The Good Neighbor

by Amy Sue Nathan

  I read three extra books to Noah, tucked him in, and cleaned the bathroom. Then I donned my flannel pants, Penn sweatshirt, wool socks, and Phillies cap and settled onto the sofa with Felix behind my head.

  I spent a high-speed hour and a half watching costumed and choreographed marriage proposals on YouTube, all in the name of research. When Mac proposed, he’d do it in private. Maybe with Noah by his side. I clicked on a bridal Web site and scanned wedding dresses. I’d want romantic and flowy, maybe with lace. I’d go with ivory since my first wedding dress was white. Maybe I’d get a different dress for the reception, something short and flirty. The possibilities were endless since the imaginary budget was too. I slammed the laptop and stood. What was I doing?

  With freshly brewed tea and Felix now at my feet, I hovered the cursor over my P-O-F bookmark. Back to my version of reality. I clicked away, and instead of my usual landing page, I landed somewhere else. A red, white, and blue splash page beckoned: “C’mon, Philly over Forty: Be Part of the Conversation.”

  I slumped and I smiled. My bloggy banter in the comment section with the readers was a hit. Jade and Andrew might have wanted me to ramble, but they realized I knew what I was doing. The readers didn’t need my stories as much as they needed to tell their own. I wondered what Bruce and Amber were doing. Was he as anti-romantic now as he had been with me? Or was I his only recipient of last-minute gifts and supermarket flowers? Then I knew. I didn’t have to tell the readers about Valentine’s Day. I could ask the readers about Valentine’s Day.

  I backtracked and logged on behind the scenes, on the page designated just for me, accessible only with my password. I typed my shortest ever Philly over Forty post:

  What was your worst Valentine’s Day? Your best?

  A lot of sharing, and a little kvetching, would ensue. And I wouldn’t have to lie.

  I turned my cap backward and wrote two more blog posts. Even if there had been a Mac, I wouldn’t be obsessed, I was too old for that. We’d have our own lives and friends and hobbies and interests. We’d respect each other’s alone time, too. So without mentioning Mac, I wrote, My #1 Rule for Dating over 40: What’s Yours? Mine was Be Yourself. I wasn’t being sarcastic. I would be myself. If I ever dated when I was over forty. Then I listed Five Philly Restaurants Great for Dining Alone: Can You Dine Out Just One? I could not. I didn’t even like sitting at the counter at the diner by myself. Even at the drive-through, I ordered two sodas. Then I tapped out a few more ideas.

  Blog posts were the new potato chips. I couldn’t write just one.

  Darby’s restaurant reviews and the Pop Philly archives served as invaluable resources. I made more lists of places to go and things to do even though I didn’t have to go anywhere at all.

  I perused the rest of the site. Graphics on every page boldly welcomed readers to share their own stories on P-O-F. On Holden’s new Nightclubs-to-Watch page (N-T-W), a banner offered proof that life didn’t end at thirty-nine. Thank God! Instead of letting the blog grow organically, Jade was forcing it the way Rachel forced amaryllis bulbs in February. Those bulbs grew into stalks sprouting vibrant, plate-size blossoms. Problem was, the flowers only lasted two weeks.

  At eleven-thirty, the phone rang.

  “What’s up?” I said, after seeing Bruce’s number.

  “I guess Noah’s sleeping?”

  “He’s been in bed for three hours.” I wasn’t giving an inch.

  “You could call me, too, you know, before he goes to bed. Would that be so hard?”

  “Would it be so hard to remember to call your son when he’s awake?”

  “I thought you were going to work with me, Iz.”

  “I am working with you. I’m trying to take care of Noah all the time and paying all the bills and working and trying to have a life. But, yes, you’re right. I could have called you because Lord knows we wouldn’t want Noah to think you had the idea yourself. I will call you tomorrow when we get home from school.”

  “I’ll be out all day tomorrow, that’s why I’m calling now.”

  “You said you wanted me to call, so I’ll call. For Noah. Now you don’t want me to call. Which is it?”

  “Okay. Call my cell. I guess I can step out of a meeting for a few minutes.”

