The Deadly Neighbors (The Zoe Hayes Mysteries) (14 page)

She smirked.

“Just a little.” I sipped decaf, tried to dodge her probing eyes.

“Well, that’s completely normal.”

Was it?

“Why are you chewing your lip? What else is wrong?”

I’d have to say something or she’d keep nagging. “I don’t know why, but Nick’s on my nerves a lot. It’s not his fault, exactly. I’m just irritated.”

Susan’s shoulders shook. She was laughing.

“What’s so funny?”

“Sorry. It’s just that—Zoe, that’s so typical. Pregnant women are hell to live with. Men cannot please us, no matter what they do. When I was pregnant, I contemplated murdering Tim on a daily—no, an hourly—basis. No matter what he did—especially if he tried to please me, he annoyed me. Being irritated by your mate is part of the deal. Nick will live through it. You both will.”

A gangly waiter with a huge Adam’s apple stepped over and refilled our cups. I waited for him to leave, grateful for a chance to change the subject, but Susan persisted.

“By the way, Tim and I have a video of Lisa’s birth. You should watch it.” The waiter swallowed; his Adam’s apple rose and fell. “It would be good for you to see a delivery.”

Oh, God. No way did I want to see that. The waiter fled, and I gulped fresh decaf. Too hot. Burned my tongue.

“Thanks. I’ll let you know.” Would she serve popcorn and soda? I squirmed.

“They aren’t really relevant, but I can tell you about my deliveries if you want.” She fingered the handle of her coffee cup. “I mean, if you’re sure you want to hear.”

Oh, God. Was it going to be detailed?

She leaned forward, her tone confidential. “People say you forget the labor and the pain. That’s bullshit. I remember every damned second of it.”

How delightful. “It was bad?”

“I don’t want to scare you.”

“How bad?”

“Not bad. It wasn’t bad.”

I exhaled, relieved.

“‘Bad’ doesn’t touch it. It was more like all-consuming. Like being eaten alive and burned at the stake all at once. From the inside out. Listen to me, Zoe. Go for the drugs. My labors didn’t last long enough to get the epidurals going. My body spits babies out. Emily came in less than two hours. But those two hours were sheer undiluted hell.”

Oh.

“Screaming pain.”

Okay.

“Worse than words can describe.”

I got the picture.

“But, like I said, that was just me. It’s different for everybody.”

Right.

“I mean, it hurts. You’ll want it to be over with.”

I didn’t say anything, too scared to move.

“Actually, though, it’s not a big deal. You’re having a baby, not a heart transplant. It’s what women do. They’ll get it out of you, and that’ll be it.”

Lord. Didn’t Susan see any magic in childbirth? “Sounds like you’re talking about a kidney stone.” I was irked.

“It’s no kidney stone. A kidney stone comes out and it’s gone. Once the baby comes out, it’s just the beginning. Life as you know it will be gone for good.”

“Pancakes?” The waiter set an overflowing plate in front of Susan. “And a bagel.” His tone seemed disdainful of my breakfast choice.

“It can’t be that bad, Susan.” I watched her slosh butter and syrup onto her stack, found myself salivating. “I have Molly, and she hasn’t interfered with my life. You have three kids, and you still run your law practice and travel—”

“But it’s not the life I used to have. Truth is I’d die for my kids; you know that. But, in a way, I don’t have to—it would be redundant. I’ve already sacrificed myself for them.”

I shook my head, eyeing my paltry bagel, her sultry stack.

“I’ll spell it out. You were single when Molly came into your life. This time, you’re not. This time will be different. You and Nick will never have a moment alone ever again. The baby will cry on cue whenever you want to eat a meal, take a bath, sleep or, God forbid, talk on the phone. And without exception, it will cry whenever you even think about having sex. The baby will also generate fifty thousand times its weight in paraphernalia—cribs, car seats, prams, high chairs, not to mention diapers, tote bags, pacifiers, sippy cups, teething rings, cuddle toys, clothes, blankets, wipes—whatever.

“You’ll have more expenses than you ever imagined, and therefore no money for yourself or your spouse. So even if you want to get away together, you won’t be able to until college is paid for. And I’m just skimming the surface.”

Wow. I had no idea Susan was so bitter about motherhood.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to sound so negative.”

She thought that sounded negative? “Not at all.”

