The Good Neighbor (23 page)

Noah deserved a dad whose life hinged on being his son's father. I hung up Noah's coat and glanced back at Bruce. I hadn't noticed the tinge on his cheeks Friday night, but Bruce's face glowed with more of a bottled tan than a California one. Faint lines accented his eyes, exacerbated by his squinting as if he needed glasses. Bruce removed his coat, then his hat, but held them. I traced his shoulders with my thoughts, but inside maintained a steady heartbeat. Just two months ago I'd have wrestled away thoughts of the fabric and fit and what lurked beneath. I'd have blushed. Today I didn't care, just wanted Bruce to leave so I could be with Noah.

The opposite of love was not hate. The opposite of love was not sarcastic retorts. The opposite of love was not spiteful thoughts. The opposite of love—this love—was indifference.

I rubbed the back of my dry neck. I didn't care what Bruce had, where he went, what he did, or whom he did it with—unless it affected Noah. There were many overlaps, but now, clear distinction. The lines in my life were no longer ambiguous.

“Are you listening to me?” Bruce snapped.

“Yes. Sorry,” I lied. Twice.

“I said
I'm staying
.” Bruce placed a plastic supermarket bag on the floor. Noah's clothes peeked out the top. “It's all clean.”

His statements shuffled and I wasn't sure which to address first. “Clean clothes?”

“Yes.”

“So, your sister did the laundry.”

“Does matter who did the laundry? I brought back clean clothes.”

“Thanks.” I meant it. “What did you mean, you're staying?” I leaned back against the closed closet, disinviting Bruce deeper into my house. Or my life.

“I'm staying here. At my sister's.”

“I didn't forget where you were, Bruce.”

“I mean I'm staying longer. Until I find a new place of my own.”

Wednesday nights, every other weekend, child-support checks. Images of Noah and Bruce getting into his car, driving away, flashed in front of me. My insides twisted, but just for a second, as the euphoric sensation of Sunday-night homecoming hugs resurfaced. “So, you found a job?”

“I did. It's not exactly what I wanted, but…” Bruce looked into the living room at Noah.

Bruce wanted Noah more than he wanted the perfect job.

I choked back words of pride, but felt a swell in my chest instead of a snarky comeback.

“What about Amber?” I wasn't asking as Bruce's ex-wife. I was asking as Noah's mom. The question had no undercurrent. When Bruce just stared at me without snarling, I knew he felt that, too. “I mean, if you're not seeing her anymore, you should probably tell Noah. He liked her.”

Bruce looked at me, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he didn't realize he was thinking.

“We'll figure that out.”

I didn't know who he meant by
we
, and I didn't ask.

“I wanted to tell you, I'm not going to be traveling anymore. This is an office job,” he said. “So now I want Noah fifty percent of the time.”

“What?”

“Fifty percent. Either half of each week or every other week. We can see which works better.”

Neither. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?”

“I'm the residential parent, Bruce.” I rubbed my fingers into my palms to stop my hands from shaking.

“I checked with my lawyer. You can still be the residential parent, Noah won't change schools, but we already share custody. I have the legal right to have Noah for as much time as you do.”

“Unless you change your mind and go away for six weeks, right?”

“How do I know you're not out every night and leaving Noah with a babysitter? And Friday night you came home with that guy. Did he sleep here? What if Noah would have walked downstairs after I'd left? What kind of an example is
that
for Noah?”

My anger swelled. “There is no comparison to a weeknight meeting and six weeks in California. And Andrew only came into the house because I saw your car.”

“You needed backup? Really? I'm not a monster, Izzers. I'm his dad.”

“You're not taking him away from me.”

“And you can't keep him from me.”

“What happens when the West Coast calls again? Or you get fired again?”

Bruce's neck reddened. “I'm not going anywhere, Iz.”

“Famous last words.” When I was pregnant each time, I'd sworn I'd be an ever-present parent. Could I be present when Noah and I were apart as much as we were together? I would have to be. I didn't want Noah to Ping-Pong between us, but he already was. “This is not what we agreed on. You were just fine with your Wednesday night and every other weekend. And so was Noah. He was fine until you left again.”

