The Drowning Girls

by Paula Treick DeBoard

  Allie pointed to a flier on the community billboard. An Un-Christmas Party. “Is that like an ugly sweater party? We had one of those for the PoliSci department. Of course, most of those guys had a dozen sweaters they could have worn from their regular rotation.”

  I sighed. “No. This is Janet Neimeyer’s big thing. She’s one of our neighbors. I guess the basic idea is that everyone gets together the day after Christmas in party clothes, and brings some kind of ugly gift they received.”

  “Like a white elephant party?” Mom asked.

  “Right. Also known as another excuse to dress up and drink.”

  “Sounds like fun. I’ll wear my best jeans,” Allie said.

  “No, don’t worry. We don’t have to go.”

  Phil turned around. “I told Janet we would come. I figured after a couple of days together, you’d be dying to get out of the house.”

  Allie laughed. “Really? We practically have a thousand square feet each. It’s not exactly a chicken coop.”

  “No, you kids should go,” Mom said, smiling up at Phil. “I’m no good in those types of situations. I never have any idea who’s talking to me.”

  Allie said, “Well, why not? I can borrow something of yours, can’t I?” We were crossing the parking lot at this point. It was empty, save for a few cars on the far end that belonged to Parker-Lane employees.

  “Please. Whatever I have would fit you like a tent.”

  “I guess I could borrow something from Danielle, then.”

  “You’re killing me right now, you know that? You’re actually killing me.”

  Allie and I slowed our pace, falling behind Phil and Mom. He was pointing out the features of the communal area, as if Mom were a potential buyer who would be making use of the tennis courts and the putting green. Allie and I linked arms, leaning against each other.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” I said.

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” she countered. “I mean—look at this place. It’s amazing. Your thousands of snarky comments didn’t really do it justice.”

  A golf cart was coming off the last hole, rounding the little path around the clubhouse to the parking lot. We stopped for a moment, watching the twosome in their khakis and windbreakers.

  “I have a confession to make,” I blurted.

  “Do tell.”

  “I’ve always thought that golf is a stupid sport.”

  Allie threw back her head and laughed so loudly that the men in the cart turned, spotting us. “I knew it. I knew it.”

  “Phil doesn’t play, either—not really. He’s been talking about taking lessons.”

  “I could see him in a lime-green polo.”

  I smiled weakly. “Don’t forget the checkered pants.”

  Allie wheezed with laughter. “Stop, or I’m going to commit a public act of urination in your beautiful community.”

  I pulled her along. “Better not. They’ll put you in the stocks.”

  * * *

  Six of the homes in Phase 3, an entire cul-de-sac’s worth, were in the final stages of completion, and two of the owners were planning to move in on New Year’s Day. There was a general contractor who provided specific oversight, but Phil had taken an active role in monitoring progress and finessing the details. It had been his ongoing project for months, far more rewarding than listening to petty complaints about the club’s dining room or monitoring surveillance cameras that captured grainy images of our neighbors driving by, jogging by or walking by.

  The contractor was waiting for him at the first home, and the two of them splintered off to check out the tile work in an upstairs bathroom. It was a huge house, made larger by the absence of furniture and the reverberation of our voices off the mahogany floors. A strip of plastic had been taped down the middle of the hallway to serve as a walkway.

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” Allie said. “You’re not going to hit anything. You’ve literally got fifty feet before you run into the back wall. Just stay on the plastic.”

  “High ceilings,” Mom commented, listening to the echo.

  We stopped in the kitchen. Concrete countertops had been poured, and the white cabinets were still encased in plastic wrap.

  “Very eco-chic,” Allie commented, running a hand over the concrete. “Who buys one of these places, anyway? Doctors and lawyers? Who else can afford this?”

  “You can’t throw a stone without hitting a doctor or a lawyer around here. But also investment bankers, wealthy ex-wives, people who own real estate. And don’t forget,” I said, raising a finger, “high school counselors.”

