The Good Neighbor (11 page)

“I know you. You wouldn't have shown me the photo if it weren't important to you. And you didn't answer me. How often do you talk to him?”

“I talk to Seth every day.” She rolled her eyes. “I don't know how often I talk to him. I don't count because it's not important. Does
that
answer your question?”

“What do you mean, you don't count? There's enough to count? Once a week? Twice a week? On Wednesdays at six?”

“A few times a day.”

“A few times a day?” I shuddered as a chill ran up my arms. “Rachey. You need to stop. These things lead to trouble.”

“Oh my God, Iz. The Internet is your saving grace now that Bruce is gone, but it's
my
danger zone? Why were there different rules for you than for me? Since forever. I'm excited about something, I'm having fun. Why can't you be happy for me?”

Rachel was an only child. She looked up to me. She idealized my parents' owning a store as if we sold kittens and cotton candy instead of nuts and bolts and Con-Tact paper.

“You're excited about your class reunion or you're excited about your reunion with Jeremy Goldfarb?”

“Both.”

Finally an honest answer. “Whatever you think you have with Jeremy, Rachel, it isn't real. The Internet isn't real. He can be who he wants and tell you anything you want to hear. Trust me.” The words burned in my throat.

“What kind of person do you think he is?”

“I don't know. And neither do you. Maybe he's not married. Maybe he has a criminal record.”

“He's some kind of engineer and he lives in Cherry Hill. He's one of the good guys. And we're not doing anything wrong. We're just
talking
. What's your problem?”

“My problem is that people lie. That's all.” There was my opening. I clamped my lips to close it. This was about Rachel now, not me.

She waved her hands like shooing a bug. “People post flattering pictures of themselves and happy family snapshots, but people don't just lie. They don't say they went to Paris for the weekend when they're really holed up in King of Prussia Mall. And—I'm not lying about Jeremy. I just told you I was back in touch with him.”

“Are you lying to Seth?”

“No.”

Absolute delusion ran in our family.

I added ice to a glass and slid it across my forehead. Rachel was lying to Seth. I knew it. And I was lying to her. And everyone else. Why was it easy for me to want to untangle the knot in her life but not my own? And why did I demand honesty but not return it? Why was it sometimes so hard to do what was good and right?

I could leave Rachel on her disastrous course, or I could help her through this, redirect her attention to something. Or someone.
Me.
I came to Rachel's with the intention of a playdate for Noah and a confession for me. If I told her I had a problem, needed her help, her attention, her time, maybe that would help her
and
me.

“I promise,” Rachel said. “This is about a class reunion, not a clandestine meeting. It's just about me having fun. For once, something is just about me.”

My thoughts became malleable. “Nothing's just about you anymore, is it?”

“Nope.”

“Four kids and a husband and a house…” I breathed deep. “And planning a reunion. That's a lot.”

“It is.”

“But you do a lot. You play mah-jongg and tennis. You're on committees. Those are for you. And if they're not, you should stop.”

“It wouldn't look right. All of this comes with an image.”

I'd never thought of Rachel as caring what anyone thought. She seemed to embrace her traditional life, and all its trimmings.

“And talking to your high school boyfriend is part of that image?”

Rachel shrugged. “It's a distraction. Sometimes I want to forget about what I'm making for dinner or what I'm wearing to that stupid black-tie thing or who I'm supposed to meet where and at what time. And since you won't distract me with more stories about Mac…”

“Do not blame me!”

Rachel's face, which rounded with each smile, grew long and sullen. She handed me a symmetrically arranged bundle of basil, oregano, and cilantro tied together with a stem.

“See? You
love
the whole domestic-goddess/doctor's-wife thing.”

“No, I don't. Not always.”

Now I prayed she
was
lying.

