by Ellie Monago
I’d logged out of Visa, but I’m still logged into Homestore, and almost against my will I find myself clicking on my wish lists, room by room (though “Outside” isn’t technically a room). For such a small house, our yard is large, and it’s in need of mowing and weeding. That’s on the TD/TB/TI list, too. Someday, I’d like to be able to buy the child-safe fire pit I’ve saved to my list, and some furniture to surround it. A bistro table and chairs for the deck, for sure. A hammock. A papasan chair. That’s the life we’re going to have—where we relax, and we entertain legions, with kids and dogs running around, chasing bubbles until their satisfying pop.
Doug wanted us to have more people over when we still lived in our apartment. He has plenty of friends that he doesn’t get to see nearly enough. But I didn’t want to entertain; I just wanted to be with him, drinking fifteen-dollar cocktails in ambient bars and restaurants to put me in the mood. I didn’t even like the bartenders to recognize us, so we rotated. Not being known is one of the best parts of city life, as far as I’m concerned.
But that was then; this is now. Doug and I are no longer a couple. There are already three of us. So, the more the merrier, that’s supposed to be my new motto.
I keep trying to put my anxiety over the notes to rest, but it continues to surface. It’s probably because I have so much trouble resting, myself. If only I could sleep, the world would look so different.
I close my eyes, and I see the handwriting. It’s so neat. That’s a person who means what she says, who could wreak systematic havoc on someone, if she so chose.
There’s nothing overtly feminine in the handwriting. Yet I can’t help thinking that caring about violated garbage cans and writing catty anonymous messages is something only a woman would do, that it’s a particularly female strain of domestic passive-aggression. Maybe it’s because the professional world feels a million miles away right now, because I spend my days sweating what I know to be the small stuff, while Doug—i.e. men—is off immersing himself in masculine productivity. At least, that’s how it is in the AV, where it seems like Tennyson is the only one with a job outside the home.
Has motherhood paradoxically turned me sexist?
Consciously, I know Doug isn’t working harder than me. Being a stay-at-home mom is far more taxing than any other job I’ve held. And what’s more important for society than raising a child well? Somehow, though, my daily life feels insignificant, my tasks like that of a worker ant scurrying back and forth, holding a single crumb aloft.
The truth of it is, sometimes I don’t know who I am anymore. Without the accoutrements and accessories of my former life, without all that was automatic and assumed, without the tether of familiar routines, I’m unmoored. I grab on to Sadie and I hold her tight because otherwise, I might just drift off into open water.
I’m so tired of worrying—about being a good mom, about fitting in, about the stupid notes. I’d love to wake Doug up right now and have him reassure me that I’m doing a great job and it’ll all turn out fine. Better than fine. We’re AVers now.
I tell myself the things he might say, but they ring hollow. I head for the stairs. It’s time for me to ’fess up about the notes and be reassured.
But something stops me before I reach the first step. It’s an old friend. Shame. I’m ashamed that I brought the notes on myself and ashamed that I’m getting myself so worked up. Doug has always thought I’m a little bit fragile because of my childhood, and he doesn’t know the half of it. Doesn’t know an eighth of it.
Dr. Morrison heartily disagreed, but a part of me still feels like I brought things on myself with Layton, too. In sessions, she encouraged me to call him Layton. Not Mr. Layton, like I was used to calling him in class. Or Steve, like I called him outside of it. Just Layton, my abuser. “A pedophile,” she said. I didn’t want to disappoint her, but I couldn’t attach that word to him. I still can’t.
I do what I always do when thoughts of Layton rise to the surface: I make myself busy.
Settling back on the love seat, I check my e-mail. The top one is from something called GoodNeighbors.net:
Andie Praeger invited you to join!
Andie’s up at this hour, too? I would never have guessed, based on her visage at the block party. She looks like a woman who gets her beauty sleep.
I click “Yes” on the invitation. Instantly, another e-mail appears:
Register now to find out what your neighbors are up to!
We’re going to Andie’s house tonight, so I feel obligated to start the sign-up process. I don’t want to reject her this early in our relationship.
