The Family Next Door(9)

Ava let out a long sigh. There you go, Fran thought. You were hot. The great mystery is solved. Fran rebundled her loosely in the muslin, quickly checking her toes (not squashed or tangled) and popped her back in her crib. Her breathing had steadied and her eyelids were three-quarters closed and Fran had one of those powerful waves of love reserved for parents of children who are asleep.

She and Nigel had always planned to have two children, two years apart. So when Rosie was a year old, Fran hadn’t expected resistance from Nigel when she suggested it was time to try again.

“It’s just … I’m not sure it’s such a good idea after all,” he’d said.

That had been a surprise. The Nigel Fran knew didn’t deviate from what had been planned. Then again, he hadn’t been the Nigel she knew for months.

“It’s postnatal mapression,” Ange had told her when she’d complained about it one day. “Man-depression. A lot of men get it when they have young children. They lose an income, gain a mouth, and all of a sudden it feels like everyone has more money than they do. Add to this that their wives usually stop wanting to have sex with them, and you’ve got a recipe for an miserable bloke.”

“Maybe,” she’d said, but she had a feeling it was more than that.

And as it turned out, she was right.

Nigel had lost a large chunk of their savings last year in a bad investment. They weren’t in dire straits—they wouldn’t have to sell the house or anything—but it had put them back a good ten years in terms of their financial position.

“Well,” she’d said, when he told her. “What’s done is done. It’s not the end of the world.”

But to Nigel it was. He wallowed and wallowed. Once a self-professed morning person, he started sleeping late, and at night when he’d come home from work he flopped onto the couch and remained there for the entire evening. When Fran tried speaking with him about it, he hadn’t wanted to talk—about anything. Especially not about having another child.

Fran kissed Ava’s forehead and left the room. Nigel and Rosie had abandoned their puzzle and now they sat on the floor of her bedroom, staring at a children’s atlas together. This was Rosie’s favorite bedtime story.

“Need any help?” she asked, popping her head around the corner.

Nigel and Rosie both looked up, their mannerisms so in sync and identical it took Fran’s breath away.

“We’re good,” Nigel said. His glasses had fallen down his nose and he pushed them up with his index finger. Under their magnification, his eyelashes looked even longer and thicker. Rosie had those lashes too. In fact, from her serious blue eyes to her jet-black hair, Rosie was every inch her father’s daughter.

“We’re good,” Rosie repeated.

“I’ll go take a shower then,” she said to the tops of their heads.

Fran showered and slipped on a cotton nightie. She checked her phone—there was a message from Ange about needing her help to distribute flyers for the neighborhood watch. After leaving Essie’s, she must have gone straight home, designed flyers, then headed directly to Staples to have them printed. Fran replied that she’d help, only because if she didn’t, Ange would just give her some other job to do and, on the whole, handing out flyers seemed fairly innocuous. She might even do it while running.

The house was quiet by the time she left her bedroom—all Fran could hear was the hum of the rotating fan. Rosie’s light was off. Fran peeked into Ava’s room and was startled to see Nigel, bent over the crib, his face hovering inches from Ava’s.

“What are you doing?” she asked, louder than she meant to.

Nigel looked up and frowned. “Kissing my daughter goodnight.” He crept out of the room, horseshoeing around her into the hallway. “Are you all right?’

Fran wondered if she was all right. For months she’d lived with this feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach, a feeling that any moment her whole world could unravel. Usually it hovered around the edges of her consciousness, where she could run it away—if she ran fast enough—but every now and then it came to the surface, where it was impossible to ignore. She felt tears begin to well, which was not like her. She’d never been a crier.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

Through his glasses Nigel’s eyes looked larger and more knowing. It scared her. But what could she say? There’s something I have to tell you. And it’s big. It’s really, really big.

“I’m sure.” She shut Ava’s door firmly. “Come on, let’s make dinner.”





5


“Morning, Fran!” Isabelle called out from across the street.

One of the worst things about Pleasant Court was that it seemed to be inhabited entirely by morning people. Admittedly Fran got up early too, but it was out of necessity rather than choice—not to mention it was with considerably less cheer than everyone else on the street. The fact was, as a mother of two, if she wanted to exercise she was forced to get up with the birds. She thought she’d perfected the art of avoiding the incessant calling-out of “Morning!” by scuttling out at 6:10 A.M.—eyes down, hoodie up, earplugs in. Until now.

“Hi, Isabelle,” she called without breaking stride. She lifted her hand, keeping her eyes in front. Isabelle seemed nice enough, but it was important to set clear boundaries from the start. (Nigel was fond of telling her she had social phobias, but it wasn’t true. It wasn’t that she was afraid of people. She just didn’t like them before 7 A.M.)