The Perfect Neighbors

by Sarah Pekkanen

  But miraculously, the formula had seemed to help. Bree had begun to cry less. She’d actually slept for a blissful five-hour stretch one night. She’d even begun to bestow a gummy little grin on Tessa that could’ve been gas but Tessa decided was a smile.

  “Maybe it was just colic,” Tessa had said to Harry two weeks before it happened. He’d returned home from yet another business trip and had picked up Thai food on the way in from the airport. Tessa’s last shower was a distant memory—two, maybe three days earlier? She’d been wearing one of the drawstring pants and shapeless cotton T-shirts that had become her wardrobe staples. But as she’d crunched into a spring roll and taken a sip of cold, crisp wine, she’d felt the bright stirrings of hope.

  “The worst is probably over,” she’d said as she watched Harry feed Bree bites of a steamed yam. Bree had inherited her father’s sweet tooth—she spit out green vegetables but at least she loved pears and yams.

  As soon as Tessa had uttered those words, she’d felt an icy twinge work its way down her spine. She’d tempted bad fortune. And sure enough, it arrived the next day when Bree’s cries took on a sharper, more pained tenor, so alarming Tessa that she’d rushed Bree to the pediatrician’s office.

  “She’s teething already. An early achiever!” the doctor had joked as he’d examined Bree. He had white hair and a round belly, like Santa. His kids were all grown; he probably slept deeply for eight hours every night. Tessa hated him and his jolly laugh more than a little bit.

  Baby Motrin didn’t help, not nearly enough. The tooth took forever to come in and no sooner had it broken the surface than the one next to it began to embark on its jagged, torturous path through Bree’s soft mouth.

  Tessa rubbed Baby Orajel on Bree’s red, raw gums, and gave her cold rings to gnaw on, but Bree seemed to feel pain so intensely! Every cry was a jab to Tessa’s heart. Bree began waking up every three hours again, bleating the plaintive cry of a kitten. Tessa’s vision grew blurry. Most of her meals were bowls of soggy cereal gobbled over the sink. Once, at a stoplight, the blare of a horn jerked her awake. She’d glanced back at Bree, safely asleep in her car seat, and she’d shuddered. What if her foot had slipped off the brake? She drank more coffee—three, four, sometimes five cups a day.

  The mornings were the worst. Tessa would blearily look around at the cluttered kitchen, at the bottles she needed to wash, at the clothes she needed to launder and fold, at the counters she should declutter, and feel herself sliding into a gray gloom. She’d always been organized; she’d worked as an accountant. She’d untangled complicated taxes for clients, she’d unloaded the dishwasher with one hand while cooking a stir-fry with the other, she’d effortlessly kept a running mental to-do list with a dozen revolving items. She’d run three half-marathons! But she couldn’t manage one tiny baby and her house, even with—and here was the truly embarrassing part—monthly maid service. Sometimes Tessa felt like her cleaning woman, who was middle-aged and had four kids, was judging her as she lugged the vacuum cleaner up the stairs and emptied Tessa’s overflowing trash cans: Get it together, lady.

  So on that rainy, stuffy afternoon, things were blurry. Sixty to ninety seconds? It seemed like the limit on how long a conscientious mother—a good mother—would leave her baby alone.

  It was quiet when Tessa had come back downstairs. Bree was exactly where Tessa had left her, playing with wooden stacking blocks, chosen because they were made with natural materials and nontoxic paints and were too big to be choking hazards.

  Bree had been making a funny face. Her mouth had been twisting like it sometimes did when Tessa tried to spoon in pureed green vegetables. Tessa had come closer and seen her purse lying next to Bree instead of on the chair where she’d left it, its contents spilled out. Her hairbrush. Her wallet. The bottle of Advil, with a few of its tiny mauve pills dotting the carpet.

  Advil, with its sweet coating.

  Bree had been reaching for a pill on the carpet. Tessa had pried it out of her tiny hand and Bree had opened her mouth to scream.

  Bree’s tiny tongue had been stained mauve.

  “No,” Tessa had whispered. She’d run to the phone to dial the emergency number.