  There were footsteps on the stairs, and we heard Phil saying, “Well, the decorator is coming in on Monday. So before we get to the actual furniture stage...”

  “No, absolutely,” the contractor said. “I’ll get someone to come in here on Friday. That’s got to be taken care of.”

  “Ready to hit the next one?” Phil asked, taking Mom’s arm. I’d gotten so used to him not looking at me that it was strange to see him actually paying attention to other people.

  “Where’s the below-market-rate section?” Allie wanted to know.

  The contractor laughed. “There’s a three-hundred-square-foot shed you might be interested in.”

  “Lead the way,” she said.

  * * *

  What amazed me during those days was how normal our lives were. We were like any other family getting together for the holidays, eating our way through a bag of red and green M&Ms one afternoon, slurping up eggnog at night. We opened gifts—a telescope for Danielle, black sweaters and tunics for Mom. Allie and I exchanged books, as we always did—our favorites from throughout the year. Phil had asked for new dress shoes, and he modeled them with his jeans rolled to his knees, making us silly with laughter. Phil’s present to me was a silver necklace with tiny onyx beads, as well as a folded note, wedged in the top of the jewelry box. I unfolded it to read: IOU. Anywhere in the world you want to go, it’s on me. I refolded the paper along its precise creases and tucked it away.

  * * *

  For Christmas dinner, Phil smoked a turkey outside, Mom made a pecan pie and Allie and Danielle mashed a five-pound bag of potatoes while I tackled the green vegetables. Phil moved his office junk, and we covered the folding table in the dining room with a fancy tablecloth and ate until we felt sick, the adults telling stories about our childhoods. Mom told an oldie but a goodie—the time Allie had handcuffed herself to the cafeteria service line, protesting the poor food selection. “She’d been reading about Gandhi and civil disobedience,” Mom sighed. “And that was her big social stand.”

  “My first social stand,” Allie corrected. “I was only fourteen, for Pete’s sake. I couldn’t very well protest the state of health care or trickle-down economics. I had to work with what I had.”

  “Oh, here we go,” Phil said, refilling our glasses for the second time. He proclaimed himself a “political agnostic,” but he had no problems pointing out the flaws in American systems when it suited his purpose.

  Danielle reached for another helping of mashed potatoes. “Tell me a story about my mom. Did she ever do anything crazy like that?”

  I held my breath, half expecting my mom to launch into the story of me arriving on their front porch at nineteen, five months pregnant. Instead, she told the story about how I’d passed high school chemistry by finding a loophole in the syllabus. Since there was no specified limit on extra credit points, I’d simply written a hundred summaries on science articles, and I’d received a B without ever passing a test or quiz.

  Danielle gasped. “Mom! Why didn’t you just do the assignments?”

  “Your grandmother forgot to mention that this class was ridiculously hard. It was the first time in my life I was actually in danger of failing. I just found the loophole, that’s all.”


  “A loophole that was immediately closed by the teacher,” Mom said. “I was furious with Liz when he called me, but your grandfather was fine with it. He said we all have to learn to get by in the world, one way or another.”

  “Hear, hear,” Allie said, holding out her glass for a toast.

  * * *

  That night, Allie and I bundled up and sat out by the pool. She told me about her courses and her students, the landlady at her crappy apartment, the guy she dated three times who turned out to be unemployed and spending his days at Starbucks for the free Wi-Fi. “And that wasn’t even the deal breaker,” she said over my groaning laughter. “I’d felt this immense compulsion to help him out, you know? Help him polish his résumé. Connect him with someone at the university for an interview. I would have done all of that, but when he took me back to his place, it turned out his place was shared by his ex-girlfriend, who was letting him live there rent-free. He saw absolutely nothing wrong with the situation.”

  “Awkward,” I said.

  “Extremely awkward. I’m going to put that on my next dating profile: ‘I prefer only to date men with serious issues who will introduce me to uncomfortable situations.’ Not a bad idea, actually. I’d get more hits, I’m sure.”

  “And more unemployed guys.”

