Neighborly(2)
Everyone loves Doug everywhere he goes, effortlessly. He’s good-looking but not intimidatingly so—tall and well built but not six-packed, with brown hair and brown eyes and a ready smile. His wit is quick yet never scathing. He listens deeply when people talk; he has a gift for making others feel interesting. He engenders goodwill and reminds you there are trustworthy people in the world. I often need that reminder. In large part, I married him for it.
And people go nuts for Sadie, with her golden curls and cerulean blue eyes. Whenever we’re out, strangers make references to the Gerber baby. I was a true blonde, too, when I was her age. Now my hair’s much darker, wavy rather than curly, and my eyes are hazel. Me, I’m passably pretty, but she’s prototypically beautiful. Doug is an extrovert, while I’ve always been slow to warm up. Yet that’s about to change. Moving here wasn’t just about a new house to go with our new baby. It was about a whole new life, one I’ll do my best to meet unguarded, with open arms.
At that very notion, my smile wobbles. What if I’m marked in some way that I can’t see? What if my life before is indelible, the past written in invisible ink? What if the intensity and purity of AV sunlight will bring it out?
As I teeter, our next-door neighbor approaches and hugs me, her arms a wide arc to encompass Sadie, too. Several days ago, she knocked on our door to introduce herself and extend the invitation to today’s party. I was so touched by her warmth and kindness that everything flew out of my head, including her name.
Since moving in, I’ve seen her the most of anyone, through our front window. She and her husband are empty nesters with a pair of golden retrievers they walk three times a day. She’s always wearing workout shorts and microfiber T-shirts. A space-age fanny pack lies extremely flat against a stomach that’s also notably flat, but it somehow goes with her look. Her husband is tall and trim, with a shock of silver hair, and I see he’s off talking to a cluster of men who I presume to be the block alphas—all dressed neatly in chino shorts and polo shirts—owners of the largest and most renovated houses on the block. These are men who get their lawns serviced professionally rather than simply mown, who work with large sums of other people’s money.
I try to listen as the woman I think of as Fanny introduces herself to Doug, but just then, Sadie lets out a peal of excitement. Well, Doug’ll tell me later. He’s good at remembering names.
“Come with me,” Fanny says, taking my hand and leading me forward. “Meet everyone.”
There are orange cones at either end of the block, which she tells me were put there by the neighbor across the street, Wyatt, who is a police officer. I don’t know if it’s legal to arbitrarily cordon off his own block for gatherings, but I’m not about to question the Shangri-La before me.
A huge bounce house is emblazoned with pictures of Mickey Mouse and friends, and Fanny informs me that the Rileys own and inflate it for every gathering. “Just one of the perks of being on this block!”
A face-painting table is set up with a stool and a five-tiered makeup kit, manned (womanned, actually) by a comely brunette. The little girl on the stool is currently half-cat.
“That’s Tennyson,” Fanny says, indicating the painter. “Isn’t that a beautiful name?” I murmur my assent, hoping I sound convincing. “Her parents were English professors. She was almost named Coleridge. She lives in house number 1812. Her husband, Vic, will be dressed up like a clown later, making balloon animals. He’s a day trader. He’s also the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.”
No response leaps to mind, so I just nod, smile, and wipe at Sadie with the burp cloth that’s tucked into the Bj?rn. I’m on constant drool patrol.
A children’s soccer game is being organized on an expanse of emerald lawn; meanwhile, chalk is laid out on the sidewalk for the artistically inclined. Younger kids play harmoniously with older ones. It’s unclear which are family members and which are simply neighbors, since a deep familiarity exists from the youngest to the oldest, kids and adults alike. People move easily among different clusters, with shoulder pats and laughter. It’s so different from our last neighborhood where we’d rented for years, just twenty minutes away in downtown Oakland, with anonymous bustle and bars and nightclubs. That was pre-Sadie, and this, the AV, is very definitely post. This is where I want to be. These people—they’re who I want to be.
While I’ve never been as outgoing as Doug, I’m sure I can hold my own. It’s just that I haven’t done much socializing since Sadie came along. I’m a little rusty, that’s all.
This is going to work out. It has to. We did what was necessary to get here, because that’s how it is once you have children. You make sacrifices so they can have the best lives possible. But that feeling in my stomach is more than a pit. It’s the whole peach.
I almost wish I still drank. A glass of wine might sand my slightly jagged nerves. I can’t help noticing that there’s plenty of white wine and champagne on ice in what appear to be expensive silver buckets. Several coolers are full of juice boxes and milk for the kids, while another is yawning open, full of beer.
I haven’t had any alcohol in more than a year, not since before I was Sadie’s incubator, and now I’m her main food source. For the first time, I seriously consider a pump and dump, but I’ve always hated the idea of anything going to waste. Doug’s already grabbed a Sam Adams and is taking in his surroundings with a huge smile.