  “Send an ambulance!” she’d gasped.

  The ensuing minutes blurred by: the frantic trip to the hospital, punctuated by the laconic wail of the ambulance’s siren, the EMTs bending over Bree’s tiny body, taking her vitals, the young doctor shining a light into Bree’s eyes while quizzing Tessa.

  “You don’t know how many she took? Didn’t you check the bottle to see how many were left?” he’d asked.

  “No, but the EMTs said I should bring it so you could check the ingredients . . . ,” Tessa had said.

  The doctor had snatched the little plastic bottle out of her hand. “It says it holds sixty.” He’d shaken the pills out onto the stark white hospital sheet, his index finger jabbing at each one like an accusation. “There are still fifty in there. Was it a new bottle?”

  Tessa had shaken her head. “No. I—I remember I took two right before I went upstairs. I must not have closed the lid properly.”

  “Did you check the floor to see if any were there?”

  “No,” Tessa had whispered. “Wait—yes. There were some on the carpet.”

  “How many?” the doctor had demanded.

  Tessa had closed her eyes. “Um . . . five?”

  “So the most she ingested was three,” the doctor had said. “Less if the bottle had already been open when you took two. Was the bottle already open?”

  Tessa had nodded, her mind feeling thick as it struggled to grasp the simple subtraction problem. “Um . . . it might have been. I think so.”

  The doctor had exhaled loudly. He had patients who needed him. He didn’t have time for this nonsense.

  “She probably spit it out once she sucked off the coating; it’s pretty bitter inside,” he’d said. “I doubt she even ingested one.”

  Bree had been maybe two minutes away from having her soft little stomach pumped, all because of Tessa’s inattention. The doctor’s expression had changed as he’d stared at her, probably wondering if she was one of those women who faked her children’s illnesses to get attention. Then he’d walked away without a single word.

  As Tessa had left the hospital, Harry had called her cell phone, responding to the frantic message she’d left.

  “I’ll fly back tonight,” he’d said, even after she’d reassured him that Bree was safe. Tessa had wondered if he still trusted her with their baby.

  She’d hung up and looked around. To her left was a big parking lot; to her right, a busy street. But there were no cabs in sight, and even if she’d spotted one, it wouldn’t have a car seat. She had no idea how she was going to get home.

  She felt her throat constrict. I’m sorry, she’d thought, looking down at her baby.

  A moment later, Bree had begun to screech in her arms.

  Six months later, Tessa called 911 again.

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Newport Cove Listserv Digest

  *Re: Dog Poop

  I’d just like to second Mrs. Reiserman’s point about cleaning up after your dog. Oftentimes, dog walkers will drop a bag of poop in my trash can if it is by the curb on trash day. Whilst this might seem like an appropriate way to clean up after your dog, let me assure you it is not. If the can has already been emptied, these small bags end up on the bottom, where they can become stuck. The stench is most unpleasant. —Tally White, Iris Lane

  *Re: Dog Poop

  It’s MS. Reiserman, not MRS. Reiserman. —Joy Reiserman, Daisy Way

  *Lawn Bags!

  Large brown lawn bags will be distributed to all Newport Cove residents on Saturday, Sept. 18 to assist with your leaf collection throughout the fall season. If you would prefer to not have bags delivered, please simply reply t
o Newport Cove Manager Shannon Dockser (no need to “reply all” to the entire listserv!). Thanks! —Sincerely, Shannon Dockser, Newport Cove Manager

  *Re: Lawn Bags!

  I don’t want any lawn bags. I burn my leaves. —Mason Gamerman, Daisy Way

  *Re: Lawn Bags!

  It’s far more efficient to simply mow your leaves when you’re cutting your grass. No need to risk injuring your back by raking and bagging. —Tally White, Iris Lane

  • • •

  “I’ll be back around nine, nine thirty at the latest,” Kellie told Jason as she looked in the mirror and fastened on a silver hoop earring.

  “Sure you will,” he said. He was lounging on their queen-sized bed, flicking through television channels. Kellie had shepherded the kids through homework and dinner before getting them changed into their pj’s. Now they were eating bowls of vanilla ice cream in the kitchen.

