The New Neighbor: A Novel Read online

  She had all the bottles now, but what was she going to do with them? Would the people search this room? Would they check the drawers? Would they look in the bathroom trash? She went out of the room, clutching the bottles to her chest, and in the kitchen she found a plastic grocery bag to contain them. She grabbed a few paper towels off the roll, crumpled them, and arranged them over the pills. The bag went into the kitchen trash. Now she needed to go back to the bedroom.

  But would they look in the trash? The bag couldn’t stay there. She fished it back out. The bag couldn’t be in the house. She went out the front door. No sign yet of the people. No sign of her mother and Milo, either. On the other side of the street the neighbor’s pickup truck was parked in the driveway. She ran across, with a hasty glance both ways, and tossed the bag in the truck bed. She stood there a moment, waiting to be caught. Then she looked into the bed. The bag lay splayed in the middle, hints of orange showing through. She pushed herself up, pitched forward, and grabbed the bag, tossing it to the back right corner. There were a few pieces of scrap lumber in the truck. She dragged one of them on top of the bag, then added a second one. That would have to be good enough. She didn’t want the neighbor to come outside and catch her. She didn’t want the people to find her here.

  She ran back across the street, forgetting to look both ways until she was already on the other side, when, though it was too late, she did it to make up for not doing it before.

  Where was her mother? It was always Milo she took with her when she left.

  She didn’t know where she was supposed to be when the people came. In the bedroom with her father? She would rather not go back in there. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he said. Maybe it was all right to be waiting outside. She found that she didn’t want to go back inside the house at all. She sat down on the front lawn. Really, her legs gave way—she didn’t sit so much as drop. It had been dry—it was almost always dry—and the grass was prickly and brown at the ends. She brushed her palm over it, letting it tickle her hand. She felt that it made a sound as she brushed her hand over it. Shhh, shhh, it said. It was probably not all right to lie down.

  The ambulance came. She answered the questions she was asked. The paramedics went inside. Then she lay down. It was all right to lie down now. The blue bright sky showed her the most beautifully sculpted cloud. Look what I made, it said.

  She put her hand in her pocket and found the balled-up hair. She pulled it out and stared at it, utterly confused. The sun sparked it, so that it shone with little specks of gold. That was when she realized this was all her mother’s fault.

  Orphan

  This morning I went to the Smoke House in Monteagle for breakfast. I so rarely eat out. I thought it would be a treat, even if I managed only a poached egg and a few bites of bacon. A biscuit, maybe, and coffee someone else made, and a little silver pitcher full of cream. But all I got for cream was a small white bowl filled with those little plastic pots with the peel-off lids. I said to the waitress, “You used to bring cream in a silver pitcher.”

  “No, ma’am, we’ve always used these, long as I worked here,” she said. Her name was Danielle. “I can bring you milk in a pitcher though. It’s a little white pitcher.”

  “How long have you worked here?’

  “About five years.”

  “Well, I’ve lived here twenty, and I remember those pitchers.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Would you like me to bring you some milk?”

  She was perfectly nice. Her hair in a long ponytail. I don’t want to be yes ma’amed. I want to be believed. It’s a little thing, a little thing. But I was so sure. Little silver pitchers. Danielle the waitress never saw them so they can’t ever have existed. My truths vanish, loss upon loss.

  The Smoke House has a gift shop, which they prefer to call the Old General Store and have decorated with whiskey barrels and a player piano. What the place really purveys is old-timeyness, but the specific products include jams and jellies, bacon, wood that has been carved. I poked around the shop after my breakfast. God knows why. I suppose I didn’t want to go home. It’s tempting, in telling a story like this, to assign yourself a prophetic sense. If I hadn’t lingered like that, without purpose or cause, I would have been gone before she came in.

  The moment I saw her I knew who she was. That is the truth. The squarish face declining into a graceful jaw. The somber eyes. Her hair the same blond, just as straight but longer, shinier. It has the sleek shine of gold behind glass, a gleaming irresistibility, kept where it can’t be touched. Perhaps she is her father’s girl, but she looks exactly like her mother. And carries herself the same.

