The Lady Next Door

The shaking started at three a.m. It was the roar beforehand, like a freight train coming through the walls of her bedroom, that pulled Anita from a deep sleep. A dawning realization that the whole room was moving, like a ship on stormy seas. She sat bolt upright, then thought better of it and curled her knees against her chest, trying to be as small as possible. Another big jerk. The mattress felt like it was being tossed around by a petulant toddler. The kids cried from their rooms. Down the hall. A million miles away. Their terror seeped into her bones. Shattering glass, the thump of something heavy. A loud crack. “Mommy!” the girls screamed from their beds.

Anita pushed the panic down. “Put your pillow over your head,” she answered as calmly as her shaking voice would allow, “Curl up in a ball. It will be over soon. Don’t get off your bed.”

Anita had never been afraid of earthquakes. She’d grown up with them. Big ones that turned her legs to jelly. Little ones that felt like a gentle kiddie ride at the fair. Some that barely swung the chandelier over the dining room table. They usually struck in faraway desert towns, tumbling dusty trailers like wooden blocks. Just another story on the news. One had rumbled through the city long ago, knocking apartment buildings sideways, sending a motorcycle off a severed overpass. Fires sprang up on suburban streets. Cars flattened like pancakes. It was a distant memory now. New plaster covered cracked siding, pastel storefronts sprung up, sleek apartment buildings filled with young actors from faraway places, life resumed. The Big One had worn into a story people told once a year when they replaced stale granola bars in the earthquake kit. 

The house shuddered one last time. Anita grabbed the remote from a tangle of blankets and flicked the TV on. Familiar news anchors looked seriously at the camera. Widespread damage. Magnitude 7.0. Good. At least the power was still on. Anita searched for Corey’s shoes. He’d stashed an old pair under the bed for long as she could remember. “For emergencies,” he’d said. He’d never used them. Now that he had a reason, he was three thousand miles away. Oh, irony. Apprehension trickled down the back of her neck. She had no idea what she would find when she ventured outside her bedroom door. Anita fished the shoes out from under a layer of dust bunnies and put them on, slipping her phone into the pocket of her robe.

On summer days, when the heat in the valley became unbearable, Anita would take her girls to the ocean. She had three rules. Drink lots of water, reapply your sunscreen and shuffle your feet in the sand to keep the stingrays away. Sunny memories flickered past as she glanced at the shattered picture frames littering her hallway. The stingray shuffle worked pretty well with glass too. Anita went to Willow’s room first, hoisting her lanky body onto one hip, searching for shoes with her free hand. Poor baby was still shaking. Daisy was next, small and sacred in her pink pajamas, even though she was nearly eight. Her beautiful girls, one so smart and serious, the other all sparkly smiles and playful fun. Anita flipped the light on and sat down on the bed, hugging them fiercely.

“We’re ok, guys,” she breathed. “Just an earthquake.” Corey would be heading to his conference now. “I’m going to let dad know that we’re just fine.” Anita checked her phone. No service.

Daisy’s eyes filled with tears. She laid her head on Anita’s shoulder. “I feel all scrambled,” she said softly. The room rolled again. The light flickered, then blinked off. Both girls turned to Anita, eyes wide in the darkness. There was no way to know how damaged the house was, or how safe. “I have an idea,” she said as the room shuddered and settled again. “Let’s go camping.”

The house looked like like a snowglobe shaken too hard, it’s little figures unattached, scattered at odd angles. Furniture hulked in the darkness. Glass sparkled in the moonlight. A faint smell of gas. The door to the back yard swung open, leading to the inky night. Cold, quiet, peaceful, as if nothing had happened. Stars winked down from the velvet sky. Anita sat the girls down on their swing set, making sure that they were far from tree branches, buildings or anything heavy. “I’ll be back before you can count to a hundred,” she said. The girls nodded and started counting.

