The Good Neighbor

by Cathryn Grant

  I nodded.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. “Really?”

  “Terrible. The police came back with more questions.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “No, it’s not. She basically accused Alan of hurting Brittany. I’m not even sure what she meant, if she thought he molested her or beat her.” I started to cry. “She acted as if he couldn’t be trusted with her.”

  “That’s awful.” Taylor reached for my arm, but I’d placed the chairs so she wouldn’t be able to keep touching and patting me.

  I put my mug on the table and rubbed my arms, feeling that creeping sensation again. I would not look at my skin. There were no ants, and I was not going to indulge my anxiety by checking. “It’s cruel. She’s way out of line. Alan adores Brittany.”

  “I know.”

  “He wanted a child almost more than I did.”

  “How sweet.”

  “On our second or third date, he talked about how much he loved kids.”

  “How did you two meet?”

  “It’s a little embarrassing.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “You don’t know.” I laughed. It was a strange sound. Something I hadn’t heard in days. It was a sound that seemed out of place. Instead of days, I wondered if I hadn’t heard the sound of my own laugh for years. Decades. Maybe I hadn’t. I wasn’t sure. I closed my eyes for a moment. “We met in high school.”

  “Why is that embarrassing?”

  “Because he sort of stalked me.”

  Taylor looked at me as if trying to figure out whether I was telling a joke. I regretted using that word. Why had I opened up like that? We were kids. It was funny now. She seemed to be taking it the wrong way. “I shouldn’t have said that. We laugh about it. All he did was admire me from a distance for a few years.”

  “Sounds like normal high school stuff.”

  “It was. I guess I intimidated him, although I have no idea why.”

  She nodded and took a sip of tea.

  “He’s an amazing father. You have no idea what he’s done for Brittany. And for me. He would do anything for his family.”

  “You’re lucky.”

  “In most ways. Until now. But with Alan, yes. I’m beyond lucky. It’s so hard to watch him get treated like this. He doesn’t deserve it.”

  “They just want to find Brittany, and I suppose they have their procedure to follow.”

  “Well, they aren’t going to find her by following a list that’s forced into situations where it doesn’t apply.”

  She nodded.

  We talked more about Alan and Brittany. Taylor said she’d never wanted kids because she couldn’t imagine bringing a child into the world the way things were. She felt communities were decaying and she’d rather spend her energy trying to improve what was around her. She sounded a little angry that her job as an event planner had taken her off that course. Sure, corporate events technically brought people together, but not in any meaningful way.

  She assured me that didn’t mean she questioned others’ choices to have children. She said people are horribly disconnected. They are, but I wondered if there was more to it.

  Slowly, it came out that she’d been pregnant twice and miscarried both times. She’d taken that as a sign. I took it as the reason she didn’t want a child. She couldn’t take the inherent pain. Some women can’t.

  After a moment, I agreed that not everyone should have children. I told her about how it had been for me growing up. My two sisters were teenagers when I was born. From the moment I was a small child, I knew my mother had been furious when she became pregnant with me. Her daughters were in high school, her family complete, and her career starting to develop after years at home with small children. I felt her anger as she passed me off to my sisters for mothering. Of course they resented having to care for an infant, then chase after a toddler. It was on their shoulders to supervise homework, walk me to and from school, listen to my stories. They fought constantly about who would be stuck with me.

  I retreated into a fantasy world of books and old movies about neglected children who were rescued, Little Orphan Annie, A Little Princess…

  The fantasy life I developed, and I suppose because I lived with cultural references from the nineteen fifties rather than my own generation, alienated me from other children. I think that’s why when I fell for Alan, he became the center of my world. I had just turned twenty when we got married.

  I wanted to do it right. I felt I could make up for the lack of mothering somehow, or redo it in some distorted way, but it took us years to conceive. I know people think we dote too much on Brittany, that she’s overprotected, but I wanted to be the mother I never had.

  Taylor didn’t say much. I wasn’t sure if I’d insulted her, suggesting she might not have been a good mother, but I didn’t care. That’s how it was for me. We all have to work out our own experiences.

  I made tuna sandwiches for lunch, and I actually ate half a sandwich, which was good. Immediately after, I hated myself for eating while Brittany was out there suffering. Except for her trip to Taco Bell, had she eaten at all?

  Taylor finished the entire sandwich and ate all the sliced carrot sticks I’d arranged on the plates. “I’m sorry none of the sightings turned into anything. There’s still hope. I know she’s out there.”

  I shrugged. My eyes teared and I looked at the fence surrounding our yard, the pale colors of the shrubs and ground cover in the hilly open space preserve beyond. The heat and all that light was making my head ache.

  “Officer Carter told me the page would bring out the crazies,” she said. “There will be more crazies than anything.”

  “Were they all crazy?”

  “Who knows. I guess some people like to insert themselves into police investigations. It makes them feel part of something.” She laughed and ran her finger along the edge of her plate. “There’s one nutcase who’s started messaging me. She thinks Brittany’s her daughter.” She laughed again. “It’s very unnerving.”