  “I’m not getting any younger,” she pointed out, unwrapping and rewrapping the blanket so that it was pulled up around the side of her head. Only her eyes and nose were visible.

  I’d learned, over the years, not to say things like Your time will come. The right guy is out there. Those were Mom’s phrases, stock sayings that rang less and less true as time went on. For a long time, Mom had complained that she’d done something wrong, having two girls who couldn’t find decent men. Allie was attractive, but in a “hard edges” kind of way—a sharp gaze, a loud voice, a closet full of button-down Oxfords. She hadn’t met the man who was her match. I’d always felt Mom was more relieved than happy for me when I’d introduced her to Phil. It was a validation of a normal life—no longer the single, unmarried daughter, but the family that could be displayed on a holiday card and stuck to the fridge. It made me sick to think that I might still disappoint her.

  Allie could always read my mind. Her voice came from within the blanket, but I heard her clearly. Maybe I’d simply been waiting for her to ask.

  “So, spill. You told me there were problems, but that seems like a bit of an understatement. Something’s changed between you two. I saw how you looked when you opened his gift. And you didn’t even try on the necklace. You put it right back in the box.”

  I shook my head.

  “Come on,” she said. “Haven’t we always told each other everything? If you want me to hate him, I’ll hate him. Say the word.”

  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t, because the minute she’d started talking, the tears had come. And come.

  “Scoot over,” Allie said, and the two of us crammed into a single deck chair, hip to hip. She held me, and I cried until my lips went blubbery and numb. This was what I’d come to, then—give me a few minutes alone with Mom or Allie, and I was a wreck.

  “Let it out, kid,” Allie said, her hand on top of my head.

  At some point, the slider opened and then, after a moment of hesitation, closed. No one had come out, and I didn’t know if it was Mom or Phil or Danielle who’d come to check on us.

  * * *

  Janet’s party was in full swing by the time we arrived. Phil wore dress pants and a gray shirt with the new tie he’d received from Danielle. I wore black pants with a silky shirt and the necklace from Phil. If he noticed the gesture, he didn’t say anything. Allie had borrowed a dress from me, after all, and Danielle had tied a complicated wrap belt around her waist, gathering the excess fabric in a way that made it look less maternity and more Grecian.

  Myriam’s voice greeted us before we were ten steps inside the clubhouse. “Oh, Phil, I was wondering if you would...”

  I took Allie’s arm and steered her toward the bar. “You’ll need some liquid courage to get through all the introductions.”

  Allie laughed. “Fill her up. You’re driving, right?”

  They were all there, standing in little clusters: Rich and Deanna, who had a neckline that plunged nearly to her waist; Janet and her newest boyfriend, Michael; even Jeremy and Carly Bergland, who had left the baby home with a sitter. I pointed them out sotto voce while Allie marveled.

  “It’s like a collection of the world’s most beautiful people.”

  I groaned. “Please don’t tell them that. They don’t need any more encouragement.”

  Allie got a few curious stares herself, especially at the snake tattoo that wrapped its way around her wiry upper arm.

  At the bar, Charlie Zhang was refilling Helen’s glass.

  “How is everyone, Charlie?” I asked.

  He shrugged. “I thought it would be a good idea to get the kids a new dog for Christmas. Who are we kidding, anyway? It’s been a month. Virgil isn’t coming back. But Helen’s taken it pretty badly. That dog was her life.”

  “It’s so strange,” I said, accepting my glass from the bartender. “I would have thought there would have been some sign of him by now.”

  “The best-case scenario is that he ran off and one of the ranchers took him in, although of course Helen canvassed that whole area with fliers. Still, that’s the hope.” He shoved a twenty in the tip jar and walked away.

  “Their dog went missing,” I explained to Allie.

  “I gathered as much.”

  Janet Neimeyer was behind us suddenly, dripping with jewels. “Liz, dear. Who’s this?”

  “My sister, Allie, from Chicago.”

  Allie held out a hand, and Janet hugged her instead, bracelets jingling off her leathery arms. “We’re all family here, you know. All family. And we keep things in the family, too.”

