The Neighbors

by Hannah Mary McKinnon

  “Happy to help,” I said. Then I did that male-pride thing—sucked in my gut, straightened my back, all the while wishing I’d been a tad more diligent with my sit-ups in recent months. “Let’s start with that sofa.”

  Liam and I made a couple of trips from the van to the front door, where Zac and Nancy took over dispatching boxes to the appropriate rooms.

  “So where did you move from?” I asked Liam as we carried a TV the size of a small country up the driveway. The bloody thing felt as solid as a slab of gold and probably cost more. “You don’t sound local.”

  “Lancashire. Preston area.” He navigated us toward the front steps. Christ, he didn’t even seem to be sweating while I could already feel my shirt sucking mine up like a sponge.

  “Really?” I straightened the TV slightly so we could get it through the door without scratching it. “My grandparents lived in Longton.”

  “Yeah? You grew up there?”

  “No. We went north almost every summer, though.” We put the television down in the living room, my back screaming a silent thank god. “But my wife grew up near Preston. She moved here after we met.”

  “Seriously? What’s her name?”

  “Abigail—Abby—Morris.” He shrugged so I added, “Sanders before we married.”

  Liam looked at me for a few seconds, then blinked. I thought I saw a flicker of something pass over his face, but it disappeared all too quickly, so I figured I’d imagined it.

  I laughed. “Don’t tell me you know her?”

  “No.” He turned and headed for the front door. “The name doesn’t ring any bells.”

  In hindsight I should have stopped him. Questioned the look. At least asked what it meant. If I had, then perhaps none of what was to come would have happened.

  And maybe, just maybe, I’d still be with my wife.

  NOW

  ABBY

  “THEY’RE MOVING IN TODAY?” Camilla wiped her flour-covered hands on her apron. “That didn’t take long to sell, did it?”

  I nodded, and peered past her up the stairs, wishing Sarah would hurry up. Now that Camilla and I both worked at Sterling Engineering, seeing her on weekends could be, well, a bit much. She gossiped a fair amount and somehow got people to say more than they should despite themselves, including me if I let my guard down.

  “The house was only empty a few weeks,” I said. “Not surprising, considering the price they were asking.” I heard Sarah and Claire giggling upstairs and imagined them speaking in hushed whispers about boys, music and music by boys. They’d declared themselves BFFs on their first day of school, but Nate always said nowadays they were more like conjoined twins.

  “Let’s go, Sarah,” I called out, “We’d better get a move on if you want those boots.”

  Sarah’s answer was a casual, “Yeah, coming,” and I pictured her rolling her eyes and Claire putting a hand over her own mouth—maybe my daughter’s, too—stifling another laugh.

  “So who are the new neighbors?” Camilla raised her eyebrows. “Some hot guy who can mow the lawn for you?”

  I scrunched up my face. “Hardly. Nate just said they look normal. And he cuts the grass.”

  Camilla laughed. “Well, if a fit bloke moves in next door you might want to rethink that. But,” she said, “enough of my fantasies. In any case, they can’t be worse than Barbara, right?”

  I knew exactly where this conversation was heading. Camilla always wanted the skinny on our neighbor’s latest antics, and there had been plenty to entertain her with in recent months. “I bet you’re glad they dragged her off to the home,” she continued, “and—”

  “That’s a bit unfair. She wasn’t well, you know? We all need to—”

  “I know, I know.” Camilla shrugged. “You’re going to tell me to be more compassionate. Someday I’ll be old and senile and glad of people being patient with me.” She laughed. “But even you have to admit she was a nightmare. Sarah said she’s refused to go near the old bat for years. You never told me it was that bad.”

  I opened my mouth in contradiction, then closed it again. After all, I could hardly deny it, Barbara Baker truly had been a nightmare. She’d been our neighbor since we’d bought the house in Bromley almost seventeen years earlier. At first she’d been charming and eloquent, brought us succulent mince pies at Christmas and soul-warming chicken-noodle soup when both Nate and I got the flu. She’d babysat Sarah whenever we’d desperately needed a night out—and even when we hadn’t. The perfect neighbor. Except, over the years, as Barbara slowly lost each of her cats and most of her marbles to old age, she’d gradually morphed into a shrieking banshee who wore the same white flannel nightie that had taken on a distinctly yellow sheen under the arms. It was sad, it really was, and we helped her as often as she would allow, which, lately, had been hardly ever.

