Eskilson, Christine

Spring 2021

The Next Door Neighbor

When the alarm blares at 6 a.m., I wrap myself in my bathrobe, thrust my feet into sheepskin slippers, and scurry to my kitchen window for a glimpse of him. I’ve cherished this morning ritual for the past six months. George, still upstairs in our bedroom, jabs his stubby finger at the snooze button to steal a few more minutes of sleep. George has no idea why I spring out of bed so easily these days, or why sometimes he’ll catch me humming Fleetwood Mac or Hall & Oates as I vacuum behind the living room sofa.

“Hormone replacement therapy,” I explain when he looks at me a little too long with his goggle eyes. George just grunts; anything that smacks of a “woman’s issue” is not in his canon.

He also has no idea what I’ve been putting in his coffee for the past four weeks.

I stand in front of the sink, piled with the dirty dishes George conveniently forgot to wash last night, to peer across a strip of grass into the house next door. His house. The lights are off, but my timing is not. Within seconds I glimpse a shadowy figure moving through the first floor and into the kitchen. Switches are flicked and buttons are pressed as he prepares the morning espresso and scans a laptop. I watch him closely, my kitchen still dark because I don’t want to disturb him. He knows I’m here. Occasionally he glances toward my gingham café curtains, a half-smile on his full lips. I savor the stubble on his chin and the tightly muscled chest beneath his T-shirt.

Do you believe in love at first sight? I never did, not until he moved next door. But I knew from the beginning that we were meant to be together. For us, it’s just a matter of how and when.

He leans down from the chrome stool at the kitchen island and swings a small body up and onto the mottled green granite. Alyssa has risen early for daddy-time before he leaves for the day. He lets her strike the laptop keys while he pours apple juice into a sippy cup. Although I shudder at what havoc a determined three-year-old could wreak on a computer, I remind myself that she’s his daughter. Not mine. Not yet.

George and I never had children. It wasn’t in the cards for us. Early on I went to a fertility specialist who told me there was nothing wrong with my system. George refused to go. He’s always hated doctors and tests. At the time I was furious that he wouldn’t accept medical intervention, but it’s worked to my advantage lately when he complains about stomach pain and blurred vision.

George also wouldn’t consider adoption, even when I showed him pictures of babies stacked up in orphanages around the world. He said you’d never know what you’re getting, as if a child was the chef’s choice special at the restaurant we go to for special occasions.

I would have been a good mother. I’m so grateful for the second chance I’ll have with Alyssa. I’ve done my part. Now there’s only one thing standing in the way.

Jillian.

She saunters into the kitchen next door and opens the stainless steel refrigerator. A yawn contorts her pretty face as she waves off the coffee cup he offers and pulls out soy milk for her chai latte. Alyssa bangs her cup on the island in a bid for her mother’s attention. Jillian, as usual, focuses on herself. She steams the milk as she talks to him with increasingly animated gestures, probably complaining again about his long hours at work, even though those long hours pay for her renovated kitchen and shiny new car. Occasionally she brushes her hand across Alyssa’s blonde curls, as if the little girl is a puppy to be petted.

His broad back is to me so I can’t see his face, but I know he’s thinking what I’m thinking. It’s almost over and soon we’ll be together, with Alyssa, in a new home far, far away.

I hear a loud groan from upstairs, and I leave him to hurry to the bedroom.

George lies half-on and half-off our bed, his face bright red and contorted. Pools of sweat darken the front of his plaid pajamas.

“Can’t—can’t breathe,” he gasps. “Call 911.” His body jack-knifes twice on the comforter as one hand clutches for the pillow sham. He slips from the bed and sprawls on the floor.

It’s amazing what you can find on the internet. I could have gone for the Glock 17 with the ultimate refinement in laser sight technology or the lightweight steel knife with the handle in baby blue, fuchsia, or white. Instead, I opted for more subtle means. The poison I’ve been slowly introducing in George’s coffee worked exactly as the webpage said it would.