  Allie and I exchanged smiles. It was her own party, so why not get hammered if she wanted to?

  Janet leaned forward. “I’m talking about the Asbills, of course. Didn’t you hear?”

  I shook my head.

  “It turns out that Brock has been—how can I put this delicately—shtupping the nanny. Oh, my dears. The plates that were thrown, the names that were called. Be happy you’re over on your end of the cul-de-sac, let me tell you.” She set down an empty glass of wine and picked up a full one.

  “How is that even possible?” I asked. “Daisy was always there. I thought she wasn’t working anymore.”

  Janet raised an eyebrow. “A girl has to go to town sometimes.”

  “But they’re here.” We’d just passed them talking to Deanna, and nothing had seemed amiss.

  “Well, it’s yesterday’s news by now. The girl’s on a plane back to Colombia, of course, and Daisy’s beginning to wonder if she can’t just take care of those kids on her own. Never trust the help, I say. Not that I think Brock’s a catch, mind you, but the things that Brock’s money can buy, now, that’s another story.” She took a half step away, stumbling and catching herself on Allie’s arm. “Now where’s that yummy husband of yours?”

  “He was talking to Myriam.”

  She patted me on the arm. “Don’t you worry. I’ll go rescue him.”

  Allie laughed into her gin and tonic. “I don’t even know where to start with all that. The nanny. Isn’t that so stereotypical?”

  I laughed, too, but I couldn’t take any joy in the ridiculousness of it. I felt bad for Daisy. Did she feel trapped now, mother to twins who were barely walking, wife to a man who’d gone for the low-hanging fruit? In the end, I hadn’t told Allie anything about Phil, the gut suspicions I hadn’t been able to prove. That would be a stereotype, too—the younger neighbor, akin to the babysitter, the subordinate, the secretary. It would be the kind of thing people laughed abo
ut at parties like this one. The Janet Neimeyers of the world wouldn’t be able to stop themselves from spreading it, ear to ear.

  “Well, hello, stranger,” someone said, and I turned around to see Fran grinning at me. “Doug’s home with Elijah for the night, so I figured...”

  I gave her a one-armed hug, careful not to slosh her with my drink. I’d never seen Fran wearing anything other than cargo pants with a zillion pockets and her sturdy white shoes. “You look fantastic.”

  She beamed and twirled, her burgundy dress fanning out like a flamenco dancer’s. “Every now and then, I guess.”

  “This is my sister, Allie.”

  They shook hands, and Fran leaned in close. “I’m not doing that ridiculous gift exchange. I’m here for the entertainment aspect only. Last year there was some sort of scuffle between Deanna and Janet that almost ended in hair pulling. Although if that happens again, Doug will be sorry to miss it.”

  “It is just like the Real Housewives,” Allie marveled when Fran moved along to greet Carly Bergland. “I feel like an anthropology student trying to figure out the cultural norms.”

  “That’s how I felt at first. But it’s far less rewarding than you might think.”

  “I can see how it would get old.”

  We clinked glasses and moved toward the dance floor. Deanna and Rich were the only ones dancing. She had her head on his shoulder, and he was holding a tumbler of whiskey in one hand, his other hand on her back. They were laughing.

  Tim and Sonia Jorgensen passed by, their heads above the crowd. Sonia gave me a cool nod, and I told Allie, “The tall couple? Heading toward the bar? Those are Kelsey’s parents.”

  “Want me to beat them up?”

  “Could you please?”

  Allie took a mock step in their direction and wobbled on her borrowed shoes, a half size too big. She grabbed my arm. “Actually, can we sit somewhere? The last time I wore a pair of heels, I was interviewing for my job.”

  We found two club chairs next to the Browerses, who looked less than enchanted with the whole scene. I asked about their Christmas, and Marja told me they were leaving in the morning for a cruise with her sister and brother-in-law. “I’m planning to walk the deck a hundred times a day,” she told me. “And that will be my justification for eating everything at the buffet.”