  Since Bruce wasn’t working, I wasn’t sure if “step out of a meeting” was California-speak for “step out of the ocean” or bay, or whatever. “When are you coming home? I mean, coming back? Your time is running out.”

  “Maybe next week for an interview. I’ve had two really promising phone interviews with this really great—”

  “And when you’re here, you’ll take Noah for a few days.”

  “Jeez, Iz. If I can. I’m trying to get a job. I’m not sure what’s so hard to understand.”

  What’s so hard to understand is what I ever saw in Bruce in the first place.

  I put the phone facedown on the sofa. I didn’t have to talk to him unless it was in direct relation to Noah. And Noah was asleep. Bruce wasn’t here. Bruce wasn’t paying child support, scheduling a pickup time, or even apologizing. He was what? Calling to talk? To tell me he forgot to call?

  I picked up the phone. “Let me know if you’re going to be here. Don’t just show up.” I heard a loud whooshing sound, maybe the sea, or maybe Bruce was just holding up a giant shell to the phone to imitate a bad connection.

  Then I sensed a presence and looked toward the stairs, where Noah stood in his Buzz Lightyear pajamas and pirate hat, eyes bright and wide as gold coins. I hadn’t heard him pad down.

  “Is that Daddy?”

  Only for a moment did I consider saying no.

  * * *

  Just like every day, Donna busied herself at her station, setting out papers and a bucket of pencils, lining up sheets of green, white, and pink forms for the students to see. I enjoyed arriving early and talking to Donna; I hadn’t done that for a month.

  “How was your weekend? How’s your mom doing? Remind me which class you’re taking this semester?”

  “It was nice. And she’s well. Thanks for asking. Miss Lane, I have to tell you something. Dr. Howard has been looking for you in your office.”

  “Today?”

  “Every morning for the past week or so. And he wants me to let him know when you arrive.”

  I looked at the clock. “It’s eight o’clock, so please, tell him I’m here.”

  My day officially started at eight forty-five and my chairman wanted to know when I arrived? There couldn’t be more layoffs. Could there? Not midyear. No. Anyway, I’d worked at Liberty longer than he had. I rarely took a lunch break, no matter when I walked through the door. I always took work home. I had always come to work too early for years. Now that I spent more time at home in the morning—or in the car in the parking lot logged on to Pop Philly on my phone—he was going to check up on me?

  “Be careful, Miss Lane. There are rumblings about more layoffs.”

  Dr. Howard’s office door opened. He was burly, but with soft features. Both were well matched to working with the kids at Liberty, where it was sometimes difficult, often challenging, always rewarding. Dr. Howard was also unapologetically old-fashioned and overdressed in a brown suit and wide burgundy tie.

  “Nice to see you, Ms. Lane.” Dr. Howard nodded, looked at the clock on the wall, then back to me. “Here early today, I see.”

  “Nice to see you, too.” Where was the Phillies cap to hide behind when I really needed it?

  Dr. Howard walked through our waiting area and disappeared among a few straggling students in the hall. He’d left me alone during his three years at Liberty. I knew the ropes, he said. Every time another counselor was let go, he assured me that I was the keeper. Maybe keepers came in forty-five minutes early.

  “What time did Helen get here?”

  “Around seven-thirty.”

  Maybe keepers arrive an hour early.

  I left my office door open. I had no early appointments, no students waiting.

  “So
, how was your weekend?” Donna asked.

  Was my office bugged? Was a hidden camera tucked into the drop ceiling? I didn’t want to talk about my weekend. I wanted to make sure I still had my job.

  “It was fine,” I said. “So happy to get back to work today, though!” I said it loud so the mic could pick up my enthusiasm. “What did you do?”

  Donna rattled on as if Big Brother weren’t part of the equation. “Now that Mom’s okay, we took my parents out to dinner for their sixtieth wedding anniversary. I convinced my brothers and sisters to splurge. I mean, our parents aren’t getting any younger, you know? Why not go all out? We went to Sebastian’s.”

  I’d never been to Sebastian’s, but according to Zagat, Philadelphia magazine, and Darby’s review, it was one of the best new restaurants in the city.

