Right Next Door

by Leah Montgomery

  “If the neighbors are cooking meth or running a chop shop, no, but otherwise…”

  “It’s called being observant and aware. Responsible.”

  “It’s called being nosey.”

  “You say tomato.”

  John always walks away shaking his head. Marcy always smiles as she watches him go. It’s a quirk of their marriage, but Marcy doesn’t mind it. John has always been patient and kind and supportive of her, no matter how bad things get. From Marcy’s perspective, that earns him some latitude.

  “So, do you two have kids?” Marcy asks. She’s nothing if not direct.

  Jill gazes up at her husband. “One beautiful child. Our daughter, Cheyenne.”

  “How old is she?”

  “She’s almost three. How about you two?”

  “We have a daughter, too. Caroline. She’ll be five in a few months.”

  “That’s perfect. Built in playmates.” Jill’s expression seems more relaxed now. Maybe she’s just nervous around strangers.

  “Yes, built in playmates.” Marcy doesn’t go into detail about how that will never happen. Jill will learn of Caroline’s limitations soon enough.

  “Great, well, we’ve kept you long enough. I hope you enjoy the muffins.”

  “I’m sure we will. Thanks again for sharing them.”

  Jill and Mark turn toward the door. Before they step through it, Jill sends a sweet smile over her shoulder to Marcy. “Our pleasure, neighbor.”

  “Stop by any time,” Marcy offers as the couple disappears. She waits a few seconds before pivoting toward her husband. “Well, they seem nice enough.” John says nothing, only quirks one brow. “What?”

  “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No complaints, observations, deductions?”

  Marcy shrugs. “I’ll give it another visit or two before I make any judgments.”

  “Of course you will,” he says, wrapping his arms around his wife’s waist. “You’ll have to do some more investigating first, won’t you?”

  “Of course I will. Because I’m a responsible adult. You know as well as I do that you can fool the devil, but you can’t fool the neighbors. And we are the neighbors.”

  Marcy hears John’s laugh as he makes his way back to the ladder they’d abandoned a few minutes earlier.

  Chapter Three

  Hot.

  So hot.

  Those were my first conscious thoughts.

  The air was stifling. It seemed hotter than my own breath. It was suffocating me. A rivulet of sweat crawled from my temple down into my hair. I’d never understood how people could sleep in extreme heat.

  Not me. I needed air conditioning.

  Speaking of AC, what happened to ours? Did it break and Gabe just didn’t tell me?

  Wait. Was it even summer?

  The heat melted my thoughts. Turned them into a confusing puddle. Like a scoop of Neopolitan ice cream on hot July pavement.

  Details like those—the time of year, the state of my home—should’ve come immediately to mind. Those answers should’ve come easily. Automatically. But they didn’t. They were dark and distant. Just out of reach. They were flirting with me from somewhere far away. Teasing and hazy. Like giggling children hiding in a dense morning fog. I could almost catch a glimpse of them.

  Almost.

  I was so sluggish. I felt exhausted. Half drunk.

  Was I drunk? Had I been at a party? Attended a wedding? Had a couple too many rum and Cokes?

  For the second time, no answer came. It was like the last hours—or days—had been strategically erased. Wiped away. My recent memory was just…blank.

  I tried to open my eyes, but my lids felt particularly uncooperative. I paused. Licked my lips. My tongue felt dry. Fuzzy. Oh, I was definitely hung over. I was nursing a major case of cottonmouth. Only one cure for that, but getting to it would mean moving. Not a thought I currently relished.

  I rolled back the clock to my college days. In situations like these, it was important to follow a very specific protocol. Something my dorm-mate and best friend, Lauren, had introduced me to freshman year. After I’d done it wrong a few times first, of course. Much to her amusement.

  The key was to start small and work your way up. The steps were simple.

  One, roll over.

  Pause.

  Make sure you don’t have to puke.

  If you don’t, good. If you do…well, then at least you’re already on your side.

  Two, take a couple of deep breaths.

