I'm Fine and Neither Are You(29)

“We can work out the details later,” I finally said. “I guess I just needed you to know this is a priority, and I want to do something about it. And I hope you do, too.”

“I do,” said Sanjay, but then he said nothing for a very long time.

“Well, what is it?” I eventually asked. “What do you think?”

“What do I think?” He opened his mouth and shut it. Then he sighed deeply. At last he said, “To be honest with you, Penny, I worry that too much honesty might be a bad idea.”





TWELVE

“Howdy!”

I had just poured myself a cup of coffee and walked into the living room when Lorrie came flying through the front door.

I startled, spilling hot coffee all over my pants. They were my last clean pair, and while they were at least black, I now would either have to walk around smelling like dark roast or spot-clean a dirty pair and hope a quick tumble in the dryer would remove the wrinkles.

I wiped my dripping mug with my free hand and turned to my neighbor. “Lorrie, what are you doing here? It’s not even eight yet.” This came out as a squeak, making me sound more nervous than irritated, which I was. It had taken me a good forty-five minutes to pass out again after talking to Sanjay, and I had barely been able to pull myself out of bed that morning. Our talk must have jolted Sanjay, because he had gotten up at the same time I did. But I was still running behind and needed to locate a clean cardigan to throw over my camisole before we finished getting the kids ready.

And now deal with my wet pants and pour myself a fresh cup of coffee.

“The door was open, and I saw the littles playing on the porch. Figured you were up and at ’em,” said Lorrie, entirely too perky.

Lorrie had moved in across the street from us four years earlier. One morning soon after, she had come marching over with a basket of muffins. She was a chemistry professor at the university and a single mom to two-year-old Olive. She had smiled at Miles and said wouldn’t it be nice if our kids could be friends?

She was an odd one—that was clear from the get-go. But she was smart and friendly, and I felt a little bad for her, which in retrospect is a lousy reason to invite someone into your life. When she crossed the street at the end of the day to chat with me, I welcomed her conversation. When she suggested we take our children to the park to play on Saturday mornings, I agreed—or at least I did in the beginning, before Olive began chomping on Miles like a teething biscuit every time I took my eyes off him for half a second.

But then I would come home from a long day at work and she would be waiting on the porch, waiting to yap my ear off for the next hour. She started knocking and then sticking her head in the door to call for me. More recently—maybe because I had stopped answering when I heard her yodeling—she had taken to walking straight into our house. I had made plenty of comments such as, “We’re about to eat dinner,” or “You scared me,” but I could not bring myself to have the Talk with her.

I suspected this was because in my mind, such a conversation would prompt Lorrie to ask, “Do you still want to be friends?” and I would either have to lie to her and say yes, or admit that no, I did not, and in fact I deeply regretted not taking the advice I gave my children by accepting treats from someone I didn’t know. Which would make it awfully awkward to be neighbors.

“Don’t you need to get Olive ready for camp?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s home, happy as a clam on the ol’ iPad,” said Lorrie, waving in the direction of her house. She was wearing a shirt that said, “Hos before bros.” I started to smile because I knew I would text Jenny the minute I pushed Lorrie out the door to tell her about my latest home invasion.

Then reality set in, and it felt like a boulder had just fallen on my chest.

Lorrie prattled on, telling me all about how the good folks of Silicon Valley were helping Olive make major strides toward independence. (And thank God, since she had left the child home alone.) After a minute or two of this, she tilted her head. “You look tired. Is now a bad time?”

Yes. Now was a very bad time, and so was later on, and next week, and the rest of eternity. But Lorrie had started making this sad pouty face that apparently connected directly to my estrogen receptors, and I felt myself softening. “Yeah, I’m exhausted,” I admitted. “And I have to get the kids to camp and get to work. So . . .”

She kept sitting there, so I did something I knew I’d regret later and shared more information about my life than I wanted to. “Also, my good friend just suddenly passed away. We’re all reeling from it and could use some privacy.”

Her pouting shifted to a sincere look of sympathy. “Oh, Penelope. I’m so sorry.”

I was ready to forgive Lorrie her trespasses when she added, “As I’m sure you recall, my Mr. Pickles died last year. I’m still a real mess about it.”

Her cat?

She was comparing the natural demise of her elderly cat to the untimely death of my closest friend?

I stared at her, unable to think of a response—any response—that didn’t involve me coating her in catnip and stringing her up in the middle of the Humane Society.

“Lorrie? Mary and Joseph,” exclaimed Sanjay, who had just come down the stairs in a pair of boxers and the same dirty T-shirt. “I’m not decent.”