  She looked around hesitantly, like she wasn’t supposed to be there and was afraid someone would catch her. Her eyes passed over me. Well, why wouldn’t they? She went up to the counter and said to the woman behind it, “I’m looking for someone. I wonder if you might know her.” Exactly like a detective! But without the confidence, or the photograph to show, or the bribe of a folded bill.

  “What’s her name, sweetie?” the woman asked, and the girl—Zoe—said, “Jennifer Young.”

  “I—” I tried to say, but it came out a croak, as my voice sometimes does. As I worked to clear my throat, the woman kept repeating the name: Jennifer Young, Jennifer Young. “It does sound familiar,” was her conclusion.

  “I know her,” I said.

  They both looked at me like a cat had spoken.

  “I think this lady can help you,” the woman said to Zoe, as if she’d accomplished something in pointing that out. It’s the job of the younger person to move, so I stood there with my hand on my cane and waited. She came up to me. Really, the resemblance is uncanny. I wanted to touch her cheek to see if she was real.

  “You know where I can find her?” she asked.

  “Of course I do,” I said. “I’m Margaret Riley.” And when her face remained confused: “We spoke on the telephone.”

  “Oh,” she said. “Okay.” She said it in a stunned uncomprehending way. She had the woozy air of someone who’s just come out from under an enchantment. “I drove all night, I haven’t slept,” she said. She seemed to wobble a little, and instinctively I reached out to steady her, and then we both wobbled.

  “Let’s sit down,” I said. “You need breakfast. Let’s get you some breakfast.”

  I took charge of the situation. It’s not like I’ve lost the knack. We got a table, and when she seemed stupefied by the menu, I made some suggestions and then waved Danielle the waitress over and ordered for her. I took the menu from her hands and gave it to Danielle. “Do you drink coffee?” I asked Zoe. She nodded, and I said, “Two coffees, please.”

  “And a pitcher of milk?”

  I said yes, though milk isn’t what I want. It’s cream. “Now, dear,” I said to Zoe, “are you all right?”

  “I’m just tired,” she said.

  “Where did you come from?”

  “Ann Arbor. I go to school there.”

  “And what made you drive down? Did your mother call again?” Once you tell a lie, the only choice is to keep pretending.

  She shook her head. “No,” she said.

  “So. It was an impulse.”

  “Yes.”

  “What are you hoping will happen?” The question had more harshness than I intended.

  She looked at me with her mother’s somber eyes and blinked. “I don’t know.”

  Danielle appeared to set down the coffee and the pitcher. Zoe grimaced when the coffee hit her mouth. It wasn’t hot, so I waited for her to say she didn’t like it. But she didn’t. She took another sip and winced. Her face when she turned it toward me had a blind look, like I’d caught it in a flashlight beam.

  “You seem like you need help,” I said.

  “I don’t.” She looked down at the table, shaking her head, but I saw that she was tearful.

  Sometimes the best course is a detour. “Have you ever been here before?”

  She shook her head.

  “Well, welcome
to the Mountain,” I said. “I’m going to tell you about it, all right?” I saw Danielle approaching with a plate. “While you eat. I’ll play tour guide.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  So I told her about the elevation and the population. I described Natural Bridge, nattered on about caves and waterfalls. I said sandstone and overlooks. She ate her eggs and toast, nodding as I talked. When she was finished she sat back and looked at me. She seemed awake for the first time since I’d laid eyes on her. “Better?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said. And then, “Thank you,” with more gratitude than I deserved, but still I liked it. “So it’s pronounced swan-ee.”

  “What? Yes.”

  “I thought it was sue-wan-nee.”

  “A lot of people make that mistake.”

  “It’s a funny name.”

  “You should visit it while you’re here. It’s a beautiful place.”

  “I’d like to,” she said. “I saw pictures online.” She hesitated. “Is that where my mother lives? In Sewanee?”

