Good Neighbors(52)

But when they got here, it hadn’t been like that. Nobody except Rhea had shown any interest. She’d felt distance when she talked to the neighbors, like everything she’d said had been stupid, but they’d never explained to her why. Never explained the right things to say. They’d never referred clients, even though Gertie had kept handing out her business cards. They’d never suggested Arlo stop by their offices and talk to their office managers about new copiers, even though he’d told them he was available, anytime. Aside from Rhea, they’d changed the subject whenever Larry’s name came up, like she ought to be embarrassed. Like, if your life isn’t perfect, you keep your mouth shut and don’t talk about it until it is perfect, and then you brag.

Rhea’d proven she was a terrible person. Rhea was a hunter worse than Cheerie, whom, God help her, Gertie wished dead. But she’d had more time than she wanted in this hospital, most of it alone with her thoughts. At first she’d reviewed everything that had transpired between herself and Rhea, searching for indications of treachery. But she searched so thoroughly that she’d inevitably reviewed her own behavior, too.

If she was honest, there had been trouble in paradise long before the Fourth of July. Unanswered texts, half-smiles and waves instead of stopping to chat, the withdrawal of Shelly from sleepovers—these all should have been obvious to anyone paying attention. Even at the Memorial Day barbeque a month before, Rhea’d barely stopped to say more than a How are you? before moving on.

If the friendship really had been important to Gertie, why hadn’t she done anything about it? Why hadn’t she rung Rhea’s bell, a red wine bottle bribe in hand if necessary, and asked to sit down with her and have a frank talk? Is this about the night on my porch? a poised, normal person like the kind you see on TV would have asked. Whatever’s going on, you know I’m here for you, because you’re important to me. And you were right. I won’t judge, this normal woman would have said. And the truth was, Rhea really had been important to her. She wouldn’t have judged.

After Shelly’s fall, a regular person would have baked a ziti for Rhea’s family, then stood next to her while she’d kept vigil at the sinkhole. She’d have said: I love(d) your daughter. Her absence is a physical pain. So I can’t imagine what you’re going through. What can I do to ease your burden?

Why hadn’t she done these things? Why hadn’t they even occurred to her until now? Why, for that matter, had she left Julia alone with crazed Shelly Schroeder that morning, when any sane mother would have stopped her car?

What was wrong with her? How could she have been so blind?

Gertie once read that when people start to lose their sight, they don’t know it. Their minds fill in the missing parts. So, when they’re driving, maybe they’re passing a field of cows, but what they see is just green. Their minds make an assumption based on past experience. It occurred to her that people’s personalities were like that. Full of holes. We think we’re complete but we’re not, and usually that’s just fine. It’s typical. But sometimes the holes line up. You get hit with a brick and you lose your shit like a psycho. Your kid falls down a sinkhole and you turn into the Wicked Witch of the West.

And maybe, between her and Rhea, something electric had happened. Their blind spots had lined up.





Tuesday, July 27


Arlo, Julia, and Larry arrived as soon as visiting hours started. The TV shouted infotainment in the corner of the ceiling and Gertie tried to turn it off, but her drugged-up roommate had the remote.

Gertie smiled wide. As calming as she knew how. But her voice broke. “Oh, my babies. It’s so good to see you.”

The kids made their slow way to Gertie’s bed. She patted the side of it, but neither of them climbed up. “That’s okay,” she told them as they elected to share the floor while Arlo took the chair.

Everybody looked tired and on edge. They waited for her to explain what had happened, what that baby talk was all about.

“I’m better now,” she said. “I got hit on the head. It made me loopy.”

“Really?” Larry asked. “You’re better? Can you come home? I need you home.”

“This is a psychiatric hospital,” Julia said. “We had to prove we’re family just to get allowed in.”

On a good day, Arlo would have cracked jokes to lighten the mood: What’s red and green and blue all over? Who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb? What do you get when you cross a skeleton and a chicken? Now he crumpled in the armchair like a trench coat without an owner.

“Julia, she’s all better!” Larry said.

“I am. I’m all better,” Gertie promised.

Normally, Julia would have confronted. She’d have persisted until Gertie admitted that no, she hadn’t been hit in the head. Yes, this was a loony bin. Mom’s a little bonkers. But something had shifted in her. A loss of innocence. Instead, she stood. Slowly, so as not to cause surprise, she put her hand over Gertie’s hand. Held it. “Okay,” she said.

After that, they tried to talk like things were normal. The kids told her about the heat on the crescent, and the fact that the sand oil had surfaced as far as the town pool. Arlo said that they’d been cleaning the house in her absence, getting it ready for her homecoming.

“Are they giving you a hard time about not coming to work?” Gertie asked.