The Good Neighbor (17 page)

The best Valentine's Day stories listed diamond rings, puppies, breakfast in bed, and someone taking out the trash. One man wrote that his best Valentine's Day was when
he
received a stuffed animal and flowers. One woman wrote that her best Valentine's Day was when her husband had the flu. She didn't elaborate.

My eyes rested on a comment in all caps:

MAC SURE IS MIA. WOULD LOVE TO KNOW YOUR VALENTINE'S PLANS. I BET THEY'RE TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE.—CD

“Looks like someone's onto you, Iz.”

 

Chapter 17

Tag

E
THAN WAS RIGHT.
It had taken me the drive home to figure it out. I was being called out for a playground fight. What if others weren't so slow on the uptake? If CD's motives were obvious to Ethan, would someone else catch on, such as Jade? Or Andrew? What about Holden or Darby?

I took a deep breath and scanned the comments.

The words moved on the page; the letters blurred with my thoughts. I looked away and inhaled a long, slow breath, focused on the good, the easy. Many of these people defended my stories, my right to privacy. Others screamed that being online meant I had no rights. Mostly people wavered. Didn't they always?

The Valentine's Day post had not only spurred readers to share their personal bests and worsts, but to look for mine. Didn't these people have anything better to do than dig into a harmless dalliance, a cop-out post, about stupid Valentine's Day? Where were the joyful, funny readers who kept me company late into the night? I'd thought about what they might want to know and what they might be feeling. I wanted to be who they wanted me to be. But who was that exactly?

I called Holden. I didn't care that it was Saturday evening. I didn't care that e-mail had been our only form of communication. If I called, he'd have to answer. (Didn't he?) And if I called, he couldn't forward our exchange to Jade or Darby.

I was nothing if not a visionary.

*   *   *

“So, you won't delete the comments?” It was more of an accusation than a question.

“No, that's what the readers want to see, and it's our policy not to delete anything that's not offensive.” Holden's words were staccato, as if he were reading an instruction manual.

“Well,
I'm
offended.”

“Sorry, but that doesn't count.”

I heard muttering in the background. “I'm sorry I called, I'm sure you're busy.” I wasn't sorry and didn't care.

“It's fine. Darby is just helping me paint my apartment.”

Darby? Painting? I couldn't help picturing her in a dress, with combat boots, and a roller. I stopped myself. Who had time to decipher their relationship? Figuring out what to do next about CD was my priority. “And you can't track that CD person?”

“Well, I could. It would take a few days.”

“And you can't stop this…”

“Troll?”

I had a blog troll—someone who popped up into a comments section just to start trouble that rippled through to the other readers and often created an online rebellion. I'd read about those. Someone who wouldn't even use her full name was sabotaging me. I coughed up the irony.

“I can start some tracking on Monday.”

“Yes, please,” I whispered, determined not to seem worried, but angry. “That would put my mind at ease. I mean, what if she's a psycho?”

“Well, more than likely she's just bored, and a little jealous of your popularity. Just keep doing your job. It's going really well.”

“I can't concentrate with all this going on.”

“Ignore it. Whatever you do, do not engage. Please. If it really becomes a problem, we can delete the posts, but right now this is sparking a lot of traffic.”

“Right.”

“We have a lawyer if there's danger. No one is threatening you, right?”

Technically, no.

“Look, some people are just troublemakers. Darby has this one guy…”

I heard more rumbling in the background.

“Darby had this one guy who disagreed with every review for the past year. If she said a restaurant was great, he said it was awful. If she said it was awful, he said it was great. And if a place was mediocre, well, he called that a cop-out. But it all started conversations about the restaurants and about Darby that lasted for days. That guy was always arguing with everyone.”

“And that was a troll.”

“That was an asshole.”

*   *   *

Ethan and I agreed. I had to get rid of Mac. Had he been real, that would have been a sinister thought. But he wasn't. Yet even in the land of make believe, breaking up was hard to do.

Dear CD and other
Philly over Forty
Readers,

Dear Friends,

Dear Readers,

Hi, my friends
.

Hi, friends.

I'm sorry that our Valentine's Day conversation has been overshadowed by questions about Mac. The truth is something I have been reluctant to share. Even with the personal nature of
Philly over Forty,
we all deserve privacy, don't you think?

Mac and I broke up.

I won't mention him again, but look forward to continuing to discuss dating perks and perils on
Philly over Forty
.

We're all in this together!

I hit
SAVE DRAFT
. It wouldn't be my next post, but this would be ready when I was ready. And then, without notice or reason, I missed him. Yes, I missed Mac, my imaginary boyfriend, as if the breakup were real. I actually missed the make-believe cockeyed grin and broad shoulders, his romantic gestures and perfect timing. I also missed the idea of creating it all, and of soothing my ego with my fictional beau. Mac had captured my attention and heart like my high school crush, Joe Donnelly. Joe didn't even know I existed, yet I'd planned our entire life together, down to the names of our children. Like Joe, Mac had been so special, so perfect—without really being, at all.

I'd moved on from Joe and now I'd move on from Mac. I knew two wrongs—inventing the boyfriend and then breaking up with him—didn't make a right, but it seemed as if two lies had woven together to make the truth. I was alone. I knew the place well and could navigate without secrets and lies.