“I missed him, Iz. I want to be a full-time dad, not a Disney dad.” Someone had been reading parenting books
.
“Let's not end up in court. Fathers have rights.”

“Fathers have rights
and obligations
!”

“California was a mistake. Haven't you ever done something you wish you could take back?”

Jerk.

“This isn't about how you feel about me, it's about Noah.”

Of course it was about Noah. But it was also about me. What would I do if I weren't a full-time mommy? Who would fill the hours between dinner and bedtime? Who would I give Eskimo kisses every morning? Who would I read to and snuggle with and kiss on the top of the head? I didn't know who I was without Noah. I wasn't sure I wanted to know.

“Noah needs to be with me as much as he needs to be with you,” Bruce said.

Had Bruce just realized this? Where was this reasoning when he broke up our family? Skipped Wednesday-night dinners? Took off with Amber? I wanted to protect Noah from the heartbreak and disappointment. That was my job.

But as much as I hated to admit it, I believed Bruce. For better or worse, he was back for good.

*   *   *

I'd forgotten the rush of maternal adrenaline that came with seeing Noah after a night apart. I'd feel that more often when Noah was with Bruce half the time. Though it was nearing bedtime, and tomorrow was another school day for us both, I ached to stretch the next hour into two. I wouldn't rush through stories, skip pages, or suggest he looked oh so tired. I would savor each word, syllable, and finger-licked turn of the page. Noah stacked books on his nightstand with care, as if building a house of cards.

I sat on Noah's bed and shimmied back against the pillow and headboard. He sat next to me. “You might be more comfortable without the cowboy hat.” Noah shook his head and held the hat on. “The hat is awesome, but you know what I think would be more awesome?”

“What?”

“If tonight we weren't cowboys or pirates.”

“Or Spider-Man?”

“That's right.”

“Who do you want to be?” Noah's eyes stretched wide and round.

That was a very good question. “I just want to be Noah and Mommy.”

Noah nodded, removed the hat, and nuzzled against my side and into the crook of my arm with a book in his hands. He announced the title and author as if hosting
Masterpiece Theatre,
then began reading—reciting—a story he knew by heart.

I wasn't holding the book, nor was I reading it. He was reading to me. I participated with my attentive silence. Then my mind drifted to the day Noah had held his bottle for the first time. What was my job now? I thought it then and today. Noah pointed to words and pronounced each one he knew. His
r
's sounded more and more like
r
's than they ever had before. Each milestone of independence liberated and debilitated me. I kissed his forehead twice and his face turned up toward mine.

After the divorce, the childhood I imagined and then sowed for Noah had been remnants of my own. That's all I could imagine. I had claimed the move to Good Street was for Noah, so that he'd have the comforting childhood I'd had with close-knit neighbors, games of half-ball, and summer nights sitting on the steps until way past dark waiting for our parents to call it a night and call us inside. I wanted Noah to collect those memories like the seashells we gathered down the shore and used for craft projects that were stacked on shelves and safeguarded in dusty boxes. But Noah wasn't going to grow up with two parents in the same house, or with two older brothers. He was going to have
two
homes, no siblings. Kids didn't knock on each other's door anymore. Parents didn't sit out on the steps. Teenagers didn't throw Converses over the telephone wires anymore. No one knew telephones once needed wires.

Noah's childhood needed to be Noah's—filled with experiences unencumbered by my rewound memories or idyllic expectations. His future was unwritten and propitious.

And if I allowed it, so was mine.

 

Chapter 25

Truth or Dare

T
HE RED-CARPETED STAIRS AND
the canopied portico of the Pinnacle Hotel had always reminded me of an old-fashioned carousel, but with dapper doormen instead of carnival barkers, revolving doors instead of painted ponies. Just like during my childhood adventures at Playland, I fidgeted as I waited my turn to go in. It was just like Jade to choose my favorite place in Center City to celebrate my birthday.

