Neighborly

by Ellie Monago

  “Are you a stay-at-home mom, Katrina?” Andie asks.

  “Please, call me Kat. And not exactly. I’m still on maternity leave.” I look at Sadie, feeling the anticipatory pang of leaving her. I’m grateful that she’s so content with her banging, that she’s not on the verge of one of her inconsolable outbursts, though it occurs to me that I haven’t had anything to eat yet myself. I’ve been too nervous about how I’m coming off.

  I overcorrect again, filling the gold-rimmed plate with far too much of everything.

  “What work do you do?” Nolan says.

  “I’m an assistant provost.”

  “What exactly is a provost?” He’s smiling at me, and my stomach curdles, though he’s being perfectly nice. There’s nothing inappropriate in the question or in his manner.

  I detail my duties overseeing the admissions process, trying to capture how stimulating it actually can be. There’s something about that stage of young people’s lives, when they’re so full of promise and the thirst of competition—I love it. Well, I used to love it. I don’t know how that version of myself will jibe with whoever it is I’ve become.

  Nolan is nodding politely. I’m not getting it across. I was a communicator in my other life, pre-Sadie. In work, I was always so sure of myself. Lately, I falter. But that’s why I need to get out more. Nights like this are important before I go back to the office.

  “That does sound fascinating,” Andie says. “I’m just home with Fisher. And I volunteer. I’m a member of different boards. It sounds so frivolous, doesn’t it? But I’m fulfilled, mostly. That’s the weirdest part.”

  “What did you used to do?”

  Nolan and Andie exchange a glance so quickly that I think maybe I imagined it. “I was an art history major.”

  “Then she met me,” Nolan says.

  There’s more of a story there, but neither of them seems eager to tell it, which is notable, since they’d offered up Fisher’s adoption tale so readily. But who doesn’t have more of a story than they want to tell?

  “Where did you two meet?” Andie asks.

  “Online,” I answer.

  “On Tinder?” Andie says, teasing.

  “We’re old school. Pre-app.” Doug smiles at me. “But I would have swiped right for her.”

  I smile back. On Match.com, I had checked the box for casual dating, wanting companionship, not at all equipped for intimacy, and Doug had checked the box for serious relationship. But he changed my mind. I’d never thought I’d be the marrying kind, let alone the mothering kind, and yet here I am, courtesy of him. He made me want both. No, more than that, he made me believe I could be good at both.

  Not that I want to go into any of that. “The walnut pomegranate spread is phenomenal.”

  Nolan slides the serving platter down. “Please. Have more.”

  “Gina and Oliver met online, too.” Andie sips her wine. “I think he used to be a real player.”

  “Which people are those?” Doug asks. “I’m not sure I met them.”

  “He’s tall and thin. Graying mustache—”

  “He looks exactly like John Waters,” Nolan interrupts. “It’s uncanny.”

  “And their house is impeccable.”

  If Andie is calling someone’s house impeccable, I don’t even want to imagine. “Gina’s the one whose hair is shaped like a mushroom,” I say.

  Andie lets out a peal of delighted laughter. “It totally is!”

  “She’s going to girls’ night, right?” I query.

  “She’s a regular.”

  “Are you a regular?” Doug says to Andie. “I need to know more about this cult that’s recruiting my wife.”

  “Andie’s not a regular,” Nolan answers. “It’s a very—how do I put it?—selective group.”

  And they haven’t selected Andie? I want to know what that says about them, or about her, but there’s no tactful way to ask.

  “I didn’t know we were surrounded by snobs,” Doug says. “But you can’t tell everything from one block party.”

  “No, it’s not like that.” Andie is directing her comments at me. “They’re all great. Every last one of them. Tennyson, June, Yolanda, Gina, Raquel—you couldn’t ask for better neighbors. We’re going to have so much fun on Thursday.”

  If they’re all great, and Andie’s clearly great, then why isn’t she a regular?

  “Which one’s Raquel?” Doug says. “Is her hair shaped like a bell pepper?”

  Then we’re all laughing and talking, like old friends. It’s nearly perfect.

