.

  I’m also not in the best mood. Doug came in after nine last night, and I couldn’t help wondering what he, Gina, and Oliver had found to talk about for going on three hours. For the first hour, I’d assumed he was just humoring them, not wanting to race out. But after a few more bourbons, they probably weren’t just talking about houses anymore.

  Gina isn’t having any sex, but she likes talking about it. Did she tell Doug what I said at girls’ night about my lack of desire for him? He’d be so humiliated.

  No, Gina wouldn’t do that. She seems anal-retentive but not mean. Doug was just schmoozing the new neighbors. Maybe he wanted to avoid coming home after the confrontation about the bikes. For us, that was pretty heated. He could have been waiting me out, hoping I’d already be asleep. It’s not unheard of for me to doze off before nine.

  So I feigned sleep. It seemed easier that way. But today, I’ve got a pit in my stomach. I just hate having things unresolved between us. I should probably stay home and initiate a big talk with Doug, though honestly, it’s the last thing I feel like doing. And he needs to focus on putting together some more furniture, anyway.

  Seeing my hesitation, Andie gives me an out. “Do you have other plans? We can hang out another time.”

  I don’t want an out. I want a friend. I want Andie for a friend.

  Maybe I can dredge up some strategy that I learned from Dr. Morrison that will allow me to get past Nolan’s resemblance to Layton. I’m willing to try. “Now is good,” I say.

  As Sadie and I cross the threshold, I cast a furtive glance down. Another day without a welcome mat. I let out a sigh of relief.

  And then realize I sighed too soon. There’s a piece of cardboard on the windshield of the Outback.

  Andie hasn’t seen it yet. At least, I don’t think she has. While she’s bent down cooing at Sadie, I grab it and toss it under the car.

  YOU THOUGHT WE WERE DONE HERE?

  Yes, I’d wanted to believe that.

  “Are you OK?” Andie asks me. “You just got really white all of a sudden.”

  I try to smile. “I’m always pretty white.”

  YOU THOUGHT WE WERE DONE HERE?

  The note couldn’t have come from one of the women at girls’ night. They were so nice to me. Not just nice but accepting. Confessional and vulnerable, themselves. They invited Andie just to make me more comfortable. The way they talked to me and looked at me, I felt like part of the gang.

&nbs
p; But seemingly overnight, whoever wrote these notes and I have become a we, without my consent. I’m locked in something I don’t understand, with someone I can’t identify. That means she holds all the cards. Whoever it is has the element of surprise. I’m just a sitting duck in my new house.

  The wait between notes two and three just underscores it. She wanted me to think it was over, she wanted me to relax, so she could punch me in the gut and remind me who’s in charge. We’re not done until she says we are.

  “Are you sure you’re up for a walk?” Andie asks, a concerned expression on her face. “Maybe you could just come to my house and I could make us some tea.”

  “Fresh air would be good,” I say. Deep, cleansing breaths, that’s what I need most.

  I love the sweet brininess of AV air. I love this neighborhood, and I love our tiny home, and I will not let this bully win.

  Andie leads me through the well-maintained residential streets of the AV until we’re on an asphalt pedestrian path that winds along the sandy beach. The water is like a hazel eye, fluctuating with the light. Far in the distance, through a hazy fog, I can make out some of the buildings of San Francisco. I’ll be commuting there soon enough, but for now, I’m on my own island.

  Andie stays quiet until she sees that I’m calmer. Then she asks, “Did you have fun at girls’ night?”

  I inhale. “I really did.” I try to regain the feeling I had that night, the one that the notes are trying like hell to destroy.

  “It’s hard to hang out with women who know each other so well. You did a great job of fitting in. Better than I have.”

  “Really?” I can’t imagine that’s true, given Andie’s exceptional social graces, though now that I think of it, the other women were more interested in me than in her. It was something in the way they listened, how they leaned, their eye contact. I was the focus, and Andie was ancillary.

  “There’s something special about you, Kat,” Andie says. “Sometimes it’s like your heart is on the outside, you know? Like people can see all you’re hoping for, even though you think you’re guarding it so well. You’re vulnerable in spite of yourself.”

  I feel flattered but also exposed. When I was a kid, Layton was the first person to tell me I was special. I was a charity case at that school, and I felt it all the time, except when I was with Ellen. And then when I got to fourth grade, I was in Mr. Layton’s class. He was the most well-liked teacher in the school, by the kids and by the parents. He was handsome. He was respected.

  And he chose me! He relished my company. He bought me poetry books. I stayed after class for a few minutes just to talk to him, and then after school, to talk to him longer. Then he started locking the classroom door behind me and lowering the blinds. Slowly, gradually, we were doing other things. I felt like it was at my pace. I felt like it was what I wanted.

  Dr. Morrison said that was all a trick, a manipulation. Ten-year-old girls can’t know what they want sexually; they’re being taught to want that contact, when what they really want is approval. She said my sexuality was being used and corrupted, subsumed by an adult’s desires.

  But honestly, that’s not how it felt at all. I felt . . . powerful. Being able to please Steve—I mean, Layton—was an experience I enjoyed. The confusion came later.

  I did know it had to stay secret, even from Ellen, especially from her, and that was a form of power, too.

  I’m almost relieved when Sadie has one of her outbursts. Now I have something to do.