  Three, slowly open your eyes.

  Check for spinning.

  Recheck for the need to puke.

  If both were negative, proceed cautiously to step four.

  Four, try sitting up.

  If you could make it that far without dying, puking or passing out, it was safe to assume you’d successfully survived the night.

  And so I started.

  Step one.

  I rolled gently onto my side. I didn’t have to pause and check for the need to vomit. It was on me immediately and without question. Like being slapped with seasickness before you even stepped foot on the boat.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. Held perfectly still. Swallowed, swallowed, swallowed until the wave of nausea passed.

  In the quiet, I reminded myself to chastise Gabe for letting me drink so much. Surely I was with him. I just couldn’t see me getting shitfaced in the presence of anyone without my husband.

  A minute or two later, I tried to open my eyes again. They cracked the tiniest bit. Saw nothing. But even that simple movement sent a knife through my skull and a cattle prod into my salivary glands. Spit gushed into my mouth. I gulped it down as fast I could. Tried to outmaneuver the surge of bile that was climbing up the back of my throat.

  No dice.

  Everything that was in my stomach, whatever that happened to be, came rocketing out. I couldn’t stop it. It just…happened.

  I heaved. Long after my guts were empty. Heaved until my ribs ached. And by the time I was done, I felt boneless. Even more exhausted.

  God, I hated hangovers. I was far, far, far too old for this crap.

  Age had its benefits, though. With age came wisdom.

  I decided to do the smart thing and wait. Wait before giving the four steps another shot. In the meantime, I took a quick inventory of my body.

  I was naked. Which was odd.

  I moved my legs. Shifted them into a marginally more comfortable position. Noticed some dampness between them. Along the tops of my thighs.

  Good God Almighty, did I pee myself?

  Maybe that was how I wound up naked. That would explain it, because I’d stopped sleeping in the nude when Dalton was born. There are just some things a kid shouldn’t see and, in my opinion, a naked parent was one of them. I could only imagine how traumatized I’d have been if I’d gone to my parents’ room for comfort in the middle of the night, and climbed into bed to find them nude. That’s the stuff psychiatrists make a living off of. Me? I’d like to raise my kid with as few scars as possible, thank you very much.

  Okay, so I was naked. Maybe it was because I’d had an accident. Or maybe it was because of the heat. I mean, it was pretty damn hot. And stripping…well, that sounded plausible, because the air… Dear Lord, it had to be a hundred degrees, and more stagnant than any I’d ever felt. It was no wonder I couldn’t handle anything on my skin. I wasn’t even under the sheet, for goodness sake.

  Speaking of sheets…

  I wiggled my fingers. Didn’t feel any sheets. Anywhere. At all. Didn’t feel the bed either, for that matter.

  I was lying on something hard. Smooth. Very unforgiving. My right hipbone started to protest. They were too old for this, too.

  Where the hell had I fallen asleep, a damn parking lot?

  The question strolled through my mind slowly. Kind of like a couple of Regency era debutantes in the movies. You know the ones, with the corsets and frilly umbrellas, meandering through Hyde Park, ey
eballing all the eligible bachelors? There wasn’t one bit of hurry or urgency to it. Probably because I should’ve known the answer right away. I should’ve been able to confidently say that I was in my room. In my bed. Beside my husband. Down the hall from my son.

  Because that was where I should’ve been—at home. Where else would I be?

  Three rhythmic heartbeats passed by. I counted them because I could hear them like drums. They banged away on the inside of my skull. Dah-dum. Dah-dum. Dah-dum.

  On the fourth beat, something happened. A sixth sense kicked in. My brain wasn’t catching on, but some other part of me was. Some part that was crude. Primitive. Instinctive.

  And it was sounding an alarm.

  My stomach clenched. Pulse picked up. My heart thudded heavily behind my ribs. Banged on my hard, hard bed.

  Something wasn’t right. I didn’t know what, but I knew something was off. Something more than just a few misplaced hours of too much drink.

