I

t’s the last night of living within the same walls and breathing the same air. We all end up in the kitchen somehow. Rivky came for a drink; Leah came for Asher, and now everyone is stuck sitting on the floor in the dark kitchen. The only light is the faint glow from the porch.

“It feels like we’re having a sleepover,” Rivky says. “I had so many sleepovers here. Mommy, remember you would only let us have sleepovers if it wasn’t a school night, and I promised myself that I will let my kids have a sleepover whenever they want?” She turns sad for a minute as Mommy laughs. She used the word kids. She doesn’t have kids.

Maybe that’s how it is with us. We love our family, we want to be close, but it’s hard because of how different we are, because of how hard it is to be vulnerable, because love hurts.

I watch Asher, standing on the porch, taking slow drags on his cigarette. He looks like a teenager again.

I step around all the sitting people and open the porch door a crack. “You good? Because you were a mess on Shabbos,” I tease him gently.

“Are you?” he asks me.

“No. not really.” I step out, closing the door behind me.

“Neither am I.” He blows a ring in the air. “Henny, do you think he sees us right now?”

I look at Asher. His thin beard and dark eyes. He is my baby brother. All the sisterly feelings I have for him flood to the surface.

“Of course.” My voice is like butter. “He’s looking down the whole time and just soaking it all up.”

He looks at me.

“You know how much he loved you,” I say. “I still remember the day he came back from the hospital after you were born. His whole face split in a gigantic smile. You were the boy he had waited for.

“I asked him how tiny you were. This small, this small, this small? I moved my hands wider apart every time he shook his head. He was ecstatic. We have a picture somewhere of him holding you. I’ll find it if you’d like. You’ll see how much he loves you in his eyes.”

“I want him to come back and tell me he loves me one last time,” he says. “Just so I know that it will be the last time, and I can observe the way his face moves and his eyes light up, and then I can commit it to memory so I will never forget.” Asher is a black silhouette against a white moon.

“Hey, how about I remind you?” I ask him. He nods.

It comes easily with Asher — the stories, the gentleness, the love. Why can’t I find that part of myself when it’s Miri in front of me?

I look into the kitchen and see the circle of bodies talking and laughing and crying, and Asher’s eyes are like spheres glinting in the light; this feeling swells inside of me. This insane, crazy thought that this is a step, and one more step, or a thousand more steps, and we may be okay.

Didn’t Leah say we’ll be all right?

WEDNESDAY

Shmuel and the kids get to the house after 12, after everyone else has already arrived. I want to fall into their arms. I want them to whisk me away.

I think we will be fine. I keep replaying Leah’s words in my head, like an anthem.

“Mommy, I missed you.” Bracha hugs my legs.

Dovi hugs my mother, then gives me a high five.

“No hug?” I tease. “Feeling too grown-up, are we?” He melts into my arms with the sweetest smile I have ever seen.

Only Miri goes inside, side-stepping me and her grandmother and aunts. Only Miri ignores everyone and everything and plops down on the living room couch to read.

I tell myself that this is the time to practice being as good a mom as I can possibly be. I will say the right things and do the right things. I scour my brain for something, anything, to say other than don’t slouch and why in the world are you reading a book when you should be spending time with your family?

I settle on, “I like your hair, sweetheart.”

The genuine surprise and gratified look in my daughter’s eyes hurt me.

“Who’s hungry?” Zeidy asks, interrupting my thoughts. “Yitzy bought breakfast. Let’s go eat.”

There are bagels with spreads and sushi. And it’s actually nice. All of us together in one room, eating. Food always helps.

“Okay, so when we’re done eating, we have to go for a walk, just around the block or something, and then we’re done,” Yitzy says.

“Shh,” everyone cries at the same time.

“We’re eating now. Let’s be quiet and enjoy this,” Rivky declares.

“Okay, okay, I was just saying.” He acts mock-offended.

But the spell has been broken.

“Pass the tuna.”

“I need a fork.”

“Can anyone please pass me a cup, and the water, and the juice?”

“Yitzy, did you get any cream cheese?”

“I’m pretty sure I did.”

“Well, I don’t see any. Oh, wait, never mind, it was right next to me.”

WE

take a walk around the block. Mommy is at the head. She says, “Remember the Rosenbergs, Henny? Their second just got engaged.”

“That’s nice, Mommy.”

We pass the Rosenbergs and the Gordons and then the Schallers.

“Can we turn back now?” Auntie Gracie asks. “Didn’t we walk far enough?”

“I think so,” I say, at the same time my mother says, “Just one more minute.”

Mommy has tears studding her eyes, so we continue, passing the Khans.