  I didn’t need this. I did not need this. I folded my hands together, squeezing them tightly. Why were the police using Facebook at all? It was lazy. They were supposed to be out looking for her, not plastering Brittany all over the internet, hoping for the best. “I thought the police told you not to pay attention to nutcases. People should be out there trying to find her!”

  “I know. But she won’t stop messaging me. I don’t know what to do about it.”

  “It’s easy. Ignore her. I really do not need this.” Staring out into the sun-bleached space around me made me feel light-headed. I unclasped my hands and wrapped my fingers around the arms of the chair, squeezing as hard as I could. My mind spun, trying to find a solid place to land.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. I’m just upset. Why would you even talk to someone like that? Why would someone want to torture me like this? It’s cruel. When I’m already hurting so badly. What’s her name?”

  Taylor laughed. “It sounds fake. She calls herself Mrs. Green.”

  I laughed, my voice echoing hers. “That’s definitely fake. I don’t think the Facebook page is going to help at all. There are too many unbalanced people playing games.”

  Both of us turned our attention to the open preserve as if looking for a mirage to take shape, longing to see Brittany emerging from that vast wild space. I put my hand to my face. My cheeks were wet, covered with sweat as viscous as blood.

  19

  Taylor

  Moira held her cheeks, pressing her fingers into the skin, staring blankly out at the untamed landscape beyond the manicured plants, shrubs, and well-placed trees of their backyard. It was like an oasis with a lush, well-manicured lawn and carefully tended flowering plants.

  She appeared upset that I’d mentioned this woman claiming she was Brittany’s mother. It made me realize how ridiculous it was, hearing those words come out of my mouth. Of course Mrs. Green was a nutcase. The username sugge
sted someone with a self-conscious view of herself. She’d told me her name was Crystal. So why use a name designed to partially hide who she was?

  While it isn’t sensitive to use that kind of language—crazy and nutcase—about people who are ill, it’s hard not to sometimes. When someone talks as if they live in an alternate reality, it’s difficult to see their mind as having any kind of relationship to your own thought processes.

  Moira was right. Why would anyone try to do something so vicious to a hurting mother? Was Crystal mentally ill? She claimed her child had been abducted. My original thought must have been correct. Grieving twisted people’s minds in strange configurations. After so many years, Crystal probably did think every girl who fit the age her daughter would be now was her missing child.

  “I’m sorry I brought it up,” I said.

  “Just don’t talk about it anymore. That’s why I decided it was better not to look at the Facebook page. People are terrible. They love to tear apart someone who’s already wounded. It’s the animal instinct, I suppose. I’ve never understood it. We’re supposed to be intelligent, evolved.”

  “I don’t think she wants to hurt you.”

  She turned in her chair, studying my face. “Of course that’s what she wants. Why else?”

  “I think she really believes it.”

  “If she does, then you should definitely not talk to her. She might be dangerous. Psychotic or something.”

  I thought about the messages, the strings of memories of her child, the complaints about how her life had gone differently than she’d expected. She talked about the death of her husband and her back pain from the car accident that killed him. Nothing sounded particularly crazy, but when you listen to serial killers talking, they don’t always sound crazy at first. Then they let you see behind the mask, and it’s quite terrifying. At first, they seem like nice, normal people.

  I stood and picked up the plates. Most of Moira’s sandwich remained on hers. “Do you want any more of this? You really need to eat.”

  “I can’t.”

  “It’s important to take care of yourself. For Brittany.”

  “Maybe later.”

  I went into the house and put the plates on the counter. I found the plastic wrap and covered Moira’s sandwich. Thinking about the heat and the fish and mayo and how long it had been sitting out, I dropped it into the trash container under the sink. I opened the refrigerator. It was filled with casserole containers. She had plenty to eat. Everyone on our street had brought something.

  I went to the patio door. “I need to use your bathroom.”

  She moved her head slightly, staring at something inside her own mind. I had the sense her eyes were closed, because her head was tipped forward slightly.

  I walked through the living room and into the back hallway. I turned right and saw the open door to Brittany’s room. I was overcome with a longing to see the empty space, to know more about this girl whom I’d only seen glimpses of. I took a few steps toward her room.

  Inside was the bed I’d seen unloaded from the truck the day they moved in, glossy white with pink, frothy bedding, including a sheer canopy that hung over the boards set between the four corner posts. There were white and pink satin pillows and a pile of stuffed animals. While the stuffed critters could have belonged to any teenage girl, the bed was made for a girl of seven or eight. Maybe Brittany enjoyed it for sentimental reasons. There was nothing in the room that suggested a teenager. No movie or music posters, no piles of clothes, makeup or jewelry on her dresser. Of course, Moira might have cleaned up, but the bed was partially unmade, so that suggested nothing had been touched since the night she disappeared.

  I realized I’d taken several steps into the room. I backed up toward the doorway. Even looking was an invasion. On the far wall, beside the window, was a column of framed photographs. They were all of Brittany. A few contained her parents, and in some she was shown arm in arm with other kids her age, vacation shots with backdrops ranging from snow-covered trees to a shot with a group of three girls kneeling in front of breaking waves, building a sandcastle.

