Eliza set her alarm for 6:00 a.m. She had much to prepare for the day’s guests. She loved a full house, especially when it included the twins’ friends. She had missed the comings and goings of their posse since they’d been in college—the cheerful shouting, the stomping around overhead, and the whirlwind left in their wake. In contrast to her own childhood home, Eliza always tried to make hers the house that the kids flocked to. She mostly accomplished this with food.
Eliza’s Jewish grandmother was a first-generation American, and though not a particularly religious woman, she was deeply connected to her Judaism through food. The kitchen was her temple. And while Eliza’s own mother rebelled against it, Eliza was quite happy to become a member of that congregation.
Eliza’s grandma, or Bubbie as she affectionately called her, would spend hours in the kitchen replicating the recipes for stuffed cabbage or kreplach or kugel that had been passed down by her grandmother and her grandmother’s grandmother before her. While Eliza’s mother had no interest in cooking, Eliza, as her Bubbie would say, took to the kitchen like nobody’s business. Together the two of them formed a bond linking generations of Jews, not through the Talmud but through brisket. It bothered Eliza’s mother to no end, the way it does when you introduce two of your friends and suddenly they’re meeting for coffee without you.
Eliza headed to the kitchen to preheat the oven, then made a beeline for her desk. By the time they were all done catching up the night before, she couldn’t keep her eyes open. It was wonderful to have her children home. Being a whole family again made her feel more like a whole person again. The goings-on of the bulletin board seemed trivial in comparison. But this morning, not so much. As she turned on her computer, she crossed her fingers, superstitiously hoping her scandalous post had been a success.
One hundred eighty-five comments—wow! she thought. That is an epic thread—take that, Valley Girls! We’re not going anywhere! She was even happier to see that the post about tampons was gaining traction as well. It felt as if more people were suddenly spending time on the bulletin board. She did a little cross-referencing of the comment sections on both sites, hers and Valley Girls, to see if any names popped out on both—and they did. The whole thing thrilled her, to the point of embarrassment.
She discarded a request from a mother selling essential oils and another starting the hundredth conversation on the HPV vaccine and posted an announcement sent to her by the local library:
Circle Time for new moms begins this Friday at 11:00.
She had so much to do, but she gave herself a few minutes to read more comments and enjoy the sensation her made-up post had sparked. She imagined other women doing the same—carving out time from their busy lives to scroll. It was gripping stuff. She thought about the old days when the only place to ask anonymous advice was a column in the newspaper. By the time the answer was printed she could only imagine the person asking it had moved on to their next problem. This forum was much more satisfying.
Look internally to why you cheated before moving on. If you don’t fix that, it will happen again.
Are we supposed to feel sorry for you? You made your bed, literally!
I don’t think monogamy is natural.
Well kindly stay away from my man!
Mine too! LOL!
It’s just a matter of time until your husband finds out. I think you should tell him before this crazy guy you got involved with does.
This! Plus marriage counseling.
I agree, too. Assuming you moved here to save your marriage. Tell him now!
Do you have children?
I feel for you. This is very stressful.
You feel for her? Anonymous did this to herself. I feel for the other woman.
You’re assuming there is another woman. That’s what’s wrong with anonymous posts. She can’t respond, and we only know half a story.
Yes, her half. Anonymous is clearly selfish. Cheaters always are.
Give her a break. Every life has secrets. Every marriage certainly does. It’s just a matter of whether you can live with them or not.
That last comment really struck a chord. As much as she had loved being with her family last night, she had felt like a fraud. Kevin copped to having anxiety about pledging, Kayla about feeling lonely sometimes. Even Luke spoke about missing them more than he’d imagined. Why was she so dead-set on keeping her secret from her family? Maybe it was time to tell Luke, to tell the kids. But even thinking about that conversation was too much for her. As she always did, she buried her feelings and kept scrolling.
The thing that struck her most about the words the women wrote was just that—they were just words. Their tone was up to the reader to determine, and judgment was based on the content alone. No “Never trust a woman in pearls” or “That skinny bitch has no idea what she’s talking about.” Faceless words.
She further considered how the anonymous posts made it hard to have any back-and-forth. She wondered if she should post a follow-up. She couldn’t stop reading the comments and couldn’t believe how open the women were being. If company wasn’t coming, she would have considered making popcorn and scrolling to her heart’s content. She looked at the time. Just five more minutes, she promised herself.
Eliza used to love this time of day—the quiet that only existed in the early morning before the noise of alarms and car pools and phones ringing off the hook. When the twins were home, she would often set her alarm for 6:00 a.m., an hour before she needed to wake them, just to have some time for herself. She hadn’t done this in months. Lately she was eager to make her day shorter, sleeping in as long as her perimenopausal clock would allow. But back then, like today, she would relax at her desk with a cup of coffee and alternate between social media, the news, and watching the birds out the window. She would sit there until 6:45, when the neighbor’s sprinklers rose from the ground like a maestro’s baton, prompting her to rise from her chair. She looked at the clock again—6:45. No whoosh-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-tic-whoosh of the sprinkler. She guessed the new neighbor had reset it. As she stood up, the next chapter of the drama played out right before her eyes.
Ashley Smith left her house, closing the door behind her. She looked down at her phone before panning the street with her eyes. There, across and to the left behind the Williamses’ old oak tree, stood Not-Mr.-Smith. Ashley paused to do a few stretches, signaling with her body for him to run left. He got it and ran that way. Eliza could still see him one house up the street, retying a tied shoe, trying to look natural. Now she was even more convinced that there was some truth to her made-up post. Ashley turned back toward her own house and studied its windows. Eliza assumed that she was double-checking to see if her husband was watching and stepped back from the window. She was well aware that one glance her way could do her in.
Ashley jogged off as if she was acting as opposed to really running. Eliza squinted through the window carefully as they stopped in their tracks. The man showed her his phone. She threw her hands in the air. He shook his head in disbelief. Eliza played out the words in her head.
“Is this about us? I know this is us!”
“I don’t even know what this is. You’re so paranoid.”
She took the phone from him to read it more carefully. She looked confused. She put her hand to her head in worry.
“I swear I didn’t write this,” Eliza imagined her saying.
He didn’t seem to believe her. How could he? It was spot-on. He looked like he wanted to believe her as he wiped what Eliza imagined to be a tear from Ashley’s eye. They hugged briefly and ran off.
Eliza sat down at her computer. She was shaking. She wasn’t sure if it was due to exhilaration or fear of getting caught. The whole episode filled her with an excitement she hadn’t felt since shoplifting in middle school, that thrill of stepping out of the Hudson Valley Mall with a strawberry Bonne Bell Lip Smacker tucked into her training bra. Either way she knew that she had no business messing in people’s lives like that. She vowed never to do it again.