The People Next Door (21 page)

The summer days were a blur, and then it was Saturday, her special day.

Briela didn’t see the boy for the first two hours of the party, and then he just appeared. He was standing in the corner of
the rec room while the other kids played their games, ignoring him. None of the mothers were paying attention to him and she
knew he had come alone. He looked different than he had that day at Glacier, when he had stared at her through the window.
He was wearing a brown plaid flannel shirt buttoned to the throat, even though it was summer, and dirty brown pants, like
he had been playing beside a pond all morning. His face was streaked with chocolate, or more dirt, his lips chapped, with
red cracks at the corners of his mouth. His skin was the color of soy milk. He was staring at her, smiling, and there were
dark streaks in his teeth. He could have been cute but he needed a bath. He didn’t try to play with the others. He was only
interested in the birthday girl.

She pretended to lose interest and busy herself at the crafts table, where Tami Larson and some of the other
kids were making crowns out of orange and purple construction paper, smearing them with paste and coloring them with markers
that smelled like candied fruit. But even as Briela scribbled little jewels at every point, she could feel him watching her.
In fact she could almost hear his voice, high and soft, whispering inside her.

Hey, Birthday Girl, look over here. I have to show you something. It’s important. Look here, it’s about your mommy and daddy
… I know what’s going to happen to them, to all of you. You’re in a lot of trouble …

His eyes on the back of her neck were like cold lizard fingers. He wouldn’t leave her alone, so she finally looked up, to
the corner, and he was still there. Staring at her. His eyes were even wider now. All the other kids retreated and the room
seemed to draw her forward, toward him, even though he didn’t move, and it was like being on one of those conveyer belts at
the airport, only faster. All of the laughter in the room got sucked into a buzzing silence and her ears popped. His eyes
were bright green, with long brown lashes, and when she was about to crash into him, a line of blood seeped from the corner
of each eye. The top of his head seemed to roll back, becoming taller, and his jaw popped open, until she could see inside,
where all his teeth were shining red, his mouth filled with blood. His eyes began to vibrate and his entire body was shaking
in a fit.

Briela screamed and thrashed her arms out, trying to fight back, to make him stop, make him stop showing her these terrible
things and go away. There was a different scream then, not her own. When she blinked, the
room was bright and the boy was gone. She was back at the crafts table and the boy wasn’t standing in the corner, or anywhere
else in the room, but she didn’t even have time to wonder where he had disappeared to, because by then everything was different,
flying out of control.

Amy didn’t see it happen. She was pre-bussing the mess of plates and cups over at the counter where the cake had been destroyed,
picking over detritus like a crime-scene technician so as to avoid soiling her outfit. For this very special occasion she
had spent half an hour straightening her hair with a hot iron, and wore a new peach blouse with an embroidery motif of flower
petals she had ordered from J. Crew. The deep blue denim skirt made her look three sizes smaller while the brown leather gladiator
sandals showcased her new lavender-sparkle pedicure. She was brushing a morsel of chocolate cake from her bust (thankfully
it did not leave a frosting skid) when the first scream pierced the already loud party in the rec room.

Amy recognized it as one of Briela’s screams, shrill and brief, and it was followed by ominous silence. She turned and saw
a purple plastic fork jutting from Tami Larson’s sweet upturned face, like some kind of a magic trick performed by a sadistic
clown. Right in the soft pad of cheek, halfway between eye and mouth. For the first few seconds, even Tami Larson – an obese
girl with
thick black hair and chocolate freckles almost the same color as the blood dots made by the fork – was too stunned to cry
out.

Standing eye-level with Tami was the angelic blonde viper known as Briela, her arm raised. To everyone else it was obvious
what had just happened. And yet it took another agonizing moment for Amy to admit what she was seeing. It was like a simple
math equation with only one correct answer.

Tami Larson
+
purple fork
+
sticking out of her face
+
Briela’s raised hand
+
everyone in shock
=
my daughter went fucking psycho
.

Everyone in the room – kids, moms, and the one dad, Larry Havas – seemed to be waiting for someone to bark, ‘Just kidding!
It was a rubber fork, no harm done!’ Then Tami started to scream. And the other kids started to scream. But Rita Larson, Tami’s
mother, didn’t scream. She was standing against the stairway railing, conversing with Andrea Grayson’s mom, her nose in a
goblet of Shiraz. As she absorbed the fact that her daughter had been stabbed in the face with a fork, Rita Larson’s face
(same freckles, gray streaks in the frizzy hair) went through the kind of sublime transition that wins actresses the Academy
Award.

The happy smile crumbled slowly, like a detonated bridge. Then came the paling of her cheeks, followed by a long dawning of
anguish (during which the wine leaned over and then toppled from her hand). And finally, just before she lunged in to remove
the weapon and cover her daughter as if the basement were about to
be filled with a hailstorm of plastic forks and knives and God only knew what else, for this was now the House of the Devil,
there came an ugly working of Rita’s lips and a hoarse lament that in any other context might have been orgasmic but here
was pure maternal anguish and turned Amy’s blood to cracking ice.