 

Chapter 11

Whisper Down the Lane

I
AGREED TO MEET
Ethan at the Oxford Diner because I thought we'd be having breakfast at the diner of our childhoods. I anticipated the mauve vinyl booths with duct-taped tears and nicked wood-grain laminate tabletops. Instead, the booths had been refurbished with taupe vinyl seats—as if taupe outranked mauve—and beige laminate tabletops with flecks of gold. All much too pristine for my memories. “The Oxford” had been the only restaurant my parents took me to as a child. I learned table manners here. Napkin on lap. Elbows off table. Salad fork, dinner fork, soupspoon, teaspoon. When my brothers were with us, Eddie ate a full-course meat-and-potatoes meal, while Ethan ordered something exotic sounding that no one wanted to taste but me. Because of Ethan I ate moussaka, veal marsala, and eggplant Parmesan before I was ten. Dad always ordered a corned beef “special,” while Mom opted for whitefish on a poppy-seed bagel or a cantaloupe stuffed with cottage cheese. I ate a Texas Tommy because, although my parents didn't keep a kosher home, pork products did not cross its threshold. Today I'd get sick from a ballpark-style hot dog with melted American cheese and bacon, but as a kid? It was heaven on a plate with a side of fries.

Mmm. Fries.

“An order of fries, too, please.”

The order was almost the same as my late-night orders during high school: bagel and cream cheese, order of fries, and a black-and-white shake.

I couldn't. Could I?

I looked at the waitress's name tag, pinned to her chest like a badge of honor. “And a black-and-white milk shake.”

Tanya smiled and removed a pen from her apron pocket. “What kind of bagel? Toasted? Light? Dark? What kind of cream cheese? Plain, chive, veggie, light, lox, honey-walnut? What kind of fries? Regular, seasoned, waffle, or sweet potato?”

When had everything become so complicated?

“Are you going to drink that water or be hypnotized by it?” I stopped staring at my ice cubes and looked up at Ethan. He hadn't shaved, and his polo shirt was a little rumpled, his coat on his arm in a heap. Apparently my brother was enjoying an occasional day off from dapper.

I leapt from the booth and pummeled him with a hug.

“I'm happy to see you, too, Iz.”

We slid into our places on opposite sides. Ethan looked at Tanya. Then at me. Then back at Tanya, who smiled, revealing a sizable gap between her two front teeth.

“Did she order a black-and-white shake?”

Tanya nodded.

“And a bagel and fries?”

Tanya smiled again at Ethan, then at me, double-lifting her penciled-in eyebrows as if to say,
Wow, he knows you.

“Sesame bagel, toasted, plain cream cheese, regular fries,” I said.

“I'll share hers,” Ethan said.

I harrumphed. Tanya scribbled on her order pad, nodded, and walked away.

Ethan propped his elbows on the table, sank his chin into his hands. I smiled at his attempt to cheer me without knowing what was wrong. If anything was wrong
.
I also laughed because somewhere in Margate our mother was having an inexplicable bad-manners twinge.

Ethan looked around and stared at the brass light fixture hanging over the booth. “What did I miss?”

“Well, I almost ordered the waffle fries…”

“Very funny.”

My phone buzzed and I tucked it under my leg. “I should've told you sooner, but Bruce went to California. With a girl. I mean, his girlfriend, Amber.”

“Damn.”

Ethan had known that something was going on. I had texted him to meet me when I dropped off Noah for Sunday school, and because I knew that his daughter, Maya, was spending the weekend with our parents. He hadn't asked where to meet. He just knew.

Tanya placed everything in the middle of the table, unsure what belonged to whom. I knew, as did Ethan, that we would share everything even-steven.

Ethan squirted a blob of ketchup along the edge of the french-fry plate. He plucked one from the center and pointed it at me. I took the bottle and opened the lid to wipe it clean, but he closed it and slid the ketchup to the side. A clean-condiment calamity.

“Why do you care what Bruce does and who he does it with?” Ethan's voice was like my own; I heard it from the inside out. “You need to move on, too, you know.”

“He lost his job and now he's in California with his girlfriend, and he's not paying child support or doing anything but talking with Noah, which is not like taking him for a night or a weekend.” Pause for breath. “E, I'm not supposed to be doing this alone.”

Ethan's eyes widened. He dug in his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I'll call Eddie. We'll get Bruce's sorry ass back here.”

It comforted me to think of my brothers rushing to my defense. “Don't.” I reached across the table and put my hand on his, my elbow almost skimming the ketchup. “I told him I'd give him time to figure things out.”

“You're not getting back together with Bruce, Iz.”