Auntie Gracie grabs my arm, holding me back as the rest of the family continues.

“Henny,” she says, “you know that out of all these people, you’re the only one I can stand.”

“Thanks,” I say, unsure as to the correct response.

She shakes her head. “What I’m trying to say, and failing miserably at, is, I’m sorry, hon. I shouldn’t be living at the other end of the United States, and I should call more often, and come visit your kids.

“Miri is so intellectual, we just discussed the book she’s in the middle of reading, she’s so opinionated and brilliant. And Dovi, I can eat his face, that’s how cute he is. And Bracha, I just love that kid.” She gazes lovingly at me. “Henny, I wish I could come back. I’m sorry, I am so sorry.”

I give Autie Gracie a one-sided hug. When I look at her, and listen to her list her flaws, I focus on what she’s attempting to say in her sage auntie way. She is saying I need to show up. With Rivky and with Miri. Because when you don’t show up, and distance becomes a habit, you end up moving cross-country just so you don’t see the people you love most. You forget what showing up looks like, and you’re terrified that if you try just one more time, you’ll shatter.

Our family has already turned around; we join them walking toward the house.

“May you know no tzaar,” Leah says to us as we huddle in the entranceway.

“No more pain.” Shmuel voices the same sentiments.

Mommy squeezes my hand. “No more loss,” she whispers.

No more. No more. No more.

Auntie Gracie all but races to her car, like she has just escaped prison. She opens the window. “Bye, guys. I got to go. I have a flight in two hours.”

“You got your suitcase and everything you need?” Babi asks motherly, warmly.

She could ask so many other things. I want to ask so many other things.

“I got everything.” Gracie rolls her eyes.

“See you in a hundred years,” Rivky says.

I walk her to her car. “It means they miss you.”

“I know.”

“Until the next time,” I say mock saluting.

She returns the gesture. “Until the next time.”

And then she’s gone. Running before she breaks. I don’t want to run.

I

pile the few items I brought into the suitcase and collapse on the bed, staring at the ceiling, not registering anything other than the sound of my breath.

I stayed in this bedroom for a week. I grew up in this house. I know the best hiding places and the floorboards that creak and the way the sun hits the trees at sunrise.

Miri knocks on the door.

“Mommy?”

“What’s up?”

“Did you like it?” she asks.

“Did I like what, sweetie?”

She frowns. “Whatever. It’s not important.”

I sit up quickly. “Hey, please. I want to know. I want you to tell me. I’m sure I liked it, whatever it was. Just tell me.”

She looks away. “The poem I wrote about Zeidy.”

My eyes water. “Oh, honey, I loved it. I cannot believe I forgot to tell you. It made me cry, that’s how much I loved it. You’re a very talented writer, Miri. I’m sorry I forgot to tell you.”

“It’s fine.” She shrugs.

“No, it’s not. I loved it so much, I should have called. I also appreciated the cupcake. It was very thoughtful and very delicious.”

She smiles. “Thank you.” She looks down. “I’m sorry for getting expelled, Mom.”

Oh, is she? How wonderful. That sorry can almost let us pretend it didn’t happen.

I quiet the sarcastic voice in my head.

Miri keeps on trying, and I keep on trying, and we miss each other every time. Sometimes we explode in a cloud of anger, and sometimes she goes quiet and I go dark. Part of me wants to stay mad. But I love my daughter, and I want her to feel the way my students and Asher feel that I care.

I breathe in slowly, hyper aware of every breath. I want to do this right. “I know you’re sorry, sweetie.”

“But Mommy, you have to understand. I wasn’t trying to. It wasn’t that I wanted to upset you. I know you love your job, and I know my behavior can affect it. I was just, I was just….” Her voice is dangerously low.

“I do understand, and this is a very important conversation that I want to come back to as soon as we’re settled back at home. Your actions don’t matter because of how they’ll impact me, they reflect on you, and they’re your responsibility.

“I love you always,” I tell my daughter. “I always will.”

Her lips twitch. Her eyes hold her secrets. She tries to look away but ends up staring right into my eyes again.

“I know,” she mutters.

“I love you, sweetie,” I repeat.

“Stop saying it, Mommy.”

I reach for her. A broken record trying to make up for all the mistakes I’ve made. “I love you. You’re smart and beautiful.” I lay a hand on her shoulder. “You’re a capable, kind, wonderful girl. An expulsion isn’t going to change how much I love you.”

She holds my gaze. “But you’re a teacher, and you value discipline and responsibility and accountability.”

I smile. “I do, and you will demonstrate all that. In fact, you already are. You’re taking your days off seriously. You’re showing accountability, and as soon as you go back, you will practice discipline.

