I tote the baby on a hip, seeing that Willow has left the bathroom door slightly ajar as I pass by. I catch a glimpse of her in the reflection of the bathroom mirror, staring at her own image. Her hair, like mine, is still wet from a shower, dripping idle drops onto a shirt of Zoe’s. There is dark eyeliner placed on a single eye. She leans in close to the mirror to plant it on the second eye, but instead, hesitates, and pulls down the front of Zoe’s vintage wash shirt, far down, to the tender skin around her breast. I feel myself gasp for breath, willing the baby to remain silent. She runs her fingers over a lesion right there on the milky white skin, so close to the areola that I can see where the pigment changes colors. It’s instinctive when I lean in, desperate for a better look, of what appears to be teeth marks, the imprint of incisors and canines, teeth pressed hard enough to leave a mark. Hard enough to deface the skin forever.
And then another knock, and I jump, moving quickly through the hall so that Willow doesn’t have a chance to see my mouth, gaping open at the sight of her scar. So that she won’t see me.
Graham stands on the opposite side of the door. In his hands are two mugs of coffee, an outline of the Chicago skyline printed on their surface. Upon seeing the baby, he slips past me in the doorway and sets the mugs of coffee on the kitchen table. “So this is who I’m to thank for the ruckus these past few nights,” he says. “You didn’t tell me you had company coming,” and he sits down, kicking a second chair out with the toe of his shoe, inviting me to join him at my own kitchen table.
“Where’s Chris?” he asks, his eyes moving about the mess which is my home, the baby’s paraphernalia taking up more than its fair share of space: baby bottles litter the kitchen sink, stacks of diapers and containers of wipes on the living room floor, a heaping laundry basket pressed up next to the front door, something that smells shockingly like feces wafting from the garbage can. “Off to work already this morning?” he asks, trying hard not to wrinkle his nose at the atrocious scent. It’s approaching seven o’clock.
“New York,” I say, sliding into the chair beside him and catching the heavenly fragrance of his cologne, that earthy patchouli smell, blended with the intoxicating scent of coffee. I press the mug to my lips and inhale.
Graham is dapper as always, his blond hair spiked to perfection, his body cloaked in a fitted crew-neck sweater and jeans. He says that he’s been up writing, since five, as is the case most mornings. During business hours, Graham works as a freelancer, writing for websites, magazines and sometimes the newspaper. But the early morning hours are reserved for his true passion: fiction writing. He’s been working on a novel for umpteen years, his baby, his pride and joy, which he hopes might one day work its way onto a shelf at the local indie store. I’ve read bits and pieces, here and there, an honor acquired only after three or four glasses of wine, after begging and pleading, after an exuberance of flattery and praise. It was good. What I read of it, that is. I hired Graham to tweak the wording on my nonprofit’s website, to help with pamphlets and to more or less write our annual appeal. Graham and I spent many late nights together, pouring over that appeal—over a bottle or two of my now-favorite Riesling—while Chris and Zoe were next door. I came home late, drunk, giddy, sensing no jealousy in Chris as I most certainly would have felt if the situation were reversed.
What’s there to be jealous of? Chris asked, when I pressed him on it, something I never would have done in a sober state of mind. And then, the words that hurt the most: I hardly think you’re Graham’s type, and I remember the look of satisfaction on his face. The gratification at saying those words aloud.
I spent days, months, years wondering what those words meant. Not Graham’s type, as in not the beautiful bombshell women who frequented his bed, who made the wall that separated our homes rattle from time to time, fragile baubles scooting dangerously close to the edge of a shelf. Is that what Chris was saying? That I was not good enough for Graham? That what I was, was the weathered woman next door, the one with brown hair being invaded by gray, with skin being annexed by wrinkles. I was the friend. The confidante. The chum. But I could never be more.
Or maybe all Chris meant was that women were not Graham’s type, that Graham preferred men.
I would never know. But now, I sit across the table and wonder if, in some other life, in some parallel universe, Graham could ever see me as something other than the lady next door.
But inside I can think of little beside Willow, in the bathroom, running her fingers across the disfigurement on her chest. Teeth marks. Human teeth marks.
And then she appears, as if beckoned by my mind, standing there in the hallway, and Graham turns his eyes and smiles, the most bewitching smile of all, and politely says hello. Willow says nothing. I can see her feet start to flee, but then she must settle upon that smile: warm and welcoming, entirely kind, and she smiles in reply.
It would be next to impossible to see Graham’s smile and not beam.
“Willow,” I say then, “this is Graham. From next door,” and Graham says, “How do you do?”
“Fine,” replies Willow. And then: “She’s awake?” meaning the baby, and I say yes, that she is.
Willow asks if there’s more toothpaste, and I direct her to the linen closet at the end of the hall. She’s gone for a split second before Graham turns to me, his eyes wide with curiosity as if I’ve just given him the plot line of his next novel, and says, “Do tell,” his brain making the quick connection between the baby on my lap, and teenage girl fumbling around in the linen closet for a tube of toothpaste.