With Valentine's Day looming, I knew Jade would call tomorrow to go over the week ahead. I didn't begrudge her business savvy or dedication, but I did begrudge her constant access to me. I e-mailed her because it was slower than a text but faster than a phone call. Sometimes I had to be my own superhero.

J,

Busy day.

Need some time off.

Talk to you Monday after work.

Love,

Pea

I called Rachel. “Sorry I didn't call earlier, it was a crazy day.”

“Here, too.” Rachel's voice was hoarse, her few words strained. “Look, I don't want to keep you. Is Mac there?”

“No, why?”

“Oh, I thought that was why Noah was sleeping at Ethan's.”

“He's sleeping there to spend time with them.” I was not up for a debate or discussion about Mac. “What's wrong?”

“Why does something have to be wrong?”

“It doesn't.”

“I'm sure you're getting ready to go out, but I just wanted to see if you want to have dinner tomorrow. I'll come to you since it's a school night.”

“Sure, the kids can have Souper Sunday like we used to.”

“No kids.”

Now I
knew
something was wrong.

 

Chapter 18

Halfball

I
T HAD BEEN A
day and a half since Mrs. Feldman's family had lumbered in, footsteps heavy with mandate. Had my next-door neighbor not divulged what was going on, I'd be lying on the sofa reading books with Noah, or building primary-colored dream houses out of plastic blocks while listening to him tell me every detail of his visit with Maya. But I knew where I was needed.

“We thought you might want some company,” my dear boy announced, then looked up at me, eyes wide. “Did I say it right, Mommy?”

“Perfectly.” Mrs. Feldman smiled. “And do you know what? I would like some company. Come in, come in.”

Noah slipped off his coat and lifted the bucket of LEGOs out of my hands. He was as comfortable here as I had been as a child. As I was now. He would miss this, or likely, I would miss it on his behalf.

“You can build on the coffee table, Noah. My grandsons used to do that.”

“I figured you had leftovers from Friday night, but if you need me to go to the supermarket, I'd be happy to.”

“No need.” Mrs. Feldman walked to the kitchen and I followed. She opened the fridge and pointed. “Mrs. Babayev brought me some
mastava
.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Soup. I think it has meat in it.” She continued pointing to containers and wrinkle-silver-wrapped packages. “And Mr. Rodriguez brought me some tamales. Theresa Lombardi on the corner? She made me gravy—that's what she calls spaghetti sauce—and she also brought what she says are homemade raviolis, wrapped in that tinfoil there, but I peeked and they look like they're from ShopRite. Not that it matters. They must have seen the kids all coming in here the other night and thought I must be sick.” Mrs. Feldman grunted. “Everyone brings food when you're sick, which is funny really, since when you're sick, you don't want to eat. Oh, and I have wonderful chocolate chip cookies from that skinny, young Miss Jackson who just moved in. I thought that was especially nice.”

Mrs. Feldman picked out a few chocolate chip cookies, and as if called with a silent dinner bell, Noah appeared, LEGO sword in his hand.

“Don't make a mess.” I sounded like my mother.

Mrs. Feldman looked at me, then back at Noah. “He won't make a mess, and if he does, it's not the end of the world, is it?”

“No.”

“Oh, and I have something else for you.” She reached under the sink and then handed Noah the tube from an empty paper-towel roll to add to his collection. Mrs. Feldman remembered everything.

With Noah back in the living room, I knew I had to ask my question or miss my chance. “Can I ask what happened Friday night?”

“You can.” Mrs. Feldman was not going to make this easy. Nothing about this was easy.

“So, what happened?”

“They made their argument, and I made mine.”

“And?”

“And, to the grandchildren,
assisted living
sounds luxurious. To the boys it sounds like a way to keep track of me—like the assistance is really for them, not for me. Although that's what they say. To me it just sounds like giving up.”

Giving up was always the first step in the wrong direction. “So what did they say, exactly?”

“They say I'm too thin. Thin, schmin. I do the Silver Swimmer class at the JCC. And I've always been thin. I have my father's metabolism. But now they think I'm sickly. And see those magazines in the corner? I save them for the children, who need them for homework. No one orders magazines like they used to. But all of a sudden the boys say I'm neglecting things around here. One corner with a stack of papers and all of a sudden I'm a hoarder like on television. They want to know if someone is looking in on me, making sure I'm not leaving the stove on. You know … getting senile.”

I opened my mouth and Mrs. Feldman put her hand on my arm. “You do a good job looking in on me, Elizabeth.”

I hugged her.

Mrs. Feldman pulled back and turned away. “They want me to be safe. Live with people my own age.” She tapped the table with both hands, as if trying to get my attention, which she already had. “What on earth makes them think I want to be around old people all the time? I have my friends at the JCC. I have my friends from Hadassah and the Sisterhood. That's enough old ladies for this old lady. I don't need bingo down the hall. I'll never have to leave the building. Any young people I'll meet are the ones who are there working. The only children I'll see are the ones that visit the other people—or when someone visits me. That's not the same as somebody building a town on my coffee table. Or skipping rope on my patio. Or even throwing a snowball at my window. And do you think someone at Shady Forest is going to make me tamales?” She tapped her temple three times with her forefinger as if joggling loose her thoughts. “And what if someone stops by looking for me?”