  “No, I’ll be early,” Kellie said. “I have to work in the morning, remember?”

  Jason didn’t respond; he’d settled on the Discovery Channel where a lion was selecting a dinner entrée from a revolving buffet of antelope and zebra. Jason had shed his clothes like a snakeskin on the floor, and Kellie suppressed a sigh as she bent down to pick up his Levi’s and red polo shirt with the logo of the small hardware store he co-owned with his father. Kellie tossed the shirt and jeans into the laundry hamper in the closet. Jason had a half dozen identical shirts; he wouldn’t need to wear this one to work tomorrow.

  “If you could get the kids to put their stuff in the dishwasher,” she said.

  “Sure, just a sec,” he said. She looked at him lying there in his blue boxers and white athletic socks, the only man she’d ever loved. Ever slept with. Sometimes, days—entire weeks, even!—would pass when she’d be so distracted by the busy rhythm of their lives that she’d hardly register her husband’s presence. Then, bam! At the most unexpected times, she’d be drawn up short by unexpected details that conjured tenderness in her: Faint smile lines radiating out from Jason’s eyes. Arms still as thick and strong as when they’d first wrapped around her in high school. A few dots of gray in the stubble around his jaw.

  He seemed to feel her gaze and looked up. “C’mere,” he said. She lay down next to him, snuggling into his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat against her cheek. He dropped a kiss onto her head, already reabsorbed into his television show.

  That lunch with Miller Thompson had meant nothing. She’d been foolish to feel nervous. Miller had taken her to a seafood place, a nice one with tablecloths, but they’d mostly chatted about work. Miller was married and had three kids. He’d flipped open his wallet to show off their school photos. It had all been perfectly innocent.

  “And honey, please have the kids in bed by eight thirty,” she said.

  “Yup,” Jason said.

  She climbed off the bed, went to kiss her children good night, and took a clean wineglass out of a kitchen cupboard. This was one of the inspired rules of Wine and Whine night—everyone brought her own glass, so cleanup was minimal for the hostess. Kellie’s was a special one Jason and the kids had wrapped and tucked into her stocking last Christmas. It was comically oversized, and the words painted near the rim read: “Oh, look. It’s wine-thirty!”

  Kellie stepped outside, locking the door behind her, even though crime was practically nonexistent in Newport Cove. Parenting magazine had designated the neighborhood as one of the “20 Safest Communities” after crunching statistics for violent crimes per capita. Cash stolen from the glove compartments of unlocked cars, a mailbox-bashing by bored teens, an occasional UPS package missing from a doorstep—that was the extent of it.

  She strolled down the sidewalk, noticing the Harmons, who had five boys, had left open the sliding side door of their mini­van again. The floor mat was nearly hidden beneath snack wrappers, crumbs, and small plastic toys. Kellie reached out and pulled the door shut so the interior light didn’t drain the battery, then continued on toward Gigi’s brick rambler. The houses on their street were an eclectic mix. A few had been torn down and replaced by McMansions crowded onto the narrow lots, but for the most part, the original Tudors, Colonials, and Craftsmans still dominated the wide, sweeping roads.

  “Beautiful evening!” Kellie called to Mason Gamerman, who lived across the street from Gigi and was watering his front lawn with his garden hose. She raised her giant, empty glass toward him, and he grunted in response, which was about as enthusiastic as Mason got. On Halloween, he grimly dispensed pennies to trick-or-treaters.

  Kellie was walking up Gigi’s steps just as her husband, Joe Kennedy (“No relation to the famous family,” he always explained), came out the door. He wore a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and blue-and-gold-striped tie—campaigning clothes.

  Joe smiled, his teeth flashing. Gigi had confided that the image consultant Joe’s campaign director had hired had suggested Joe get his teeth professionally whitened. They’d laughed about it, but apparently Joe had followed through.

  “Where are you off to?” Kellie asked.

  “Door-to-door canvassing,” he said.

  “Sounds exhausting,” Kellie said.