  Donna puttered at her computer, pressed buttons on the multi-line desk phone. “I don’t usually read restaurant reviews, but I like the ones on Pop Philly. They’re written by this young girl who doesn’t seem affected, so it’s all easy to understand, no fancy talk, you know what I mean?”

  A chill rushed through me and I closed the door behind me, as if the phone in the door would start chiming at the mention of Pop Philly.

  “That’s your friend’s Web site, right?”

  “Uh-huh.” When Jade launched Pop Philly, I handed out her business cards as if I were a proud papa handing out cigars.

  Donna smiled excitedly. “Oh, there’s a new blogger on there who writes all about being single and over forty. You should check it out. You would really like it, I bet. Today people are writing all about their best and worst Valentine’s Days. It’s verrry juicy.”

  Donna read Philly over Forty.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I know Valentine’s Day isn’t until next week, but everything’s early these days, isn’t it? Those heart-shaped boxes were on the shelves in ShopRite the week after Christmas. I should know because I bought one.” Donna patted her nonexistent belly.

  I must have gaped because she rushed out of her enclosed area and stood in front of me. She brushed invisible lint off my shoulders and then held them the way my mother did when she wanted to lecture me.

  “I didn’t mean that you needed to read a singles dating blog or that you care about Valentine’s Day or candy or anything. I know the divorce must still be fresh for you. I obviously have no idea about your personal life, and anyway, since it’s your BFF’s Web site, you must read it every day.”

  My knees weakened. “Yes, I do.”

  * * *

  I walked in ovals in my office, which was too narrow for walking in circles. Was my job in jeopardy? That was first. I couldn’t deal with people I knew just mentioning Philly over Forty to me the way they mentioned bad weather. That was second. I mean, snow, sleet, rain, your anonymous blog, high winds. How on earth was I supposed to respond to that? I did a modified Lamaze breathing. Hoo hoo hoo. I sat in my chair but swiveled back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, until I was dizzy, then I picked up my cell phone which, then seemed to swivel without me.

  “Donna’s reading it,” I said to Jade. It was code for Philly over Forty.

  “Did you really think no one you knew was going to read it?”

  “I knew people were going to read it. I like that people read it.” I liked that the readers were involved and interested. I liked that my ideas and questions sparked conversations in the comments section. I just wanted it all to be from strangers that I would never meet in a bazillion years. Precisely. Bazillion.

  “We had almost eight hundred thousand unique users last year, Pea. And it’s growing every day. The average reader clicks on three pages or more, and on P-O-F alone, readers stay engaged for over three minutes. We know some of that is due to all those comments everyone is leaving, which is amazing. But if it makes you feel any better, thirty percent of the readers aren’t even in Philly, although that’s higher in the summer. You aren’t going to be running into someone from Australia or Spain or even Pittsburgh anytime soon.”

  Oh, good. Now I was a global fraud.

  “Donna just can’t know it’s me.”

  “Did she say she knew it was you?”

  “No.”

  “Did she give you a look implying that she thought it could be you?”

  “No.”

  “So it’s a coincidence.”

  My heart rate slowed. I wasn’t sure I believed in coincidences, but was that all this was? A chance mention of something public and popular? Maybe it wasn’t coincidental, but inevitable, like saying I loved cheesesteaks and then thinking it’s so astonishing that the person who just happened to be sitting next to me at Jim’s Steaks loves cheesesteaks too.

  “You’re right,” I said. “It just caught me off guard.”

  “Look, this is one person who read Darby’s restaurant review of Sebastian’s and happened to mention it to you, and one of the thousands who have read your Valentine’s post so far who happened to mention it to you, by chance. You see Donna five days a week all day long. It isn’t that unlikely, you know.”

  I wouldn’t see Donna five days a week if I lost my job. But the idea of someone’s knowing it was me, and me having to answer for the posts about Mac, and the insinuations that I was in a pretty damn good relationship and had a lot of insights into dating, gave me pause.

  “And would it really be that bad to have some of the real people you’re giving out advice to know who you are? Would it be so bad for Mac to know?”