  Except halfway through the main course, when I finally realize who Nolan reminds me of, and I lose my appetite completely.

  CHAPTER 7

  You have 15 new posts from your GoodNeighbors!

  What’s the best weed whacker?

  Lost corgi named Bamboo

  Free outdoor pizza oven

  Never mind, I found Bamboo! Thanks for the outpouring!

  Any recommendations for home day cares?

  That last one is me.

  It’s 1:49 a.m.

  I haven’t been able to fall asleep. I just keep replaying the dinner in my mind. I like Andie so much. It’s painful to think that I won’t be able to be her friend, just because I can’t stomach her husband.

  Maybe I can just avoid him. There are girlfriends, and then there are couple friends. Andie and I can be the former.

  Unfortunately, though, Doug likes both Nolan and Andie. I don’t really see how I can just cut him out of the equation, not without revealing parts of my past that I intend to keep hidden.

  And honestly, it’s not Nolan’s fault. I don’t want to hold a vague resemblance against him. It feels bigoted somehow. But I can’t have a relationship that’s like one long PTSD flashback.

  Hey there! No recommendations, but I can tell you a few horror stories. Places to avoid. The kind where they let the kids fall asleep in car seats and Rock ’n Plays. Total deathtraps.

  That response is from Yolanda. I hadn’t even realized she was on GoodNeighbors. I never got a welcome message from her.

  I asked Andie about childcare, and of course, she has a nanny. She offered information on the agency she used and I took it, even though there’s no way we can afford that kind of luxury. We can’t even afford a childcare center. It’s home day cares all the way for us.

  Andie’s out of my league. She and Nolan are out of our league, both Doug’s and mine. That, I decide, is why we can’t take the friendship any further. “Can you picture them eating in Crayola?” I’ll say to Doug. “It’s ludicrous.” We can just stick with our own kind.

  Who would that leave, in this neighborhood?

  “I hope it’s OK that we’re just stopping by.” Raquel has Meadow in her arms again, just like at the block party, and Meadow has her thumb in her mouth as she regards me with surprisingly dull eyes for a toddler. “I didn’t have your number to text you.”

  “It’s fine,” I say. “It’s good to see you. Do you want to come in?” I’m still in my pajamas and bare feet and, I realize, no bra. I cross my arms over my chest. Sadie is lying on the floor on her play mat, various plastic animals dangling above her along a stuffed nylon arch. She tries to grasp them, but they’re out of her reach, which fortunately seems to make her more determined than frustrated.

  “What she doing?” Meadow lisps around her thumb.

  “Reaching,” I say, wondering if there’s a better way to explain it. Meadow seems satisfied.

  Once they’re inside, Raquel doesn’t put Meadow down. They remain intertwined as Raquel perches on a love seat.

  “It’s cute in here,” Raquel says.

  “It’s a work in progress, but I feel like it’s going to be really nice. Homey.”

  She smiles at me. “It already is. Homey.”

  I smile back. “Thanks.”

  “We were about to go to the park. Do you and Sadie want to join us?”

  I hesitate. Raquel’s so nice, but I’m just not really in the mood
for getting-to-know-you small talk. It feels like work.

  No, it’s an investment. If I want a new kind of life, I have to be willing to put in the effort. With her brown lawn, Raquel might make a lot more sense as a friend than Andie does.

  “Let me get dressed. I’ll just be a minute.” I snatch Sadie up off her mat, and she bursts into tears. Meadow’s eyes widen in fascination.

  We go upstairs, and I grab a pacifier for Sadie. “Sorry,” I tell her. “Last-minute change of plans.” Her eyes regard me warily as I get her into a fresh diaper and clothes, but at least she’s sucking instead of crying. I put on her sunscreen with long, deep strokes, turning it into a baby massage, and her eyes close in pleasure.

  I don’t really like being in Sadie’s room. For one thing, it reminds me that we’re more separate than we used to be. For another, even though I chose the color purple, my mother-in-law insisted on choosing everything else, and I couldn’t stop her. I can’t stop her from doing anything, really. So there are preppy plaids and ginghams, matching curtains and valance and shams and trash can. Doug tells me it’s a small price to pay, but sometimes when I’m in here, it still chafes.