  Camilla leaned in and only slightly lowered her voice. “Did she honestly shout, ‘Eff off and die, you shits’ at you before she left?” Her eyes were wide, anticipating the latest morsel of gossip.

  I nodded. “We’d been counting the days until she left for the home.” Why had I said that? Now Camilla would tell everyone we hated our old neighbor.

  Camilla laughed. “You mean the godforsaken place where you come out stiffer than the box they shove you in, isn’t that what Barbara always called it? And Sarah said she threw the contents of the litter tray over the fence, too? God.” As she stopped to catch a breath, her face flushed, and I couldn’t tell if it was information overload or something menopausal.

  “Yes, she did.” I’d have to educate Sarah again on the lost art of discretion, not that I was exactly leading by example. I cleared my throat. “But Barbara wasn’t well, the poor love.”

  “So sad,” Camilla said, floury hand on hips, her voice grave. “Old age is a friend to no one.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, determined to change the subject. “So how’s Josh?”

  Camilla clicked her tongue. “Oh, fine. Out with his bowling league again. Some tournament or something. Can’t keep track where.”

  I smiled. “Isn’t it great that you have your own interests? When you don’t have to live in each other’s pockets?”

  Camilla’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah. Fantastic. So do you still work out as much?”

  “Yeah.” Sensing an impending interrogation, I called out, “Sarah, forget it. The weather’s horrible anyway. We’ll go home instead.”

  My daughter immediately appeared at the top of the stairs, her bag in her hand. “Nu-uh,” she said, pushing her blond hair away from her face. “I’m coming. I want those boots.” She hugged Claire, then kissed her on the cheek with a big, lip-glossy mwah noise. “Bye, thanks for everything.” She bounded down the stairs, patted Camilla on the arm, walked directly past me and opened the door. “Come on then, Mum. What’s keeping you?”

  I refused the bait, said my goodbyes and followed my daughter outside, wondering how we’d make it through the day without wanting to throttle each other.

  NOW

  SARAH

  Dear Diary,

  I think Benjamin Franklin said, “Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Well, me and Mum would never make it that long. We stink after three hours.

  People say I’m like her. I suppose we have the same hair, nose and maybe eyes. But that’s it. Thank god my personality’s much more like Dad’s because Mum’s a nightmare.

  For example, even though I was shattered this morning, I was still looking forward to spending time with her and getting my boots. That lasted about thirty seconds until we got in the car. First of all, Mum had a go at me about the Word of the Day calendar she gave me for Christmas. The conversation (not that it was a proper conversation) went something like:

  Mum: Why aren’t you using it? Don’t you want to be a journalist? I thought it would help.

  Me: I haven’t had time.r />
  Mum: Oh, come off it, Sarah. You spend forever on that phone of yours.

  Ugh!

  And when I tried on the combats, Mum went all passive-aggressive with eye rolls and huffs. We studied the behavior at school when Ms. Phillips tried to show the class how pathetic it was, hoping we’d stop. Except of course we didn’t because we knew how much it peed her off.

  So, when I asked Mum what was wrong she huffed again and said the boots were “aggressive looking” and “not very feminine.” I told her not to worry. That during the summer I’d only wear flip-flops and micro shorts where half your bum hangs out.

  Me: What do you think, Mum? Those shorts are really feminine.

  Mum: You will not be wearing those, young lady. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.

  She even used the tone. God. I’d meant it as a joke. Like I’d ever be seen dead with half my bum hanging out. Not that it’s a bad butt. Actually I think it’s a quite okay butt, thank you very much, but (and that’s a lot of buts, ha ha) I wouldn’t walk around with it on display. I thought Mum would get the joke. I mean, doesn’t she know me at all?

