“It was nothing, Bubby,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Anyone would’ve — and we were happy to help.”

“I know, but if no one had been home….” Bubby shakes her head. “See, I thought I was helping you by having you come to stay, but turns out you’re just the babysitter for your old grandmother.”

I shrug and smile. I’m glad we were there, of course I am, but honestly, we weren’t such heroes; anyone would have done the same thing.

We stay for around an hour, schmoozing, and then Aunt Chana needs to leave. “Supper, bedtime, all that,” she says airily.

“Bye, Bubby.” I peck her cheek. “Can’t wait for you to come home.”

Aunt Chana catches my eye in the rearview mirror when we’re on our way home.

“So, about Bubby being discharged,” she says. “Look, I’ve been talking to the doctors, to Zeidy, Aunt Shevi, whatever. It’s gonna be some time until Bubby’s able to take care of the house again. We’re getting in some help for her, but in the meantime, you’ll stay with us, okay?”

I shrug. I guess there’s no choice. And Raizy’s room is honestly girl heaven. Um… if you don’t count the roommate.

“Thanks,” I offer as an afterthought. It’s nice of Aunt Chana to host me, even if I’d rather take care of myself at Bubby’s house. But there’s no way I can do that; I don’t want to do anything that might put strain on my grandmother now.

“Maybe you’ll like it so much that you’ll decide not to move back to Bubby’s,” Aunt Chana says mischievously.

Raizy makes a noise in her throat.

“Yeah, I bet Raizy would love that,” I say, before I can help myself.

To her credit, Raizy just giggles. “No, I’m thinking that when Bubby comes back, I’ll move in there with you, so you’re not too lonely,” she says sweetly.

Aunt Chana pulls into her driveway and shifts the car into park.

“You girls,” she says decisively, “are more similar than you think.”

“…political unrest in the Rajasthan region of India, with minority groups vying for power and demonstrating against the president in what experts predict may be the start of an upheaval in the governing parties of India. The Bhaarat Mukt radical party is of particular concern as they prepare to demonstrate across the country, with the states of Jammu and Kashmir in the north being the hotbed of…”

India?

My head snaps up, and I abandon the maple-soy salmon and salad in front of me. Aunt Chana is reading out a news report, face furrowed.

“What does that mean?” I ask. “Something about India?”

“Hmm. Yeah, but I don’t think—” Aunt Chana trails off, eyes skimming the words. “It sounds like regular politics to me. Every country has this.”

I’m not so sure; the words “radical” and “concern” and “hotbed” make me nervous. But then again, I’m so jumpy these days about anything to do with India. I guess I just really, really miss my family.

“Oh, sweetie, there’s nothing to worry about,” Aunt Chana says. “I’m sure it’s fine where your parents are. India’s huge, they’re in the city, and this sounds like it’s very far away.”

Not much comfort, seeing as she knows exactly nothing about the geography of India.

“Can I call my mother from here? Do you have an international line?” I ask. I feel like it’s been forever since I spoke to Ima, even though it’s been — oh goodness — only just 24 hours. So, so much has happened in between.

“Calls to India? Not from a regular phone line, no. But you can try a video call. Here, I have your mother’s number saved.”

It’s super late at night there, just past midnight, but that’s okay; Ima’s always up late. I take the phone and casually back out of the room. I’m not interested in video calling Ima with a gaggle of aunts and cousins watching.

I press dial and angle the camera so I don’t look weird; ugh, these selfie video calls make me look awful. Then I realize Ima’s phone isn’t actually ringing — instead, there’s a weird beep-beep-beep like the phone is off. Or busy? Maybe she’s on another call?

That must be it, I tell myself. Ima always keeps her phone on, and she uses the late-night hours to talk to her friends and family in America or England.

I tap into messages instead.

Hi, Ima, it’s Ashira. Can you video call? Or call me at Chana’s house?

I sit on the couch in the empty living room for a full ten minutes, waiting for a reply.

But nothing comes.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 960)