  I don’t normally leave Sadie tethered to the changing table, but it’s just this once, while I dash into my room and put on clothes. Still, I forgo washing my face. I decide toothbrushing is a necessity, with a new potential friend, and then I stick a sun hat on in lieu of sunscreen. It has the added benefit of covering my messy hair.

  I bring Sadie back downstairs. Raquel says, “Meadow never got into pacifiers. It’s been all thumb her whole life.”

  “It must be a hard habit to break.”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t tried. She’s always been young for her age, if you know what I mean. She’s going to start half-day preschool in the fall.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Three. Her birthday’s in February.”

  So that means she’s almost three and a half. I’m startled, though I hope it doesn’t show. It’s not just that Meadow’s behavior appears to be that of a younger child; it’s also that Meadow is so physically underdeveloped.

  She’s not skinny, with spindly limbs; rather, it’s the opposite. Her cheeks are too full, and her belly protrudes in that way of toddlers who’ve not yet been reduced by movement. She’s built like a child at least a full year younger. It’s concerning, almost like Meadow has failed to thrive. Yet Raquel seemed so matter-of-fact.

  But maybe she’s already spoken to her pediatrician, and Meadow’s on medication, or in therapy, or whatever they do for kids who are developmentally delayed. Maybe it’s just about patiently waiting for Meadow to catch up. I’m glad that Raquel doesn’t seem embarrassed by Meadow, that she’s not transmitting any sort of shame to her child. Raquel’s matter-of-factness could be a sign that she’s highly evolved. She’s obviously a very loving mom. Meadow barely leaves her arms.

  Besides appearing younger than her age, Meadow is the most physically ordinary child I’ve ever seen. She has fine brown hair up in a ponytail, brown eyes, medium-toned skin, and undistinguished features. If she stays this way, she’ll be well suited to a life of crime. No witness would ever be able to describe her to a sketch artist. Kind of like Raquel, come to think of it, who’s also wearing a ponytail and those wire-rimmed frames of hers, like granny glasses.

  Raquel puts Meadow on the ground, and Meadow whimpers. Raquel leans in and whispers for a little while, until Meadow brightens. Then they clasp hands, and we all head for the door. I have Sadie’s diaper bag slung around me, messenger-style, and I carry her folded-up stroller down the front steps. It used to seem like the biggest production in the world, a deterrent to casual activities, an easy excuse to stay inside where it’s cozy and safe. But I’m turning a corner in the AV. Well, trying to.

  On the pavement, I get her into the stroller, and we’re off. I’m full of an inexplicable joy at this most simple of excursions, perhaps because it’s so simple. It’s just a trip to the park a few blocks away with a new friend and her little one, the first of many.

  The residential streets are built around an emerald quad. There’s a baseball diamond, a soccer field, and tennis courts. The playground is a marvel, with different fenced areas for kids of varying ages and equipment ranging from the classic S triumvirate (swings, seesaws, slides) to the high-tech (geometric shapes anchored by complicated ropes and pulleys, a cross between a playground and an art installation). Much of it is under brightly colored canopies to protect the kids from the sun, lending a circus feel to the proceedings, while the parents can sit beneath long stone gazebos with mosaic tile benches.

  We head for the sandbox. Raquel removes her shoes and I do the same, wiggling my toes in sand that hasn’t yet been warmed by the sun. I dressed Sadie in layers, in true Bay Area fashion. I’m in just a T-shirt and shorts, and I shiver a little.

  “Where did you move from?” Raquel asks.

  “We were living in Oakland.”

  “That’s where I grew up. Right off International Boulevard.”

  I wouldn’t have imagined that she’d spent her childhood in one of the more dangerous neighborhoods in Oakland (a city that also has some insanely expensive ones, stratified and gentrified). If I’d grown up off International Boulevard, I might not volunteer it so readily, worrying that it would cause people to revise their opinion of me in some way I couldn’t predict or control. I envy her fearlessness, that she can just present the facts of her life so—well, matter-of-factly.