  I tried my eyelids again. Forced them open. I thought it worked, but I couldn’t see anything. So I blinked. Blinked again. Shifted my gaze from side to side. Nothing. Nothing but pitch black.

  Tension wound in my chest. Like the gears of a pocket watch. Tight. Springy.

  I could only remember one time I’d ever seen so much complete and total blackness. I was in the second grade. Playing after school with a girl from my neighborhood. Her name was Amy Miller. She had the long blonde hair I’d always envied. My mom kept mine cut short, but Amy’s grandmother let her do pretty much whatever she wanted. Provided that it didn’t involve making a mess inside or being too loud, that is. That’s why we stayed outside. We made the most of her small yard and storm cellar.

  We were playing hide and seek. It was my turn to hide. I crept down into the storm cellar. Closed the door behind me. With the exception of four thin slices of dying light that leaked through the wooden slats of the door, it was dark. Terrifyingly dark. I darted over. Slipped into the hand-dug closet in the far corner of the room. It was three walls, a ceiling, and a floor of dirt. The door was an old piece of paneling, cut to fit. I pulled that piece of paneling over the opening and the world disappeared. I remember how dense and complete the dark was. It was just me and the shadows. And the shadows won. Instantly.

  I’d held up my hand. Couldn’t even see it hovering in front of my face. That day, Amy didn’t have to try to find me. After about two minutes, I came running out. Screaming. It had been too creepy in there with just the murkiness and my imagination.

  Sort of like it was now.

  I levered myself up onto one elbow. Held my hand up toward my face like I’d done all those years ago. This dark was like that dark. Only worse. This dark was thicker. Deeper. Much more menacing. I didn’t know exactly why, but it was. It had a texture. Dense. Sticky. I could feel it brushing against me. Rubbing over me. It made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  It wasn’t until I was lowering my hand that I heard a rattle. Felt the cool press of metal. Sensed the tug of something against the skin of my wrist.

  My heart stuttered.

  The blackness leered.

  I realized.

  I was in chains.

  Chapter Four

  As she nibbles her breakfast, Marcy can’t help noticing the brilliant rays of light slashing across the black granite of the kitchen island. Taking a sip of her coffee, she decides it’s the perfect day to take Caroline outside for some sunshine and girl time. She makes a mental list of things she’ll need—a thick blanket, some sunscreen, a few dolls, the tiny suitcase of doll clothes.

  A couple of weeks ago, Marcy had gotten Caroline a slew of dolls and an assortment of outfits that were interchangeable among them. She’d even ordered the miniature suitcase that folded out into an armoire to store them. The child inside Marcy thrilled at the purchase. She just knew Caroline would love it as much as Marcy would’ve as a kid. Thus far, however, that had yet to be the case. Her daughter was…less than excited. Marcy isn’t one to give up easily, though. Especially when it comes to the health, wellbeing or happiness of her loved ones. That’s why she would drag it all outside, along with her child, and hope to coax a smile out of her.

  Marcy gives a gentle start when hands slide around her waist from behind. “Penny for your thoughts.”

  She lets her head fall to one side in preparation for John’s lips. It was as expected and as comforting as any other part of their routine. This is how he greeted her each morning if she was facing away from him when he found her. At the sink, at the washer, at the window, at the island—after his shower, he’d find her and give her a good morning hug and kiss.

  “Just mapping out the day.”

  “What’s on the agenda?”

  He comes around to steal her mug and take a sip of her coffee before handing it back and going for a fresh cup of his own. According to him, the first sip is always better when it comes from her mug. She just shook her head and smiled when he told her that, but truth be told, it warmed her heart, just as it warms her heart now to remember it.

  “I think some sunshine will do us both some good. I’m hoping it’ll perk Caroline up. She hasn’t played with her new dolls at all. Maybe that will change today.”

  “Maybe it will.” John smiles as he heads for the kitchen table. Marcy recognizes the gesture for what it is—indulgent.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Her tone crackles with defensiveness as she follows him, taking the seat across from his.