“I know that.”

“Are you sure?”

I did know. Usually.

“I hate to ask this, but how can you pay your bills without that support? You're legally entitled to child support until Noah is eighteen. And, not to be cliché, but I know you don't use that money to buy bonbons.”

Ethan did know. He was the one who'd convinced me to move home, helped me plan a budget, and who, with Jade and Rachel, packed up half of a married life.

“Do you want a loan? I assume you won't ask Eddie. Or Mom and Dad.”

“No, I won't. You know that. And I don't want a loan.” My heart and voice softened. “But thank you.”

“Well, how about a gift? I can do that; I'm your big brother. Consider it an early fortieth-birthday present!”

“I'm fine. Really.” I sat straighter. “I—got a part-time job! I work from home, at night, when Noah is asleep.”

“Do
not
tell me you are one of the 1-900 operators.” I knew Ethan was kidding. I hoped Ethan was kidding.

“You know Jade's Web site?”

“I don't really read it, but everyone has heard of Pop Philly.”

“I'm the new
Philly over Forty
blogger.”

“No!” Ethan crashed back on the booth, mouth open.

“Yes!” I'd impressed my impressive big brother.

“Well, why didn't you tell me? We should celebrate! Do Mom and Dad know? Did you tell Eddie? Trish is going to have an absolute cow!”

“No one knows.”

“What do you mean no one knows? This is huge!”

“I'm anonymous.”

“Ooh!” Then he whispered, “I mean,
ooh
!”

“It's fun,” I said at a normal decibel level. Whispering garnered more attention than talking.

“
Philly over Forty,
huh? What are you writing about exactly?”

Ethan was anti-secret. He came out of the closet at twenty-one and had little tolerance for pretending. If he knew the truth, he would likely wince with disappointment.

I bit into my bagel to muffle my response. “Being forty—almost—about dating mostly. All about dating over forty, about my relationships, that kind of thing.”

“I'm not sure that handful—and I mean that figuratively—of guys you went out with right after Bruce left really qualify as relationships.”

“That's just a detail.”

“Izzy!”

I swallowed my bagel and smiled a deliberate smile. Extra-wide even for a Lane.

Ethan took my hand and channeled our mother. “If I wanted the CliffsNotes, I would have bought them.”

I told him everything.

Everything
.

And what a relief that was.

Ethan tapped on his phone, downloaded the Pop Philly mobile app, and subscribed to my posts. He scrolled through the pages, the comments, and stopped at the photo of the Phillies cap.

“Is
this
actually you?”

I nodded.

“Well, that's one thing. I will look at all of this at home, but I know one thing for sure. You're going to get into trouble.”

“It's fine.”

“Nothing about it is fine. You're writing about a boyfriend you don't have and dates you haven't gone on, and people think it's real. You can't tell your family. Not because you don't want the public to know your identity, but because you can't have the people who love you think you're doing all these things. You're giving dating advice. When was the last date you actually went on?”

“Just because I'm not dating doesn't mean I can't give advice. I'm helping the kids at Liberty get into college and I haven't done that since, when? Nineteen ninety-two?” I dipped a fry into my milk shake. “And speaking of relationships, our Rachel is talking to
Jeremy Goldfarb
online.”

“Her high school boyfriend? Wow. What'd she do, look him up on Facebook?” Rerouting successful. “Hey, don't change the subject. We're talking about you. She is not my sister.”

“That's not very nice.”

“You are a priority to me. Plus, she has Seth to take care of her. You have…”

“No one. Thanks, Ethan. Thanks for your confidence and support.” I threw my napkin onto the table.

“Let me support you by giving you some money so you don't have to do this.”

“I'm not taking money from you. I'm living in my parents' house because I couldn't afford to live anywhere else after my husband left me in our fixer-upper dream house. And if that's not humiliating enough, he took off for California with his girlfriend a year after saying he wanted to ‘find himself' and didn't want a ‘serious relationship,' leaving all his responsibilities for money and Noah behind. I'm not running away from this, E. Bruce is the one who runs. I'm the one who stays. I need to take care of us without your help. Without any help. It's not that I want to—I need to. I need to do this, no matter what it takes.”