Five
Adina
TODAY ARJUN IS MUCH TOO far away, my mistake heavy between us. There’s too much space between our chairs. The legs are bolted to the floor and we are chained to the backs like prisoners.
“I think we should talk about what happened last week,” he says, more to my music stand than to me. His voice makes it clear we are not going to talk about how he’s fantasized about me every night since that afternoon.
I grip my bow too tightly. I’ve been dreading this lesson.
“I’d rather forget it,” I say. “Please. I shouldn’t have . . . whatever. I misinterpreted things. It was . . . a mistake.” My tongue trips over the lie. A mistake is accidental. This is not who I am; he has taken my confidence.
Arjun looks relieved. “I was worried you wouldn’t come back. I hope you know how much I enjoy working with you. Professionally.”
Professionally. The word has a hard edge to it, like it is trying to prove itself to me. I give him a professional nod in return.
“I just want to play,” I say professionally, so I do. I play Bach and Bartók and Giorgetti and Simonetti and of course Debussy’s “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.” At my audition last week, this prelude earned me a spot in the New Year’s Eve showcase, but I haven’t allowed myself to feel victorious about it yet. I will play two pieces for the showcase, but the Debussy is my showstopper. If I audition for conservatory, I’ll play it there, too.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I thought—hoped—he’d tell me he was wrong, that he does have feelings for me. Evidently, I know nothing.
It’s not just that I want to kiss him. It’s that I feel more connected to him than I do to anyone else. I’ve spent my entire life feeling different because I speak another language, because I don’t celebrate the same holidays as most people, because I don’t call my parents Mom and Dad. Arjun, who immigrated to the United States as an adult, knows what it is like to be tied to a complicated country. There is a lot of good in India, he’s said, but also a lot of bad. Israel is similar. I’ve never met a person who doesn’t have a strong opinion about its politics. They always have to share it with me, like there’s something I can do about it, like being half Israeli makes me a representative for an entire nation, an entire people. I don’t feel fully American, but a language and half my genes can’t be enough to tie me to a place I’ve never been.
Arjun has no praise for today, only critique, though I know I cannot be playing quite that poorly. Perhaps he is trying to more solidly establish himself as the teacher, and me, the student. For the first time, I am relieved when our hour is up.
On my way to the bus stop, I buy a cheeseburger from the food truck parked across the street. I am in desperate need of food therapy. It greases up my fingers and tastes perfectly, excessively salty. The guy at the counter knows me, since I’ve been coming here after some lessons for nearly a year. He asked for my number once, but greasy food truck guy isn’t exactly my type. I have an incurable fondness for musicians.
No one knows I don’t keep kosher when I’m not at home. After Ima’s diagnosis, it stopped seeming important. Why did God care what I ate? Why did separating meat and dairy, and a hundred other provisions, matter when my mother was suffering so much? At home I observe Shabbat because it means so much to my family. But the day of rest makes me restless, and the services at synagogue are too long. I’m not sure what I believe in anymore, or what I ever believed in, but it’s not anything as insignificant as this. When I move out, I will eat whatever I want and practice any time I want. Even on Shabbat.
A blessing spills from my lips, meaningless. I murmur along as Ima leads us in the hamotzi over the braided loaf of challah, but the words are hollow, even if I love the way they sound.
Ba-ruch a-tah A-do-nai e-lo-hei-nu me-lech ha-o-lam, ha-mo-tzi le-chem min ha-a-retz.
Prayers in Hebrew are sung in minor keys. They lilt up and down; they tremble. When I was small, I could trace the ribbon of Ima’s voice even when we sang in large groups at synagogue. It was more confident, more on-key than any of the others. I always wished I could sing, but my vocal cords have never cooperated. That is another reason I fell in love with classical music: no lyrics.
Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, began on Shabbat this year. The holiest day of the year—to everyone in my house but me. Ima didn’t fast because the ill don’t have to, but I’ve been fasting all day, unable to sneak food past my parents. The last thing I put in my stomach was a bottle of Gatorade yesterday, which helps prepare the body for a fast.
Earlier today we sat through services at our synagogue. Shabbat is sunset Friday to the appearance of stars Saturday night every week, twenty-five hours that endlessly drag. No phones, no computers, no money, no fun. Some Conservative Jews drive on Shabbat, but my family likes the tradition of walking to and from synagogue when we can. The exercise is good for Ima.