I inhaled the warming winter air before ascending the stairs, looking ahead instead of at my feet. The three-inch heels were bearable—so far. I squinted and saw Holden on the other side of the glass. The attendant held open a side door. I kept pace as I floated inside, onto an opulent, colorful fleur-de-lis carpet.

Fancy, schmancy,
as Mrs. Feldman would say.

Holden met me as I stepped inside. “I tried to call you today. We need to talk.”

With my hands in the air, I traced the outline of my silhouette. “
This
takes time. Plus, I knew I'd see you tonight.” I smiled at my own wit and charm. “I'm glad you're here.”

Holden didn't smile, but held out his arm, an invitation to give him my coat. So I did. “You look very nice.” He said it as if I were a four-year-old who had dressed in a tutu for the eighth day in a row.

Looping my arm with his, Holden steered me toward an alcove filled with a floral arrangement the size of my kitchen table. I touched a magenta petal. It was silky and real. The flowers ranged from deep pinks to shadowy oranges, the foliage full and opaque. It was tropical and playful, yet somehow majestic. I quavered, feeling a bit underdressed and bleak by comparison.

“We need to talk before you go in there,” Holden said.

“Okay, but I need to talk to Jade. Do you know where she is?”

“There you are!” Holden and I turned toward the lobby.

Jade walked like a model, placing her heel directly in front of the other foot's toes. But Jade didn't stride, she strolled. Her natural cadence mesmerized me. I'd worn black. Jade had worn winter white. Black and white. Good and evil. Darby scampered about a half step behind my best friend, trying to catch up.

Darby at my birthday dinner? Really, Jade? She sometimes took this mentor thing too far.

“I'm on time,” I said, tapping my watchless wrist.

“Yes, you are. And you look stunning!” Jade hugged me the way she did on special occasions; affection resided in her actions, and in her eyes. “Well, come on, birthday girl, let's go in.”

“No ‘birthday girl' until tomorrow, thank you very much. I'm milking my thirties until the last possible second.”

Andrew appeared behind Darby.

Now,
he
was a welcome addition to the guest list.

I'd grown accustomed to seeing Andrew in khakis or jeans and oxford-cloth shirts, the occasional polo. Tonight he was wearing a subtle plaid sport coat and tie, with a white shirt that had either been starched or was new. I placed my hands low on my hips, then behind my back. Then in front me. I'd forgotten how good some men looked dressed up. And apparently I'd also forgotten what to do with my hands.

“I told Jade you weren't going to like this change in tonight's plans.” Andrew raised and lowered his eyebrows at Jade in a silent reprimand. On my behalf or on his own? I wasn't sure.

“What change?”

“You haven't told her?”

His ardent demeanor flustered me and I shifted my eyes back to Jade, my heart pounding with curiosity. Yes, curiosity. That was it. I was ready to tell Jade about Mac and accept the
Dear Izzy
job. I just needed a few minutes alone with her before dinner.

“What haven't you told me? I thought we were here to celebrate my birthday.”

“We are,” Jade said. “Sort of.”

*   *   *

I placed a cold, wet towel on the back of my neck. Thank goodness for the accoutrements of upscale ladies' rooms.

“I promise,” Jade said. “It'll be great. It's just a little party—well, not little.”

“How many people are in there?”

“I don't know.”

“About sixty,” Darby said.

“Sixty? I thought there would be, like, I don't know … ten? Who on earth did you invite?”

“Ethan.”

“Who else? Jade—tell me.”

“My new bosses from the
Press
. And readers. And your friends from work. I'm going to make a big announcement about the Web site and about you! Won't that be a great way to turn forty—by letting the cat out of the bag?”

“You can't do that!”

“What do you mean I can't? I did. My bosses are thrilled. I told them everything.”

Not everything. I grabbed Jade's forearm and she patted my hand.

“It'll be fine. Take a minute to regroup. I'm going to get back in there, make sure the hors d'oeuvres are being passed and the drinks are flowing.”

My confession would have to wait until after dinner. I'd go in there, keep to myself, mingle as little as possible, and nod when Jade mentioned my name. I could muster a Miss America wave to be social. For Jade I could do that. For Jade I had to do that.