  Anyway, I bought my combats (black leather, funky, sassy, kick-ass and 60% off, yes!). Mum found a coat (black wool, single-buttoned, boring, predictable, 40% off, still not bad). And then, of course, we couldn’t agree on lunch. I wanted a burger. She wanted sushi. We ended up at Pret. Sandwiches must be the gastronomic equivalent of neutrality. Hey, that’s not a bad line. Must remember that one for my next essay.

  We’re home now, and she said we should visit the new neighbors. She texted Dad, and he’s helping them put furniture together or something. Hardly a surprise. Dad’s always fixing stuff. I thought he was Bob the Builder until I was six. Might even have called Mum Wendy once (oops!). Speaking of, she told me to hurry up again. I’d better go before she flips her lid.

  Later,

  Sarah x.

  PS. Word of the day: fantod, noun.

  1. plural a: a state of irritability and tension.

  b: fidgets.

  2: an emotional outburst (fit).

  As in: Going shopping with my mother gave me the fantods! Hahahaha!

  NOW

  ABBY

  “COME ON, SARAH.” I stood by our front door with a bottle of chilled white wine in my hand. Nate always said people liked chardonnay. I hoped he was right. Sarah trudged down the stairs in her new boots at a glacial pace before giving me an uninspired look.

  “Why do I have to go?”

  I stifled another sigh. “It’s the polite thing to do.”

  She glanced at the bottle. “What if they don’t drink?”

  “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “You don’t drink.”

  My eyes darted involuntarily to Tom’s photograph. “No, I don’t,” I snapped, then took a deep breath. Sarah hadn’t had anything to do with the accident—she hadn’t even been born.

  “But what if they’re recovering alcoholics?” she gasped and put a hand to her mouth in a deliberately dramatic gesture. “Or Muslim? Or Amish?”

  “Don’t be a smarty-pants, Sarah.”

  “Wowzers, Mum. I can be smart without even trying.”

  I counted to ten in my mind. Slowly. I knew exactly what she was doing. She thought if she annoyed me enough I’d lose my temper and tell her to stay at home. Too bad for her, I used to play the exact same game with my mother. For once I was half a step ahead of her.

  I smiled. “Yes, you can be. Come on. Time to go.”

  She pouted as she pulled on her jacket, and I made sure I kept my expression neutral to avoid another feud. A minute later we plodded over to the neighbors and rang the doorbell.

  A teenage boy who looked like he’d been stretched like a rubber band opened the door. “Can I help you?” His voice was deep, gravelly and a little on the husky side.

  “Hi.” I smiled. “I think you still have my husband.”

  He gave a blank look, then flicked his shock of chocolate-brown, gold-streaked hair.

  “Nate from next door,” I offered, and put a hand to my chest. “I’m Abby. This is Sarah.”

  He smiled. Sort of. “Oh, yeah. Come on in,” he said in a monotone, then turned and called out, “Mum, it’s the neighbors.”

  A woman’s voice came from the back of the house. “Great. Bring them in, Zac.”

  “Go on through.” Zac gestured with his hand.

  I walked into the eccentrically wallpapered hallway, which always reminded me of The Who’s Magic Bus. Barbara had loved bright colors and flowers, and almost every room was papered in a different pattern. She used to say it meant spring sprang eternal in her home. We always assumed she’d eaten a lot of magic mushrooms in the seventies.

  As we made our way down the hall, the sweet perfume of apples and cinnamon filled the air, warm and inviting. Zac disappeared up the stairs, and Sarah and I continued to the kitchen. A candle—one of those scented ones—glowed in the middle of a table otherwise covered in stacks of plates, glasses and cutlery.

  Nate leaned against the fridge with his arms crossed and a half-full Heineken in one hand. “Hey.” He smiled.

  A woman with long, curly brown hair in an untidy ponytail took two steps toward us. When she smiled, her face lit up like a very pretty fairground.

  “Hi.” She threw a rag on the counter and wiped her hands on her jeans before stretching one out toward me.

  “This is Abby.” Nate winked at me. “Abby, this is Nancy.”

