The Perfect Neighbors Read Online Free Page B

water and bananas. She was far too tired to cook, and she’d gone off coffee during her first trimester and certainly knew enough to avoid drinking too much of it while breastfeeding. Still, Tessa was certain she was the source of her daughter’s misery. Tessa would pace the house in the middle of the night with a squalling Bree in her arms, mindlessly chanting nursery rhymes, timing the beat to the throbbing in her head. Harry had been working for a software development firm back then and his job had required him to travel nearly every week, so she couldn’t even hand off the baby for a break.
    Tessa had wanted a child so desperately. She’d endured two miscarriages before having Bree, the second when she was nearly twenty weeks into her pregnancy. She’d tried to do everything right. She’d read a dozen books on child development. She’d washed Bree’s tiny onesies in Dreft before folding them into the drawers of her pink-and-white dresser. She’d spent an entire weekend crafting the butterfly mobile that hung over Bree’s crib. Yet every time she looked down at Bree’s red, miserable face, shefelt as if she was failing her daughter.
    When Bree turned four months old, Tessa finally gave up breastfeeding. Whenever she hid a carton of formula in her grocery cart, she’d felt like she was stashing crack beneath her romaine lettuce and organic chicken. Breast was best—­everyone knew that.
    But miraculously, the formula had seemed to help. Bree had begun to cry less. She’d actually slept for a blissful five-hourstretch one night. She’d even begun to bestow a gummy little grin on Tessa that could’ve been gas but Tessa decided was a smile.
    â€œMaybe it was just colic,” Tessa had said to Harry two weeks before it happened. He’d returned home from yet another business trip and had picked up Thai food on the way in from the airport. Tessa’s last shower was a distant memory—two, maybe three days earlier? She’d been wearing one of the drawstring pants and shapeless cotton T-shirts that had become her wardrobe staples. But as she’d crunched into a spring roll and taken a sip of cold, crisp wine, she’d felt the bright stirrings of hope.
    â€œThe worst is probably over,” she’d said as she watched Harry feed Bree bites of a steamed yam. Bree had inherited her father’s sweet tooth—she spit out green vegetables but at least she loved pears and yams.
    As soon as Tessa had uttered those words, she’d felt an icy twinge work its way down her spine. She’d tempted bad fortune. And sure enough, it arrived the next day when Bree’s cries took on a sharper, more pained tenor, so alarming Tessa that she’d rushed Bree to the pediatrician’s office.
    â€œShe’s teething already. An early achiever!” the doctor had joked as he’d examined Bree. He had white hair and a round belly, like Santa. His kids were all grown; he probably slept deeply for eight hours every night. Tessa hated him and his jolly laugh more than a little bit.
    Baby Motrin didn’t help, not nearly enough. The tooth took forever to come in and no sooner had it broken the surface than the one next to it began to embark on its jagged, torturous path through Bree’s soft mouth.
    Tessa rubbed Baby Orajel on Bree’s red, raw gums, and gave her cold rings to gnaw on, but Bree seemed to feel pain so intensely! Every cry was a jab to Tessa’s heart. Bree began waking up every three hours again, bleating the plaintive cry of a kitten. Tessa’s vision grew blurry. Most of her meals werebowls of soggy cereal gobbled over the sink. Once, at a stoplight, the blare of a horn jerked her awake. She’d glanced back at Bree, safely asleep in her car seat, and she’d shuddered. What if her foot had slipped off the brake? She drank more coffee—three, four, sometimes five cups a day.
    The mornings were the