‘Oh, no, Briela,
noooooo
…’ Amy finally played her role, stepping in to yank Briela away. ‘What did you do? What on earth happened?’ As if it wasn’t
clear, as if there might be a rational explanation.

By then the other mothers were gathering up their children and leading them away from the monster who had materialized, and
away from Amy, the other monster who was responsible for hosting this uncoordinated freak show.

Chaos ensued. The parents filed out, appalled, glaring at Amy as if she had meant for this to happen. Rita Larson ran up the
stairs with her daughter in her arms, using words like ‘my lawyer’ and ‘should be ashamed’ and ‘psychiatric help’. Amy had
chased after her, apologizing, offering to call a doctor, only to be repelled by a Godzilla squall of ‘Stay the hell away
from my daughter, both of you!’

Minutes later the storm had passed. The birthday party was at its ugly end.

Only Melanie Smith, whose daughter was already off to college in Bozeman, Montana, stayed behind to offer sympathy. Melanie
had gone to Fairview High with Amy, but dropped out early. Their friendship hadn’t rekindled until Kyle reached his terrible
fives. Melanie
was the non-judgemental mom in the group, a former self-admitted screw-up of various sorts, a recovered addict twice divorced
and amazed her own daughter was not by now knocked up or strung out, as Melanie had been at that age. She was the friend the
other mothers called upon in their darkest hours, because whatever it was, Melanie had been there. She had come over this
afternoon at the last minute to help Amy set everything up in Mick’s absence.

‘It’s the chemicals in the food,’ Melanie said. They had retreated to the kitchen after stuffing Briela into her bedroom.
Amy was too stunned to cry. ‘It could be anything. You’re a wonderful mother.’

‘I’m an asshole.’

‘No. Don’t beat yourself up about this, Ames. I’ve seen kids do worse. Remember the Keenan boy? He gave Jason Turner fifteen
stitches with a Lego.’

‘It wasn’t an accident,’ Amy said. ‘I know that look. It was, it was …
premeditated
.’

‘She’s at that age, they don’t always understand the difference between arguments and physical outbursts. In their minds it’s,
You hurt me and now I’m going to hurt you back.’

Amy wiped her nose with a dish towel. ‘My daughter stabbed that girl in the face. How does she even think of that?’

‘Did you get a hold of Mick?’

‘He’s working.
Again
. The restaurant is failing. What am I supposed to do?’ She meant about anything, about her entire life.

‘Nothing tonight.’ Melanie hugged her. ‘Jesus, you’re cold, girl. Go take a hot bath. Get some rest and then think very carefully
about how you’re going to address this with your husband. He needs to hear loud and clear that this is not okay. He needs
to start participating in this marriage and be present for these milestones. We’ll work through it, hon. Call me tomorrow.’

By the time Melanie left, dusk had given way to night. The house was simultaneously too empty and closing in on her. She was
gripped by a need to erase all traces of the crime.

She trotted down with a roll of trash bags, steeling herself in the event she had to scrub blood (and Rita Larson’s wine)
from the carpet. She did not remember seeing Tami bleeding profusely, but she assumed there would be a hell of a mess. If
not here, surely in the Larsons’ car on the ride home. Or was it the ride to Boulder Community Hospital? Urgent Care, anyway.

When she got to the bottom of the stairway and turned the corner, she was stricken. She had not grasped the level of destruction
fifteen second- and third-graders could leave in their wake. It seemed, in a sickening way, the perfect snapshot of her daughter’s
chaotic mind.

Twelve hundred square feet of balloons, napkins, cups, plastic silverware, finger paints, kazoos, plastic trinkets, and smashed
candy necklaces. Herds of hand-size stuffed animals purchased as takeaways for ‘Guests of Briela Nash’ (because in this sensitive
age, every child went home a winner, one child’s birthday was
every
child’s birthday) were torn, flung, forgotten, gutted,
poised in positions of grave injury and imaginary copulation. There were ribbons, paper hats, streaks of glitter, and blown
soap bubble residue. All over the basement. In every corner. Piled knee-high. It was a damp dominion reeking of wet crepe
paper, artificial sugar, and bubble-gum farts. It was too much to absorb in one flyover. It was the Hurricane Katrina of birthday
parties. She wanted to burn the house down.

No, it couldn’t be that bad, she thought, pausing on the stairs. But it was that bad, she realized as she waded in again.
Like rioters in a burning cell block, the kids had together succumbed to hysteria and uncorked the unholy.

Grape punch barf streaked the walls. The dish lamp had been toppled. Under the pool table, a cold blackened tofurter was being
devoured by the Nash’s Yorkshire terrier, Thom, who, unbeknownst to anyone, just twenty-seven minutes ago, having found himself
locked inside this amazing new jungle of smells and snacks and debris with no exit to the backyard, had happily and silently
urinated into honors math student and chess prodigy Eli Werner’s forgotten North Face sherpa vest. The crafts table appeared
to be ground zero for a 64-count box of Crayolas that had been chewed, swallowed, and shat out by Ronald McDonald. The couch
cushions were a fort, the small flat-panel TV over the wet bar was cracked, and the papery cheese whiz guts of six dozen string
poppers was spewed
fucking everywhere
.

