3
GEORGIA
The days stretch long when you don’t have distractions outside the house. Even as October brings shorter days and a welcome change in the air, I find myself wiping down already-clean surfaces, anxiety baking, and pacing. An acting teacher in college said never to pace onstage as an acting choice, because people don’t pace in real life. You must have a reason to go one way or another. It’s a cliché, she said. But I pace.
I watch Avery napping. She’s finally sleeping through the night, and her naps are shorter in the afternoon. I like it better when she’s awake, but I’m careful not to jostle her too much as I carry her to the front porch and lay her in her playpen set up there. I sit on the porch swing and watch Paige Moretti rake up piles of wet leaves a few doors down. She instructs her wiener dog to poop on the Carlsons’ lawn, and she gives him a cookie from her pocket when he obeys. I smile, but only to myself. I ache for her loss, and I wish there were something I could do or say to her. I never even formally met her, really. Probably because everyone on the block knows there’s something wrong with me. The only one who goes out of their way is the blonde who is always looking over here and brought me baked goods once, but I think my aloofness has put her off by this point.
It wasn’t always this way. It was only three years ago, when I was working in the south of France at a luxury resort during the summers. I served drinks at a swim-up bar in the infinity pool overlooking the Mediterranean. I was tanned and lean and made a fortune pouring Rosé Royale to sun-kissed, tipsy guests by day. And at night, I swam in the saltwater pool and ate boeuf bourguignon and gougères beachside under strings of twinkling lights and met fascinating people from all over the world who were there on holiday.
Lucas was one of those fascinating people. An American with a big, fancy job. Well,Iwas fascinated by it, anyway. He was visiting his parents, who had retired there, and treating them to a week of couples’ massages and day drinking at the hotel. I was normal then. Better than normal. I was vibrant. I was shiny hair and sundresses, lip gloss, and joy. I was twenty-six and planning on graduate school back in London after another year of working and saving money at the resort. Lucas saw that person—the person I was then.
One night, after it had gotten dark and all the guests had long abandoned the beach, I sat in an oversize sweater on one of the beach recliners. There were rows and rows of empty recliners, and I pulled one right down to the black waves and looked out at the water, surprised when Lucas appeared. I’d seen him chatting with a few couples in the pool earlier. I saw him see me as well, but he didn’t approach me then or order a drink, so although I found him dangerously attractive, I didn’t give it much thought after that.
“Evening,” he said, and I instinctively looked around to make sure I wasn’t too far away from safety if he was some lunatic. It’s an instinct every woman on earth has, I’m sure. It was nothing to do with him, just a knee-jerk reaction, but he picked up on it.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was...” he gestured down the shoreline, and then I saw his earbuds and running shorts “...and I saw you here. You’re the bartender from the pool, yeah?” he asked, and that was it. We talked for an hour before I fetched a bottle of red and two plastic cups, and he grabbed some towels from the beach stand, which we covered up in like blankets, and I was head over heels. He was thirteen years older than me, and I can imagine if my parents were still with me that might have given them pause. My friends thought it was weird at first, the age difference, but they also thought it was so sexy that he was American and rich and hot. That’s not what drew me to him, though. Well, of course, I’m sure that played a part, initially, but he made me feel very safe in an unexplainable way.
It wasn’t even a question when he asked me to marry him six months later. He’d visited Marseille again, and we fell asleep talking over video chat many nights when he was away. He was so settled and grounded—everything I wasn’t. I had spent my years since college traveling and taking jobs like infinity-pool bartending all over the world. I wanted to travel and be free, but I was getting to a point where fitting everything you owned into one suitcase and a carry-on, never staying anywhere long enough to create real connections with people, was getting tiresome. He was the opposite of all that: he was all hedge funds and real-estate investment and dinner parties, and I was ready.
So he took a few weeks off work, partly to spend time with his parents and buy up their condo building for a real-estate opportunity—to fix it up. He did that, and while he did, I finished out my contract at the resort. We had an intimate beach wedding with just his family and a few of my friends from the resort. It was too good to be true. I should have known it was all a little too fairy-tale to be real and something would ruin it.
But shortly after I moved to this country that I have no business being in, the terrible night happened, and everything changed. I changed.
I stare down the street, and my eyes rest on the block where all the street’s mailboxes are stacked on top of each other next to the security gate, wondering how I got like this. It seems impossible that not long ago, I would just walk out my door and into cars and restaurants and shops, that I could get on a plane and go to another country alone, that I was free and wild, and now I can’t imagine being in a world outside this block.
“Jesus!” I’m thrust back into the present moment by a figure appearing out of nowhere.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you!” It’s the woman from across the street. I don’t remember her name, but she always seems to be carrying plates of baked goods.
“Uh...no, I just... It’s fine,” I stammer, instinctually backing away from her and looking over my shoulder as if we’re engaging in an illegal activity. That’s who I am now. Jumpy. Paranoid.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you walk up,” I say, and I didn’t, which is hard to imagine. She’s very shiny with her sparkly tops and sleek blond bob, and whenever I see her interacting with other neighbors or walking to or from her car, she’s always humming or giggling. She might be the happiest person I’ve ever met. I try to recall her name.Carolyn, maybe.
“Brown Betty,” she says and smiles, shoving a plate at me.
“Oh, Brown Be... I thought your name was C...” I trail off, confused. She laughs so loud I glance over into Avery’s playpen and make sure she didn’t wake up.
“Cora, yes. No, I was referring to my apple brown Betty.”
“Oh.” I blush, taking the plate she still has extended toward me.
“It’s all brown sugar and butter, but you’re just a pretty little wisp of a thing. It can’t do any harm,” she says giggling.
“That’s very sweet. Thank you.” She’s not leaving, and her presence is starting to make me uneasy. I have to try to appear normal. What would the previously normal me do? I’m supposed to invite her in, I think. But I can’t.
“I’d invite you in, but...” I gesture to Avery. She stifles a squeal of delight upon seeing her and goes up to take a closer look.
“Of course, of course. What a little angel.”
“Thank you.” I smile and wonder if I said it in a way that indicated a close to the conversation. She doesn’t look at me, just continues to coo over Avery.
“Oh, I just have baby fever. Mine is seventeen, so I’ve pretty much had baby fever since she was a toddler. How old is this little sweetheart?”
“Almost seven months,” I say, not used to having someone gush over her, since I never take her anywhere. It’s nice for a moment.
“Well—” she turns around “—she’s perfect. You know who to call anytime you need a sitter. No charge, I just wanna kiss her little face off,” she says to a sleeping Avery in a quiet baby voice, then turns to me again. “Hey, why don’t I cut us a slice, and we can sit out here.” She starts to take the dish back from me as if she’s going to march right in the screen door and make herself at home, looking for forks and plates in my kitchen. I pull it away, on autopilot.
“Oh, please sit. I’ll get it,” I say, having little other choice. My hands are shaky as I go through the screen door and walk barefoot down the hall to the kitchen. I start to have irrational thoughts as I clumsily dig in the drawer for forks.What if she’s one of those women you read about who snatch babies because of their—what did she call it?—baby fever.I force myself not to run back down the hall and check. That’s crazy. She practically emits sunshine. But wait, isn’t that what the sociopaths do—appear so normal, maybe even a little overboard on the nice?Stop. Pull it together. Shit. Okay.