“I’m proud of you. So wonderfully proud of you, Miri.”

She waits. I wonder if there’s anything I missed. And then I realize: She’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. She’s waiting for me to mess up and say something we’ll both regret.

“You’re wonderful,” I repeat.

She relaxes, then winks. “Does that mean I can get expelled again?”

I snort. “Too soon, honey, way too soon. And for the record, it will never not be too soon.”

I

take my suitcase down to the hallway.  Shmuel brings it to the car. He comes back.

“Are we ready to leave?” he asks. “I know I said I’d let you take your time. Just, what’s the plan?”

“We can go,” I say. “I just need to find the kids and say goodbye to Mommy. And Leah and Asher and everybody.”

“By everybody, she means me,” Rivky states, appearing behind me.

“Shmuel, please go find the kids.”

He looks from me to her and back again. “Okay.”

“I do not mean you. I… whatever I’ll say, you’ll distort it.”

“You can’t even say my name,” she huffs.

“Of course I can say your name. How many times would you like me to say it? Fifty? Fifty-five?”

“Am I your child?” Rivky asks.

“You’re just proving my point,” I say.

“I am not proving anything, Henny. Look, I just want to say goodbye.”

“Okay.” I nod.

“We’re sisters.”

“I know that, Rivky.”

“Can we act like it?”

“We talked about this already.”

We are at an impasse. We face each other, neither one of us willing to cross the bridge.

Rivky, in her sheitel. Freshly showered, clean blue shirt and crisp skirt.

Leah steps into the kitchen; she must feel the thickness.

“Leah,” I say. “As a therapist, please help Rivky understand that I can’t be what she needs me to be.”

Leah takes my hand in her right and Rivky’s in her left. “As a therapist I will let the two of you figure it out yourself.” She lets go of us, and we bump into the space she creates as she leaves the kitchen as quickly as she entered.

I step back. “I don’t know what you expect of me,” I tell Rivky.

“I don’t expect anything from you. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Rivky,” I agree. “Very much. But you and me, we’re so different, and it pains me that I get hurt every time I talk to you. Especially now.”

“I don’t have anything anymore,” she whispers.

“Hey, don’t say that. You have Yitzy and Dov and you—” I stop.

“I want a baby,” she says. “I’ve waited for twelve years for a baby.

“When I was younger,” she swipes at her eyes angrily, “when I was younger, all I wanted was to be like you, talk like you, dress like you. When you got married, all I wanted was to get married, too. And then you did something I can’t seem to do, no matter how hard I try. You have a family with kids running everywhere, and every time I see you, a part of me dies.”

Suddenly, I see what she sees. I try to, at least. I see her tears and her dreams, and I wish I were strong enough to hold them, to hold her.

She’s talking again. “It took time, but I became my own person with my own story.  But every time I see you, I turn into this insecure brat, and we fight all the time.”

“Rivky.”

“I want us to stop fighting.” It’s like I’m not even here, just her and her stream of thoughts.

“Rivky.” I try again. “Rivky, please listen to me. I get it.”

“What?” She startles.

“I understand,” I say. “I understand that you wanted a sister, and you wanted happiness, and sometimes it felt like I had a lot, and you had less, which makes it hard for us to connect.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her.

She says nothing. Maybe it’s a minute or maybe much longer, I’m not sure. All I know is that my feet hurt, and my sister and I are no longer yelling.

“Can we meet for coffee?” she asks tentatively.

“Someday,” I say. Because someday is general, someday is in the distant future. I can deal with Rivky and a coffee date someday.

“Someday,” she agrees.

A brick on a shaky foundation.

From deep in the house, Bracha yells, “Mommy, Mommy, look outside!”

Rivky and I race to the window, awkwardly bumping into each other. “Look outside!” Miri cries.

Rain. Thick and furious, pummeling the ground.

“Shmuel,” I call. “Shmuel.”

I find him in the playroom with Bracha, surrounded by dolls. He looks half amused, half worried. He’s scared that this will be the moment I break.

I have been in Mommy’s house for seven days, I have worn Tatty’s sweater, slept in my childhood bed, almost joked about my daughter’s expulsion. I have laughed and cried and eaten a cupcake on the floor.

And now, aluminum sheets are pouring from the sky, streaked with glitter and sun and pain and hope.

Our phones all ring, the shrill sound of a warning signal. It’s a flash flood, and residents are asked to stay inside. It’s not safe to drive.

“We’re not going anywhere for a while,” Shmuel confirms, brushing a dolly’s hair with his fingers. “We’re staying right here.” He spreads out his hands to encompass everything around him.

And it almost feels like peace.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 954)