Did Maple Street truly believe that Arlo had raped Shelly? They could not. Physical evidence placed him elsewhere.
So what was going on?
She knew these people. Not just Rhea, but the rest of them. She’d seen them stay up all night to finish their kids’ science projects. She’d seen them get weepy over news reports about teen drug addicts and pediatric cancer and lead-contaminated water. They had date nights and took salsa lessons. They read popular fiction about the women’s movement, even the men. They’d gone to real colleges—the kind with ivy and real dorm rooms—and they aspired to send their kids to even better colleges. So how could people like that turn on her and Arlo, and by proxy, Julia and Larry?
She regretted moving to Maple Street. She’d been the one to push for it. Arlo’d wanted to buy an apartment in their old building. Stick with the kind of people they already knew. Nice people, but people so strapped they didn’t have the time or interest to self-improve unless you counted dieting and trying to quit smoking. She’d been the one to insist on Long Island. She’d had this idea that they’d be like undercover agents, learning the life secrets of the suburban middle class. They’d develop habits like them, and wind up with better jobs like them. She’d reasoned that even if she and Arlo weren’t comfortable with Maple Street, their kids would learn to be. Upward mobility was what counted.
But when they got here, it hadn’t been like that. Nobody except Rhea had shown any interest. She’d felt distance when she talked to the neighbors, like everything she’d said had been stupid, but they’d never explained to her why. Never explained the right things to say. They’d never referred clients, even though Gertie had kept handing out her business cards. They’d never suggested Arlo stop by their offices and talk to their office managers about new copiers, even though he’d told them he was available, anytime. Aside from Rhea, they’d changed the subject whenever Larry’s name came up, like she ought to be embarrassed. Like, if your life isn’t perfect, you keep your mouth shut and don’t talk about it until it is perfect, and then you brag.
Rhea’d proven she was a terrible person. Rhea was a hunter worse than Cheerie, whom, God help her, Gertie wished dead. But she’d had more time than she wanted in this hospital, most of it alone with her thoughts. At first she’d reviewed everything that had transpired between herself and Rhea, searching for indications of treachery. But she searched so thoroughly that she’d inevitably reviewed her own behavior, too.
If she was honest, there had been trouble in paradise long before the Fourth of July. Unanswered texts, half-smiles and waves instead of stopping to chat, the withdrawal of Shelly from sleepovers—these all should have been obvious to anyone paying attention. Even at the Memorial Day barbeque a month before, Rhea’d barely stopped to say more than a How are you? before moving on.
If the friendship really had been important to Gertie, why hadn’t she done anything about it? Why hadn’t she rung Rhea’s bell, a red wine bottle bribe in hand if necessary, and asked to sit down with her and have a frank talk? Is this about the night on my porch? a poised, normal person like the kind you see on TV would have asked. Whatever’s going on, you know I’m here for you, because you’re important to me. And you were right. I won’t judge, this normal woman would have said. And the truth was, Rhea really had been important to her. She wouldn’t have judged.
After Shelly’s fall, a regular person would have baked a ziti for Rhea’s family, then stood next to her while she’d kept vigil at the sinkhole. She’d have said: I love（d） your daughter. Her absence is a physical pain. So I can’t imagine what you’re going through. What can I do to ease your burden?
Why hadn’t she done these things? Why hadn’t they even occurred to her until now? Why, for that matter, had she left Julia alone with crazed Shelly Schroeder that morning, when any sane mother would have stopped her car?
What was wrong with her? How could she have been so blind?
Gertie once read that when people start to lose their sight, they don’t know it. Their minds fill in the missing parts. So, when they’re driving, maybe they’re passing a field of cows, but what they see is just green. Their minds make an assumption based on past experience. It occurred to her that people’s personalities were like that. Full of holes. We think we’re complete but we’re not, and usually that’s just fine. It’s typical. But sometimes the holes line up. You get hit with a brick and you lose your shit like a psycho. Your kid falls down a sinkhole and you turn into the Wicked Witch of the West.