  “It’s great to meet you.” Nancy shook my hand, and I noticed how warm and silky her skin felt. “Nate’s told us so much about you already. And your daughter.” She looked past me. “You must be Sarah. It’s such a pleasure, really, it is.” I didn’t know the woman, but she seemed incredibly nervous, almost desperately keen to make a good impression.

  “Uh, hello,” Sarah mumbled back. She still got embarrassed when introduced to strangers. It concerned me sometimes, especially if she wanted to follow her dreams and become a journalist. Nate always said she’d be fine; she’d make her own path. I worried she’d never find it to begin with.

  “Liam—that’s my husband—went out for more beer.” Nancy laughed. “We only had two in the house. Not nearly enough to get rid of the pain from lifting all those boxes.”

  “I told you we had some.” Nate grinned at Nancy. It was his charming smile, the one he used to disarm people, the one that made them feel comfortable. I swear he never noticed how effective it was. Sometimes I didn’t think he realized he was doing it.

  “No way.” Nancy waggled a finger. “You’ve already helped so much. We couldn’t take your beer, as well. It would add more abuse to your injuries, or whatever the expression is.”

  “Insult to injury.” I caught Nate’s look. I often did that. Corrected people, even when it was irrelevant. Such a bad habit. I plastered my own smile on my face and mouthed, “Sorry,” at Nate. I waved the bottle of wine around in midair. “I brought this. Hope you like chardonnay.”

  “Absolutely love it.” Nancy took the bottle from me and set it on the table. “That’s so sweet of you. And thanks for lending us your hubby.” Nancy pointed at Nate. “He’s a hero, you know. Helped us carry the heavy things inside and even fixed the leaky toilet upstairs.” She laughed again. It was a warm laugh, nervous perhaps, but kind and genuine. I had a feeling I’d like her husband, too, if he had a personality similar to hers. She clicked her tongue. “It would have taken Liam six months to get around to it. But Nate? He rolled up his sleeves and voilà.”

  When Sarah hummed the Bob the Builder tune, I poked her in the ribs, and she huffed as if I’d deflated her like a balloon.

  The front door opened. “I’m back,” a man called out. “Who needs a drink?”

  A shiver shot down my spine. That voice. That unmistakable voice. Deep and silky. Sexy. You never forget a
voice like that. Not when the memory of words spoken, even after all this time, still made my knees buckle. I tried not to gasp, and bit my tongue as images flashed into my mind, the ones I tried hard not to think of when I was in bed with Nate. Arms and legs entwined. Gasping, groaning, sweaty backs and my cries of, “Fuck me, Liam. Harder. Harder.”

  It’s not something I’d ever said to Nate. He probably would have blushed.

  The footsteps were coming down the hallway, had almost reached the kitchen.

  And there was nowhere for me to go.

  No escape.

  No place to hide.

  THEN

  ABBY

  IT WAS NEW YEAR’S EVE, and I’d decided if the last few minutes were anything to go by, nineteen ninety-two was going to be absolute crap.

  My boyfriend of eight months, Dwayne Mazerolle, had just—literally just—dumped me. Standing in the middle of Rowley’s Irish Pub with a group of his friends, he’d pulled me to one side.

  “...so...tell you...going...buy land.” His voice boomed in my ear, making me wince. I couldn’t make out what he’d said because EMF’s “Unbelievable” blared from the loudspeakers. Turned out the song was quite fitting.

  “What?” I shouted back. “Why are you buying land?”

  “Thai-land,” he yelled. “I’m going to Thailand.” He held up two thumbs, swaying a little, not to the music, but because of the many vodka and Cokes. “On a trip.”

  “Thailand?” I felt my face scrunch up into a puzzled look. “When?”

  Dwayne pulled me to one side of the bar and away from the speaker where it was marginally quieter. “Day after tomorrow,” he said, taking a sudden interest in his size eleven feet.

  “Eh? You’re kidding!” I wondered if he was going to start making fun of my expression, tell me it was all a joke. If it was, I didn’t get it.

  He lit up a Benson & Hedges and blew the smoke out of his nostrils, kind of like a cartoon bull. “It’s a spiritual trip,” he said. “You know, to reconnect with nature. I need to find myself.”