“Okay, Miss Lane. Are you all right?” She meant because I’d scooted in ten minutes before, pretending I’d been in another part of the building.
“Yes, I’m fine. I just need a few minutes without interruptions.”
“No problem, Miss Lane.”
Donna wouldn’t call me Izzy, even though I called her by her first name. She felt it sounded too “familiar,” even after all this time working together every day. At the very least I wish she’d use Ms. instead of Miss. I guess I should be happy she didn’t refer to me as Mrs. I shut my door and smiled at the image Donna projected—an urban, contemporary secretary, a throwback from the sixties, except she was a computer whiz. She sported a daily updo, pencil behind her ear even though she never wrote with a pencil, and knockoff wardrobe that didn’t look it. She was older than me, but we’d never discussed by how much. Donna loved her job as our counseling-department secretary, a job she’d had before I joined the staff in 1999. I knew she was taking one class at night at Community College of Philadelphia and had been doing that for years. She had her sights set on a Temple degree in business. Donna moved slow and steady, holding tight to the handle of her dreams.
Safe behind a door that couldn’t lock, I called Jade. I whispered even though no one could hear. “How’s it going so far?”
“You didn’t check?”
“J, I can’t. You know my mornings are crazy. I have a lot going on. I didn’t have time.” I omitted the part about oversleeping. I didn’t want Jade to think I couldn’t handle Noah, Liberty, Philly over Forty, and life in general.
“We had four thousand views before eight. It’s been shared a few hundred times. I love what you did! Writing about the first date you ever went on after you and Bruce split? Perfect!”
I smiled despite myself. That part of the post was true. How I dressed for my first date as a single mom while Noah was at Chuck E. Cheese with Bruce. As much as I loved hands-on parenting, winning tickets for cheap trinkets, and being stalked by a giant mouse, I couldn’t help feeling triumphant. That weekend I was going to be the gal-about-town doing something that didn’t include crayons or fluorescent lighting. Or that’s what I’d thought, until my date showed up wearing a tucked-in Eagles jersey and suggested we go to Nifty Fifty’s. That night, I deflated. Last night, I laughed.
“But why didn’t you tell me you went to Lucy’s a couple of weeks ago?” Jade asked. “I was right around the corner having a drink with Drew. We could have met you!”
Jade was having a drink with Andrew Mann? “Are you dating him?”
“Who?”
“The Mann.”
“Oh my God, no! I told you, he’s very involved with Pop Philly. And he’s a nice guy. But we’re not involved.”
“If you say so.”
“Pea?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m at work. I’m fine. I’m just trying to figure out how to do it all without screwing anything or anyone up.”
“Look, I know this isn’t what you want to be doing. But let yourself go. It’ll be fun. You tell your stories and the rest will be easy.”
“How do you know?”
“Am I ever wrong?”
“You want me to list them by name?”
“Uh, no thanks. You needed the distraction and I needed you. This was an untapped demographic and we tapped it. We’ve always been a great team. Look, I know that this is selective sharing. You’re not telling everything about Mac or your own dating experiences, and that’s fine. A girl’s got to have her secrets.”
I was lying to my best friend, putting her business at risk as well as risking losing her trust and possibly her friendship. Was it worth it? I had no way of knowing. Jade had agreed to this. It was her idea. Bloggers were anonymous all the time. Maybe they all conjured posts from their imaginations. How was anyone to know? Was there a moral code attached to blogging? I knew there was a moral code to life. I wasn’t ditching it forever, just temporarily. Just enough time to figure out what I’d do if Bruce didn’t come back. Or didn’t pay child support again.
I felt woozy. My stomach flipped.
What I wanted was for Bruce to come home—come back—and for life to return to the new normal we’d created with my Wednesday nights and every other weekend off. I needed that time to dig myself out of the trenches. I didn’t covet those times because I was away from Noah, but those times reinforced how much I wanted to be with Noah. Always. How becoming a mom was the best decision I’d made. Sometimes I thought it was the only good decision I’d made.
