tion open to her. But she just smiled gamely and thought
about anything else. That seemed the best to route to
surviving in a family where advice was freely given and
always conflicting. The same day her sister counseled her
to be pickier about her friends, her mother countered
with, “Having friends is overrated,” and “It’s not your
fault. They’re not our kind.”
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Lane spent hours parsing what that meant, not our kind.
What was their kind? People who moved a lot? People
who were Jewish? People who had an uncle living with
them who sometimes got lost just walking around the
block? She didn’t ask. Her mother made it clear with sighs and oh wells and talk about the weather; questions like that were not welcome.
Invisibility was the ticket. Bland clothes, unremarkable
shoes, plain-Jane haircut. So long as Lane could manage
those things she could pass for normal. Normal enough.
Shelley’s advice took a hiatus when she left for col-
lege and while Lane didn’t miss the advice, she did miss
the adviser. To her disappointment, it was the day after
Shelley graduated from college that she broke the news
that she was moving away. She said this in the small
bathroom of their second New Jersey house where she
dragged Lane and then, like a character in a spy movie
afraid of wiretaps, turned on the faucets before quietly
sharing. She was going to England to live with Quinn,
the young Brit she’d met on her semester abroad. She
made Lane swear not to tell their parents her plan: “I’m
going to marry Quinn. I’m never coming back.”
It was a surprise to everyone that Shelley, the Meckler
who most thrived on change, was voluntarily joining
a family where change was not a thing. On the street
where Shelley now lived, in a tony London suburb, the
neighbors who’d moved in two generations ago were
considered newcomers. There really was no predicting
how a life would go.
“If the movers are robbers,” Henry said now, “at least
I still have my sketchbook.” He drew it closer to his chest.
“And you have your phone.”
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“I’m sure they’re not robbers,” Lane reassured him.
“They probably got held up in traffic.” She shouldn’t have read that letter to Aaron while Henry was in the next
room. “I guarantee they’ll be here soon.” She shouldn’t
make guarantees to someone who’d learned the hard way,
nothing was guaranteed. “Let’s go upstairs. You can pick
out your room.”
h h
h h
Lane had decided to let Henry choose his own room so
that he’d have the feeling of agency. But now she regret-
ted it. The room she wanted him to pick wasn’t the room
he chose.
“Don’t you think this one would be the better?” she
asked, pointing to the room facing the backyard. “The
bathroom is so close. Right across the hall.”
He walked into the room and pointed to the panels
on the wall. “What are those things?”
“That’s for sound absorption. Doesn’t it feel extra quiet
in here?” She waited for Henry to notice. He shrugged.
“The owner of the house is a voice actor. For video games.
He used this room as a studio, so he could record at home.
How cool is that?” She was repeating what the real estate
agent had told her, mirroring the agent’s enthusiasm, but
Henry remained unimpressed. Soundproofing was not
a perk to a six-year-old. Nor was proximity to a toilet.
“I choose the other room.”
Lane followed him into the room facing the street.
The one she didn’t want him to choose. She had to get
over it. It wasn’t reasonable for her to feel uncomfortable in this room. “Okay. This is your room.”
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The afternoon light streamed in turning Henry’s
small frame into a string bean of a shadow on the floor.
He followed his shadow to the window and examined
the bars. He’d noticed it as soon they pulled up in front
of the house, that all the front windows on the second
“They’re window guards,” Lane explained when they
got out of the car. “We had them in our apartment in the
city. In the city, it’s the law.”
“Is it the law here?” Henry scanned the houses across
the street, none of which had window guards. “Why are
we the only ones who have them?”
It would have been nice to have a lie at hand. But
Lane had promised herself and Doctor Bruce that she
would be diligent about sticking to the truth. Truth, he
said, was what would make Henry feel secure. “I’m not
sure if it’s the law. I had them installed.”
“Why?”
“So there wouldn’t be an accident.” Wrong word.
Accident was what happened to his father. “Want to go
downstairs and wait for the movers?”
It was too late. He’d seen something flicker across her
face. “What kind of accident?”
Speak truth. Speak plainly. Follow Henry’s lead. Doctor Bruce hadn’t criticized her for her delay in telling Henry his father died. He understood there were no good choices
that day. He acknowledged that telling Henry the next
day was only one of a host of things that could have trig-
gered her son’s acute anxiety. But it was the one thing in her control to change. Speaking truth would help make
Henry feel safe.
“The good news is,” Doctor Bruce had explained,
“the brain is wonderfully plastic. The pathways to trust
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can be rebuilt. You will get other chances. When Henry’s
ready, he’ll test you. To see whether he can trust you and the world.”
