Gravity (18 page)

“Ellie,” Ima says.

“Yeah?” I lean back into the house.

“Go call her mother right away.”

Lindsay jogs down the driveway and turns onto the street. I glance back at Ima. “Yeah, we forgot, sorry.” Lindsay looks back, waves. I step back out onto the front doorstep. “I’ll call later.”

Ima crosses her arms. “Do it now.” I watch Lindsay turn the corner, out of my sight.

“Ellisheva.”

“Yeah?”

Ima licks her lips. Her eyes thin to slits. Her voice is deliberate and slow. “I don’t know what you were thinking, but her mother must be sick with worry. I want you to call now.”

I stop staring at the street and close the front door. “On
Shabbos
?”

“Yes.”

In Ima and Abba’s office I slump into the swivel chair, drop my forehead against the wooden desk. I pick up the phone and dial Lindsay’s number. It rings four times and the answering machine clicks on. I don’t leave a message. A sigh exits my body, exhaustion seeping into my limbs. I lay my head back down on the desk. I want to hold Lindsay’s hair, and gather it in my hands like a bunch of wildflowers. I slowly get up and head into the kitchen.

BY 9:00 AM
, Ima is dressed in her polka-dot silk blouse and black wool skirt. “Nu? Are we going to
shul
today or not?”

I shrug, avoiding Ima’s eyes as I sit across from Neshama at the dining room table. I check the kitchen clock, pour a bowl of bran flakes. Bubbie’s
shul
doesn’t start until after ten. Abba hasn’t shown his face yet.

Ima stares at us. “Why are you so slow this morning?”

I sigh and curl my toes. Neshama and I look at each other across the table until she kicks me.

Anger swarms through me. I swallow a mouthful of cereal and turn to Ima. “Actually we’re not going to go to Beth El this morning because we told Bubbie we’d go to
shul
with her. We have lots of time still.”

Ima raises her eyebrows. “With Bubbie? She never goes to
shul
.”

I pour milk over my cereal. “Actually, she wanted to know if you’d come with us.”

Ima snorts. “Tell her no thank you.”

“Oh, come on, it’ll be fun.”

Ima pulls a mirror from her purse and smoothes on creamy plum lipstick. “I’m going with your father.”

I bite my lip. “Um, please.”

Ima looks at me. “What?”

“I really want you to come with us.”

“I can’t stand her
shul
. What made you think we’d go with Bubbie?”

Ima stares at me, waiting for me to respond. “Ask Abba,” I mutter.

Ima leans into the hallway and calls up the stairs, “Avram, are you coming already?”

Abba comes into the kitchen. He has circles under his red eyes. “You sure you don’t want to go with your mother and the girls?”

“No, thanks.” Ima sucks lipstick off her teeth, checks the angle of her hat in her compact.

Neshama and I look down at our cereal bowls.

“Can I talk to you?” Abba guides her into the dining room.

Neshama and I stop eating, our ears cocked.

“What’s going on?” Ima asks.

“You can’t go.”

“And why not?”

Abba pauses a long moment. “Rabbi Abrams and I thought it best if you didn’t come back for a while.”

Ima doesn’t say anything. “Why?”

Another pause. “You know why.”

Ima doesn’t say anything for a moment. She sniffles. “What if I promise not to sing again?”

“Not this week.”

I peek around the corner. Tears well in Ima’s eyes. She clicks the latch on her purse open and closed.

“I’m sorry, Chana-leh, but it wasn’t right what you did.”

“Asshole,” Neshama hisses.

“Are you going back?” Ima asks.

“No.”

“Where are you going then?”

“To my school.” Abba clears his throat, mumbles something I can’t hear.

“Oh, I see. What about me?”

“You should go with your mother.”

Ima stands up, her voice rising. “I can’t pray there.”

“You burned your bridges,” Abba says clearly.

Neshama slams her bowl down on the counter, makes a fist at Abba through the wall.

Ima sobs. “How can I make the messiah come if I can’t
daven
? I can’t
daven
at my mother’s
shul
.”

Ima’s sobbing washes out Abba’s response. I want to wrap my arms around Ima, stop the sobs from her hiccuping, heaving chest.

Neshama and I don’t move until we hear the front door open and Abba’s footsteps fading. I peek into the living room. Ima is slumped on the couch like a deflated balloon, shoulders collapsed against the armrest, arms limp beside her.

“Ima?”