  “No, your mother lives where I do, between here and Sewanee. We’re neighbors of a kind.”

  She nodded.

  “Do you want me to show you your mother’s house?”

  “Now?”

  “Or whenever you want.”

  “Maybe in a little while.” But she didn’t say this with any confidence.

  “Do you have a place to stay?”

  She shook her head. Her solemn eyes. She was like an orphan in a basket at my door.

  “Well, why don’t you come back to my house then. I have a nice guest room. You can take a nap. After you’re rested we can make a plan.”

  “That’s very nice of you, but . . .”

  “It would be no trouble. I’d be happy to have you.”

  “Oh, thank you, but it’s not that. I just . . . you said . . . how close is your house to my mom’s?”

  “Oh! Don’t worry,” I said. “There’s a big pond between us.”

  After that she agreed to come. I asked for the check, waving off her attempt to pay. As we went down the stairs leaving the restaurant, she offered me her arm and I took it. A considerate girl. I was impressed. I can manage on my own, of course, but it’s easier not to. She drives a pickup truck. She followed me back to my house. I drove slowly, checking the rearview mirror to make sure she was still there.

  All she had with her was a backpack. She carried it by a strap instead of on her back. I said, “Backpacks used to be just for soldiers,” and she said, “How did students carry their books?” I couldn’t think of the answer.

  I led her into the guest room and waved at the two beds. The beds seemed to perk up at our presence, coming to attention. I’d been using this room for massage, of course, but when was the last time someone slept here? “You can have whichever one you like,” I said, and I had the fanciful notion that both beds said, Choose me!

  She came over and touched each one, then picked the one nearest the door. We made the bed together. “Now, why don’t you nap?” I said. I made to leave so she could get undressed, but she just climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her. I had a silly urge to tuck them closer, to kiss her on the forehead. I contented myself with turning out the light and telling her to sleep well.

  She slept and slept and slept. I thought she might sleep a hundred years. I hoped I was the fairy godmother and not the witch. It was nearly five o’clock when she emerged yawning with a pillow-creased face and said, “I slept a long time.”

  “You were tired,” I said. “You needed it.”

  She rubbed her face. “Is there a toy store around here? I missed Milo’s birthday. And Christmas.”

  “Well, what are you looking for?”

  “A toy? A book?”

  I didn’t know what to tell her. In Sewanee there’s an overstuffed home-décor shop a Victorian might enjoy. It has a heavy smell of potpourri. There are places where you can buy pottery mugs. I don’t know where you shop for a child. The Walmart in Winchester is half an hour away, down the steep side of the Mountain. I don’t like to drive that road. “It’s late in the day, sweetheart. I don’t know if anything will still be open.”

  She absorbed this news, looking worried. “I really think I should get something.”

  “You don’t have to go to your mother’s today. You can wait until tomorrow. You can stay as long as you want.”

  I was surprised how quickly she agreed to this. “Tomorrow, then. Is that okay? Maybe the campus bookstore will have something? And then I can go over there.”

  “That’s a good plan,” I said.

  She looked around, like she was only now coming awake to her surroundings, and said, “I like your house.” I thanked her. She walked around asking me questions about this and that. She studied the portraits of my ancestors while I told her all about them, the general with his beard and the wife with the white cap and the severe expression. She sat down on my couch and put her hand on the scrapbook, still on the coffee table. “What’s this?”

  “Oh, don’t look at that,” I said. “It’s my scrapbook from the war. It’s full of sad stories.”

  “Which war?” she asked, and I told her, and then I told her about my service, a mild and cheering version, with all the horror ignored. She listened, turning the pages slowly. She stopped before we reached Germany, for which I was glad.

  “Margaret,” she said, and I waited for a question about the war. “Do you know about my father?”

  I answered honestly. I told her what I’d read on the Internet. But I could so easily have lied! Yes, my dear, I know he’s passed, I could’ve said, and then pat-pat-patted her hand. Did I tell the truth because I didn’t want to deceive her? Or because I thought my honesty would inspire her own? It must be quite a struggle for a good detective to understand herself.

