“Mommy, can I have ice cream?” Moishy calls as he follows Kayla into the kitchen. “I want Aviva to give me.”

“Oh, all right then,” she hears Kayla say, and Moishy comes in again to summon Aviva to the kitchen.

Aviva takes out cones, chocolate syrup, cherries, starts to scoop the ice cream. Dessert fun is one of her things with her little half-siblings. Sometimes, she still can’t believe she’s part of their lives. Things changed between her and Abba when she went to seminary. As a kid, she’d taken Mom’s rantings about what a terrible person he was at face value. The short, stilted, every-other-week visits couldn’t undo that.

Only in Israel, without Mom’s looming shadow, had Abba started calling. He’d even come to visit her during winter break. That was the year they reconnected. It was just as well, since shortly afterward a woman called Kayla came into his life, bringing him the sweetness of second chances and a new home. Everything had changed, but it was too late for Aviva. She still wonders who she is in this new family.

Abba comes into the kitchen and reaches for the cabinet above Aviva’s head.

“The Shabbos party nosh is there,” Kayla hisses. “We can’t let Moishy see it now.”

Abba stifles a laugh and moves away from the cabinet.

Moishy looks up. “ I want nosh! Is it there?”

“Nope.” Kayla shakes her head.

Aviva stands there, suddenly cold as the ice cream. She’s lying, Kayla’s lying. To her kids.

She drops the scoop, ignoring the mess on the counter.

She’s just like Mom.

She tries to clean the slippery mess but she is frozen inside. You’re making this too big a deal. Get a grip.

Of course, it’s different. It’s nothing. Kayla just doesn’t want Moishy to stuff himself now.

In the big kitchen window, clouds shift and sunlight pours in, gilding Moishy’s hair. He looks so much like Yakov did when he was young.

What had Yakov said — no wallowing in the past? Keep looking forward?

Well, she couldn’t. For her the memories live in Technicolor.

She exhales, wills herself to stand in the present — in this kitchen, with kids and ice cream. She finishes up the cones and she gives one elaborate creation to Moishy, one to Shira.

They go off with their grins to sit back at the table.

Abba turns to her. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you. You know Kayla’s friend, Leba Lawrence? You must’ve met her at simchahs.”

Aviva squints — recalls a redheaded, gregarious woman — and nods.

“She had a shidduch suggestion for you, not a new one actually. Remember Ari Storch? You really liked him, no? I’m not sure what happened then, but seems he’s still around. Do you think it’s worth going out again?”

The subway roars through the tunnel underground, and Aviva looks at herself in the black glass. Ari Storch is still around. What does that even mean? Her reflection, distorted by the window glass, shrugs.

They’d had something. For a while, she’d thought this is it. She could do what her brother did: get married, leave it all behind. One date and another, the hope almost too much to bear, and then Ari had taken her to a restaurant for one of their later dates and the memories —pressing, assailing — had washed over her. She couldn’t tell him why the chocolate mousse had her gagging; of course she couldn’t. He’d ditch and dump and run. Afterward, choked by all the other things she realized she couldn’t bear to tell him, she’d told the shadchan she wasn’t ready.

And now Kayla’s friend is suggesting the shidduch? It’s been more than a year and he’s still around. She’d bit her lip and told Abba yes. And now it’s back with Leba, who hasn’t even heard back from Ari yet.

Her reflection is weary.

She almost misses her stop, but sprints off the train just in time. She calls Meira from the escalator.

“Hey, Aviva. I’m on the first floor in Bloomingdale’s.”

By the time she makes it over, Meira has a bunch of things slung over her elbow. The business of shopping.

“Someone’s on it.”

“Yeah, thanks for meeting me here. I so need your fashion sense.”

“Sure thing.” Aviva mock bows.

Meira’s already back to the racks. Aviva fingers the dresses absently. Cottons, soft knits. Hey, this one, summer yellow, nice, classy.

She would take it if….

“You like?” Meira models a sweater against herself.

Aviva looks at her friend. “I do!”

Meira makes a so-so face but holds on to the sweater. She picks up another. “I’m gonna go try this on, ’kay?”

They amble into the dressing rooms. Aviva slips into the yellow dress.

“Nice,” she says when Meira comes out in the sweater. “Kinda fancy, though, like not for every day. You know that.”

“I know,” Meira mutters, and then, “I have a date.”

“You do?” A smile breaks over Aviva’s face. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“Someone you kinda helped with….” Meira hesitates. “It’s Daniel Reichberg. I know I said I was asking for a friend, but it just felt too awkward to say that it was me, before I knew if there was any, uh, history there between you.”

“Oh.” Aviva catches sight of her own reflection in the big mirror: open-mouthed, wan.

“Aviva, I hope you understand. I didn’t know if there were any harsh feelings, or who had ended it.”

She closes her mouth. You’re overreacting, okay. It’s normal that she was evasive.

“I just didn’t want to—”

“Yeah.” Aviva cuts her off, wondering if she’s going crazy.

She lets out a breath. “Anyway, you look great, Meira, and he’s a great guy.”

“Thanks.” Flash of smile. “Listen, we heard good things. Who knows?”

“Let’s hope.” Aviva looks down. “Hey, I’m still wearing this yellow dress. Kinda nice, no?”

“Yeah, love that summery color. And you know you look amazing in everything.”

She likes it, too, but she’s not in the mood anymore.

They slip back into their clothes and head out of the dressing room. Aviva balls the dress under her arm; she’ll slip it back onto a rack.

“Aviva, how’s your mom doing?”

She blinks at Meira. “She’s not going for treatment right now, so she’s feeling a little bit better. But she’s still sick, and you know how she is.”

You know.

How should she know? Meira’s never even met Mom.

They walk through the store, and the colors, the loud beat of the music, surround her. Amid the hubbub, she drops her guard. She talks to Meira’s back. “Lately, I’m having a lot of memories of her, from back when I was young….”

She’s not saying which memories, but somehow, it feels good just to get it out.

Meira turns to nod at her, care in her eyes, when Aviva feels her phone buzz. She glances at it.

Text from “Leba L”: Ari said yes! How does Monday at 8 sound?

As Meira pays for her sweater set, Aviva goes over to the next cashier and slides the yellow dress onto the counter.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 911)