Neighborly

by Ellie Monago

  Doug smiles at me. “So when we finally get into the house, we’re walking around, taking it all in, saying, ‘This is it, this is where we live, we made it!’ and then I see Kat is standing frozen in front of our stairs, and she just looks crushed. Like, totally defeated. In all our daydreaming, we sort of forgot our house is more like a split-level but with only two levels. We’ve got five steps, and each one is yea tall.” He pantomimes the distance. “No under-the-stair anything for us! Back to the THN drawing board!”

  Everyone finds him charming, and he is, but I wish he hadn’t spent so long underscoring our mini house and my preoccupation with stair storage. Yes, the houses on the street are of different sizes, it’s one of the cool aspects of the AV, but even the next-smallest house to ours is probably double our square footage.

  Also, listening to Doug has taken me back to the thud in my chest the day I thought we’d made a big mistake. We’d come out of the purgatorial escrow and gotten our keys. We pushed open the front door, electrified with excitement, and looked around. Really looked around. We had seen the house only that one time, when we had to assume that if everyone wanted it, it was worth having. Then we were in a bidding war, waiving all inspection contingencies and writing sycophantic letters and pimping out our newborn. And then we were exultant. We were winners! Who doesn’t want to be a winner? After that, fantasy (and THN) took over.

  But staring around at the reality of the unstaged living room, I realized how much I had forgotten, or rather, how much we’d never had the time to register. Like the five crummy little steps. Like the hardwood floors that needed a polish, at a minimum, and the largest space in the house that would encompass our living room at one end and dining room at the other, which featured the galaxy’s cheapest aluminum blinds to keep us from looking directly into our neighbors’ house. Why were random wires protruding from a floorboard? Was that a loose brick in the nonoperational fireplace? I also realized anew the fact that I’d conveniently overlooked: 960 square feet with two bedrooms was actually smaller than the one bedroom in which we’d been living.

  This was, indeed, a tiny house, and a well-worn one at that. No, well loved.

  “It’s the Velveteen Rabbit of houses,” I told Doug. We smiled and clasped hands in silent agreement: there would be no looking back.

  Sadie’s been passed around enough by this point; she’s starting to let out little protest cries. I reattach her to me via the Björn, and she immediately starts to fuss in that way that makes me think she could use a diaper change and some milk, maybe some homemade carrot puree. The introvert in me would like a break from all the socializing anyway.

  I tell Doug that I’m going inside for a bit, but just as I’m stepping onto the sidewalk in front of our house, I’m nearly run over by the sixteen-year-old Goth girl who lives next door to us with her mother, June. (I can remember June’s name because it’s the same as the current month, the one in which we moved into our dream house.)

  “I’m going out, and you can’t stop me!” the teenager yells. June doesn’t even notice me, she’s so busy giving chase. “Take my car keys, I don’t give a fuck! I’ll find another way!” They both round the corner, and I see June grabbing her daughter’s arm roughly. I avert my eyes, realizing that others are doing the same.

  June seems friendly but distracted, like her head is permanently turned around on her neck, seeking out her wayward daughter. Every time I’ve seen her, she’s been racing in and out of the house, giving off the fumes of the desperately late, or maybe just the desperate.

  Mother and daughter don’t look anything like each other. June has curly auburn hair and blue eyes, and she’s in a pair of jeans and a pretty floral top with spaghetti straps. She’s no Tennyson, but she’s definitely attractive. The daughter’s face is covered in white paint, and she has piercings in her lip and nose. She dresses head to toe in black. Her hair is also black, with electric-blue streaks. She has her own Audi and frequently tears out at far too high a speed for a residential street. I’ve seen June on the sidewalk, shaking with impotence in her daughter’s wake. I’m pretty sure there’s no husband.

  I hadn’t noticed June at the party earlier, but I’d seen her contribution: a few store-bought pies. People were joking about it, but in a nice way, like it was one of June’s charming peccadilloes.

  I take another step toward my house.

  “You’re not leaving already, are you?” Gina asks.

  “Just going inside for a while,” I say. “Sadie needs to eat.”