  “I guess you think she’s innocent,” she said.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Otherwise you wouldn’t have her in your house.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “She’d pose no threat to me.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me? If you’re friends with her, and you know what happened? Don’t you think I’m bad? I’m the one that went to the police.”

  “I don’t think you’re bad. No.”

  “Well, I’m here to apologize,” she said. “When I woke up I realized it. That’s what I’m hoping will happen.”

  In her voice there was a combination of defiance and tears, an alarming intensity of emotion. I should’ve been able to offer more comfort. Instead I waited a few minutes, then asked what she wanted for dinner. I took her to Pearl’s. I ate plain poached salmon and a little white rice. She had chicken in a sauce. I insisted she eat dessert.

  She came for forgiveness, the poor, poor child. That is not what I expected. Forgiveness is a terrible thing to want, because of all things on earth it is the hardest to get. We’ve gone to great lengths in search of it. We’ve invented whole religions. And yet no god truly forgives. Otherwise why would there be hell? Ask and ye shall be, we say. But we cannot believe it.

  Step One

  Zoe could easily be mistaken for a student here, and so there’s no reason for her to feel like a conspicuous interloper as she walks into the campus bookstore. She lingers near the entrance, touching the books on display. She keeps her head down, hoping the girl behind the cash register won’t ask if she needs help. She’s avoided all nonessential interactions with other people for so many months now that she’s grown terrified of them. Interactions. People. She feels an immense gratitude toward Margaret, for seeming to understand that. For knowing what to do.

  Step one: buy a toy for Milo, if she can find the toys without asking where they are.

  Two older women come in, talking loudly, then hushing their voices as soon as they’re inside. Professor types in cardigans. She’s noticed that female professors really seem to favor cardigans, even when the weather’s a little too warm for them. She’s listening to their ta
lk only because they’re too near to avoid it, but it’s kind of interesting to hear one of them telling the other how much she hates one of her students, which she does in a normal voice, except at first she whispers his name, after that saying only he. Suddenly she breaks off her complaining and says, “Oh my God! I finally saw Jennifer!”

  Zoe goes still.

  “You did? Pretty great, right?”

  “So great. She’s amazing. She really did get that knot out of my shoulder.”

  The other woman sighs. “I have to book her again.”

  “I already made another appointment. I wanted to do it, like, tomorrow, but I made myself wait two weeks, because it does cost money.”

  “Did she have any mystical visions?”

  The first woman laughs. She says, “No, not really,” but it’s obvious this is a lie.

  The second woman says, “She’s really intuitive. She knew immediately about . . .” The women are walking as they’re talking, and Zoe doesn’t catch the rest. Did the second woman know the first woman was lying? Or could she really not tell? Maybe it would be better to go through life not being able to tell.

  Zoe is angry. Maybe that’s strange. She’s grown used to feeling what she’s probably not supposed to feel. She’s out of step with what’s normal. It’s not for these women to talk about her mother, with Zoe standing there a stranger. Her supposedly amazing mother. She and her mother fled the same history, and how did her mother arrive at amazing? She could follow these women and tell them exactly where her mother came from, if she were the sort of person her mother thinks she is. Instead she picks up a guide to Sewanee hiking, because it’s right in front of her, and pages through it, dimly registering its pretty pictures until the urge to unmask her mother dissipates. That is not what she came here to do.

  She skirts the edges of the store until she finds something she thinks Milo would like: a little tiger in a sweatshirt that says SEWANEE. A four-year-old has not yet outgrown stuffed animals, right? She starts to walk toward the registers with her purchase, but it comes to her that step one leads directly to step two, and her pace slows. Now that she has the gift for her brother, it will be time to go. “Let’s go, Margaret,” she’ll say heartily, and then she’ll help the old woman out to her car, and they’ll drive a little ways down the road. She asked this morning if they could walk there, and Margaret said, “Well, you could, but I’m afraid I can’t.”