She waves a tired hand at me. “Just go with Bubbie.” Her voice is a thin whisper. I glance at her splayed legs,
her brown heels dangling off her stocking feet. She wipes a hand across her face, smearing her lipstick across her cheek and exposed teeth.

I hesitate at the door. “Are you okay?”

She braces her hands on the armrest, levering her torso upright a moment, then lets her shoulders sag again. She nods, mascara trickling down the side of her cheek.

“Go,” she whispers, “you’ll be late.” She goes upstairs.

Back in the kitchen Neshama yawns, stretching her arms over her head. “I think I’ll call in to work and see if I can get a shift.”

“On
Shabbos
?”

Neshama clears her bowl. “It’s almost Christmas; it’s really busy at the mall.”

“You’re making me go to Bubbie’s
shul
alone?”

“Just call and tell her you can’t come.”

I roll my eyes. “You know I don’t use the phone on
Shabbos
.”

“You did this morning.”

“That was an emergency.”

Neshama leans toward me and whispers, “A girlfriend emergency?”

I stand up from the table. “Shut up.”

“That’s her, isn’t it? Your ‘boyfriend’ from the cottage.”

I grab her arm, and twist the skin on the underside hard. “Just shut up.”

Neshama yanks her arm away. “I’m not going to say anything—”

“Just shut the hell up!”

I shove Neshama so hard she hits the table, knocking over the garbage pail. Banana peels and crumpled napkins spill onto the floor.

I bolt from the kitchen and charge up the stairs. In my room I change into a navy velour dress I know Bubbie likes. I burst out of the house, pulling on my coat as I race down the front steps. Sunlight bouncing off the snow blinds me, but I don’t care. I jog into the ravine, snow crunching under my boots, passing families with golden retrievers and chocolate labs, babies in designer snowsuits. I don’t care about Ima home sniveling, or Neshama not going to
shul
, or even an entire service like a church concert with Bubbie and her perfumed, chatty friends. Lindsay kissed me, wrapped her arms around me like we did in the trees at the cottage on the flattened grass behind the sumac bushes, when her long legs wrapped around mine. Lindsay wants to kiss me.

BUBBIE’S
SHUL
IS
an enormous building with carved Roman pillars, stained-glass windows and sloped seating like a concert hall. The cantor plays organ and a choir sings from a balcony above the stage.

Bubbie sits in the back row next to another woman. She kisses me on the cheek. “This is Mrs. Simon.” I shake hands with the woman. “Her daughter just had a baby.”

“
Mazel tov
,” I whisper.

“A boy, seven pounds.”

“Please rise for
The Barchu
on page three sixteen,” the rabbi announces.

“That’s wonderful,” I say. We rise with the congregation.

Mrs. Simon thrusts photos at me. “Looks just like his grandfather, my late husband.” She dabs at her eyes with a tissue.

“Bless God, the blessed one,” the rabbi intones in English.

“Beautiful baby,” I whisper.

“Blessed is God, the blessed one for all eternity,” the congregation replies.

“Please be seated.” We sit.

I flip through the mostly English prayer book. Bubbie and Mrs. Simon chat about condo prices in Florida. It’s not like I want to pray anyway.

WHEN I COME
home from
shul
Abba is waiting for me to eat lunch. He dishes out
cholent,
a bean and meat stew
.
“Where’s your sister?”

“Um, I think she went to Ruchi’s for lunch.”

“You think?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Didn’t she go to
shul
with you?” His mouth folds into a tight line, his brow furrowing. He taps his fingers on the table.

I hesitate. “No, she didn’t.” She’s out somewhere wrapping gifts for
goyishe
people and their
goyishe
holiday.

“When’s she coming home?”

“Ask her yourself.”

Abba stares at me. I return his gaze without flinching and dig into the spicy bean
cholent
.

AFTER LUNCH I
take a cup of tea up to Ima. I open the door a crack, the light from the hall shining into her darkened room. I sit on the end of the bed. The room smells stale—like bad breath and sleeping bodies. Ima lies curled on her side in her yellow plaid nightgown.

“I brought you some tea.”

“Thanks,” she whispers.

“Are you sick?”

“Just tired.”

I nod. Her eyes are red and shiny. “Do you want me to call Bubbie?”

She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine tomorrow,” Ima croaks. “Just a headache and my throat.”

“Don’t talk.” I pat her hip. “I missed your singing this morning.”

Ima tears up.