  “Don’t worry,” Tennyson sing-songs, “you can just whip ’em out!”

  I feel a twinge of shame, caught red-handed. I’m not able to breastfeed. Since Sadie never latched, it’s pumping only. I’m not hiding my boobs; I’m hiding the fact that Sadie won’t drink from them, which sometimes still feels (irrationally, I know) like a kind of rejection.

  I force a laugh. “I’m going to keep some things private just a little while longer.”

  “There are no secrets in this neighborhood!” Tennyson winks. I realize she’s past tipsy, and maybe it’s true that there are no secrets, because she’s not trying to hide her drunkenness at all.

  “See you soon,” I tell her and then walk up the porch steps.

  That’s when I notice the rectangle of cardboard.

  It’s from the boxes of our new dining room chairs, with their disappointingly wobbly legs, like a colt that hasn’t yet matured. I thought I’d gotten rid of all that cardboard yesterday.

  But no, a piece of it is right here, in front of our door, positioned like a welcome mat:

  THAT WASN’T VERY NEIGHBORLY OF YOU.

  CHAPTER 2

  What does that mean? What wasn’t neighborly?

  There’s no one I can ask. The note is anonymous.

  I shut the front door behind me and lock it, holding Sadie tight. From where I’m standing, I can take in the whole first floor. The living room yields to the dining room, with a corner office nook, and then on through the kitchen, where a door leads to the backyard. We painted every room a different bright color, because this will be a happy place: a yellow kitchen, a red dining room, a blue office nook, a green bedroom for Doug and me, and a purple nursery for Sadie. It’s my tiny home. Our tiny home.

  Happy is the life we’re meant to have here, in this neighborhood. And we will, that note notwithstanding.

  Someone was probably just drunk; that’s all it was. Or kids were playing a prank. Next, they’ll toilet paper our house. It’s just innocent, throwback fun.

  I make my way into the kitchen to get Sadie’s bottle from the fridge. In my preoccupation, I slam my shin into a heavy box. That’s something they don’t highlight on THN, all the bumps and bruises you’ll incur while adjusting to your Lilliputian house. Inside the box is my new desk, still awaiting assembly, the one with almost impossibly small dimensions that we bought to fit into my undersize office nook. I wish Doug would hurry up and get this house done. I wish he were here, right now, to give me a hug and tell me we have a block full of awesome neighbors and not to let some silly note give me any pause.

  In the living room, there are two striped love seats facing each other because we couldn’t fit sofas, and I take a seat on the one facing the door. I cuddle Sadie as she sucks hungrily, obliviously, at her bottle. Some Styrofoam has already found its way onto my skirt, and I try to bat it away, but it clings resolutely.

  While Doug and I scraped together enough money to buy essentials like love seats, we had to skimp on some other things. Our house is full of particleboard furniture with nearly impenetrable instructions and bolts, nuts, and screws that get everywhere. Doug’s job is building, and mine is trash removal. I scurry in his wake, picking up plastic wrapping, cardboard, and of course that infernal Styrofoam.

  I can’t wait until this house is fully assembled, until I can sink into the love seat with Sadie and croon in her ear, “We’re home, little one.” That’s what keeps me up at night, fixating on things like the replacement p
art that’s in transit to finish Sadie’s dresser. So much depends on delivery schedules and on Doug’s marginal building skills. As handy as he’s not, I’m worse. He’s also a procrastinator. I’ve definitely got my character flaws, but that’s not among them.

  On an early date, Doug and I asked each other questions that we had to answer immediately, automatically, with no time to craft an appealing persona. It went like this:

  HIM: What are you best at?

  ME: Making to-do lists and knocking them out.

  HIM: What are you worst at?

  ME: Relaxing. What are you best at?

  HIM: Reading people and giving them what they want.

  ME: What are you worst at?

  HIM: Getting anything done before the eleventh hour.

  He wasn’t kidding.

  It’s not that I enjoy being in constant motion; it’s that what I want most is to relax, and I can’t allow myself relaxation until everything’s done.

  Since Sadie, everything can never be done. In a sense, it’s my worst nightmare, this Sisyphean life, yet she offers the greatest reward. She forces me to sit, and rock her, and smell her hair, and for that I am profoundly grateful.

