The Neighbor's Secret

by L. Alison Heller

  Who will be a victim of history?

  Who will win Rosa’s love?

  Will Rosa use her sewing skills to join the resistance, or be pulled into the Kinder Kirsch?

  “Passion, death, the triumphs of the heart and the siren song of family obligations … ROSA OF KRAKOW is a fascinating historical journey about a woman just like us, born at a pivotal time in history.”

  (It is SO important, ladies, to take a moment and realize how #blessed we are.)

  Steel yourselves, ladies! You will swoon over this Holocaust love triangle.*

  The place: Priya’s House

  The rest: Y’all know the drill by now: start time is 7:30, creative snacks appreciated and bring tissues to spare!!!!!

  *Square?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Middle schools were supposed to be dingy, depressing places with humming fluorescent lights and peeling mustard paint. The one Annie had attended, five miles east of Sandstone K-8, had an appropriately soul-sucking institutional feel.

  By contrast, the Sandstone kiddos sprinted on landscaped sports fields and swung from monkey bars on an award-winning sustainably sourced playground. They skipped to class on bamboo-wood floors, through warm beams of sunlight refracted down by pyramid skylights, past student artwork that had been professionally framed.

  Today, Annie walked slowly down the main hallway: balanced atop her overfilled steel coffee mug was a red velvet cupcake that she’d snagged from a platter in the teachers’ lounge.

  She’d been gluttonous to take it: Lena was coming to dinner and had hinted that she was bringing something rich for dessert, but Annie used her slow pace to appreciate the new student art, which had been switched out over the weekend.

  The rotating Student Art Gallery was a Sandstone point of pride, which didn’t mean the art was any good. Annie suspected that most of it wasn’t, certainly not the giant blurry photograph above the water station, which seemed to be a close-up of a dog’s nostrils.

  The quality didn’t matter; what mattered was that everyone acted like it was the creative expression of geniuses, and the dog-nostril photographer—a self-aware sixth grader who’d come to Annie last year for strategies to cope with “perfectionist tendencies”—would feel valued, which would lead to good posture, strong eye contact, boosted self-esteem, and the courage to try new things.

  Or she’d graduate feeling entitled to accolades she did not deserve, petulant and thirsty for external approval.

  That was the risk of a Sandstone education, Annie supposed, and the rewards far outweighed them. The first time Annie had walked inside of the building, she had felt like one of those parasitical birds—Jen Chun-Pagano would know the name of the species—who laid their eggs into other birds’ nests.

  I don’t belong here, Annie would sometimes think when she spotted Laurel on the kindergarten playground, but she sure as hell will.

  There seemed to be a pet theme to this month’s art gallery. Up ahead was a painting—a slightly better piece, Annie suspected—that gave the Warholian faces treatment to someone’s Siamese cat. Sierra and Haley were deep in conversation against it, their heads framed by neon pink and green.

  From Sierra’s hip jut, the way her mouth moved nonstop, interrupted by only Haley’s nods of agreement, Annie could identify an impassioned rant.

  She crossed to their side of the hall, hovered a few feet away from them, inched close enough to hear Haley’s voice, clear and loud, punch her in the ear.

  “She’s out of control.”

  One wide step and Annie was between the girls, inches from the painting, close enough to smell the not-quite-dry acrylic. “Who’s out of control?”

  Haley’s eyes narrowed. Sierra blushed.

  “Who?” Annie repeated. She didn’t care about the boundaries she had just bulldozed through, because she knew exactly who they were talking about.

  The moodiness, the night “runs,” after which Annie would surreptitiously sniff her daughter’s jacket, check its pockets for bottle caps.

  Who else could it be?

  Laurel was out of control. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. And, as Lena had said over Christmas: better to intervene.

  “Sierra,” Annie said in her best strict-teacher voice. “You’re coming with me.”

  * * *

  “Someone needs to do something,” Sierra said. She took a bite of the red velvet cupcake and held it out to Annie. “Splitsies? It’s so good.”

  “All yours,” Annie said.

