The Family Next Door(31)

Cupboard doors clanged as Nigel searched for plates. Clang, crash, bang. Quando, quando, quando.

Fran sat up. She desperately wanted it to be simple. She wanted to be able to let this go, but these kinds of things kept tripping her up. Yesterday she’d found herself staring at Ava while waiting at the supermarket checkout—analyzing her every feature. Did she have Nigel’s nose? Lips? Eyes? Her eye shape did look like Nigel’s but the color was such a deep blue that it often garnered comments. “Are those baby blues from her father?” people asked, after checking out Fran’s own browny-green eyes. Fran always nodded, even though Nigel’s eyes were pale blue. Mark’s, as she recalled, were more vivid.

She had to tell Nigel, she realized. She had to. And she needed to know for sure who Ava’s father was. If she found out she was Nigel’s, then they could really put this behind them—providing Nigel wanted to. And if Ava wasn’t Nigel’s, she supposed she’d live with that too. She’d have to.

Fran heard the clank of the pan into the sink and then Nigel appeared in the sitting room with a plate and a glass of cold water, which he handed to Fran. Nigel preferred room temperature—it was better for digestion, he said—but day after day he filled the water jug and put it in the fridge so Fran could have her water chilled. He put the plate down between them and handed half the sandwich to Fran. The bigger half. It moved something in her. Fran knew that a lot of women seemed to wake up in their thirties or forties and find themselves shocked by the man they married. (What was I thinking? she’d heard a recently divorced woman from her work say once. I mean … he wasn’t even my type!) Fran had never felt like that. She’d always felt a secret thrill to be married to Nigel, as if she’d discovered a treasure that somehow everyone else had missed. Even while he was depressed, she’d always loved him. But now, she’d ruined it.

“We should do this more often,” Nigel said. “Get the kids into bed early and spend time together. Did you say the new neighbor babysits?”

He took a big bite of his sandwich, holding a hand out below to catch the crumbs. His glasses had become steamed up during cooking so he looked at her over the tops of them. Both the crumb-catching and the steamed-up glasses were so achingly familiar, she could’ve cried. There was no way out, she realized. She wanted to be able to leave the past in the past. Failing that, she wanted to have the courage to tell her husband what she’d done and to live with the consequences, whatever they were. The problem was, neither option seemed possible for her. Which left her trapped in a world of neither here nor there.

“Yes,” Fran said. “Apparently, she does.”





20


ESSIE


Polly wailed in Essie’s ear as she hung up the phone and Essie jiggled her uselessly. Polly had been fussy all afternoon so she had resorted to carrying her around in the Babybj?rn, which hadn’t helped any. Essie laid a hand on Polly’s forehead, which was warm but not hot. The child was clearly just in a bad mood. Essie understood the feeling.

“Who was on the phone?” her mum asked from the couch. She’d arrived a few hours earlier and since then she had ironed a basket of shirts, unpacked the dishwasher, sewed a new button on Mia’s pinafore, and vacuumed the living area. Now she was folding laundry on the couch while Mia knelt beside her at the coffee table, coloring. Sometimes, Essie’s mum was the only thing that made sense in Essie’s life.

“Ben. He won’t be home until late.”

Essie put the chops under the broiler. The weather had dropped a few degrees today but it was still warm, and in the kitchen with the baby strapped to her Essie felt hot and bothered. She opened the fridge. (“Alcohol,” she remembered Ange telling her once. “It’s the only way.”) Alas, Essie and Ben weren’t the type to keep it in the house so she plucked out a Lindt ball instead.

“Do you need to put on all those chops then?” her mum asked.

Essie popped the chocolate into her mouth. “What?” she mumbled.

“The chops. If Ben’s not coming home…”

“Oh. Right.” She chewed and swallowed, not tasting. “No, probably not.”

Essie’s brain wasn’t working properly today. It was the crying. Crying had a way of boring its way into your skull until there was no room for anything else, particularly patience, logic, or reason. She opened the broiler and removed two chops just as there was a knock at the door.

“Go away,” Essie murmured. “Whoever you are just go away.”

“Give her to me,” Barbara said, appearing behind her. “You get the door.”

Essie unstrapped Polly from the carrier and handed her over. She felt lighter immediately, free of her ball and chain. She took a minute to roll her shoulders and stretch out her neck.

“Essie, the door!”

“Oh. Right.”

It was Isabelle. She carried a bottle of white wine and wore a preemptive smile that faded quickly. “Uh-oh. I’ve just done that thing childless people do when they call in during kids’ dinner, bath, and bedtime, haven’t I?”

Essie wasn’t sure if it was Isabelle or the wine, but she felt an instant lift in her mood. “Technically you have done that thing. But you’ve brought wine. So let’s call it even. Come on in.”