“Amen,” Ima says, and we all echo her. Her fingers twitch as she reaches for her fork, and her head jerks back and forth.
We’re breaking the fast along with my parents’ Israeli best friends, the Mizrahis. Gil Mizrahi works with my father at Microsoft, where they are both software engineers, and his wife, Tamar, is a real estate agent and the synagogue gossip. Before dinner, I overheard her telling my parents about Devorah Cohen’s daughter, who supposedly left college because the workload was stressing her out. The real reason was that her TA had gotten her pregnant. Since Ima got sick, people from synagogue have visited her regularly, including Devorah Cohen and her daughter, so I am unsure how to react to this rumor.
I add beef brisket, potatoes, and salad to my plate while my father pours wine for Tovah and me. When we were little, we drank grape juice on holidays, but we graduated to wine after our b’not mitzvah—that’s the plural of bat mitzvah. I used to get so bored waiting to eat on Jewish holidays, because when you are nine years old, you have no patience for prayers. One thing I never grew out of, I suppose.
Tamar Mizrahi asks us about college, and Tovah monopolizes the conversation with chatter about Johns Hopkins.
“There are so many research centers and opportunities for undergrads to actually get involved,” Tovah says between bites. She’s talking so fast she can’t fully chew her food. I want to tell her chew, then speak. “And most of the med students have done undergrad there, so I figure I have a good chance of getting into their med school, too, which is what I want. Plus, I love Baltimore.”
Please. She’s been there once.
“I’m sure you’re a shoo-in,” Tamar says.
“We’ll see!” Tovah chirps, though I detect a layer of nerves in her voice. I’m certain Tovah will earn a monster scholarship that will thrill Aba more than any of the schools I’m applying to—though I still haven’t applied. But I mumble to Tamar about the conservatories on my list anyway. However, Manhattan School of Music doesn’t have the same name recognition as Johns Hopkins. People know Juilliard, maybe Berklee.
“Both your girls are so ambitious, Simcha,” Tamar says to Ima, though she’s looking at Tovah, smiling at Tovah. Gil is too. Tovah’s accomplishments are tangible. Worthy.
“We got lucky.”
Tamar tucks a wisp of hair back into the blond cloud on top of her head. “You’re maturing into such a beautiful young lady, Adina. Such a precious figure. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Nope.” I pop the p.
“I always thought you and Eitan would make a good couple.” She pierces a slice of brisket with her fork. Her eyes are the same deep brown as Eitan’s. “You were both always so serious about your music. Him with the piano, you with viola. You know, he’s teaching lessons to some of his students in Jerusalem in his spare time.”
“Eitan’s much too old for Adi!” Gil says. “How much wine have you had?”
Laughter. Too much of it. My face flames. There are no beautiful young lady comments directed at Tovah, who’s staring down at her plate. Tovah is cute, with her pixie haircut and faint freckles. But her body language projects so much insecurity, like her skin isn’t the right size for her.
I wonder if words like Tamar’s make it worse.
A clang steals my attention. Ima’s knocked two serving dishes into each other. “Clumsy me,” she says, and my stomach twists.
“I’m only saying, it’s a shame,” Tamar continues. “A pretty girl like you should have a boyfriend.”
“Adina is very busy with her music,” Ima says. Rescuing me, because my mother is always on my side. I smile at her in thanks. “She doesn’t need a boyfriend if she doesn’t want one.”
“How does Eitan like Israel?” Aba asks.
“Loves it. But he misses his mother’s cooking. Would you believe it?”
More laughter. I drain my glass of wine.
“Whoa there.” Aba winks at me. “Should I get you the whole bottle?”
“Please,” I say, and he chuckles before drawing us all into a discussion on the history of Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.
Before he met Ima, Aba didn’t keep kosher or observe Shabbat, but the traditions were important to her, and therefore they became important to him. He studied Hebrew, though he’s never mastered the language, and read tomes on the history of the Jewish people. These days he’s more devout than she is. I suppose there’s a reason he thinks we should keep putting on these shows of prayers and blessings. He thinks his faith, which hasn’t faltered the way mine has, will somehow save us.
