A Quiet Neighbor (10 page)

Then comes an older man, walking hunchbacked.
White puffs of hair stick out haphazardly under a sun-bleached fisherman’s hat.
He pauses, leaning on a wooden cane while his Yorkie sniffs at a post. A group
of newbie housewives stroll past. The women, dressed in yoga pants and fitted
shirts, are yapping with flare about one thing or another while their children play
in the sandbox a few feet away. The women never give the old man a second
glance, except to coo and smile at the tiny Yorkie. They don’t even flinch at
his cane, which could—if the situation necessitated—be a dangerous weapon.
Again,
what the hell!

That about settles it. Tomorrow I am going to
drag Mr. Dimples out on the walk if I have to carry him out. The idea that a
man is less dangerous with a pooch than without one is preposterous. Won’t I be
more dangerous? Dogs have teeth and they might be trained to use them.

Deeply perplexed, I keep my eyes trained
forward, and walk past the group of mothers. I immediately feel their eyes dart
quickly from me to their children—who are (luckily) all accounted for and at a
safe distance away from the creepy man walking alone—and back to me again.
Yes ladies, don’t you worry, just minding my own business. Please carry on.

Following the bend in the road, I stop and
hesitate. Stiffening, my stomach churns and reflexively my tongue lines with a
thick film of saliva. Without warning, I lurch forward and vomit the PB&J
snack I inhaled prior to the walk. A cold sweat prickles my forehead as I lean
against the trunk of a mature oak tree and close my eyes.

Letting the cool breeze wash over me in soft
soothing breaths, violent flashbacks of last Halloween fizzle in and out of my
head. The horror that befell my world on that ghastly night grips me. I will be
forever chained to the grief and tormented in solitude. There is no one else
that I can burden with my misery, no one to nurse my ailing heart. I am left to
grieve my loss alone. Completely alone.

Regaining control over my trembling limbs, I push
off the tree and stand. For the moment, the rolling in my stomach has abated.
Brushing off the dirt and leaves that cling to my moistened hands and
sweat-drenched clothes, I train my misting eyes forward.

That is when I see her.

At first, just a brief silhouette. A dim
outline against the upstairs window of the corner white house with blue
shingles.

My heart races, eyes clear, and my sallow
complexion seems to brighten. Undeniably it is her. In my heart I know. No one
captivated each beat of my heart like she did. Excitement overwhelms me as I stand
transfixed, in awe. I am no longer alone. I am whole.

In a voice that isn’t really mine, I croak, “My
Betsy…”

Chapter
Five:

Tuesday,
February 14, 2012

7:00
A.M.

Neil Wilcox:

Valentine’s Day is a time when the colors red,
pink, and white dominate and hold meaning. Shopping windows are filled with
bountiful signs of hugs and kisses, engagements and love, hearts and chocolate.
Teddy bears stick together with magnetic kisses. It’s a time when diamond and
jewelry commercials are in abundance and when proposals are on the tip of a
man’s tongue. Candy manufacturers, jewelry stores, florists, and restaurants
hit the public hard with their suggestive ads and glittery promises for a
memorable night. It’s a holiday with no job benefits (school and work are still
in session), with the added pressure to spend an exorbitant amount of money on the
significant other.

Overall, it’s a ridiculous holiday.

For Elizabeth and me, the day was never given a
second thought. Why spend one day showering the person you love with your heart
when you should be doing that every single day? Why pick one day for that
romantic getaway and battle competitively amorous couples when you could pick a
few random days throughout the year? Why do you need to purchase a gift when
you already have everything you’ve ever wanted?

The day astounded us and we usually rebelled
and stayed indoors until the marketing frenzy passed. But today, with Elizabeth
no longer here to scoff the day with me, I start to reminisce; and there is one
Valentine’s Day worth remembering.

At the time, the only thing that was missing in
our life was a child to call our own. A legacy of our undying love for each
other. A treasure to nurture, raise, and love.

Nearing thirty, we were trying for a child.
Elizabeth finished her schooling and got a job as a dental hygienist at Mighty
Molar Dentistry downtown. I continued to work at the Wicker Lawn Chair Co. on
Miramar Road, getting promoted from moving product down in the warehouse to
working in a tiny customer service cubicle up in the main office.

With dual steady incomes that included
benefits, we were able to move out of our dilapidated apartment in Clairemont
and purchase a tiny two bedroom condo in San Carlos. The town was known for its
quiet, well-tended streets and family-oriented charm. It was like we were enveloped
in a bubble that protected us from crime and danger; perfect for a budding,
happy family.

The Valentine’s Day after our first
miscarriage, I decided to forgo our silent strike against the country’s marketing
hysteria and submit to purchasing a box of heart-shaped chocolates and a
bouquet of red roses—if I was going to submit, I might as well follow the
cliché—at Keil’s grocery. The undented, unblemished boxes had been picked over
by the anal-retentive overachievers that probably destroyed a box or three
before finding the “perfect one.”

While picking through the leftover choices, I
overheard a young man calling out to his girlfriend. The guy called her
Babe
.
Suddenly I recognized a flood of pet names in my ear from the surrounding
couples. There was
Babe
,
Baby
,
Love
,
Angel
,
Dear
,
Honey
, and
Doll
. Then there were the personalized nicknames:
Bobby
,
Kris
,
Jess
,
Tim
,
Rich
, and
Lizzy
. The last
caught my breath short and I flinched. Unbeknownst to me, I had crushed the box
of candy I held in my hand. Sheepishly, I tucked it behind another box on the
display case and picked up a different brand. I probably wasn’t the first to
implement that trick. There were too many messed up boxes in the case to feel
guilty.