I click around GoodNeighbors, getting a flavor for it. People are talking to strangers—correction: neighbors—about sheds they need built, the best piano teacher for a three-year-old, a free bicycle that just needs a new front tire, how to plant tulips, and where they can find a nontoxic dry cleaner. It’s all stuff I would have turned to Google, Yelp, or Craigslist for, but this is about going local and building a community. There are potlucks and more block parties coming up. Girl Scout cookies are being sold on the corner of Vine and Bowdoin. “We’re new to town and have a five-year-old. Anyone going to the park today?” is a typical message. People are hungry for connection, in a wholesome, 1950s way. It’s not quite city because of how trusting everyone seems and not quite suburbia because people actually walk and know their neighbors, and because Main Street has only local businesses, no chains allowed. It’s trans-urban, like Gina said, a high-tech Mayberry.
I haven’t even uploaded any kind of profile, and the messages are already pouring in:
Ty and Linda welcome you to the neighborhood!
Brandon and Stone welcome you to the neighborhood!
Which one’s up, Brandon or Stone?
June welcomes you to the neighborhood!
June next door? We’re a block full of insomniacs. Is there something in the water?
Garrett and Maya welcome you to the neighborhood!
And of course:
Andie and Nolan welcome you to the neighborhood!
GoodNeighbors wants me to introduce myself. I should say where I’m from, why I moved here, what my interests are. I’m exhorted to upload a pic.
Since Sadie came along, my photos are of the two of us, and I’m not especially pleased with how I look in any of them. I don’t have any recent pictures of Doug and me (who would take them, Sadie?). And I’m not the selfie type.
I think about uploading a picture of Sadie alone, but would that make it seem like I’m uncomfortable with my appearance or obsessed with my daughter or both? It could say that I have no identity outside of her. Besides, it could give potential predators ideas—predators who’d know, vaguely, where we live.
I skip that step and fill in the text bubble. Since Andie’s the one who recruited me, I don’t want to reflect poorly on her, if anyone can see our linkage.
Hi, neighbors! My husband, Doug, and I just moved here with our new baby. Can’t wait to meet everyone!
It couldn’t be more bland and really, two exclamation points in three sentences? But at least it won’t give too much away or offend anyone. It’s the Hippocratic Oath of the new neighbor: first do no harm.
Immediately, my mind goes to the one person who’s not afraid to tell me that I’ve done harm.
But that’s one person, and I’ve got a whole neighborhood welcoming me with open arms. My generic profile message has already garnered twelve likes. I have girls’ night out on Thursday. Andie stopped by the block party just to invite us to dinner.
I wish that last bit soothed me, but I feel the opposite. Andie’s overtures make me nervous. She seems like the kind of person who’d already have a life (over)populated with friends. So why is she pursuing me?
CHAPTER 6
I can’t believe I’m about to knock on the recessed door of this massive stone Tudor. In grays and browns, with tall, narrow, multipaned windows, it actually has side gables. You could fit five of our house inside, comfortably. But
it’s not just about the fact that Andie and Nolan have so much more money than we do. It’s that they’re in a different developmental stage altogether. This is a house where adults live.
We, on the other hand, live in Crayola.
Doug thinks of our new home as a member of the family, and he insisted it should have a name. He likes naming things, in general. So I told him to go for it, and he did, and now . . . Crayola was the obvious choice, given our primary color scheme.
I want to tell him not to call it that in front of Nolan and Andie, but I can just imagine the hurt that would shoot across his face. Besides, there’s something incredibly sweet about the pride he takes in saying each morning before he leaves for work, “See you back at Crayola?”
When we first got married, he never just said, “This is Katrina.” No, it was, “This is my wife, Kat.” He was proud of me, the way I’m proud to present Sadie. It’s one of his most endearing aspects.
“What’s going on?” he asks, sensing my hesitation.
“We’re just such small potatoes.”
“The Praegers are big potatoes. King Spuds.”
That’s a name that will stick, I can tell. “See you at the King Spuds’!” he’ll call out. That’s if we make it to a second hangout. The night is still young.