In another life, Anita had been an executive at a big company. She’d been so sure of herself, decisive, fearless. She wore pencil skirts like armor, presiding over meetings at long tables circled with men. When the girls came to her, one right after another, everything changed. Their soft hands and feet, their helpless wiggling bodies, their sweet stares produced a fierce and overwhelming love that terrified Anita. What if something happened to them? The thought still made her stomach tighten. She quit her job, left everything behind and dove into motherhood. Somewhere between the hazy baby days and their busy elementary school rhythm, she folded into herself. The girls became her whole life. Everyone else went by the wayside. The woman who never backed down to a corporate bully now turned and walked the other way when she spotted a group of moms in athlesiure. 

When she returned to the swing set, arms full of camping supplies, Anita spotted someone in her backyard pushing the girls on the swings. Their feet swooped high in the air, happy chatter mingling with the gathering sounds of sirens and helicopters. Anita stopped short, arms prickling with leftover adrenaline. The woman stepped out of the shadows. She was sturdy, older, clad in a fuzzy robe and dusty sneakers. Anita breathed out. Mrs. Slater. Her cranky, nosy, busybody neighbor. The woman annoyed everyone on the neighborhood Facebook page. Always trying to start petitions, leaving flyers fluttering under doormats. Always giving unsolicited parenting advice. Anita avoided her at all costs.

“Hello, Mrs. Slater,” Anita set her bin down and unfurled a canvas tarp.

“Marjorie. I heard the girls in here and thought they might like some company,” the older woman frowned at Anita’s pile. “I never took you for the organized type.”

Aah. So Marjorie knew all about her, just by watching her walk by on the way to the park. Anita grimaced. 

“Well, Corey is the organized one here.” Anita found hoodies and handed them to the girls. “But he’s on a work trip.” It wasn’t unusual. Corey traveled a lot. Anita had gotten used to handling things on her own. Sometimes she felt like she might drown.

“Just leave,” she begged silently, avoiding eye contact. There were two more bins to find and haul out and she still had to figure out how to pitch the tent. She could count on one hand the times they’d actually gone camping. Corey loved the outdoors, but the idea of the germy bathrooms, all those wild animals made Anita shudder. It would be so easy for the girls to get lost. 

Marjorie had laid the tent out flat on the grass and was now busying herself with a firepit that Anita had forgotten they owned. She batted at spiderwebs and stacked wood in a perfect square before plucking a box of waterproof matches from Corey’s emergency bin. 

“Ok, ladies, let’s get comfy.” Marjorie settled in with the girls, “Do you like stories?

Anita started to protest, then changed her mind. The girls looked so safe in the flickering firelight, listening intently to Marjorie’s singsong voice. Willow with her dark skin and big brown eyes, Daisy with her fine features and strawberry blonde hair. They were so close in age, so sweet together. Strangers mistook them for best friends all the time. Anita often chose not to correct them. She and Corey had waited and waited for Willow, painting the nursery a beautiful soft peach, building her crib, carefully choosing every book, every stuffed animal. Two weeks after they brought her home, Anita felt a familiar flutter in her belly. Daisy. She liked keeping the story of how their family came to be a secret, just for them.

By the time Anita got everything out of the creaky garage and onto the back lawn, the girls were snuggled together under Corey’s college blanket, fast asleep.

“You look like you could use some coffee.” Marjorie stood slowly, one knee cracking, then the other. “Ricardo’s out of town. I’m going to check on his dogs. With the phones down, he’ll be losing his mind.  I’ll be back.”

Anita followed her to the gate, thanking her politely as she crossed the front lawn. Without looking back, Marjorie threw one hand up and stepped off the curb into the street. It was busy out there. Neighbors stood outside their ruined houses, some milling around in a daze, others busily arranging supplies. Talking in small groups, gesturing wildly. Anita had never taken the time to get to know these people who lived parallel lives to hers, coming and going from their driveways in the mornings and at night, hosing down their flower beds on the weekends. Exchanging neighborhood news over fences, sharing power tools. They all greeted Marjorie. She waved and stopped to chat as she made her way down the street.