“We’ll sing next
Shabbos
.”

“Where?” she whispers.

“Here, we’ll sing here.”

“How was Bubbie’s?”

“Okay. Well, lousy.”

Ima makes a face. “Choir?”

I nod.

Ima comes down for the
Havdalah
ceremony that marks the end of the
Shabbos
. She melts into the couch, her face slack and pale, sudden crow’s-feet at the corners of her eyes. Her voice has disappeared, as if it slid down her throat with the medicinal tea she drank, leaving her mouth open and gaping.

Neshama walks in just as Abba prepares the tray with the blue- and white-braided candle, the spice box and the wine.

“Hello, I’m sorry I’m almost late.” Neshama’s cheeks are rosy from the cold.

“Why weren’t you here for lunch?” he asks.

“I was invited to Ruchi’s.”

“Oh.” He eyes her outfit, a beige corduroy skirt and black sweater. Neshama crosses her arms. “Ruchi’s mom is sick again. I didn’t want to overdress.”

Abba nods. “Let’s do
Havdalah
.” He lights the candle, passes it to me to hold and begins chanting, “
Hee-nai el ye-shoo-ati.”
Behold, God is my deliverance
.

Ima stands to join us by the dining room table. She clears her throat, but no sound comes out. Tears edge out her eyes as she settles back into the couch.

I sigh, look at Ima and then turn back. I close my eyes and whisper along with Abba. I sniff the spice box, sip the wine and dip the candle in the cup of wine. The flame makes a
tsss
sound and
Shabbos
is over. For a moment I feel grounded, rooted in a way I haven’t felt since Ima sang.

Neshama shoves me inside the office. “What did you say to him?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

Wrenching my arm behind my back, she forces me up against the desk. “I cover for you, you cover for me.”

I try to pull away. “I’m not the one skipping out on
Shabbos
.”

She squeezes my arm harder. “You cover for me, I cover for you.” She raises her eyebrows.

I pause a moment, catch my breath. “Whaddya think I’ve been doing all week?”

We glare at each other.

She lets go of me. “Fine.”

After Neshama stomps out of the office I sit down at the desk and dial Lindsay’s number. My heart pulses through my chest.

“Hello?”

“Hi, it’s Ellie.”

“I thought you’d call earlier.”

“I had to wait until...I was just busy all day.”

“I tried calling but there was no answer.”

“Yeah, we don’t really use the phone on Saturdays.”

“Oh, is it that Sabbath thing?”

“Yeah, kinda.”

Wrapping the long phone cord around my hands, I start to spin, twirling the line around me, making my way from the desk over to the window.

“So was your mom angry about me not calling?” Lindsay asks.

“Neh, she forgot. When I called your mom, there wasn’t any answer.”

“Yeah, she slept at her boyfriend’s house.”

“So she didn’t know you were gone?”

“Nope. So, if I can’t come over to your house, can you come over to mine?”

I gulp. “Sure. When?” I unwrap myself from the phone cord, twirling back to the desk.

“Oh, whenever.”

Now? Tomorrow? “I can come Monday after school.” I hold my breath.

“I’ll see you then.”

“Okay, bye.”

I hang up and creep up the stairs to my room. I lie down on my bed and close my eyes. The room feels like it’s spinning, like I’ve lost contact with the earth. I grab my prayer book from my backpack. I shove it back without opening it. I don’t know a prayer to say when you’re in love anyway.

I close my eyes and lean back on the bed, slip a pillow between my legs, clamp my thighs tight as a razor clam.

THE NEXT MORNING
, I slip out of the house and take the bus to the pool downtown. In the change room I keep my eyes averted. I do ten laps, trying to keep Lindsay out of my mind. I could just not go. Or I could just go and get my one kiss. That’ll be enough. One kiss, and maybe I’ll stroke her hair. Then I’ll just walk out of her house. After that I’ll be able to concentrate. Yeah, right. I dive back in the pool and swim another few laps. What if our teeth bump or my nose gets in the way when we kiss? What if she wants to do something else? I sprint the last lap in the pool.

When I get home Ima is curled up on the couch, where she has been for the past week, except today she isn’t in her gray robe, but her nubbly pink polyester duster. Her hair is greasy, her feet encased in threadbare wool socks, her heels poking through. She sits on the couch, scribbling on
her writing pad, her letters jagged like scars blasted in rock. Then she methodically rips the sheets into shreds.