Absorbing this aftermath like a state governor
composing her plea for FEMA funds, Amy asked herself the question all parents eventually come around to.

Was it worth it? Did it make my child happy? Will she look back on this day and wipe a tear from her eye as she says the magic
words: ‘Thank you, Mom. I had the greatest childhood any daughter could ask for. I’ll never forget how much you sacrificed
so that I could become the woman I am today.’

The answer to that question was a sick joke. If Briela remembered any of this beyond next week, it would be a miracle, or
in this case a blessing. Because the truth was she had hated it as much as her mother had hated it. Hadn’t she? Ordering the
save-the-date cards and envelopes from the printer, the errands and shopping, the decision to allow (force) Briela to design
the cake (it would be educational, empowering!), the useless reminders barked at Mick a month ago, cross-referencing all of
the snacks with the submitted allergies lists, the racing around town on her lunch hour to get every fucking detail just right,
all of it leading up to the main event (Visa total: $1486.73 @ 24.99% APR). Wasn’t this excess of excitement and consumption
and the disgusting bath of presents and treats and total sensory overload at least half of the reason Briela had gone off
the deep end?

In other words, wasn’t it all really Amy’s fault?

Something was stirring in the corner, beneath a shrub of wrapping paper. Amy froze, drawing it out. A locket of blonde hair
emerged, followed by a single blue eye. A heavy chuff of breath.

No
.

No way
.

‘Oh, you better not,’ Amy whispered.

The birthday girl was supposed to be in exile, in her room, stewing in guilt and awaiting her sentencing.

‘Briela? Briela!’

The daughter prairie-dogged up, party debris sticking to her ruined yellow dress. She was panting hotly, tiny fists bunched
at her diaphragm.

‘You did this?’ But it wasn’t really a question now. ‘You did
all this
!’

While Amy was talking with Melanie in the kitchen, Briela had staged a prison break and come back down to have herself an
absolute Jesus camp blowout.

‘Answer me!’

As if in reply, Briela screamed, darting around the sofa as she went hellbent for election across the rec room, whooping in
some demented combination of glee and manic terror, daring her mother to give chase.

Amy dared. ‘Come back here right now! Briela! Brie—’

A door slammed between them. Briela had locked herself in the guest suite bathroom. But she did not have the foresight to
lock the second door, the one on the laundry room side, and Amy barged in. At which point B knew she was in truly deep shit,
screamed once and collapsed under the towel rack.

Amy carried her out of the basement, back to her bedroom. She sat Briela on the bed, and counted to twenty, kneeling before
her daughter.

‘All right. There’s no need to holler. Just tell me, honey. Why did you do it?’

Briela was shaking her head. Her eyes were unfocused.

‘Why did you hurt Tami?’

‘No, no, no …’

‘Yes. Don’t lie to me, Briela. Everyone saw what happened.’

‘I didn’t! The boy was scaring me. It was the people with Daddy! Where’s Daddy?’

Amy sat back on her feet. She’d heard this before, and now it was scaring her. The girl really believed someone was hurting
her father. ‘What people, Briela? Why are you so worried about Daddy?’

Briela stopped crying and looked up, over Amy’s head. For the tiniest fraction of a second, the girl’s eyes pooled with fear,
and then it retreated, sinking deep inside and her expression neutralized, settling into exhaustion.

Amy turned to find Cassandra Render standing in the hallway.

‘Amy? Is everything all right?’

Amy stood up too fast and plopped down on B’s bed, and barely managed to keep from fainting. She looked up again, just to
make sure she was seeing things correctly.

Cassandra Render had straightened her hair with a hot iron. She wore the same new peach blouse with an embroidery motif of
flower petals, deep blue denim skirt, and brown leather gladiator sandals which perfectly showcased her new lavender-sparkle
pedicure. It was like looking into a funhouse mirror, the kind that makes fat people thin. For a moment, but only a moment,
Amy
was certain that Cassandra Render was not real, but a reflection, a spirit, some kind of visitor who had attached herself
to them and would not let go until she had taken possession of Amy’s soul.

‘Sorry I’m so late,’ Cass said. ‘Adolph wasn’t feeling well today. I had to stay with him until Ingrid volunteered to watch
him for a couple of hours. I saw everyone leaving early and I got worried. Is there anything I can do to help?’

Amy laughed and laughed and soon was crying.

‘Ssshhh, shush, now,’ Cass said, sitting on the bed, running her hand over Amy’s hair. ‘Don’t you worry about them. They have
no right to judge you. You’re a wonderful mother. Vince went to help Mick. He’ll be home soon and all of this will get better.
I promise.’

Almost as an afterthought, Cass said, ‘I think we need to have a little talk about the other woman too. Melanie. She’s been
putting her nose where it doesn’t belong and she’s only going to cause more trouble for you.’

Amy was too spent to comment. Behind her, lying on her side, Briela was looking up at Cassandra, studying her with great intensity.