  The cheap metal blinds are shut, and the house is cool. I watch Sadie’s eyelids droop. I love when she falls asleep on the bottle, in my arms. It’s the most complete happiness I’ve ever felt. Sadie in my arms is incredibly soporific. I begin to drift away.

  Then I’m jarred awake by knocking on the front door. I don’t know how much time has passed. Sadie’s still asleep, deadweight in my arms. I just need to stay quiet and whoever it is will go away. They’ll leave us in peace.

  The knocking stops, and I let out my breath in a whoosh. I don’t need to go back out there. It’s a thought that’s at first comforting and then sad. I was having fun at the party; I don’t want to stay away just because of some lame handwritten note on cardboard. I don’t want to have to build my walls up again.

  I hear a key turning in the lock, and I freeze.

  It’s only Doug. My entire body loosens as I see him.

  But it’s not only Doug. “Hey,” he says. “There are some people I really want you to meet.”

  It takes me a second to realize that he means right then, as in, right behind him.

  “I wanted Wyatt to try some of the Talisker,” he says, “and Yolanda hasn’t gotten a chance to meet you yet.”

  The three of them step across the threshold. Despite my poor name recall, Yolanda is unforgettable. She was the one who returned Zoe to Stone and Brandon, the one oozing out of her halter dress. Now I bet that woman can breastfeed half the state. She has an absolutely beautiful face, with pale, luminous skin and eyes like emeralds. Her hair is long and blonde, and her blowout is starting to frizz, but it just makes her look softer somehow, more touchable.

  “Are you sure it’s OK?” she asks, sotto voce because of Sadie.

  “Definitely,” I say, mustering a smile. “Come in. Sadie can sleep through anything.” Sometimes that’s true; at other times, just a shaft of light can blow a whole afternoon. But I have a feeling she’s going to stay down this time. I wish I’d changed her ripening diaper before giving her the bottle. She teaches me a thousand little lessons a day.

  Doug walks in, swaggers really, and I can see that he doesn’t need that Talisker. He’s pretty buzzed already. Wyatt and Yolanda enter much more tentatively behind him. He goes to raise the blinds, and I gesture toward Sadie so he turns on a lamp instead.

  “Pardon our mess!” he yells as he goes into the kitchen. “We’re under construction!” I hear the clink of a bottle against a glass. He’s clearly not worried about waking Sadie with all that racket, but I don’t want to chastise him in front of our new neighbors.

  I’m not in the mood for company, still bleary from my nap and a little self-conscious about the state of the house, but Wyatt and Yolanda do seem really lovely. Wyatt has a sweet, aw shucks manner that I wouldn’t have expected from a police officer. He’d be tall, dark, and handsome except that his features seem a few centimeters off, like he’s a poor reproduction of a classic painting.

  “Please, have a seat,” I say, gesturing to the love seat across from me. There’s packing material on the floor and book boxes that I can’t empty until Doug bolts the shelves to the wall, since we’re in earthquake country. The nonoperational fireplace has become a repository for all sorts of detritus, and the mantel is laden with measuring tape, a hammer, nails, and other random tools. Doug already apologized for our mess, and there’s nothing I can do about it now, but still, I’m aware of it.

  “I love how colorful it is in here!” Yolanda says. She and Wyatt take the love seat opposite Sadie and me, and she casts an appreciative glance around. “We are surrounded by white walls. It’s so sterile, you know?”

  “How long have you lived in your house?” I ask.

  “Six years,” Wyatt says. “It was a gift from Yolanda’s parents.”

  “Not exactly a gift,” she corrects. “It’s my inheritance.”

  “Lucky ducks!” Doug calls out. It’s a rare social blunder, I think. Doesn’t inheritance imply both her parents are dead? But neither Yolanda nor Wyatt seem offended. Doug carries in three glasses of whiskey on a plastic cutting board. “Couldn’t find a serving tray,” he says apologetically. “Kat, do you want an iced tea or anything?”

