Gravity (16 page)

ON MONDAY MORNING
, the first real day of vacation, Neshama is already dressed when I come downstairs. She sits at the table next to Abba, shoveling bran flakes into her mouth.

“Where are you going so early?”

She glares at me. “To the library.”

I raise my eyebrows. Abba stares out the window. Neshama puts her bowl in the dishwasher and picks up her backpack. “Bye, Abba.”

He waves back, sips his coffee.

I follow her to the front hall closet. She pulls on her coat.

“I got a job for the break,” she whispers.

“Where?”

“Eaton Centre, wrapping Christmas gifts.”

“You did?”

She nods.

Upstairs Ima sings, “
Lo yisa goy el goy cherev.
” Nation shall not fight nation. Her voice is still raspy.

“That’s going to be a long day at the library.”

“You’ll cover for me, right?”

I nod.

Ima comes downstairs singing, “One tin soldier rides away
.
” Her voice is a thin scrape.

“Bye, Ima.”

Ima squints at her. “Oh, have a good day.”

Neshama slips out the door.

“Where was she off to?”

“Library.”

Ima clears her throat, takes a breath and tries to sing. “
Avinu Malkeinu.”
Her voice is deep and hoarse. She coughs and pulls snow pants out of the closet. “I can’t believe my throat is still bad. Wanna help me shovel the walk?”

“No, thanks.”

She zips up her ski jacket and mitts and grabs the shovel. “Jesus loves me this I know...” Her voice trickles to a slow hiss of air. She shakes her head.

I SPEND MOST
of the week with Becca and Esther. We watch videos, work on a school project and try and write a new song for Esther to play on her guitar. I talk them into going down to Toronto Island, but they get sidetracked by the shopping at the harbor. I babysit for the neighbor’s kids a few afternoons and use the money to buy more fossils from the museum gift shop. Becca buys me two new fish for Hanukah. We name them Nebachnezzar and Antiochus.

In the evenings, after we light the Hanukah candles, Neshama and I go to Mrs. Fidderman’s to feed her cat and watch taped videos of
Days Of Our Lives.
We fast-forward through the commercials and eat popcorn on Mrs. Fidderman’s floral sofa, waiting for Bo and Hope to finally reunite.

On Thursday when I come home from a trip to the science center, I make myself a cup of hot chocolate and settle on the
living room sofa. Only Abba is home, swiveling back and forth on his office chair. Just as I flip open my ocean encyclopedia, the doorbell rings. I pull myself reluctantly from the sofa’s deep grip. Through the peephole I see Rabbi Abrams on our doorstep, wrapped in a long black coat. Tension creeps up the back of my neck and into my jaw. He has never come to our house except when Ima invited him and his wife for
Shabbos
.

Rabbi Abrams is about forty with light brown bushy hair radiating out from his head. He has pale eyes and thin lips that disappear into his beard. When he gives a
d’var Torah,
his nostrils flare as he speaks. Neshama and I used to giggle through his sermons, watching his nose vibrate as his talk became more impassioned.

I open the door. “Please come in.”

“Hi, Ellie.” Rabbi Abrams steps into the hall. “I have an appointment with your father.”

“Oh, I’ll get him.”

I knock on Abba’s door. “Rabbi Abrams is here,” I whisper, pushing open the door.

Abba glances at his watch. He straightens the collar of his plaid shirt. Deep circles shroud his eyes. He follows me back to the hall, rubbing his hands over his corduroys, pulling his sleeves down over the dark hairs on his wrists.

“Rabbi, so nice to see you. Please, come in.” They shake hands.

“You are well?” Rabbi Abrams asks.

“
Baruch Ha’shem.”
Blessed is God.

Abba hangs up Rabbi Abrams’ coat, ushers him into the office and closes the door. I sidle up to the wall, holding my
breath. Did Abba make the appointment, or did Rabbi Abrams request to see Abba?

The chairs creak, and Rabbi Abrams speaks in a low voice. He mentions “Chana” and “singing.” I straighten against the door. There’s a pause. Rabbi Abrams speaks more loudly. “You have been a member of our congregation for many years. I value your commitment and your faith.” He pauses. “I’m worried about Chana.” Rabbi Abrams coughs. “Maybe if you talked to her...”

Another long pause. I slide down the wall to the gray carpet. Poor Abba.

“We want Chana to be comfortable, to be able to
daven
,” Rabbi Abrams continues.