  Annie had bribed Sierra with the cupcake from the teachers’ lounge, but it hadn’t been necessary. Sierra was an open book, happy to miss a few minutes of English to spill everything about Señora Bemis, the new Spanish teacher, who was apparently totally out of control.

  “Two tests in two weeks isn’t helpful to anyone.” Sierra spoke with her mouth full of frosting. “No one is learning, no one understands what she’s saying because she only talks in Spanish. And she hit Joshua Flake. In class.”

  “Señora Bemis hit Josh?”

  “Well, she tapped his backpack. With a pencil. But hard. I could hear it three rows away. Teachers should not be touching students. Isn’t that, like, a violation of Me Too?”

  To move things back on track, Annie tilted her head, pretended to silently contemplate how to solve a problem like Señora Bemis.

  She waited a beat before asking, “How’s Laurel doing?”

  “She’s taking French.” Sierra didn’t bother to disguise her pity at how out of the loop Annie was.

  “Yes. I know, I mean—is she drinking?”

  “No.” Sierra’s eyes widened. “We all got the message, Annie: Alcohol bad. Very, very bad.”

  “I worry about Laurel. About all of you guys.”

  “Aw.” Sierra’s brow furrowed in sympathy. “But she’s so healthy, with all the marathon obsession.”

  Marathon?

  Given that her daughter had grumbled through every cross-country unit in PE, it had not occurred to Annie that Laurel was genuinely passionate about running. She’d assumed it was a cover for alone time. Or sneaking into neighbors’ garages to steal from their coolers.

  Laurel was planning to run a marathon?

  “Laurel’s planning to run a marathon,” Annie said haltingly.

  Sierra nodded. “If anyone can do it, it’s Laurel, but a marathon is, like, twenty-six point two miles? Did you know that?”

  Was it even legal for a fourteen-year-old to run a marathon? Wasn’t some sort of parental permission required?

  “But don’t worry, Annie, because she’s being so healthy, like no junk food, tons of vegan protein bars and water. She wouldn’t get drunk, even if, like, Haley and I pushed a bottle in her hand and chanted, drink, drink, drink.”

  Sierra laugh-snorted, then quickly stopped herself, straightened her posture and made her face angelic. “Not that we would ever do that.”

  “Hm,” Annie said.

  On its face, running sounded like a perfectly healthy hobby, but alcohol abuse and exercise abuse were both addictions.

  “She really loves running,” Sierra said in a “Scout’s honor” tone. “Like really.” She peeled the cupcake’s pink wrapper, popped the last bit in her mouth. “Did my mom tell you, I think I’m going to dump Zack? He’s nice but a sloppy kisser.”

  Good grief.

  Sierra blinked myopically, waiting for advice. Really, you could dole it out until your face went blue, but they never took it.

  “Don’t ever waste time kissing someone you don’t like kissing,” Annie managed.

  “I know, right?” Sierra nodded with enthusiasm.

  “Let’s not tell Laurel about this conversation? I just don’t want to make her feel—”

  “Like you’re crazy?” Sierra said a little too quickly. She had a sly smile and her eyebrows had arched high.

  I’m not crazy, Annie wanted to scream. I’m the only one paying attention.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Twenty mi
nutes before dinner, Annie found Laurel cross-legged in the laundry closet, her back wedged in the crack between the washer and dryer, her head bowed over her science textbook.

  “You can’t be comfortable,” Annie said.

  Laurel shrugged.

  Last year, Annie would have just blurted out the question—what’s this insanity about a marathon?

  But their entire relationship had been different last year. Laurel had been reachable. There had been hugs. Voluntary hugs, right up until October.

  Annie was no scientist, but she did not think genes flicked on with the suddenness of a light switch. Since Fall Fest, in between surreptitious checks of the levels on the liquor bottles and sweeps of Laurel’s pockets, Annie and Mike had asked her—repeatedly—whether something had happened. Big or small, Laurel, you can tell us whatever it is.

  Are things slow at work? Laurel replied. Not enough middle school drama?

  “Hey,” Annie said finally. “Do you need new running gear?”

  Laurel looked down at her baggy gray shorts. “No.”