I tighten the belt of my robe and kneel beside him on the rug. George’s eyes are wide open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling. A driblet of saliva runs down his chin. I search for a pulse, first on his wrist and then at his neck. His skin is still warm but there is no beat of life.

I stand up and dress quickly. Although usually I would think more about my clothes before going next door, making sure a scarf or turtleneck masks the slight crepe of my neck, today my time is short.

I dash downstairs and grab a red fleece vest to guard against the cooling autumn air. Once I go next door and tell him George is gone, he can put his plans for Jillian in motion. Then I can return to “discover” George, make the hysterical call for help that will prove futile, and play the grieving widow.

“My first husband died suddenly,” I picture telling the new neighbors in the gated community we’d move to in Phoenix, Dallas, or Charlotte. “Around the same time his wife passed, too. We were lucky to find each other and make a new family together.”

No one answers when I knock on the front door. He must still be in the kitchen, so I ring the bell. Trembling in anticipation, I pick up the folded Wall Street Journal on the porch.

The door opens, and he stands in front of me, Alyssa trailing behind clutching her cup of juice. Although I want to throw my arms around him and feel his body hard against mine, I simply hand him the paper.

“There’s good news today,” I say, using a signal I know he’ll understand.

At first, he looks puzzled but then his face relaxes. “Thank you, Mrs. Daugherty.” His smile is friendly yet impersonal, giving no hint of what has passed between us.

Over his shoulder I see Jillian coming down the hallway. Her long blonde hair is tucked behind her ears. She’s holding miniature green overalls and a pink flowered shirt.

“Miss Lissie,” she calls. “Time to get dressed, sweetie.” Jillian puts down the clothes and holds out her arms. Alyssa runs to her with a giggle and grabs at her yoga pants.

“Who’s at the door, Mike?” Jillian asks as she pulls off Alyssa’s Frozen II nightgown.

He turns away to tell her. “It’s just Mrs. Daugherty from next door. She brought us the paper.”

“Thank you again,” he says to me. Then gently, so very gently, he closes the door in my face.

Sept/Oct 2014

Lunch Without Jonathan

Christine Eskilson

"When Jonathan was a baby, did he suck his thumb?"

Grace finished her bite of grilled chicken Caesar salad before she answered the question. Inwardly she breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Maybe this was what Alison's hastily scheduled lunch was about--no more hysteria, more tears, no more recriminations--Alison simply wanted tales of Jonathan's childhood. Grace sincerely hoped so; that much she could deliver.

"Let me see, dear," Grace pursed her mouth, which was still pretty even with the lines of age, "sometimes I get Jonathan and Ruth confused."

Alison stared at her intently, fiddling with the straps of the canvas backpack in her lap, and Grace let out a nervous trill of laughter. Relax, Grace, this is your daughter-in-law, she told herself, the woman who is supposed to be the love of your son's life. "I think Ruth was the thumb sucker. Jonathan, no." Grace took another forkful of salad, watching Alison closely from beneath her frosted bangs.

Alison's color looked much better today. Grace was glad to see that--after the anguish of the past months. On the telephone this morning Alison had sounded excited, even agitated, a far cry from the monosyllabic conversations Grace had finally gotten used to. Grace was also pleased that Alison had washed and combed her long dark hair, and wore a clean white t-shirt. A bit casual for the country club, perhaps, but Grace had quickly suggested a table outside. "It's lovely this time of year." Alison had shrugged her narrow shoulders and followed Grace's brisk heels to an umbrella table on the patio.

"When Jonathan was a baby, did he cry in the middle of the night?

"Why of course," Grace replied with an indulgent smile, "all little ones do." She signaled for the waitress, who was pouring ice tea for the couple at the next table. "Another white wine, please," she ordered. "No, on second thought make it a spritzer this time, with lime. Would you care for anything else, Alison?"