  “Yeah, East Oakland’s as good as you’ve heard,” she deadpans. “But awesome Mexican food. And the pawn shops?” She mimes an expression of heavenly delight. We both laugh. “Bart grew up there, too. We looked after each other.”

  Meadow is staring at Raquel, like she’s in a trance, while Sadie is ignoring me completely, dredging her arms through the sand in fascination.

  “And no,” Raquel says, “Bart isn’t short for anything. He was actually named after the BART train—as in, Bay Area Rapid Transit—which tells you a little something about his parents.” I don’t know what it says when you name your kid after transportation, so she explains. “His mom was a drug addict. She was still on heroin when he was born, so she couldn’t think all that clearly. It was at Children’s Hospital in Oakland, and she looked outside her window and the BART tracks were right there to help her out.”

  Not sure how to respond, I parrot, “Heroin?”

  “She was a trailblazer. I mean, now heroin’s an epidemic but back then, in that neighborhood, crack was king.”

  Raquel is not what I expected. Not at all. When I first met her, I thought she was sweet and childlike. And in her delivery, she is, but there’s steel behind it. She’s seen a lot, and apparently, so has Bart. But he looks like a guy who’s been around, whereas she has a quality that makes you want to protect her. Maybe that’s how Bart feels about her, or used to feel about her. It sure didn’t look that way at the party.

  “What does Bart do?” I say.

  “He has a construction business.”

  Construction. Of course. He could bury all the bodies in the cement foundations. Does he have unusually neat handwriting?

  I’m being ridiculous. I haven’t received a note in a couple of days. I need to focus on what’s ahead of me, not what’s behind.

  “Did you grow up in Oakland?” Raquel asks.

  “No.” I prefer not to say more.

  “Where, then?”

  “Haines.”

  She furrows her brow, like she’s heard the name somewhere. “That sounds familiar.”

  “It’s not far. Just along 880, near Newark and Union City.”

  The furrow becomes a full ridge. “Haines is famous for something, right?”

  “Not really.” I hope she doesn’t Google it later. “It’s a pretty ordinary, middle-class kind of a place.” I don’t need to mention that there’s a poor part of town, which is where my mother and I lived. “By now, though, who knows? The way gentrification’s going
in the Bay Area, those could be million-dollar houses.”

  “It’s crazy.” She shakes her head. “And sad. So many people being driven out.”

  “Really sad.”

  “Meadow, why don’t you go climb over there?” Raquel gestures toward a metal parabola that’s not more than three feet off the ground at its apex. We’re in the infant/toddler section. “She loves that.”

  It’s hard to imagine Meadow loving anything, other than Raquel. There’s just something so careful about her. Raquel and Bart must have grown up having to watch their backs, and even though they moved to a place where you should never have to look over your shoulder, their only child retains some of that awareness. I’m hoping that won’t be true of Sadie. It doesn’t look like it so far. She’s already more of an explorer than Meadow, examining each grain of sand as it trickles through her fingers. Growing up, I had no real sense of home (unless you count Ellen’s), but I want that for Sadie, so much. And I suddenly realize: I want it for me, too, for the little kid I used to be. The one I could have been.

  Meadow is shaking her head convulsively.

  “Meadow,” Raquel says. “Go.” The emphatic shaking continues. “I’ll walk her over, and then she’ll be fine.” She takes Meadow’s hand, and Meadow obediently accompanies her toward the small climbing structure. Sadie’s been sitting between my legs, and I reach to pull her into my lap, wanting a dose of nearness, but she lets out a wail. She values her independence, even if it’s only a few inches, and looking at Meadow, I see that I need to encourage that, in any form.

  Raquel returns a minute later, and I see that Meadow is now sitting on the top of the structure, watching Raquel retreat.

  Raquel says, over her shoulder, “Climb, Meadow!” and Meadow does, but joylessly. Within a few minutes, she’s running back. “OK, Momma?” she asks.