Free The Good Neighbor by Amy Sue Nathan

that’s not enough, they want to see it all for themselves. I’m almost eighty-six, but that doesn’t automatically mean I’m losing my marbles.”
    I saddened at the thought, but eighty-five was eighty-five. Would this be one of those stories where a modest, kindly old woman dies and leaves millions to her cat? No cat. And from what I could tell, no millions either. It seemed reasonable that her sons wanted to see her will. They wanted to take care of her, make sure her affairs were in order. But what could they be after? Her Lladró collection, kitschy keepsakes, a few pieces of real jewelry?
    I’d just want one of her napkins, already folded.
    I walked to the living room to check on Noah and to change the course of my thoughts. Mrs. Feldman had always been next door. Even when I wasn’t. I couldn’t think of her living anywhere else, let alone anything worse.

 
    Chapter 8
    Miss Mary Mack
    M Y BEST IDEAS CAME when least expected—somewhat like colds and old boyfriends—so I postponed writing my next blog post. I logged on to Facebook instead, knowing that I’d lose myself in the grown-up faces of my childhood friends and the doppelgängers they showcased as their offspring. I answered a few quizzes that quantified my life. My accent was from Philadelphia. I most resembled the literary heroine Jane Eyre . I should live in Paris. I was 90 percent a foodie. I stopped before finding out who I’d been in a previous life. One life was enough for now, thank you very much.
    I had nothing on my own Facebook page except a profile picture from an excellent hair day and a bevy of last year’s birthday wishes. The last comment on Rachel’s page had been entered three minutes before.
    I tried not to notice the photo that flanked Rachel’s name at the top of her page. Head tilted, eyes looking up, hair full and pushed to one side. Like a glamour shot without the painted lips or feather boa. I cast down my gaze, embarrassed on Rachel’s behalf. Who was this Real Housewife of Rydal, and what had she done with my herb-growing, ballet-loving cousin?
    I looked through Rachel’s photos. Arielle and Miriam dressed as Queen Esthers for Purim. Levi and Jacob lighting Hanukkah candles with Noah, all with yarmulkes askew. Photos of Thanksgiving at her mother’s house. Photos of Rachel and her friends, Rachel and the kids, the kids on their own. I recognized the back of my head by my long-lost ponytail. But where was Seth? I found one family photo, posed, in front of a white background, taken at Fun Time Photo at the mall, everyone dressed in jeans and white shirts, no shoes or socks. A classic that somehow felt outdated.
    I looked away from the screen, disoriented, a little like Mr. Magoo in “Rip Van Winkle,” which I had watched with my brothers. I glanced at the corner of the monitor. Nine thirty. I’d been bouncing around online for an hour and a half in search of inspiration. All I had now was the bad feeling that accompanies procrastination and the knowledge that time spent online traveled fast. I may not have gotten any work done, but at least I knew what all my high school friends had for breakfast.
    I wondered what Mac might eat for breakfast. I didn’t have to wonder. I just decided. Steel-cut oats. Mac was a healthy eater. That was a start.
    I sat and typed, cup of tea by my side, Felix at my feet. This shouldn’t be so hard. But it was. I’d been blogging for months and I had always enjoyed it. I was never at a loss as to what to write. But now that Jade was counting on me to help her—finally it was my turn to help her—I was all stopped up, as my mother would say .
    I clicked to the front page of Pop Philly, the one I’d been avoiding because once I saw it, I knew it would be real. And there I was. On display and incognito. My Phillies cap stared at me as if it had eyes—other than the ones hidden beneath it. I loved