That’s the real reason I caved on the renovations. I was conceding something to distract from my failures elsewhere. Giving my husband what he wanted—one of the things he wanted, anyway. Maybe I hoped it would change something in me too. New surroundings, a new start.
Maybe that’s when everything went wrong. We angered the house, and it turned against us. Instead of my home, it became the place of my torment.
* * *
My mission for today: get to know the neighbors.
To be honest, it’s also the last thing I want to do. Especially when it comes to the house behind ours. That forbidding structure alone is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. And now I have to knock on the front door and find a way to ask, Excuse me, are you the creep who took pictures of my toddler’s room last night?
I suppose it’s not a bad thing to know the people you live next door to, even though when it comes to Rosemary Road, I’m clearly the minority in thinking that. Scott was right. There’s an app but when I sign up, I notice that I’m the only one on the street to use it. Feeling awkward, I sign out and then delete the app from my phone.
Next, I search for our contract. It must be on my device somewhere but I can’t find it. I remember clearly that Scott printed a copy because we made a joke about it. So I head to his office.
It’s pristine in there. He hardly ever uses it anymore, since he’s stuck at work so late every day. He hasn’t had time to put up the pictures that used to be on the walls at the old place, or he simply hasn’t bothered. Our old attempts to decorate look kind of sad in this new environment, replete with details chosen with a keen eye for style but lacking that something that makes a house a home—soul, perhaps. Why hang up that little seascape we bought on vacation that one time, or that framed photo collage of us I made for him a few years ago, when there’s already artwork on the walls?
His laptop sits in the middle of the desk, a shiny, unscuffed MacBook Pro. When I run my fingertip along the lid, it comes away gray with dust.
Next, I try the drawers of his desk, which have locks but open without resistance. In the bottom one, I find the little seascape and, wrapped in an old terrycloth towel, the framed photos. It reassures me deep down that he hasn’t gotten rid of it all.
I unwrap the frame and hold it up. We look so happy in those photos. The oldest one dates back to college where we first met. Even though we’re only in our very early twenties, the low resolution and bad light makes us look worse than we do now. Unfortunate makeup and clothing choices don’t help—my eyebrows are way too skinny, and, in contrast, Scott still has some puppy fat around the chin.
I remember making the collage but as I look at our carefree faces I can’t remember the exact date it was taken. Maybe there’s a date or a time stamp on the back. I turn over the frame and something small clatters to the floor.
I set the frame down and pick up the small object. It’s a key. Which is odd, because nothing in this house needs anything like an old-fashioned key—everything responds to our personal chips or fingerprints. It’s a smaller key, like something from a suitcase lock. There’s a tag attached but it’s no help: It’s just a red-and-white plastic tab with nothing written on it. I inspect it and then put it back in the bottom of the drawer, the picture frame on top. I slide the drawer closed, realizing I had forgotten why I had come here in the first place. Right. The contract. The neighbors.
For the time being, we have two. One of the houses next door is as yet unoccupied—it looks brand-new, like they just finished building it. The grass on the front lawn hasn’t even fully grown in yet. I can see through the curtainless windows during the day. I assume they have dimmers like ours do but there’s no one there to use them so I can glimpse the big, empty rooms waiting to receive their inhabitants.
In the other house lives a couple with no children, as far as I can tell. I’ve only seen them once or twice since we moved in, as they planted flowers in a flowerbed out front. Otherwise I just see their cars as they leave in the morning, his big gray SUV, which exits the garage at seven, and her blue sedan that comes and goes occasionally. Which must mean she’s a housewife. Like me, I remind myself reluctantly.
And of course, there’s the house behind ours. I hadn’t given it much thought, to be honest. Not until I saw that camera lens in the window anyway. I’d never seen a person or a car leave it but I assumed it was inhabited because, unlike the vacant house, the windows were always dark, and the decorative lights that lit up the façade went on every evening.
Now I find myself at a loss. Do I just go and introduce myself, bearing a basket of muffins, like something out of an ’80s movie? Do people still do that? Do people my age still do that? Will they think I’m a weirdo?
Finally, I decide to forgo the muffins and instead buy two bottles of midrange chardonnay. No one ever turns down free wine, right? At this time of day, our friendly neighborhood grocery store is almost empty, and there’s no wait to pay. There’s never a wait because there are no cash registers to speak of. At the entrance and exit, our chip is scanned, and the amount for every item we take out the door with us automatically charged. Those from out of the neighborhood have to make do with three self-checkout stations that I’ve never seen anyone use. Living in the future has its benefits.
Not that we have to do our shopping here, or at the luxurious shopping mall that takes up the less desirable terrain by the highway. And at first, I resisted, hesitant at the idea that something—someone—is always keeping track. What did we look at but put back on the shelf? What did we load our cart with? Recording our habits and preferences, adding up the data, sorting it into complex algorithms. Judging your less than healthy habits, the ramen noodles, the potato chips, and soda.
In exchange, you never drop in to get a new bottle of organic sriracha only to find yourself facing an empty shelf or wondering if the prepackaged chicken thighs are about to go bad. Everything is stocked in just the precise quantity, always fresh, never gathering dust on the shelf for God knows how long. And if something we want or need is missing, all we have to do is request it from our Saya, and the next time we go shopping, it’ll be there.
As I exit with my wine bottles, I wonder how many other bottles of wine and booze we’ve logged in the last month. I can’t remember but I’m sure the computer didn’t miss a single one. Lately, I don’t even bother to review the monthly bill.
Perhaps I should start.
I decide to begin with the house next door because the blue sedan is sitting in the driveway. She’s home. I make my way up the neatly paved path to the door. There’s a doorbell, although I don’t see why it’s necessary. The second I set foot on the paved path, the house’s inhabitant gets an alert, and the video feed on her tablet shows me from three different angles, in high definition. At least that’s how it works in our house.
But I perform the motions even though they’ve become obsolete. Still, she takes a while to come to the door, and for a moment there, I wonder if she won’t come at all. Just as I contemplate leaving, feeling like a fool with one of the bottles of wine sweating in my hands, the door opens.
“Can I help you?”
She doesn’t look unfriendly—only surprised. What could I possibly need from her after all? To borrow a cup of sugar for a recipe?