Wide-eyed, Tovah digests Aba’s every word. If Ima is always on my side, Aba is always on Tovah’s. I have heard this story dozens of times, so I chew my food silently. What Tamar said about Eitan hit too close to the truth. The Mizrahis’ son was my very first crush. We talked about music and he laughed at my jokes and made hours-long dinners less boring. When I was fourteen and he was eighteen and we’d drunk too much wine after Passover, he invited me into his room. Said he wanted to show me a keyboard piece he was working on, that we could play a duet. It was a few weeks after Ima had been diagnosed. I felt like I had no control over anything in my life, except maybe this. Him.
I kissed him first, mostly to see if he’d kiss back. He did. And more. Zippers unzipped and buckles unbuckled and skin met skin. Everything felt good.
“Are you sure?” He was breathing hard. “You’re only fourteen. . . .”
I hated the way the word sounded. Fourteen. “Do I look fourteen to you?” We both knew the answer was no.
I had already researched consent laws. In Washington, a fourteen-year-old can consent if her partner is four years older or less. Eitan had just turned eighteen, and I was a few months from fifteen. He told me again and again how beautiful I was. We were probably in his room for a grand total of eight minutes; still, the ways he touched me made me love my body even more. Made me love the power I had over him. The first time didn’t hurt much, but the second time was so much better, and the third, fourth, fifth, which happened over the next several months, were excellent.
I liked it so much. I liked him. I liked sex. Our families never figured it out, and Eitan went to college and I moped through my sophomore year, stalking his Facebook updates and waiting for messages, hoping we’d get back together when he came home to visit. And we did, but he always seemed to forget about me whenever he left.
I didn’t tell Tovah, though we were still close back then. She was still giggling with her friends about how cute some boys in their class were, and what I had done felt so adult. I knew she wouldn’t understand.
“Adina,” Tovah says, and I blink. “Aba asked you a question.”
“Oh. What?”
“He asked why the shofar is blown on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur.”
The shofar is a ram’s horn, and all I know is that I can’t stand the toneless way it sounds.
I shrug, Tovah sighs, and Aba asks if she can answer the question. Of course she replies correctly. Gold fucking star. Tovah plays along with this whole religious charade, doesn’t realize none of it matters. Soon we’ll get our results and none of this prayer will have changed a thing.
Tovah and I are washing dishes in the kitchen after the Mizrahis have left and after Ima has taken her nighttime meds, which I refuse to call kinuach, the euphemism the rest of my family uses. I will call them what they are.
“You don’t have to be such a brat about our religion,” Tovah says, dragging a sponge back and forth across a plate.
Brat. For some reason that word stings more than “bitch.” It sounds young, a kindergarten taunt. Tovah’s insults haven’t matured yet.
“And you don’t have to be a sheep about it.” I take the clean plate from her and start drying.
Tovah’s grinding her teeth. I can hear the scrape of enamel against enamel, sending a shiver up my spine. She’s quiet long enough for me to know I’ve stung her back.
“It’s what I believe,” she says softly. “How am I a sheep if this is what I truly believe in?”
I set the plate in the cupboard too loudly. “That’s what I don’t understand. How you can still believe after what God did to Ima?”
“God didn’t do anything to Ima. That’s what you don’t understand.”
I wonder how she can be so sure when she barely spends time with our mother. “I’m sorry I can’t remember all the minutiae of this religion.”
“Our religion,” Tovah corrects, handing me another bowl. “Don’t you care about where Ima came from?”
“Yes.” I’m not sure how to explain to her that to me, being half Israeli and being Jewish are two very different things. Ima’s pre-America life is a secret I want to uncover. It is personal, belongs only to her. This religion, with all its rules and regulations, belongs to too many people.
When Tovah passes me the next plate, her hands are too slippery and I can’t grasp it, and it crashes to the floor. We stare at it on the ground, a mess of soap and shards. I’m not sure which of us dropped it.
Neither of us says it, but I am sure we are both thinking it: this is how it started for Ima.
“Perfect,” I say. “That was a gift from Aba’s parents at their wedding.”
“Then you shouldn’t have broken it.”
“It slipped. It wasn’t either of our faults.” I run my tongue along my teeth, trying to calm down. “Let’s just throw it away. They probably won’t even notice. We have so many plates.”
Tovah gets out a broom and dustpan. I decide I am done in the kitchen with her, so I go into the dining room to finish cleaning up. The thin ivory candles in the middle of the table are a third their original height. Jews are not to extinguish them; we are supposed to let them burn on their own instead. That’s what I have been taught.
Tonight I lean over and blow them out.