Noticing my fidgeting, Doug tells me, “You look great.”
I don’t know that I believe him, but it gets me to ring the bell. Andie opens the door immediately, like she’s been waiting just inside for us.
The whole place is filled with this almost religiously golden light, reflecting off the yellow walls, as if we’re entering a monastery. The entryway flows into the living room, and there’s mahogany wood everywhere—the floors, the railing, the exposed beams. The living room has an imposing brick fireplace at its center. There are orange velvet wing chairs and a green velvet sofa, heavy draperies and what has to be a real Persian rug. I’m not sure I like it, but you can’t help but respect it. This is a serious house.
You wouldn’t know that a baby lives here, except in the living room, where I see the same vibrating chair from our house (so they shop at Target, too!). They also have one of those Jumperoos we’ve been meaning to get. Both look laughably out of place.
I finally realize that Andie’s been talking, and fortunately, Doug’s been talking back. She ushers us inside.
Andie’s even more petite than I remembered, dressed casually in jeans and a brightly patterned button-down shirt. She’s holding Fisher in her arms. He’s in a striped Sleep & Play that has a touch of Rikers Island to it. She’s got some sort of orange puree (carrot? sweet potato?) in her thick strawberry-blonde hair. She’s a hands-on parent, apparently, though she doesn’t have to be, and that makes me warm up to her and let my guard down. That, and her smile. She’s freckled and dimpled and despite her house, there’s something down-to-earth about her.
Sadie is gazing at Andie with fascination. I give her chin a wipe with the burp cloth.
Fisher has begun to squirm in Andie’s arms. He’s a blocky kid, with dark eyes, very little hair, and surprisingly brutish features for a baby, like Andie’s got a future schoolyard bully on her hands.
Nolan walks in. He’s short, five seven or so, and older than Andie. She looks my age, midthirties, and I’d peg him as midforties at the youngest. He’s dressed identically to Doug: North Face fleece, jeans, and high-tech running shoes. They both start laughing. I can’t help noticing that Doug is much better looking and a good five inches taller. “Can I get you two anything? Coffee, tea, Perrier, beer, wine?” Nolan offers. “We’ve got a great Pinot. We bought a case of it on our last trip to Napa.”
“No, thanks,” I say.
Andie is making faces at Sadie, who is giggling. Sadie never calms down unless something has stopped or started; something has to change. Like when Andie takes her attention off her and she lets out a sudden, windowpane-rattling cry. Her face turns crimson, fast. It’s the flip side of that peaches-and-cream complexion.
“She might need to eat,” Doug says. He looks at his watch casually. “How long’s it been?”
“Can you get the bottle out of her diaper bag, please?” Sadie is screaming, eyes bulging. It’s like we’ve never fed her before. It’s that way every time. I shift her in my arms and coo, even as I know it won’t work. Only the bottle will do. Still, I want them to see that I’m a loving mother. The first hangout is always an audition.
Doug hands the bottle to me, and Sadie wraps her lips around it, eyelids drooping dramatically. “You’re not breastfeeding, either?” Andie asks me.
“She’s drinking my milk. But she never latched.”
“So you pump all her milk?” As I nod, Andie smiles at me. “Good for you. That takes a lot of discipline. I’d miss my wine too much.”
“Not that she has the option,” Nolan says. “Fisher’s adopted.” He looks at Fisher fondly, like an especially good acquisition. I don’t know why I thought that. There’s nothing overtly objectionable about Nolan. He just reminds me of someone. I can’t place who, but it’s unsettling. “Why don’t we relocate?”
Andie smacks her head. “Sorry about that. I’ve got you feeding your daughter in the foyer. Follow me.”
We trail her to the dining room. It’s through a doorway that’s limned in mahogany, framed like a picture. There’s a casement window and persimmon-colored draperies left open to reveal brighter light than the other parts of the house we’ve glimpsed. There’s a long, narrow antique table with eight chairs upholstered the pale-green color of sea grass.
“Jesus, that’s beautiful,” I blurt.
Andie grins. “This is actually my favorite room.”