  “It’s rewarding, though,” Joe said. “I get to sit down one on one with people and talk about the issues that are most important to them. Education, government spending, the economy . . .”

  Yawn, Kellie thought. Last year, Gigi and Joe had come over for dinner and Jason had shown them the new Ping-Pong table they’d set up in the basement for the children. Someone had cracked a joke about how in a few years the kids would be using it for beer pong, and Joe had confessed to never having played. Ten minutes later, the four of them were clustered around the game table, Joe’s face red and sweaty as he slammed down his paddle, bellowing, “Drink, sucker!” at Jason.

  “Well,” Kellie joked, “you’ve got my vote.”

  Joe reached for her hand and pressed it between his own. His brown eyes radiated sincerity. “Thank you,” Joe said reverently. “Let me know if you’d like a yard sign. I can get you a discount.”

  He walked a few steps away, then turned around and winked. Kellie, who’d been standing there openmouthed, burst into laughter. He’d gotten her.

  Joe continued on his way and Kellie pushed through the front door, still smiling. There were more than a dozen women clustered in small groups throughout the living room and kitchen, but the first one Kellie saw was Tessa. Kellie hadn’t been sure if Tessa would come. Yesterday at the bus stop, Kellie had suggested that Addison pop by after school and join Noah and Cole, who were going to set up a soccer net in the backyard.

  “I’m sure there’ll be an extra spot on their team, if Addison wants to join,” Kellie had said.

  “Oh,” Tessa had responded. “Um . . . I was going to take the kids shopping with me after school. But thanks.”

  It hadn’t escaped Kellie’s notice that Tessa had the same deer-in-the-headlights look as when Mia had asked her (admittedly in a loud voice, perhaps bordering on strident—she really needed to talk with Mia again about modulating her tone) why they’d moved to Newport Cove. Maybe her boisterous family was overwhelming Tessa’s. Kellie had decided to back off, so she hadn’t reminded Tessa about the neighborhood women’s gathering tonight.

  But here was Tessa, wearing a navy blue sundress and rosy lipstick. She was more dressed up than most of the other women, which struck Kellie as sweet, as if Tessa was trying to make a good impression. Tessa was clutching a glass of Chardonnay, ensconced in a conversational circle with Susan, Gigi, and—uh-oh—the community manager, Shannon Dockser. Kellie poured herself a generous splash of Sutter Home from an open bottle on the kitchen counter and eased into the group.

  “So you see, Newport Cove is actually a municipality,” Shannon was telling Tessa, who was nodding politely. Susan’s eyes were a little glazed, which Kellie suspected wasn’t from the wine alone. “It was designat
ed one in 1982. That means our little neighborhood is kind of like a corporation. So we can hire private services just for us! You wouldn’t believe how quickly we get plowed when it snows. At eight a.m. the next morning, the trucks come zipping through. And you know we’ve contracted with a trash service to do pickups twice weekly instead of once, right?”

  “I didn’t,” Tessa murmured. “But that’s great.”

  “Think about running for a spot on the neighborhood council,” Shannon said. “We’ll have a few openings when the current terms end. I can email you some more information about it.”

  “Don’t get sucked in,” Gigi warned. “That’s how Joe started.”

  “By the way, his teeth look great,” Kellie whispered. Gigi grinned and elbowed her in the ribs.

  “Oooh! There’s Marcy! Excuse me just a minute, ladies! I need to talk to her about the holiday decorating committee!” Shannon flitted away.

  “Where does that woman get her energy?” Kellie asked.

  “I hear she steals her children’s Ritalin,” Susan said.

  “She made that up,” Kellie told Tessa.

  “Don’t worry about the neighborhood council thing,” Gigi said. “Just tell her you’ll think about it for next year.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying for the past decade,” Kellie said.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to contribute . . . we just need to settle in first,” Tessa said.

  “Tell me about it,” Susan said. “I moved here years ago, and I still have a dozen boxes in the basement I haven’t even opened.”

  “Everyone has been so welcoming, though!” Tessa said. “Bree was already invited to a birthday party next week, and someone left a casserole on our doorstep this morning. I’m so glad we found this neighborhood.”