  It’s a full-scale, pyrotechnic meltdown. We have to pull over to the side of the path and park the strollers in the caramel-colored sand. As it continues for several long minutes, I start to apologize, my face as red as Sadie’s. I run through the parent checklist. I sniff at her diaper, no problem there, and offer a bottle, which she refuses as if offended, doing a spastically derisive headshake. I rub ointment on her gums in case it’s teething pain. If it’s gas, there’s nothing I can do except rock and coo, and that’s doing nothing at all. So I go to the pacifier, but she spits it out with a type of contemptuous violence I really haven’t seen in other kids.

  That’s what it is; that’s what spurs my humiliation. It’s not like Sadie cries more than other babies. In fact, she might even cry less. But it’s the way she cries.

  There’s nothing plaintive or forlorn in it. It’s angry, right from the first note, a symphony that starts at full crescendo. It makes Sadie sound spoiled. What a terrible word, spoiled, like the baby is old milk, and once milk goes bad, it’s rotten. As if Sadie’s ruined.

  I don’t know what I should have done differently, what I can change right now. If I should intentionally make Sadie wait longer for bottles, or for hugs, in order to build up her tolerance, strengthen her muscles. Am I already supposed to be teaching her patience? When she’s this little? It seems sadistic. It seems intolerable.

  Speaking of intolerable, how many minutes have I been trying in vain to soothe Sadie while Andie stands nearby, alternately talking to Fisher (who is completely fine) or staring out at the glassine water? I just need to put Sadie back in the stroller and head for home, telling Andie we’ll catch up some other time. Or we won’t. Andie isn’t going to want to be friends with a duo like Sadie and me.

  See, this is why I’m better off without friends. The humiliation! The self-doubt! The red face and recriminations!

  I think of the moms group I tried to join in one of the wealthier Oakland neighborhoods and the perpetual whiff of disapproval. Even when they were sympathetic, it was laced with condescension. The schadenfreude: so she got the bad baby, not me! Or: she created the bad baby, not like my little breastfeeding angel.

  But then, a miracle occurs. Sadie opens her mouth with a very distinct aperture, and I thrust the pacifier in, and it’s over.

  “That’s so cool,” Andie says. “The way you just communicated there. She let you know what she needed, and you got the message.”

  After all that, Andie is actually complimenting my parenting? That’s her takeaway?

  This is why people have friends.

  I resettle Sadie in her stroller, and we continue our walk, and as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, I start confiding in Andie. If she can see through me anyway—if she thinks my best quality is my reluctant transparency—then there’s no reason not to. I tell her about the moms group. About the judgment. About my fear of their judgment.

  “They were all enthusiastic breastfeeders, of course,” I say. “I was so jealous. Motherhood seemed effortless to them.”

  “That’s what they were portraying, anyway,” Andie says.

  “After seeing three lactation specialists and no latching, I decided enough was enough. I started pumping exclusively. I was telling myself what a good mom I was. Sure, I wasn’t successful with latching, but I was successful at breastfeeding. I was actually sort of proud. And I remember that I took a chance and instead of just nodding and smiling, I told the moms about it. No one said anything for this long minute. They clearly thought I was a quitter. One even said that it’s not just about the milk the baby’s getting but her problem-solving skills. Like Sadie is going to wind up dumb.”

  “Fuck her,” Andie says passionately. This is definitely why people have friends.

  “There are websites with lists of geniuses who were never breastfed. I never breastfed. Not that I’m a genius or anything,” I add hastily.

  “It’s sad that those websites have to exist. Obviously, whoever compiled the list felt like they had to defend their decision to use formula. Isn’t the whole point of feminism that we respect each other’s choices?”

  “I thought so.”

  “Well, I respect that you tried so hard. You and Sadie obviously have a great bond.”

  “Really?” It feels so good to hear it. You just don’t know what people see when they look at you and your child.

  “Really.” Andie nods vigorously. “I know what it’s like to try to measure yourself, because I really struggled with that at fi
rst, too. Like when you tell people you adopted, they make all sorts of assumptions about your fertility, about your womanhood.” So she wasn’t infertile? I guess I had made that assumption myself. “People can think whatever they want. As long as we know the truth.” This funny expression flits across her face, like clouds across the sun, and then she’s back to that dimpled smile, as irrepressible and engaging as Doug’s.

  Thinking of Doug brings back all the anger and hurt from last night. All that’s waiting to be settled.

  “Anything you want to talk about?” Andie says.

  I can feel her good intentions. She’s not pushing me; she’s just here to listen.

  “Doug and I had a fight last night. Nothing ugly,” I assure her. “It’s just that we spent all our money to get into that house. I know it doesn’t look like much to everyone else on the block, but it’s our home.” Tears prick my eyes. “I thought Doug and I . . . I thought we both felt like that was enough, you know, just being here and living our lives.”

  Andie’s nodding like she really gets it. “It can do a number on you, moving to a new place. The flip side of all that hope is disappointment, you know? We’re all afraid to be disappointed.”

  “I don’t feel disappointed in the neighborhood.” Well, except for those notes, but I’m not ready to share that with her yet. “But I was really disappointed in Doug last night. He went out and bought these expensive bikes that he knew we can’t afford. Then he comes home and says, ‘Surprise!’”

  I’m laying my cards out on the table, financially speaking. If she doesn’t want to have a broke friend, then she can just walk away now, before I get in any deeper.

  “Classic male trick.” She says it almost fondly. “Do you believe Doug loves you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you believe that he values your happiness—and Sadie’s happiness—as much as his own?”

  I have to think longer on this one. “Yes.”

  “Is what happened yesterday big enough to divorce him over?”