Yet I mentioned none of that in this first blog post. I’d revealed myself as a divorced mom who’d been dating. Who was in a relationship. For real. In the blog I had style and moxie. In real life, I simply had gall. A month or two and it would be over, a short chapter where I got what I needed and gave Jade, the readers—and Andrew “Coat Guy” Mann, who wrote the check—what they wanted.
“I have to go now,” Jade said in a business voice I was starting to recognize. “I’ll let you know when we can both sit down with Drew.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s interested in everything that happens with Pop Philly. I told you, we’re friends. I just think the three of us should sit down and talk about the future. Your future and ours.”
I sighed, which filled the time slot for my reply. “Maybe.”
“It’ll all turn out okay. You’ll see. Am I ever wrong?” Jade said it with the same promise with which she’d told me that sleeping in youth hostels throughout Europe would enrich our character and that marrying Bruce would work out fine.
Yes. Sometimes Jade was wrong.
* * *
I opened the office door and waved at Donna, who turned to the line of waiting students. I hadn’t even asked about Donna’s weekend, or her mother in the hospital, or her latest obsession—online Scrabble. She tapped Bethany, a senior, on the back. Bethany stood up straight and tipped her shoulders back. Bethany was one of my favorite students, headed to West Chester University on a field hockey scholarship.
“What’s going on with Marcus?” I asked as I shut the door.
“We broke up. He doesn’t like that I’m going to live on campus when he’s living at home and going to CCP.”
I put my arm around Bethany’s shoulder. “Don’t let him guilt you into living at home. You’re following your own dream. Not his. You do not need a boy for anything.”
Bethany tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.
I tapped her arm. “None of that nonsense, young lady. You are on the right path. Just be true to yourself and everything will be fine.”
“I know, Ms. Lane.”
“And if you need a reason to stay after school and off that bus so you don’t have to deal with him?”
“I can always come here and you’ll find something for me to do. Yes. I know. But I’m cool.”
“Well, don’t forget.”
I handed Bethany her signed papers and asked her to send in the next student.
Albert walked into my office with forms for Arcadia and Temple. “What are you going to write?”
“The truth, Mr. Jones. That’s my job.”
Irony speared me.
After Albert I met with a transfer student from Archbishop Henry, lectured a suspended Liberty student needing to go back to class, and admitted a new freshman from Turkmenistan, whose parents spoke no English, all followed by a midwinter fire drill.
I grabbed my phone—just in case. Just in case I had a moment during the trek outside, amidst the silent commotion, to count the comments on my blog.
Chapter 10
Battleship
NOAH NESTLED THE PHONE in its cradle and cried.
“Aye, matey,” I said in a soft mommy voice as I lifted him onto my lap. Nothing better than a La-Z-Boy for a snuggle.
“I know you miss your daddy.” Noah just lay on me again, like the night before, and the night before that. He stuck his thumb in his mouth and I
pulled it out and patted his hand as I dried it on my shirt. “He misses you a lot. I mean, like, gazillions.”
“That’s what he said.” Noah picked up his head and looked at me, his spare, dark eyebrows furrowed.
I breathed him in, looked from his chin to his cheek, forehead, nose, cheek, and back to his chin. Then I looked into his eyes and buried my bubbling anger toward my ex.
“Moms and dads always miss their kids gazillions.” I had no doubt Bruce missed our son, but that didn’t mean I understood how he could go away, unable to reach out and touch Noah. My Noah. Our Noah. For the past two weeks he had cried, then sulked after Bruce’s daily calls. It would take at least an hour for him to step out from my shadow. I wanted to tell Bruce to call every other day, not to interrupt the momentum we gained after school, through kindergarten cut-and-paste homework, dinner, and playtime. But I couldn’t. The only thing I hoped is that the pain would ease for Noah, and increase for Bruce, propelling him back to Philly.
I kept at bay any thoughts that his absence might be longer than temporary.
“Pirates go on long adventures and miss their families very much, too. Just like Daddy.”