  “Shoes, maybe? The restaurant’s doing better. We could buy new.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mrs. Meeker will be here soon for dinner.”

  “I thought she didn’t leave her house.”

  “Don’t be silly,” Annie said. “But we need to be welcoming, and this is technically a thank-you dinner for her help with Dad’s restaurant, you know, getting that good review in the paper and—”

  Laurel rolled her eyes. Annie wasn’t certain at which part.

  “So,” Annie tried again, “I heard that Señora Bemis is tough.” Laurel’s eyes registered confusion for a moment.

  “Right,” she said slowly. “People are upset about her.”

  “She hit Josh with a pencil?”

  Laurel shrugged.

  “I can’t believe it,” Annie said. “It’s so wrong.”

  Poor Señora Bemis, whom Annie had met once at a potluck. She’d seemed like a lovely person and probably did not deserve to be fodder for whatever this phony attempt at connection was.

  “I need to finish this,” Laurel bowed her head over the book.

  “One more thing,” Annie said. “Grandma P. is scheduled for a hip operation your graduation week.”

  “So?”

  “Would you be hurt if they missed the ceremony?”

  Almost imperceptibly, Laurel’s shoulders hiked a centimeter. Annie felt a connection fuse. The running had started on Christmas Eve, when their house had been overrun by Perleys.

  I have to get away from these people, Laurel had said.

  Her in-laws were active in their church, founders of an orphanage in Haiti, and all you had to do was spend ten minutes with Mike to know he’d grown up loved and adored. It seemed unimaginable that they could hurt Laurel somehow.

  But how many well-meaning parents had made assumptions just like that and unwittingly betrayed their children?

  “Laurel.” Annie crouched down, ignored the doorknob in her back. “Did something happen with Grandma and Grandpa P.?”

  Laurel looked up, startled. She swallowed, stared at a spot just over Annie’s shoulder.

  “Over Christmas,” she said.

  “What?” Annie’s heart thumped.

  “I don’t want to—”

  “You can tell me anything, Laurel.”

  With one finger, Laurel traced a crooked line in the linoleum. “They burned the gingerbread men,” she said in a rising voice. “Like twenty of them, god, it was so sad. Families were torn apart.”

  When she looked up, Laurel’s sly smile was an almost exact replica of Sierra’s: Crazy Annie Perley. Annie felt like slapping it off her face.

  “It’s only eighth-grade graduation,” Laurel said in her most insufferable voice, “I don’t give two shits about it.”

  A spark of defiance had flared in Laurel’s eyes as she’d cursed. Reprimand me. I dare you.

  “Fine,” Annie said. “I’m giving our extra ticket to Mrs. Meeker.”

  “Fine,” Laurel said.

  The bell rang.

  “Fine,” Annie repeated. “We can invite her right now.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Lena stood on the steps of the Perleys’ tiny red brick ranch. She clutched the handle of a cake carrier in her right hand. In the crook of her left arm was a bouquet of peonies and a bottle of wine.

  “Let me help,” Annie said.

  “This,” Lena said, handing over the wine, “should go with the steaks, which smell divine even from here. I also made an ice cream cake, which will thaw during dinner.”

  Annie pursed her lips in disapproval. “Can we take a rain check?”

  “On the dinner?”

  “Gosh, no. The wine.”

  Lena tried not to frown. Annie clearly did not understand how special the bottle, a 2000 Château Pétrus, was. “Why don’t you and Mike hold on to it for later?”

  “Honestly?” Annie clutched at her throat with her free hand. “I don’t even want it in the house.”

  “Because of Laurel?” Lena said. She’d sounded too judgmental. Spots of color had appeared on Annie’s cheeks.

  “You think I’m going overboard,” she said.

  “No,” Lena said quickly. But Annie was.

  That night, Lena had been drinking mojitos, and whenever she thought of the drink—even if someone mentioned it in a movie—Lena would taste in the back of her throat that once-refreshing mint sweetness and feel a wave of nausea strong enough to knock her off-balance.

  She would love to be able to blame what she’d done on the mojitos, but alcohol was just an easy scapegoat.