“Andie did the decorating herself,” Nolan says. “With some consultation.” She had an interior designer, is what he probably means. But who cares? It’s still Andie’s vision that I love.
The table is laid out with a lavish spread, all sorts of crackers, cheeses, olives, and dips, of which I can only recognize hummus. Nolan starts to point and name things like “walnut pomegranate,” but I’m transfixed by the kitchen beyond. It’s immense, with vintage red-painted cabinets, a random plank wood floor, and an enormous kitchen island, and it has the most amazing ceiling I’ve ever seen: a series of sunken square panels, each made out of a different species of wood with its own unique patinas.
“What do you call that?” I ask, pointing upward. I suddenly feel the weight of Sadie in my arms. I’m startled to realize I’d forgotten her. I don’t even usually care about architecture.
“It’s a coffered ceiling, made of reclaimed wood,” Andie says. “The dining room is my favorite room, but that ceiling is my favorite thing in the whole house.” She smiles at me, and I smile back, like we’re kindred spirits. I haven’t felt that way about a friend since Ellen, and I was six years old when Ellen and I met. Sometimes I think I would have deeply loved anyone I met at that period of my life, before anything bad had happened to me, when I was so open to the world that I would have imprinted on any child just like ducklings do.
Andie pours the Perrier for me, and she, Doug, and Nolan share the bottle of Napa Pinot. We all settle down at the table. Andie puts a high chair for Fisher at one end and a guest high chair for Sadie at the other.
Never one to hold back, Doug makes it clear that he has just been served the greatest wine that man or nature has ever created. I try not to feel resentful as I sip my water. Sadie is banging her fists on the tray of the high chair with glee, while Fisher sits solemnly in his.
“What was the adoption process like?” Somehow, from Doug, the question doesn’t seem invasive.
“Stressful, and then exhilarating,” Andie says.
“We flew around the country and got grilled and waited to be chosen.” Nolan sounds affable enough on the surface, but I sense an undertone. He isn’t used to waiting for anything; he’s typically the one asking the questions.
“We got close three different times,” Andie says. “We were the runners-up. It make
s you wonder, ‘What did we do wrong? Why not us?’ And then you try to change that the next time, and sometimes you overcorrect. You overcompensate.” She looks at Nolan. “Am I saying too much?”
Nolan says to Doug and me, “She tends to talk a lot when she meets new people.”
Doug nods with complete understanding. “Kat clams up.”
My face ignites. Now I have to speak up and prove him wrong. “You were telling us about the adoption?”
“Oh, right,” Andie says, like she’s grateful that I kept her on track. “So, it was getting discouraging and tiring, all that flying around the country, trying to impress, and then we met Fisher’s parents when we just didn’t have it in us to put on a show.”
“And that won them over,” I say. Now I’m overcorrecting, talking too much. Doug is, as usual, being the consummate listener—leaning in just enough, making Andie feel like she’s the most fascinating woman he’s ever encountered.
“No,” Andie answers. “The other couple fell through, and we got a call from the adoption worker months later, while Fisher’s mother was in labor—”
“I pick up the phone,” Nolan interjects, “and there’s Danielle from New Connections: ‘You’re about to be a father.’ Andie and I had three hours to kiss our old lives goodbye before we got on the plane.”
“Wow,” Doug says. “If it were me, those three hours would include a lot of sex and alcohol and dancing naked and eating Cheetos.” Laughs all around.
“Were you spying on us?” Andie asks. Everyone laughs again.
It occurs to me that we’re all just waiting to be chosen for something, all wanting to find out that we’re good enough. It’s comforting to know that even with all their resources, the King Spuds aren’t immune. And then Andie says, “Nine months of that roller coaster. I guess we can’t complain. It’s the normal gestation period, isn’t it?”
It’s not the normal gestation period for a domestic adoption, I know that. I’ve heard people wait years for a white newborn. I think of all those people languishing on the adoption rolls while Nolan and Andie just slid through. But then, it probably wasn’t just a rough nine months for them. It was most likely years of trying and maybe infertility treatments. You never know other people’s struggles. They can’t tell mine, looking at me. At least, I hope they can’t.