Noah’s eyes opened wide, brimming with newfound respect for Bruce. Not my intention, except when I saw Noah’s smile.
* * *
My evenings had become routine in the comforting way. After Noah fell asleep, I’d amble downstairs to the kitchen and pull out the Phillies cap from amid my stacks of notes in the bread drawer. I’d already be wearing my old, but newly minted, writing clothes: plaid flannel pants, thinning navy Penn sweatshirt, and my one pair of SmartWool socks I’d purchased for my one Killington ski trip with Bruce. I’d make myself a cup of green tea, and at some point Felix would hop onto the keyboard.
Tonight I sipped my tea and clicked open P-O-F, rereading my latest post before heading into the comments section. After two weeks of being the official Philly over Forty maven, I didn’t always remember everything I’d written or all the comments and how I responded. It was as if I stored this part of my life, my day, into its own little locker, separate from everything else. But when I opened it … that was another story. The thoughts and words just tumbled out. I clicked and scrolled. Mac and I went out to dinner again. We’d gone to the movies. He was funny, attentive, and handsome (oh my!). He was busy with work and I was busy at school and with Noah. That was critical information for when I saw Rachel this coming weekend. That information would have to filter over to real life, because Rachel would ask. About everything. Why wasn’t I going out with Mac when she would have offered to take Noah overnight? I’d just blame my social debacles on Bruce. Bruce was away, Noah was adjusting. Blah blah blah. Rachel wouldn’t question my prioritizing time with Noah over time with Mac.
I skimmed the comments. Some were from online trolls posting links to counterfeit-luxury-handbag Web sites:
Chanell and Gucchie 80% off
Or too-good-to-be-true instant careers:
Make $400 a day stuffing envelopes at home like I did!
Some were snippets of other single parents’ own divorce stories:
My ex is now dating a twenty-four-year-old.—Judith from Wyoming
At least Amber was thirty-five.
Some readers shared special dating advice:
Don’t let this one get away like the other ones.—Ellen from New York
Wyoming? New York? I knew Web sites had no geographical boundaries, but why was anyone anywhere else reading Philly over Forty?
Some readers asked for dating advice:
How soon is too soon to call my new boyfriend my boyfriend?—Alice in Baltimore
I’m glad you asked, Alice. But I have no idea.
And some readers’ comments made me think. Maybe more than I wanted to:
My ex wasn’t right for me. The last guy I dated wasn’t right for me. I’m forty-one. How do I figure out what kind of guy is right for me?—Fern in Chicago
Invent him.
* * *
That Sunday I didn’t have to invent anything. I just had to hang out with Rachel and the kids in the real world. It was Rachel’s world where we’d be hanging out, and I liked it there. It reminded me of what was possible. A happy marriage, a full minivan, realized dreams.
Rachel lifted her laptop from the old-barn-wood-now-new-coffee-table and placed it on her knees so I could see the monitor. Even in the house, just waiting for me, she wore a heather-gray cotton knit dress and purple tights. Rachel could always answer the door or leave home on a whim. I, in my good yoga pants, had barricaded myself into the corner of her family-room sectional. My arm slid across the microfiber cushion. The sensation was light and ticklish, but unwelcome, like a spider. I pulled down my sleeve.
“So, what’s it like to be famous?” Rachel asked.
“I’m not famous.”
“You’re totally famous.” She clicked on a tab and the Philly over Forty page appeared across her monitor. And there I was. Hidden for the world to see under my pixelated cap.
Rachel’s middle finger slid across the touch pad and she tapped, opening up my latest post.
“Look at all those comments! And they’re from everywhere, did you notice? And the ads?” She pointed to the sidebar. “That Andrew Mann is everywhere. Did you see that new animated billboard on 95?”
I had not.
“And you’re totally helping all these people figure out their own dating stuff. It’s so cool. Let’s read them. I can be your assistant.” She clapped her hands together. “I’ll read the comments out loud and can tell you which ones you want to answer. I’m going to read every post and every comment anyway.”