I hear Abba drum his fingers on his desk. “I...um...well, maybe she could pray somewhere else. Perhaps her mother’s synagogue.”

I gawk at the door, eyes bulging.
What
is he thinking? At Bubbie’s
shul
, which she hardly ever goes to, the rabbi says, “Please rise” and announces the page numbers. They recite most of the prayers in English, and a choir sings down from a balcony. No one actually prays.

Rabbi Abrams says something in Hebrew I can’t make out. I hear them shifting in their chairs. I hide in the living room until he leaves.

I hear Abba talking to someone on the phone for a few minutes and then the noise of him pacing back and forth. I lie rigid in the living room, waiting to see if Ima has really been sentenced to Bubbie’s reform temple. “Ellisheva,” Abba calls, “can you come here a moment?” I exhale and shuffle
to Abba’s office, clutching my ocean encyclopedia.

Abba’s eyes are hooded, his face pale. A Talmud lies open in front of him, his desk covered in papers with his neat notes. He sits, shoulders hunched, rubbing his knees. He glances at my ocean encyclopedia. “What are you reading now?”

I hold up the book.

He taps his pen on his knee. “Your sister is also studying very hard these days?”

My stomach contracts. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good, good.” He swivels back to his desk and glances over his papers. “I wanted to tell you I spoke with Bubbie. She says she’ll be happy to have you, Neshama and your mother go to synagogue with her Saturday morning.”

“To Bubbie’s
shul
?”

“Yes.” Abba twists his hands, pulling at his hairy knuckles.

“We have to go with her?”

“I think it best.”

I sigh and lean against the wall. “Ima is going to be very sad,” I whisper.

“Yes.” His hand muffles his voice.

“Are you going back to Beth El?”

Abba wipes his eyes. I look away. I’ve never seen Abba cry, except at his parents’ funerals.

“No, not right now anyway. I will
daven
at my school for a while.”

The
minyan
at Abba’s school is all elderly Holocaust survivors who live nearby. They mumble and rush through the prayers. There’s no women’s section.

Abba blows his nose and straightens his shoulders. “Your mother made a mistake, and now she needs to deal with the consequences.”

My eyes narrow, and I glare at Abba. I’m not sure if I’m angry with him, or with Ima, for what she did. I turn to leave.

“Ellisheva?”

“What?” I face him.

Abba ignores my rude tone. “You’ll ask your mother to go to
shul
with you and Bubbie?”

I stare at him, my mouth open. “Me?”

Abba sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with his knuckled fist. He swallows. “You’ll ask her?”

I stand at the doorway, my hands clenched, teeth bearing down on my lip. Abba’s eyes brim red and watery. I nod and storm out before the tears can slip out of the corners of his eyes.

I hurl my ocean encyclopedia onto the couch and stomp to the hallway where I yank on my boots and coat. Outside, I shove the front door closed, letting it smash into the jamb with a satisfying clatter, the leaded side windows rattling in their frames. Snow has mounted on the driveway into a soft bed. I grab the shovel from the steps and start hacking a path from the front door to the driveway. The snow froths over me, offering no resistance. I chuck the shovel on the lawn and head toward the subway.

Holiday shoppers pack the subway downtown, some jovial, others tired, their faces slack. I get off at the Eaton Centre and enter the mall. Carols blare and people jostle by,
carrying shopping bags. I start to sweat, clutching my hat and gloves. Stores drip with mistletoe and glittering red and green tinsel. Mothers herd eager children toward the long line waiting to meet Santa in his white Styrofoam castle.
Only seven more shopping days
, reads a giant banner.

I slowly make my way through the mall until I see Neshama at her stand. A few meters away, I stop and gawk. She wears a red and green apron over her turtleneck and skirt. A sprig of holly juts out of her headband. This is how Neshama will live: in God-less consumerism.

She waves me over. “Isn’t this crazy? I’ve been wrapping since nine thirty.” She doesn’t even ask why I’m here.

She wraps a white box in Santa paper and red ribbons, expertly pulling scissors through the ribbons until they stretch out long, then furl into tight curls. She hands the package to a man in a long overcoat. “Probably lingerie for his secretary,” she whispers after he leaves. “Wait a few minutes, and I’m off. Look busy talking to me about gifts and no one will come up and ask me to wrap. I tell all the men to buy jewelry. The smaller the box the bigger the love—”

“How can you stand to be in here?” I interrupt.