“How will I know when he’s ready?” she’d asked.
“Imagine there’s a door of trust between you. It used
to be wide open. Now it’s lightly shut. When he’s ready,
he’s going to knock on the door. The trick is, you have
to be listening. The knock could be quiet. Quiet enough
to miss. So listen hard for a knock.”
“Did you have an accident with a window?” Henry
asked her now.
Was this it? Henry knocking?
“No.” She took in a quick breath and let it out. “But
my cousin, Ivy, did. Uncle Albie was her father.”
“Why isn’t he her father now? What happened?”
“Ivy went out the window and fell.” She stopped.
She’d spoken the truth, plainly.
“Tell me that story.”
“Aw buddy, I don’t think it’s a good idea. It’s a very
sad story.”
“How old are you in this story?”
“Six. Like you. Ivy was seven.”
“Did Cousin Ivy live with you?”
“No. Uncle Albie didn’t live with us then. I only met
her twice and the first time I was too little to remember.
The second time was when it happened.”
“Is the What Happened to Ivy
the same as the What
Happened to Dad?”
“The ending is the same.” She glanced out the win-
dow. The sky was sheet-metal gray.
“How did Ivy fall out?”
“She didn’t fall out. She went out.” Henry looked
confused. “Our house had a porch in the front. And the
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roof to the porch was outside my window. Aunt Shelley
used to call my window a magic door because”—Was
she really going to say this?—“she liked to climb out
the window and sit on the roof. The roof was almost
flat.” She raised her forearm to show the most gentle of
inclines. “But still dangerous. Not allowed. She shouldn’t have done it.”
“Did Aunt Shelley fall off the roof?”
“No.” Lane shook her head. “Just Ivy.”
“Because, no window guards?”
Lane nodded and closed her eyes. And just like that
there she was, in her bedroom with Ivy and Shelley, the
three of them standing in size order, Shelley telling them they could see the eclipse from the roof. The shag carpet was the color of dead leaves, the same color as Ivy’s
hair. Ivy was a head taller than Lane and she wore her
hair in braids that had little bits sticking out, dark-red and brown bits that looked as if they’d escaped. Braids
that were pulled too tight on either side of Ivy’s moon-
shaped face.
Was Lane supposed to tell Henry that part, about the
moon?
“Mom? Are you sad?”
Be honest. “Yes. It still makes me sad to think about
it.” This conversation was a mistake. She shouldn’t have
said anything about Ivy or the roof. She shouldn’t have
given Henry a choice about the rooms. She hadn’t ex-
pected to feel this way in his room.
Henry walked over and stroked her arm. “It’s good we
have window guards. And we don’t have a front porch.
So, double safe. And I will never go on a roof. I promise.
And promises are meant to be kept or else so double safe
times two times two.” He tiptoed to the window, his
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little hunch-backed cat-burglar tiptoe, and peered out.
Was he afraid of windows now? “If I ever go to a house
where there’s a front porch and someone asks me to go
out the window and sit on the roof I will say, Double no.
No Way. ”
“I don’t think anyone will ask you to do that, but
that sounds smart.”
“And if they go on the roof and say it’s a secret and
I mustn’t tell, I will still tell. Because some things you should never tell but some things you should tell no matter what, right?”
He worried about everything. “Right.” Lane gave
him a hug. “So where am I sleeping tonight?”
“Is it the New Norman in this house?”
“If you want it to be. It’s your choice. I can sleep in
your bed, or you can sleep alone.”
“I choose you sleep with me.”
The doorbell rang. The movers had arrived. The
flurry of activity didn’t last long. Hauling in boxes and
setting up furniture was a quick job when a Meckler
was moving. As soon as the movers were gone, Lane
ordered a pizza. By the time the pizza was delivered, she
and Henry had found and cleaned their dishes, cups and
cutlery.
When it was time to wash up for bed, Henry asked
Lane if she could stand outside the bathroom. “Just while
I brush my teeth. So no monsters come in.”
As far as Lane knew, Henry had never been afraid of
monsters before. “Attention all monsters,” Lane yelled
from her spot in front of the door. “This is a no-monsters house. I repeat. No monsters are permitted here. Any
monsters present must leave immediately.” She poked her
head in. “They’re gone. Good?”
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Henry smiled. “Good.”
h h
h h
The plan was that Lane would drive Henry on his first
day in his new school. On the second day, he would take
the bus. As requested, they met the resource room teacher
in her office. Her name was Mrs. Lindsey. A tiny Tinker
Bell of a woman with a kind face and fluttery hands, she
explained to Henry that he would spend one period each
day in her room and the rest of the day he’d be in his
regular first-grade class with Miss Fiske.
