Neighborly(51)

I’ve utterly screwed up. My life is a disaster and, by extension, Sadie’s will be, too. We live among people who have sex with each other’s mates, who might even roofie the newcomer. We’re in deep, deep shit.

I can’t hold it back. I’m crying. Dancing around with Sadie and crying, while she releases that angry wail of hers. I know, baby. We could have just found another house, another neighborhood, one within our means, but no, it had to be the AV.

I’m still in my towel and Sadie’s still in the throes of an inconsolable tantrum when the doorbell rings. I’m worried about how long Sadie’s face has been red, afraid that she’ll burst a blood vessel at this rate. There’s nothing I can do. She’s never wanted my boobs, and she doesn’t want the bottle with my milk, either. Not even the pacifier will do.

This is the problem with trying to avoid your neighbors. They see the car out front; they know I’m home. No, they know I’m home because you can hear Sadie crying a block away.

“You’re blowing my cover,” I say into Sadie’s hair as we bob some more. I should just put her down. It’s not like she’s deriving any comfort from being in my arms. But putting her in the crib seems like a form of abandonment in her hour of need. Think how much worse she’d be if I weren’t holding her.

I actually can’t imagine how her cries could get any louder. She is royally pissed off at me. Maybe a little space would do us good. She’ll start to miss me.

Now the knocking has started, a syncopation that’s making me batty. I don’t even understand the mind-set of someone who wouldn’t just leave. Clearly, I’ve got my hands full. Do the women need fresh meat that badly?

I place her in the crib and wipe at my eyes. I yell, “I’ll be right there!” Then I take my sweet time putting on a bra and some clothes. If they need to see me that desperately, they can wait. If it’s my tormentor finally ready to go mano a mano, a part of me welcomes that. Let’s just get it over with. Say what you need to say. I’ll apologize. I’ll kiss ass, whatever it takes to get a clean slate on this block. I can’t live this way.

When I open the door, I see Brandon, and over his shoulder is a large bag made out of bamboo or some other expensive natural fabric. He’s holding Zoe’s hand, and she’s peering up at me politely, his perfect child an unintentional rebuke, a study in contrasts with my own fire-breathing spawn.

“Hi,” he says, his voice raised to be heard over Sadie, his eyes full of sympathy. “I would have gone away, but I thought maybe I could help. I brought over every colic remedy I could think of. Zoe had some problems when she was younger, and we tried everything. Sound machines, homeopathic remedies, belly massages, probiotics . . .”

I burst into tears.

He drops Zoe’s hand and pulls me to him for a hug. “Oh, I get it,” he tells me. “Knowing she’s suffering and not being able to help is the worst. It’s water torture. But it’ll get better, I promise you. Look at Zoe now. We all survived.”

“It’s not just that,” I sob, but I can’t tell him the rest.

“What do you think about my taking Sadie for a walk? I can wear her around me in a sling. That used to work sometimes for Zoe. The thing is, nothing works all the time. That’s part of what makes it all so maddening. But breaks help. No offense, but you look like you’re at the end of your tether.”

He’s just so good. I cry harder.

“What can I do to help?” Brandon asks. “Just name it. Put me to work. Really, I need something to do. I’m going crazy.”

He’s going crazy? He doesn’t know the half of it. Improbably enough, I start to laugh.

“Oh, my poor mental health amuses you? What am I, some kind of clown?” He’s doing the worst Goodfellas accent I’ve ever heard, and my laugh turns more genuine and less maniacal. “Listen, you’d do me a favor to let me take your squalling kid. I need to get my mind off some things.”

I hesitate, wondering if it’s safe to hand over your child to someone you don’t know well. I would have thought so, given that he’s a neighbor, but that isn’t exactly the most reassuring thing a person could be right now. Still, he’s Brandon.

“Are you sure you don’t mind taking her for a walk?” I ask.

“Of course not. I’ve got the swaddle I used for Zoe. Let’s see if I remember how to tie it around me. It’s a memory exercise, and at my age, I can always use one of those.” He fumbles in the bamboo bag and removes half a yard of fabric. I never got the hang of those myself.

“If you’re sure, I’ll run upstairs and get her.”

“Oh, wait!” he says. I spin back, heart sinking already. There’s always a catch. “Take this.” He gives me the bag full of colic remedies. “And don’t start crying again.”

“Thank you,” I tell him with great feeling. “Can you have her back soon, like in ten minutes?”

“Absolutely,” he says.

I shoot upstairs to where Sadie is on her back, limbs flailing, face a devastating shade of tomato. I sniff her diaper—clean and dry, just like it was the last time I checked—and despite her impotent waving arms, despite her rage, I get the sunbonnet tied under her chin. It’s sort of sad how she can be so angry and yet so powerless.