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  After everyone has their drinks, Doug puts the cutting board on the floor and sits down next to me. He leans back, his arm across the width of the cushion, and he looks down at Sadie and up at me with a slow grin. I’m not used to this posture from Doug, his version of a manspread. But then I see that Wyatt is already sitting this way with Yolanda. The phrase social butterfly never quite fit Doug. He’s always been more of a social chameleon.

  “We should paint our house like this,” Yolanda says to Wyatt. “Bring in some color.”

  “Sure,” he answers amiably. “Color’s good.”

  Yolanda looks at Sadie. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more beautiful baby.”

  Then we’re off and running. We talk babies, while Wyatt and Doug talk whiskey, followed by the Golden State Warriors and the NBA playoffs. Doug must have given Yolanda a pretty stiff pour because she becomes confidential quickly. She tells me about multiple rounds of IVF before she was able to have their twins, who just turned two a few months ago.

  “Bran’s watching them now,” she says. “We tag team. I wanted to be a stay-at-home mom, but sometimes you just need a break. It can be exhausting, having two.” She runs her hand along the shaft of her hair, smoothing it.

  “I can only imagine. It’s exhausting having one.”

  “I used to be in pageants, if you can believe it.” This seems apropos of nothing except perhaps a sudden bout of insecurity. I’ve noticed that Wyatt is always touching her back or arm or shoulder like she needs constant validation.

  “I believe it.”

  “I’m talking way too much!” She indicates her empty glass and says, “I’m such a lightweight.” Then she laughs self-consciously. “That’s one term that doesn’t usually apply to me! Not anymore.”

  “I’ve put on weight, too, since having Sadie.”

  “You look great.” There’s a peculiar note of accusation in it, and I’m glad when she changes the subject. “I think about going back to work sometimes. Do you?”

  “I don’t just think about it. I am going. In about two months.” I feel a rush of sadness, looking down at my beautiful sleeping girl in my arms.

  “Part-time?”

  “No. Full.” To my surprise, I’m on the verge of tears.

  “Then don’t go!” Yolanda says sympathetically. She’s trying to help, but doesn’t she get that it’s not always a choice? For me, it’s a necessity. You’d think she’d realize that, since her husband is a police officer, not a finance guru like some of the other men on the block.

  “Kat’s a career woman,” Doug says. “That
’s always been true of her.” I don’t know how long he and Wyatt have been listening. His comment is intended as support, but I feel like there’s an undercurrent of him thinking I’m better at work than I am with Sadie. Sometimes I fear that myself.

  “Other women on the block work, too,” Wyatt says. “Tennyson runs that boutique on Main. It’s called Le Jardin. Have you been there?”

  At the mention of Tennyson, Yolanda’s expression hardens like cement.

  “We haven’t really been on Main yet,” Doug says.

  Wyatt rubs Yolanda’s arm as if it’s a lamp that might contain a genie. She won’t look at him.

  “We should head outside for dessert,” Wyatt says. “Yolanda makes these Nutella squares you won’t believe. No one eats just one.”

  “That does sound killer,” Doug says, with an overblown enthusiasm that tells me he’s sensed the sea change between Wyatt and Yolanda, too. He stands up. “You want me to handle Sadie’s diaper? You know I’ve got the magic touch. She won’t even wake up.” I hand her over, feeling suddenly exposed, like I’ve lost my security blanket.

  Yolanda gives me a high-wattage smile. “It’s been great getting to know you, Kat.”

  “You too,” I say, returning the smile.

  “Thanks for the booze,” Wyatt says, “and the talk.”

  “It’s so good to have people like you on the block,” Yolanda says, fixing her gaze on Doug and then on me in turn. “You know, normal people.”

  What were Nils and Ilsa?

  Yolanda and Wyatt walk out, and I want to wilt back into the couch. We came, we saw, we conquered. I avoided any major social faux pas. That’s enough for one day.

  Doug carries Sadie upstairs to the changing table, and though he does have a talent for minimal jostling, she wakes up with a wail anyway. I hear him soothing her expertly. He’s just the dad I hoped he would be, and I think I always sensed that and was attracted to it from the first time we got together, even before I knew that I wanted to be a mom myself.