Alison shook her head. Her plate of marinated vegetables was untouched. Still, Grace thought, even if Alison wasn't eating much yet, it had to be a good sign that she wanted to see Grace, wanted to meet at the country club, and wanted to talk about Jonathan in the same breath as babies. It probably meant she had begun to forgive and was looking to the future again. The therapist said that would happen--with time. Of course sometimes Grace couldn't help but privately think that Alison already had had plenty of that.

"When Jonathan was a baby, did he ever throw up in your lap?"

Grace put down the roll she was buttering and arched one finely tweezed eyebrow. "Really, Alison, is that necessary? We’re still eating, or at least I am."

Alison shrugged. "Sorry," she said, almost sullenly. She pushed the vegetables aside and put her backpack on the table, as if she was preparing to get up and run. Instead she sank back in her chair and picked at the weave of the plastic webbing.

Grace relented when the waitress set a fresh drink at her left elbow. Bill would say she'd been too harsh with Alison, and he probably would be right. She had to work on her patience, especially with someone as fragile as her only son's wife. Grace tried again. "You know I'd be happy to share everything about Jonathan with you--even the gory details." Another nervous trill of laughter.

Alison leaned forward eagerly. "When Jonathan was a baby, did he ever get such a high fever you thought he would be brain damaged?"

Grace blinked, but kept her resolve to be patient. She took a sip of her drink and wished she hadn't switched to spritzers. "Jonathan was a healthy child, as far as I remember. By the way, where is he this afternoon? I thought maybe he’d join us."

A curious smile played on Alison's lips. "At home. Lying down."

"I hope he's taking good care of you. I must say you're looking much better today."

This time Alison's smile was broad. "I feel much better," she said, almost fervently, "I'm taking care of things. Taking care of them myself." Her hand stroked the backpack.

I wish she'd get a nice Coach bag instead of lugging around that old thing, Grace thought. "Well, that's good to hear. You know how worried Bill and I have been about you--" Grace hesitated, "and, frankly, we've been worried about Jonathan, too."

Alison had miscarried seven months ago, in her first trimester. It had happened on a bicycling trip Jonathan had taken her on in Vermont. The doctor had said that the biking had done no harm and told Alison that she had every prospect in the world of a healthy pregnancy next time. He'd quoted some statistic about one in every six conceptions routinely ending in miscarriage. Grace thought that was probably true, she'd had two of her own in the process of producing Ruth and Jonathan. She had grieved the loss of those babies, to be sure, but unlike Alison she hadn't completely fallen to pieces afterwards and unlike Alison she hadn't blamed her husband.

"Jonathan, too," Alison echoed dreamily. "I feel much better, mother Grace," she said again, "I'm taking care of myself."

Mother Grace? Grace thought. Alison had never called her that before. Grace wasn't sure she liked it, either.

"Do you realize what day it is, mother Grace?"

Grace smiled uncertainly as she flipped through her mental calendar. It was June--the club tennis tournament was next week, Bill's birthday wasn't until September, and Jonathan and Alison's anniversary had been last month. (God, what a disaster that dinner had been! Grace was even a little surprised that the club had let them back in after the scene Alison had made). Then Grace's smile faded as she remembered. The due date.

"You remember, don't you?" Alison asked eagerly. "Jonathan didn't at first." Her mouth twisted. "I couldn't believe he could be so cruel. That made me angry. Very angry."

As Grace tried to think of a neutral response Alison abruptly stood up. "I have to wash my hands," she announced. "I'll be right back."

After Alison left the waitress cleared the table, leaving only the backpack. It really was quite an ugly method of transporting one's necessities, Grace thought again, and Alison's was particularly unattractive. It looked as though it might be holding something wet, the brown canvas appeared stained in several places. I could buy her a new bag, Grace decided, that might cheer her up. Even the pro shop would have something better, if she insists on a rugged look.

Pleased with her idea, Grace was about to move the backpack off the table and out of her line of vision when she felt movement beside her chair and a warm voice hissed in her ear.

"When Jonathan was a baby, did he bleed when you stuck him?"