  I stood and walked in ovals again, shaking the hand that wasn’t holding the phone. My mouth was dry. My skin was hot. “That wasn’t the deal, remember? I don’t want it public. I have Noah to think about. And Bruce. And my job. My job that I care about and love so much and am so dedicated to.”

  “Why are you yelling?”

  I cupped my mouth and whispered, “People are being laid off left and right in the district. I can’t afford to be next. No one can know it’s me, please.” And you can’t know I’m lying about Mac.

  Steering the posts away from Mac and into the middle of reader traffic until I could ease out of this jam was much safer for everyone. I couldn’t forget that I was helping Jade by writing this blog. She’d said so herself. She needed me. Jade had not needed me in a long time.

  “I just thought you might want to take advantage of your popularity.”

  “How?”

  “Drew had an idea. He thought maybe you and Mac could write something together. He’s impressed with you, Pea. I like Drew, but he is not easy to impress.”

  “Call him off, J. Please. I can’t.”

  “I want you to think about it, okay? But nobody is forcing you. You haven’t written anything negative. I bet Mac would be flattered. Drew said he wished someone would write about him like that.”

  The Divorce Guru of Philadelphia was a hopeful romantic?

  “What do you think I should say if Donna brings it up again? If she asks if I’ve read it yet.”

  “Tell her you think it’s the best damn blog in the universe.”

  Only Jade could make me laugh when I felt nauseated. She’d done it in college after too much beer at Smokey Joe’s, and she’d done it through my bouts of morning sickness.

  “So, while I have you in a good mood, Pea, can you come over Wednesday night? I have the bloggers, designers, and other staffers coming for dinner. Just pizza, but we need to meet in person. You should be here. I need you to be here. And before you say anything, just bring Pirate Boy with you. I haven’t seen my little buddy in weeks. I’ll buy Pirate’s Booty. That should make him happy. I see it in all the mom carts at Whole Foods.”

  “Noah loves Pirate’s Booty!” Great, now the surveillance team would hear me talking about snack foods.

  “See? I’m totally kid-friendly.” Jade was totally Noah-friendly. “Pirate’s Booty still sounds like a slutty Halloween costume to me, but what do I know?”

  I guffawed and whispered, “Lots.”

  * * *


  That night, Noah nestled next to me in bed. I stroked his hair as if keeping it in place. With a light touch I scratched his arm, knowing the rhythm would relax him, eventually send him into a deep sleep. I watched his torso rise and fall.

  “Mommy, the other day Daddy said he’s coming home soon.”

  “That’s wonderful, honey. I know how much you miss him.”

  “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Noah?”

  “What’s ‘soon’ mean?”

  I was lying to my dearest friend, my closest cousin, my parents, brothers, and thousands of readers a day. But I would never lie to Noah.

  “I don’t know.”

  Noah deserved so much more than to contemplate the passage of time. And after all, soon was subjective. If I didn’t understand how Bruce could leave Noah, certainly Noah didn’t understand. Just by being born he had earned more than a faraway father and a makeshift home amid my memories. But did I?

  Perhaps I wasn’t meant to mother a houseful of children, but I was meant to be Noah’s mother. I knew that from the moment that cherished stick had two pink lines. Noah was my beshert, my meant-to-be. My Jewish forefathers didn’t mean it that way when they thought up the word, I knew that. It was Bruce whom they would have called my intended. And we were intended. For a time. Just not for forever.

  With Noah asleep, I pulled away my hand and collected all the books. Pop-up pirate ships, flip-up pages, fuzzy lions to pet, and cardboard levers to pull. Noah had started reading on his own, part of his speech-therapy sessions at school. Sometimes I just wanted him to stay the way he was, stumbling over his r’s, in cutesy pajamas, wearing the eye patch that made everything so clear to us both.

  Padding downstairs, I grabbed my laptop from the living room, my Phillies cap from the kitchen, and went back upstairs. I slipped in next to him and set the pillows as a wall between us and turned off the sound and turned down the brightness. He just snored, and it was all I wanted to hear.