The sky turned from gray to hazy pink, casting soft shadows across the back yard. Anita had managed to pitch the tent, lay out sleeping bags, arrange lawn chairs and set up a makeshift kitchen. The girls had slept through two aftershocks. Anita was plucking at her useless cell phone when Marjorie pushed through the gate with her elbow, grey bob swinging. She handed a mug to Anita, who felt a grudging pang of gratitude. Corey had stocked up an ample supply of freeze dried chicken pot pie, but no coffee. That was Anita’s department.

Marjorie plopped down on a garden chair. She surveyed the campsite and smiled broadly at Anita. “Good job, kid.” 

After the morning she’d had, the coffee tasted like victory. Anita chose not to be annoyed. “Thanks for helping me, Marjorie.” She raised her mug and they both sipped.

“You looked like you could use a hand.” Marjorie set her mug down on the grass and leaned forward, elbows on knees. “I was just like you once, terrified of everything.”

Anita’s eyebrows flew up. She wasn't sure if she should be offended. Marjorie chuckled, glancing at the girls. “It’s hard, I know. You just want them to be ok.” 

“It is hard,” Anita agreed, burying her face in the aromatic steam.

“I raised two kids on my own,” Marjorie continued. “A boy and a girl. I had a third, but I lost her.”

Anita snapped to attention, her three miscarriages churning in the pit of her stomach. Memories sloshed around, tangled thoughts that still kept her up in the endless hours before dawn. Their struggle with infertility. So painful as old friends started families one by one, their glowing faces lining her Instagram scroll. Her grief with each life snuffed out before it had a chance to bloom. Her relief when they found Willow. The hold ups with the adoption. Her terror when Daisy was born prematurely. Weeks in the NICU. It all tumbled out onto Anita’s face. A current of understanding passed between the two women.

“My husband beat me up for years. When he pushed me down a flight of stairs, I lost my girl. Angela. My angel.” Marjorie continued. “I left the bastard as soon as I got out of the hospital. I ran in the middle of the night with two babies and nothing but the clothes on our backs.”

They had been homeless, hungry. It had taken Marjorie years to get back on her feet. She took any work she could find, saving and learning, until she found job she loved and kept for years. She swallowed her pride and took help when it was offered. The three of them survived on food banks and the kindness of strangers until they didn’t have to any more. Surrounded themselves with people who cheered for them and helped them along the way. Marjorie had found love again and remarried, then lost him to cancer. Her son graduated with honors, her daughter too. They both had masters degrees and families of their own. Marjorie’s grandkids were the center of her universe. 

“I had to let go, Anita.” she said softly. “I didn’t trust anybody, but I couldn’t raise those kids alone. I needed community, neighbors, friends. Reaching out for help was the most terrifying thing I ever did.”

Anita’s impression of Marjorie had slowly rearranged itself as she listened. The hard edges softened and fell away, negative space filled with color as the story of Marjorie’s life emerged. All her busybody Facebook posts. The block parties she commandeered, the neighborhood watch meetings, the food drives. They were acts of love. All her way of giving back to a community that had lifted her up when she was down. So she was cranky. So she was pushy. In one brief morning, she had pierced right to the center of Anita’s soul and given her permission to live her own story. 

Warm sunshine filled the little backyard campsite. Anita turned her face to the light. The slippery, cumbersome weight of all her tragedy, her mistrust and her fear sliding off her shoulders, pooling around her feet. 

The girls began to stir. Willow rubbed her eyes. “Is it over, mama?” she said.

“Well, we’re going to have an adventure for a few days,” said Anita, “but Mrs. Marjorie is here and she’s going to help us.“

“You bet, kiddo!” Marjorie chimed in with a grin, winking at Anita. “Now, how about we take a walk? there are a few people I’d like you to meet.”