Before that day, the thought never occurred to
me to call Elizabeth anything other than her given name. I felt weird calling
her
Babe
or
Baby
. After all, she wasn’t a baby and babe sounded
more like a name for a pig. Wasn’t it a name for a pig? But perhaps a nickname
that only I would call her would make the name more intimate, special. I would
have to stray away from
Liz
or
Lizzy
, the name haunted us both.
Trapped in my car, I recited a list of possible nicknames. By the time I got
home, I settled on one that suited her best.

On the tiny card that came with the box of
chocolates, I wrote in my best hand:

To my darling Betsy.

With Love, Neil.

Loral Holmes:

9:00
P.M.

Classes went by today as normal—oh yeah, except
for the insanity that surrounds “love” day. Valentine’s Day is built up with
intense hysteria and expectation. Guys freak out trying to figure out what gift
to purchase or outlandish gesture to perform for the girl they have or the girl
they want. Girls bite their nails in anticipation of being wanted and of outshining
others at being wanted.

Valentine’s Day is a sporting event and high
school is the arena. Guys compete for the girl with gifts, while the girl sits on
the sideline hoping to win the envy of the crowd. Flowers are cliché, while
A
Walk To Remember
gestures are desired.

Once that movie came out, guys had to step up
their game, and unfortunately for me, Mike was one of them. I would have
preferred to observe from the shadows and snicker in amusement, but no, Mike
had to enter the ring and compete, expressing his love for all to see.

He later told me that he didn’t want me to feel
left out or unwanted. He said he thought I expected something great from him. I
don’t know where he got that ridiculous notion. Doesn’t he know me at all?

It was near the end of homeroom when I got my
first gift, a single long-stemmed red rose with one of those stupid teddy-bear
school grams they sell for a dollar. I was actually relived at this point. I
knew Mike was going to do something—he is just that kind of guy—so I was glad
it was something generic and simple. Something that wouldn’t cause unwanted
attention. I can’t believe how wrong I was.

Near the end of first period I got a bouquet of
wildflowers with a note that read, “Because you’re you.” At first I was
confused. I thought he was telling me that I’m a wild child. Then I was
offended, because I thought he was insinuating that I was wild like Tess. Then
I realized he probably was thinking about Lake Murray. I go sometimes to run or
sit on a bench and look out onto the water and think or write. Mike always says
I look most relaxed there. He once said something cheesy to me like the
natural
environment suited my natural beauty
, or something like that.

With the end of each period came another small
token of his affection, each another cliché. There was a red velvet cupcake for
second period and a picnic basket filled with turkey sandwiches, chocolate
dipped strawberries, and sodas for third.

Lunchtime was more embarrassing than the
surprise deliveries because everyone in school could witness Mike’s grandiose
gesture. He had a small area picked out by the school garden. A large blanket
covered the itchy grass and a couple large rocks were placed at the corners to
prevent the blanket from flying away. A bucket filled with water sat in the
middle to hold the wildflowers he got me. I wanted to cringe away from the
jealous stares and snickers that were tossed our way. I don’t know why I didn’t
run. Mike didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care. I ate in
silence while he rambled on about his day and made sure I had enough to eat. He
acted like everything was normal while I was clearly overwhelmed by the
showering of attention.

I was relieved when the lunch bell rang. I
thought that would be the end of the onslaught of gifts, but I was wrong.
Fourth period, an iPod prefilled with music I could run to; fifth period, a
leather-bound notebook, the first page read:
Loral Holmes’s first
best-selling novel
; and sixth period, a grinning Mike dressed in slacks and
a white button-up shirt.

Most of the guys in the class rushed out. Most
of the girls stayed behind to watch. I stood still, one strap of my backpack
hanging over my right shoulder threatening to fall. I just wanted to scream,
“Stop!” at the top of my lungs and run out, but I couldn’t. Shock clearly
tightens one’s vocal chords.

Oblivious, Mike was grinning from ear to ear.
“Ready for your next surprise?”

I couldn’t suppress a groan, but luckily he
didn’t hear. “There’s more?” I said in a weak whisper.

“Come on. I want this to be a Valentine’s that
you will remember forever.”

I think Mike watches too much TV. It would
account for what came next. To my horror, a limo was waiting out front in the
school’s parking lot surrounded by gaping high-schoolers. On the seat was a
large box wrapped in an obnoxiously large red bow. Inside the box was a simple
deep blue dress with black heels; on closer inspection, I noticed they were
Tess’s.

“Your mom lent you those to wear tonight. She
really helped me out in the outfit department. I thought I was screwed.”

“Tess?” I couldn’t believe she took the time to
help. Of course she did lend me her least expensive outfit, but I also wouldn’t
have worn anything flashy or glitzy. “And where am I supposed to change into
this?”

Mike blushed. “I’ll wait outside, just open the
door when you’re finished. The divider is up and the windows are tinted so no
one can see inside. You’ll have complete privacy.” He noted my hesitation
before he added, “You can also change in the girls’ bathroom if you’d like.”

I peered over his shoulder to the growing crowd
beyond and shook my head. “No, here’s fine.”

At first I was worried that he was going to
take me to some fancy place where the menus had no dollar amounts and you had
to tip the lady handing you a towel to dry your hands in the bathroom. So I was
relieved when we walked into a cute enoteca restaurant in Little Italy. The
warmth of the décor and the friendly atmosphere put me at ease as we were taken
to the back, where the restaurant opened up to an outdoor patio with cabana
seating, fire-lit heaters, and fairy-lighted trees. Once the ricotta and honeycomb
appetizers came out, I started to relax and actually enjoy myself.

Maybe Mike knows me better than I thought.