Rachel looked at me and smiled, her deep dimple revealing itself in her freckled left cheek. I envied those freckles as a child. Now I was glad I didn’t have to worry about covering them with foundation. Otherwise, I coveted Rachel’s life. But I didn’t want her not to have it.
“It’s okay to be proud of yourself, you know.” She bumped me with her shoulder. “It’s pretty awesome. The Internet is amazing.”
“I have to tell you something.”
“Oh, good! I have to tell you something, too.”
“You go first!” we yelled in unison, each pointing at the other. Then we burst out laughing, Rachel’s head landing on my shoulder, our bellies rising and falling in time to our chuckles and heaves. We did that often as children, said the same thing at the same time. And now, like then, every time our chuckles slowed, our breathing softened, one of us started again with an eruption of overzealous squeals. My side hurt with the joyful release of stress. Every time we looked at each other we started again, the way we did during long seder dinners when we were supposed to be quiet, or even at Saturday-morning services, where the alter kockers gave us the evil eye.
“Tell me about Mac.”
“You know about Mac.”
“For real, tell me. Don’t make me read about him. What’s he like? What do you like about him? I know you don’t want me to meet him yet, I understand you’re being cautious, but you can tell me something, can’t you?”
Surely Rachel would understand why I lied about Mac, why I kept up the deception longer than I’d intended. We could always look across her mother’s dining-room table and know what the other was thinking. Just a glance and one of us would ask to be excused or distract her father while the other took extra cookies. I looked at Rachel and saw the little girl of countless sleepovers in her basement. I wanted Rachel to know what I was going through. Why couldn’t she look at me and just know?
“You think about it—and I’ll go first this time,” she said as if she’d just run a marathon.
“No, let me go first, it’s really important.” I grabbed her hand to stop her from tapping on the keyboard.
“So is this.” She looked over her shoulder toward the playroom where all the kids were entrenched in LEGO. Rachel pivoted the laptop toward me. She never asked to go first. It was her turn. “I’m planning my reunion, right?�
��
“Riiiight.” Rachel was a year younger than me, so our milestones were always a year apart, which made it fun. Bat mitzvahs, proms, graduations. Mine always came first … until it came to weddings. But then I got back in the groove with my divorce. With that I wouldn’t be first, I’d be only. “You want to talk about your reunion now?”
“Not just the reunion. Look.”
I stared at the monitor and there he was. Jeremy Goldfarb. Rachel’s boyfriend from high school, college, and beyond stared back at me from his high school graduation photo, his eighteen-year-old eyes half-hidden by nineties-guy bangs.
“Everyone finds old boyfriends online, Rache. Are you going to tell me you’ve never looked for Jeremy before?”
“He wasn’t on Facebook until a few weeks ago. I’m not online all the time like you, missy.”
Really? Then how was it that every time I looked on Facebook she had posted a new photo? “Great, he’ll go to the reunion and Seth can see the boy who tormented you for ten years before you met him.”
“Seth’s not going to the reunion.”
“Why?”
“I told him I’d be too busy and he’d have no one to hang out with.”
It was probably true. “So do you think he’ll go?” I was pretty sure that Rachel’s first love, Jeremy Goldfarb, had lasted until the day she met Seth. Maybe longer.
“Of course he’ll go; he’s on the committee.” She rose from the sofa in one fluid motion. “Should we give the kids lunch?”
“Wait.” I stood and grabbed Rachel’s arm. I swung her around toward me as if we were competing on Dancing with the Stars. “You’re in touch with Jeremy Goldfarb?”
She turned away and sighed. Sighed!
“Rachel, don’t you turn your back on me.” I almost said young lady. “What is going on?”
“Nothing. We’re just friends. It’s nice to be in touch.”
“Since when?”
“Since we started planning the reunion.”
“I thought you were planning your reunion.”
“You don’t think I’m doing it alone, do you? There has to be a committee and Jeremy offered to be my cochair.”
The Good Neighbor Page 7
