| Out of Step |

Out of Step: Chapter 7

By Ariella Schiller | October 30, 2019

Uuuuch. I hate this. I hate the fact that Mommy is never home anymore

The house is strangely quiet when I enter, hot after the walk home from school. There’s no ballet today, due to studio repairs, and I’m feeling aimless and bored, despite my Herschel bag weighed down with homework and review notes. Kicking off my shoes, I dump the bag on a kitchen chair, untuck my uniform shirt, and start opening and closing cabinet doors, in search of the perfect snack.

I spy Mommy’s note just as I’m piling sandwich cookies onto a napkin.

Went to hospital to see Babby.

Lasagna in the fridge.

Love you.

Uuuuch. I hate this. I hate the fact that Mommy is never home anymore. Maybe I’m a terrible granddaughter, but I just really miss having someone to talk to when I get home from school. I feel a rush of guilt. Okay, no, I want Babby to have company. That hospital was horrible and cold, and I’m glad Mommy’s there with her. But how come Tanta Perel can’t fly in from Chicago? Or Uncle Baruch from L.A.? Why is Mommy the only one abandoning her family?

I’m just downing a cup of milk in annoyed silence when Naftoli shuffles into the kitchen. I raise my eyebrows at his pajama-attire and look pointedly at the clock.

“Was taking a nap,” he mutters, embarrassed. I raise my eyebrows again.

“What?” he snaps. “I have no schedule. Let me wallow, please.”

He stomps to the fridge and starts pulling out a crazy assortment of foods that looks like they should never be eaten together.

I shrug. Hey, I’m all for wallowing but if I were the one taking the fall for a friend, I would make sure the yeshivah knew about it. I would make sure they felt really, really bad about it. But Naftoli is just bending his head and not saying a word. To be honest, I’m totally in awe of him. He is a far superior human being than I am. But his passiveness is also getting on my nerves, not least because I know how much the situation pains Mommy.

“So how long is this suspension going to last?” I ask, breaking the silence. Naftoli looks up from the elaborate sandwich he is creating.

“Not sure,” he says, spooning leftover cholent onto a strip of corned beef.

I try not to gag.

“Like three days? Or a month?”

I watch his shoulders tense up. “Bella. I really don’t know. And honestly, I’d rather not talk about it.”

I roll my eyes at his back. “Oh, okay, no problem.”

I gaze at his triple-decker deli sandwich for a moment in horror, and then gather up my things. I wait until the kitchen door has almost closed behind me before calling out, “Oh, Mommy left dinner. It’s milchigs…”

And smirking to myself, I hurry up the stairs.

I’m deep in the throes of a very important conversation — what colors Atara should redo her room in — when the front door opens and closes much too late. I hang up with Atara after hurriedly agreeing that neutrals are best, and fly down the stairs. It’s 11:30! What was Mommy doing for so long?

Who gave the kids baths and dinner and put them to bed? Me, that’s who. Did anyone ask me to? No, it’s just expected, of course. As the only girl, everything falls on me. Well, I’m sick of it. I’m 14, for goodness sake. I have a life! What if I had been out with friends or at a sleepover party? These kids would still be up, running around like little lunatics. I smile faintly. Really cute lunatics….

And besides, Daddy hates eating without Mommy, and Shimshon had another night terror and Naftoli is getting in everyone’s way, and this is just not normal!

I square my shoulders, fill my tires with righteous indignation, and am about to roll right into that kitchen and confront Mommy when a soft sound stops me. Tilting my head, I put my ear to the door, only to draw back as quickly as if it had burst into flames.

Mommy… is crying.

Back in my room, I try to sort out all the feelings that are trying to overwhelm me, but it’s too much, too fast, and I’m incapable of making sense out of anything at this hour. My worries for Babby, my anger about my trip and about Mommy’s late hours and all my responsibilities… and math….

So, I do the only thing I possibly can do. I put on studio music and begin to dance.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr., Issue 783)

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