  “Rain check,” Lena said with what she hoped was an understanding nod. “I’ll run the bottle back out to my car.”

  * * *

  “Laurel,” Mike said, “you’re completely missing out on this ice cream cake.”

  She sat spine rigid, sweatshirt zipped up to her chin, beanie pulled down over her forehead. Hank reached over to his sister’s plate and spooned off a large mound from her untouched piece, popped it in his mouth. The rest of them laughed too hard, in compensation for Laurel’s lack of reaction.

  “Do you want to ask Lena now,” Mike prompted her gently.

  “We have an extra ticket to my graduation,” Laurel said to Lena. Her leg jiggled updownupdown. “If you want it.”

  “We’d all go out afterward,” Mike said. “The five of us, for a lunch.”

  The wash of emotion was so overwhelming that Lena felt almost sleepy. She gripped the sides of her chair, pressed her back into its slats.

  “I’d love that. Thank you, Laurel.”

  “Yeah.” Laurel shrugged. Her amber gaze skipped around the table.

  “Can Laurel point me to the ladies’ room?” Lena asked.

  “I could tell,” Lena told her, when they were out of earshot, “that you were dying for an exit.”

  “It’s fine.” Laurel fumbled with the zipper of her track jacket. It didn’t take an expert to observe that Annie and Mike’s heavy scrutiny was not working: the girl was miserable, itchy in her own skin.

  “It’s out of love, you know,” Lena said. “All of the breathing down your neck is out of love. They just want to know what’s going on with you.”

  Laurel’s face shuttered. She looked down, suddenly absorbed with the zipper.

  “How’s the running going?”

  “I’m slow.”

  “Not true,” Lena said. “I see you working those hills. Are you getting enough fuel?”

  “Yes.” Laurel’s head lifted up and those light eyes sparked to life. “Grams of protein equal to half of my body weight, so I don’t bonk.”

  “Well, whatever bonking is, it sounds like something to avoid.”

  Laurel giggled. “Can you tell them I went for a run and that yes, I took my phone?”

  “Of course, dear,” Lena said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Meeker.”

  “And if you ever need some
space, Laurel, come over. My house is a certified nag-free zone.”

  Laurel smiled gratefully.

  Lena shook her hands dry, rather than use the threadbare bath towel hanging on the back of the bathroom door.

  She was worried about the Perleys.

  Fall Fest had been an embarrassing one-off. To brand Laurel as an alcoholic seemed an overreaction, no matter the family history.

  As Lena had told Rachel years before: Yes, horrible things could—and had—happened because of alcohol abuse. But enjoyed in moderation, wine could be one of life’s great pleasures.

  Laurel, and Hank, too, eventually, needed to learn how to drink responsibly. There was a reason you didn’t hear historians touting Prohibition as having been an especially effective movement.

  The family was moving toward a crisis, but Lena had gotten Laurel to laugh for a moment. She felt a pulse of excitement: they needed her.

  Other widows, Lena had read, mourned the loss of human touch, and while she respected their truth, it was not Lena’s. She was more than fine without sex. When characters in books got hot and heavy, Lena would catch herself thinking with impatience that they were all such young idiots. Lust was nothing but an embarrassing lack of control.

  Lena craved feeling necessary. Melanie and Rachel would share things with her, but they didn’t need to. No one had truly relied on Lena for years and there was something healing about the naked way Annie solicited Lena’s opinion.

  Lena opened the bathroom door and a heightened prickly energy directed her gaze to the collection of framed family photographs on the hallway wall.

  Bryce Neary.

  Lena would be able to recognize his image in the busiest crowd, from miles away. She took several steps closer, fumbled in her sweater pocket for her readers.

  It was a group photo, taken after a track meet. Bryce was bottom left, in their team uniform; his maroon singlet matched his ruddy cheeks. His hair mushroomed out from beneath a baseball cap. A grinning face peeked over his shoulder. Lena recognized the Adriatic blue of Annie’s eyes, her pert nose.

  Tucked inside the frame was a frayed wallet-sized picture of Bryce. He was smiling from the passenger seat of a tan jeep, binoculars around his neck.