  “It’s supposed to mean that I hope it will change today.” John takes a sip of his coffee and reaches for the local newspaper. He holds it up and reads above the fold as he lets the bottom fall open.

  Marcy snatches it down, away from his face. “Don’t dismiss me like this is nothing.”

  Slowly, carefully, like he’s dismantling a bomb, John lowers the paper. “I didn’t dismiss you.”

  “Yes, you did. You act like you don’t think Caroline can get better, like you don’t think things can change.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m hopeful that they will. Just like you. And I said as much.”

  “But I know what you meant.”

  “I meant exactly what I said, Marcy. Nothing more, nothing less.”

  “That smile… I know that smile. After all these years together, I can read you like the back of my hand.” Marcy’s fingers draw into tight fists and her lower lip trembles in barely suppressed anger.

  John slides his hands, palm up, across the table and takes Marcy’s fists in them. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear. I hope every day that Caroline will show some signs of improvement, but honey, you know that autism—”

  “I know, I know. I know all this.” Marcy jerks her hands free to swipe at the tears that have begun to spill from her eyes. “I just want her to be okay. I want to do everything I can to help her.”

  John scoots out of his chair, rounds the table, and takes his wife into his arms. He clasps her shaking shoulders as she sobs quietly into the fresh, crisp linen of his shirt. “You are. You already are.”

  Sniffing, Marcy leans back and raises her red, swollen eyes to his. John has always loved the way the green changes to dark, stormy gray when she’s upset. Even in distress, she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen. “Do you really believe that?”

  “I do. She just needs some time to—”

  The shuffling of slippers interrupts them, bringing Marcy to her feet, hands hastily clearing any remaining wetness from her eyes and cheeks. “Good morning, sweetheart. You ready for some breakfast?”

  Marcy makes her way to Caroline. She bends to sweep her daughter’s wispy, sand-colored bangs to the side. Caroline’s jerks away, but not before Marcy notes the bruised skin beneath her dark eyes and the pale skin surrounding them. Marcy’s heart squeezes with worry. She’s always done everything she can think of to engage Caroline, but it has been largely ineffective. Especially in the last several months. Since the doctor so casually muttered those two words—pos
sibly autistic—Marcy has only increased her efforts. What she hasn’t been able to stop doing is worry about her.

  Marcy has had a moment or two of distress and hopelessness here and there; she believes it would make any mother emotional. But Marcy is determined not to let those moments deter her. That’s why she will take Caroline outside today. That’s why she will get her some sunshine. That’s why she will take the toys she bought and try, again, to draw her into some kind of interactive play. She has to keep trying.

  And, besides that, Marcy thinks to herself as she smiles down into her little girl’s face, sunshine makes everything better. Marcy is convinced of that.

  “How about some French toast?” Marcy keeps her voice low and soothing. Caroline is sensitive to loud noises, including even a slightly raised voice. Marcy waits for a nod. Often, that’s the only thing she will get in the form of an answer. Sometimes Caroline won’t answer her at all, as though she doesn’t hear her, even though her hearing was checked and is fine. The doctor said that regression is one of the biggest red flags in young children. He told them that the deterioration in Caroline’s previously thriving verbal communication wasn’t a good sign. That coupled with her disinterest in playing or interacting with others, including Marcy and John, gave the physician cause for concern.

  Finally, Caroline nods and Marcy straightens. “That sounds good to me, too.”

  Without thinking, Marcy reaches out to stroke Caroline’s arm. The instant she makes contact with her daughter’s skin, Caroline flinches as violently as if she’d been burned. It’s another sign Marcy knows doesn’t bode well for her child, but rather than focus on the negative, she tucks her hands inside the pockets of her robe and spins toward the refrigerator with a chipper, “Mama’s lip-smacking French toast coming right up.”

  When the ingredients are all lined up on the counter top in the order in which they will be used, Marcy pulls the griddle out of the cabinet and turns to the stove. John is standing in front of it, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a pensive expression on his face that brings her up short. “What?”