She sighed, rolled out of bed, and stumbled toward the bathroom, forgetting for the millionth time that it wasn’t in the hall but to the left, part of the master suite. Though they’d lived in this house for two weeks, she still felt lost. She felt a little aimless, too. She’d quit her job in the city two weeks ago, her position at a nonprofit not lucrative enough to justify the commute into the city, and it was the first time in years she’d woken up without somewhere to go, without something concrete to do. There were rooms to paint, she supposed. There were new fixtures to buy for the kitchen, patio furniture to scope out. And there were all the unpacked boxes to attend to, including the ones stacked in the living room containing items from Joanna’s old apartment in Philly.
She walked downstairs and looked warily in the boxes. She hadn’t seen any of the contents in almost a year, since she’d put the stuff into storage when she first moved in with Charles. Only one box had been opened, its flaps gaping free. All of its contents were still packed inside: a stack of old foreign films on VHS, a pair of seventies-style sunglasses she had bought at a thrift shop and worn incessantly one summer, an industrial-size backpack she’d used on a trip to Europe, all funded on a ridiculously tiny amount of money. These items from the past smelled a bit moldy and unclean, instantly conjuring up a long-suppressed memory of a house party she and her roommate had about five years ago that had culminated in a bunch of strangers kissing. The time when she’d used any of it felt like three Joannas ago, and she couldn’t quite remember who that Joanna had been. She also wondered what the Joanna who’d used those items, who’d kissed strangers at a party, would think of the Joanna now in her bright, clean house.
She turned away from the box toward the kitchen, focusing her gaze on a Crate & Barrel box by the fridge. Inside was the Cuisinart mixer she and Charles had been given as a wedding gift. She lifted it out of the Styrofoam packing material and put it on the counter. Maybe she’d make cookies to lighten her mood.
A sound in the backyard made her turn. The women from the neighboring houses were standing outside in their yards. Two little kids sat in an enormous sandbox that straddled the neighboring lawns, feeding sand into a wheeled and levered contraption and sifting it out in a neat, pyramid-shaped pile.
Joanna sprang into action, running her hands through her hair and racing upstairs to put on a bra, a clean T-shirt, and a pair of jeans. She walked down the stairs, turned right instead of left for the kitchen, stopped, reversed directions, and padded around the island and the table and the pile of broken-down boxes near the laundry room. Sun dappled across the back deck, and the one birdhouse they’d installed twisted on its chain. When the women heard Joanna’s sliding glass door open, they turned their heads for just a moment and gave her a passing, uninterested glance, as though she was just another Canada goose slowly meandering across their lawn. Undeterred, Joanna walked over.
“Hi,” she said. Her heart beat quickly, although she wasn’t quite sure why. She was usually good at making plenty of new friends. “I’m Joanna Bates-McAllister. My husband and I just moved in. I’ve been meaning to say hello for a few days, but I’ve been so busy.”
The brunette woman nodded. “I thought I saw a van.” She was the type of woman who wore matching velour sweat suits and shimmering athletic sneakers, ready to exercise at a moment’s notice. She lived on the left side of Joanna, and Joanna had watched yesterday as she’d hung a silk flag decorated with an Easter basket outside her front door in honor of the upcoming holiday.
“I’m Teresa Cox,” the woman added as an afterthought. “And this is Mariel Batten.”
Joanna turned to Mariel, who had blunt-cut blonde hair, a slender, down-sloped nose, and very white teeth. There was a lipstick imprint on her white coffee cup. She appraised Joanna without much enthusiasm. “Is your husband related to Timothy McAllister?” she asked blandly. “From Chadds Ford?”
“Oh.” Joanna tugged self-consciously on her earlobe. “No, my husband’s last name is Bates-McAllister. His father was from Boston. He didn’t have family from around here. His mother did, though. Sylvie Bates?”
Mariel shrugged noncommittally. There was no recognition of Sylvie’s name. No swift change of expression, no grabbing Joanna’s arms and saying it was so nice to meet her. No begging that she and her husband had to come over for dinner sometime. No huge grin and confession that when they’d heard Joanna and Charles were coming to this neighborhood they’d gotten so excited, for it’s truly an honor to have them.
Joanna rubbed her hands up her bare arms, struck dumb. “Anyway,” she fumbled. “Cute kids.”
Teresa Cox smiled. “The girl is Forrest. She’s mine. Hollis is Mariel’s. Do you have any children?”
Joanna shook her head. And then there was that dead air again. But my mother-in-law is on the board of directors at the Swithin School, Joanna wanted to say. The best school in the county. Didn’t that matter?
“Anyway,” Joanna said, not able to stand the pointed, exclusionary silence any longer. “It was nice to meet both of you. I have things to do inside. So …”