“But you can come see me anytime you want,” Mrs.
Lindsey explained. “Even if it’s just to drop by for five minutes. All you need is this.” She handed Henry a rectangle
of oaktag. “This is a pass to see me. It’s like a magic carpet.
Just show this to Miss Fiske and she’ll let you come. Okay?”
Henry nodded. “Okay. Now let’s go on a tour so you can
learn where everything is. Wait till you see the gym.”
The tour ended at Miss Fiske’s first-grade classroom.
“He’ll be fine,” Miss Fiske said to Lane at the doorway
even though she couldn’t possibly have any idea. Henry
gamely waved goodbye and Lane watched as Miss Fiske
gently shut the door.
For a moment Lane debated whether she ought to
open the door a crack. Henry might feel more comfort-
able with the door open. She looked down the hall. All
the doors of the classrooms were closed. She looked into
his room through the small window. He was standing
behind a chair at a desk and smiling as children, one by
one, lined up to shake his hand. The teacher was smil-
ing too until she glanced over and saw her face in the
window. Lane waved and quickly left.
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h h
h h
The Welcome Brigade lady was standing on the sidewalk
when Lane pulled into the driveway. She’d heard about
these women a few months ago when a flurry of letters
complaining about them arrived in her Roxie mailbox.
Sometimes it happened like that, questions multiplying
like bad cells, everyone suddenly irritated about the same problem at the same time. What she learned for the column she wrote on the subject was that they worked for a
company that targeted new home owners. The women,
masquerading as neighbors, were dispatched with fake
smiles, baskets of swag, and the goal of getting inside the house to preach with zeal about the local businesses who
were the company’s clients. The worst Ask Roxie complaint Lane got was about a bad actor who used the job
to worm her way into a house, where she then pocketed
a wallet and a phone. But even lawful Brigadiers elicited
complaints, presenting themselves as neighbors when they
weren’t, pushing their way in with the single-minded
goal of a kitchen table sales pitch.
Lane had never seen a Welcome Brigade lady in real
life, before today. And she didn’t want to see one now.
This was a terrible time for a sales pitch. She was still
unnerved from leaving Henry with Miss Fiske, who
seemed to her to be completely unsympathetic. Except
now that she thought about it, Henry hadn’t seem both-
ere
d by Miss Fiske at all. Doctor Bruce had been clear.
Lane was supposed to follow Henry’s lead. Doctor Bruce
was always clear and his advice always sounded smart
when she was with him. But sometimes after she left,
it lost its stick.
“Hey neighbor,” the Welcome Brigade lady called out.
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Lane ignored her. The woman pressed on behind
her up the fieldstone path. This was exactly what people
complained about. An aggressive salesperson who wouldn’t
take the hint. Now the saleswoman was a hot breath away.
Lane fixed her attention on trying to get her key into
the lock. It really wasn’t helping to have someone breath-
ing down her neck.
“The doorknob is the problem,” the woman told her.
“You have to jiggle it a little and then the key will go in.”
Lane turned around. “I’m not interested. I don’t use
coupons or bumper stickers. I don’t need any baskets.”
There were flowers on top of the basket, a clever bouquet
that gave the illusion of having been freshly picked from
a backyard garden.
The woman looked confused. “Oh. Okay. I just thought
you should know, you have to jiggle the knob. That lock
always gave Nathan a hard time. I’m surprised he didn’t
fix it. Here.” She handed Lane the basket and moved over
to jiggle the knob herself. The door groaned open. She
took the basket back. “Do you at least want the flowers?”
She lifted them out. Purple petals wept off the stem.
Now that Lane looked at it, there were no bumper
stickers or coupons in the basket. There was just a green
gingham tea towel folded lightly atop two loaves of what
looked like homemade quick bread and next to them a
small mason jar filled with jam. The basket was weigh-
ing heavily on the woman’s arm. She looked tired. She
looked like someone who’d been baking. “You’re not a
Welcome Brigade lady are you.”
“I don’t know what that is. I live next door.”
“You’re the dentist?”
“Rory’s the dentist. She’s on the other side. I’m Karin.
The baker.”
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h h
h h
It took a cup of tea and a slice of what turned out to be very tasty zucchini bread before Karin accepted her apology.
“It was crazy how many complaints I got about the
Welcome Brigade,” Lane told her. “Sometimes it hap-