“
Ka-ching
.” She rubs her fingers together.

I grab her hand. “Aren’t you taking this a little far?”

“Blasphemous, isn’t it?”

I sigh.

At five o’clock, Neshama packs up her stand. As we walk through the mall, I tell her about Rabbi Abrams’ visit and Abba’s decision.

“What was he thinking? Ima hates Bubbie’s
shul
.” Neshama slaps her hand against the escalator handrail. “What are you going to say to her?”

“Nothing.” We step onto the main floor of Eaton’s.

“Hmm?” Neshama pulls me toward the makeup counter.

“I’ll just invite her to come with us.”

“She won’t come.” Neshama grabs a compact from one of the counters and starts powdering my cheeks. “This will even out your skin tone.”

I grimace but let her. “When she asks why, I’ll just let Abba explain.”

“What a coward, making you tell Ima. Serves her right though, how weird she was.”

“Yeah, but—” The scented makeup tickles my nose. Neshama steps back, avoiding the spray of my sneeze.

“But what?”

“I feel bad for her, she’s going to...”

“Crumple?”

“Yeah.”

Ima will deflate, melt into a puddle. She loves our
shul
. I push away Neshama’s hand and check my reflection in the mirror. The makeup has caked my skin white. “You’ve made me look like a ghost.”

A salesgirl with a perfectly made-up face leans over the counter. “Can I help you girls?”

“No, thank you,” Neshama says. She turns my chin toward her. “It is a little too pale, even for you.” She hands me a tissue, and I wipe off the makeup.

Outside I let the night air ruffle my open coat, the wind refreshing after the crowds and the perfume section. I follow Neshama down Yonge Street and over to Nathan Phillips Square.

“Isn’t this gorgeous?” She gestures toward the colored lights and the skaters in the square across from the mall. A giant Christmas tree looms behind.

“I suppose.”

Neshama sighs. “Maybe next year.”

I whirl around. “You’ll have Christmas?”

“Maybe,” she repeats.

I shudder. “You’re kidding.”

“Oh, just relax, Ellie.”

BUBBIE BUYS ME
swim goggles for Hanukah and takes me to the women-only swim at her club. She leaves me in the empty change room while she heads out for her tennis game. I pull on my blue swimsuit, adjust the straps over my shoulders. I flex in the mirror, the curve of my biceps, the slight bulge of my shoulders visible.

The chlorine in the air tickles my nose and the tiles are cool and damp under my bare feet. The pool looks long and inviting. My new goggles suck tight against my face. An elderly woman swims in the far lane, but otherwise the pool is deserted. Holiday season. Most of Bubbie’s friends are in Florida already, and she’ll go down in a few weeks. I pause at the edge, glance at the ladder, and then swing my arms behind me and leap. The cool water shocks me, dissipating my
anger from yesterday. I rise, gasping for air, spitting. I smile and push myself through the water. Breaststroke, like a frog.
Rana clamitans
peeping in the swamp beside the cottage.

My muscles warm up, tendons loosening, the back of my neck relaxing with each stroke. I tentatively open my eyes under water. Below me I see bubbles, tiles, pool lines, my own hands fluttering.

After a few slow lengths of breaststroke I stop, stretch my arms overhead and break into front crawl. One arm then the other. Cup and pull, breathe to the side, kick. Eyes open I can swim a straight line. I think of Ima singing in the
shul,
and a shiver runs through me, then a moment of anger, temples pulsing under the taut goggles. Just swim, Ellie. I kick harder, pulling the water past me with even more force. I will have calf muscles like Lindsay, abs like Neshama and pecs like Joey McIntyre. Energy surges through me. I break through the surface at the end of the pool, breathing hard.

Back and forth, voices echo above the water; under the surface—quiet.

AFTER THE SWIM
Bubbie pulls into the parking lot at Bathurst and Lawrence. “I want to pick up some chopped liver.”

“I could help you make some,” I offer.

Bubbie un-clicks her seatbelt. “No, thanks. It’ll make my whole house smell greasy. I’ll just be a second. Do you want anything to eat?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

“Even after all that swimming?”

I’m actually starving, but United Bakery isn’t kosher. If I suddenly start eating non-kosher food, it will certainly get back to Abba and Ima. “No, thanks.”

“Not even a cup of tea?”