  Backing out farther, I turned to go, although pulling myself away was difficult. I wondered what the police had found in that room. I wondered if Brittany had any secrets. While Moira sounded certain she did not, all girls do. All human beings have secrets. It’s our nature.

  I stepped into the bathroom, turned on the faucet for a moment, and looked into the mirror. Why couldn’t I pull myself away from the hidden parts of their house? What was I looking for? I wasn’t even sure what I was feeling.

  I hurried back to the living room.

  Moira was seated on the patio. When I opened the door, she immediately stood. “I should get some rest,” she said.

  “Okay. Please have something to eat when you wake up. Even a slice of cheese. Promise me?”

  She nodded.

  I gave her a hug and went out to the courtyard. I felt unsettled, although I wasn’t sure why.

  At home, I managed to keep myself busy with work. I had two rib eye steaks in the fridge that I planned to throw on the grill for a dinner that wouldn’t turn the kitchen into an oven. I’d cooked pasta that morning and only needed to add some chopped veggies.

  All through dinner, I considered talking to Duncan about Mrs. Green and her unceasing flow of messages, getting his take on Brittany’s unsuitable bedroom furniture. He talked about the upcoming school year. He asked about my work, and I tried to refocus my mind on that part of my life. It all seemed like something that had nothing to do with me anymore. Brittany consumed me.

  As I cleared the patio table, I picked up our wineglasses. “Do you want a refill?”

  “Sure.” Duncan settled back in his chair and eased his flip-flops off his feet, letting them slap softly onto the flagstone.

  My hip vibrated with a new message. My glass, slick with moisture from the chilled wine, slid from my fingers and shattered on the ground. “Oh! I—”

  Duncan stood. “No worries. I’ll get it. Why don’t you sit down.”

  “How did I manage that?”

  “Sweaty fingers. Wet glass.” He kissed my cheek.

  “I love these glasses.” Tears filled my eyes. I felt foolish, crying as if I’d broken a family heirloom.

  “We can replace it.” He kissed my neck. “I know you’re frustrated. Just sit and relax and I’ll clean it up and get us more wine.” He took the remaining wineglass and went into the house.

  When it finally began to cool, we went inside and watched some TV. Duncan went to bed with his novel and I opened Facebook. There were more comments and tips, but I couldn’t focus. I skimmed Crystal’s messages, littered with more and more exclamation points and emojis. I deleted them all.

  20

  Brittany: Before

  The second time I woke myself near midnight to check out stuff online, I spent the entire night watching YouTube. I’d planned to set up a Facebook page, but I needed an email account to do that. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure my parents wouldn’t somehow find out if I set up my own account. I wasn’t sure how they would, but it wasn’t impossible. As far as I could figure out, they would have to set up their own free account to see mine, but not being one hundred percent sure, I decided it wasn’t worth it. I didn’t want to lose my chance at exploring the world.

  Besides, who would I be friends with on Facebook? I hardly knew the kids I’d met in our new homeschool group. And the kids I knew from before we moved to California were gone forever. It had only been two months since we moved, but not communicating made it feel like forever. When we first moved, I wanted to email them, but my mom said it was better not to act like there was a chance we could stay friends. The reality was I would never see them again. She said it was almost impossible to keep a friendship going for years when you didn’t see each other, especially for kids my age, whatever that meant. Eventually the friendship would disintegrate and die. A clean break was better.

  I had no experience in
that area, so I couldn’t disagree with her.

  It was hard to disagree with her anyway. My dad too, but especially her. She’s very firm in her beliefs, and in most cases, she’s right. She was right about homeschooling because, lately, every other month kids were shot at school. She’d been right that I was way ahead of other kids my age, because from what I’d seen on Twitter and Facebook, I was smarter and more interesting. I might not even have much to talk about with kids my age.

  That made me sad. The kids in the homeschool group were okay, but we all knew we were smarter than other kids our age, and knowing something like that makes people a little arrogant. Not all of them, not all the time, but sometimes. Enough of the time that they were hard to take for more than a few hours at a time. I had fun with them when we went bowling or did outdoor stuff, but just sitting around talking, not so much. Maybe I was arrogant too. It was hard to know.

  After watching tons of videos, I started to get an idea. What I really needed was to hang out with some older kids. I would fit in better.

  During the first few days after we moved into our new house, I’d only seen one of the neighbors. She stood in her front yard, watching us move in, but my mom didn’t speak to her, so neither did I.

  Every time we returned home, I was excited when my mom turned the corner into our cul-de-sac. Each time, I was sure I’d see someone outside, find out if there were other kids living on our street, or maybe I should say on our circle, because that’s what it was—a circle of a street with a circle in the center. It seemed like a close, friendly way to live, but no one was ever outside, so the friendliness was an idea, not a reality.

  All the houses had front gardens surrounded by fences as tall as the backyard fences, so you couldn’t see anyone’s windows or patios. I sometimes heard people in their backyards when we were in ours, but that was about it. It started to feel a little bit like a prison. I don’t know if the architect designed them to keep people away from each other on purpose, but that’s how it ended up, a circle of tiny prisons.