“I’m sorry, Zoe. What kind of friend am I? This is one of the most exciting times in your life, and I’m making it sound like a complete disaster. I don’t mean to. Kids are great. They are. And babies—you know I can’t resist them. It’s just that I’m constantly stretched thin. I never feel like I do enough for them. To me, coming here and going with you to clean out your dad’s house feels like a vacation. It’s a break from the never-ending drama at home. Lisa’s a teenager and boys are coming around, drinking, hooking up. She has a hickey on her neck, and we find empty beer cans, cigarette butts out back. And Julie does whatever the crowd does; she thinks that who she is gets defined by what she owns, so she always needs more—designer jeans or handbags or whatever her friends have. And Emily’s so demanding and bossy—”

“They’re great kids, Susan.”

“But they soak up every ounce of energy and time and money and emotion that I have. There’s nothing left.”

I didn’t know what to say. To me, Susan was a natural nurturer. Her kids glowed, and her family seemed to thrive. I didn’t have a mother; Susan had become my model of what a mom should be. But apparently I’d missed a few details. We were quiet for a while. She munched her pancakes; I ate my bagel. It was dry, tasted like cardboard. I eyed her pancakes, coveted them, considered digging my fork into them.

“So are you going to find out the sex?” Cutting syrupy mouthfuls, she began listing pros and cons, as if I hadn’t already thought of them.

The sex? I wondered. What would it be? I put a hand on my belly, wondering who was inside. Was it a girl or a boy? I tried to imagine its face, but couldn’t. Nor could I conjure up the feel of the baby’s flesh against mine or the smell of its new skin or the sounds of its coos or cries or the sight of it in Nick’s arms or in Molly’s. I had no idea who this new person would be, and though I doubted it would shatter our lives as Susan predicted, I felt a wave of unexpected sadness, an awareness that time was limited, that our cozy threesome was about to be forever lost, invaded by a tiny stranger, name, face and gender unknown. And I knew then that the fear I felt wasn’t just about childbirth or pain, bed rest or premature labor. My apprehension was also about change, about the unpredictable results of adding another person to our family, molding it from a triangle to a square.

“So, I think you were smart about the color,” Susan insisted. “Yellow is good for both. And it’s cheerful.”

Yellow? I’d lost her.

“But don’t buy that Bugaboo stroller. That’s going to be our gift.” She beamed.

“Really?” I smiled. “Thank you.”

“Tim and I want you to have the best.” She looked at the remaining pancakes on her plate. “Want some? I can’t finish.”

Before she finished the question, I’d taken her plate and forked up a wad.

“Have milk with them,” she scolded. “Take care of yourself while you can.”

I didn’t answer, didn’t listen. I merely inhaled the remainder of her breakfast, as if I were feeding a starving beast.

T
HE POLICE HAD FINISHED
their work days ago, and we’d removed the remaining yellow tape from the door on our way inside. Susan stood in the foyer, wide-eyed, scanning the domed ceiling and the grand front staircase.

“You grew up here?” She seemed baffled.

“After I was four or five. Yeah.” Oh, Lord. Was Susan going to grill me about my childhood? Was she going to press me like Nick?

“Neat.” She shivered. “Very homey. If your name is Munster. Or Addams.”

“It wasn’t that bad.”

“Zoe. It looks like a freaking haunted house.”

She was probably right. “Well, it wasn’t so bad back then.”

A memory, too fleeting to catch, flew through my mind. The house when it was spotless. The scent of my mother’s perfume, the rustle of fabric as she swished by.

I followed Susan through the domed foyer down the wide hall, passing the tiny storage closet under the staircase. I remembered playing there as a young child, hiding, huddled in that secret place, but I couldn’t linger on memories, made myself keep walking. We wandered around the cluttered and dusty first floor. Cobwebs drooped from the dining and living room light fixtures. Paint crumbled off ceilings; faded paper curled on the walls. Wooden furniture was unpolished and brittle, and on the sideboard, my grandmother’s silver tea set had long since tarnished to black. Clearly, Dad had let everything go untended for a long time. In the kitchen, the ambulance crew had uprighted the table, but the mess was basically still there. Congealed blood had dried on the floor, thick and cracked.

Susan sighed. “Well, let’s get at it.” She opened a cabinet, frowned, closed it again. “Where should we start? How do you want to do this?”

How? Oh, God. I had no idea. In fact, I really didn’t want to do it at all, dreaded the entire process. Cut it out, I told myself. Deal with it.

We stood in silence, breathing in shadows. I must have looked as lost as I felt because Susan took over, managing, delegating. “Why don’t we start by getting rid of all the trash?”

With that, she produced a box of trash bags and began throwing things out. She emptied the refrigerator in a flurry, started on cabinets, setting usable items on the counter, dumping the rest.

I watched, fascinated, appreciative and completely useless. I was trapped in a crisscross of dimensions, a hodgepodge of time and space where moments in the kitchen slipped, colliding with the past. I was caught up in a thousand vague impressions of breakfasts and after-school snacks, roasting turkeys and simmering soups. Of Hilda making pots of hearty stew; or baking apple strudel, asking me to test it to make sure it was good enough. Or not of Hilda—of my mother, her slender hands rinsing dishes, handing the small ones to me to dry. Of my father sauntering in like a movie star, a celebrity, spewing boasts and promises. Of a plate shattering against a wall, or someone wailing…My mother’s voice? Or mine?

Maybe Nick’s concerns were justified. Maybe some childhood experience had crippled me emotionally, making me ineligible for intimacy. Maybe I was permanently impaired.

But there was no point worrying about that now; there was work to be done. I opened a cabinet and faced my mother’s mixing bowls, rolling pins, a cheese grater, and a kettle. Props of a woman’s life, used by others, outlasting her by decades. I don’t know how long I stood staring before Susan noticed.

“Those bowls are chipped. I’d toss ‘em if I were you.” She handed me a fresh trash bag.

I touched a bowl but couldn’t manage to throw it out. Somehow, I’d regressed, become childlike, a person with neither the authority nor the capacity to make decisions about any of the items in the room. Susan, however, had no trouble. Chipped saucers, dented utensils, old food—a cyclone of stuff clattered into the sacks.

“Zoe, come on. This is junk. Get rid of it.”

“Sorry.” I couldn’t explain, didn’t understand myself. “You’re right.”

“Okay.” She stepped to my side. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. I’d forgotten about all this stuff.”

“Oh, great. You’re getting sentimental about spatulas and saucepans?”

Damn. Was she going to scold me again? Lecture me on how I should behave, how I should let go of these valueless, material connections to the past? I braced myself, checking my temper.

“Because, if you are,” she went on, “it’s completely understandable. Especially since you’ve been out of touch with all this stuff for so long.” She put an arm around me, and her tenderness ambushed me. My eyes suddenly flooded; tears spilled down my cheeks.

“Oh, Lord,” I said. “Sorry.”

“For what?” She gave me a hug. “Look, it’s normal to be upset. What we’re doing isn’t easy. Aside from the fact that you’re confronting your past for the first time, we’re dealing with major life issues here. Let’s face it, it’s big-time stuff. Nothing less than life cycles. The actual M word.”

The M word? Mother? Murder? Menopause?

“Mortality,” she continued. “We’re dealing with passages here. When Tim had to do his mom’s place, he curled up on her rocker and bawled like a baby.”

I pictured it. Paunchy, middle-aged, pipe-smoking Tim, sobbing in a fetal position. Not pretty

“So,” she went on, “is there anything in the kitchen you especially want to save?”

“No, nothing.” I wiped off my face.

“Then, look. I have things under control here. I’ll save anything questionable. Why don’t you go to your dad’s room and pack his personal things. Stuff he’ll want to have with him.”

Good plan. But I didn’t move. I watched her throw out a dented colander, a bent and blackened cookie sheet. “What about when it’s us?” I asked. “When it’s our turn, will our kids have to do this? Can you see Emily and Molly sifting through our stuff?”

She dumped an entire odds-and-ends drawer into a trash bag. “It’s not going to be our turn. Our generation’s different. We won’t age the way people do now. We’re healthier, more active—”

“Right.” I headed for the stairs. “But, for the record? If you’re lucid enough when it’s my turn, tell Molly and little junior here to toss it all. In fact, tell them not even to look at it, just burn—”

“Hey. What’s this?”

Susan held up the empty drawer. A large manila envelope was taped to the bottom. She peeled it off and held it out to me. I took it, turned it over, examining it. It had no label, no writing. It was just a blank sealed envelope. I stared at it, confused.

Susan rolled her eyes, hovering, unable to contain her curiosity. “Zoe, my God. It’s not going to bite you. Just open it.”