What She Lost

by Melissa W Hunter

  “Anyway,” I said, sitting up again and reaching for my homework, “you got out of setting the table. I had to do it.”

  Two

  A low, distant thunder pulled me from sleep a few nights after Esther dropped the plate. Rain clouds concealed the moon, so our alcove was unusually dark. I was disoriented as I lay quietly blinking at the wall. I heard a soft sigh and rolled over to glance at my sister. She was lying on her back with her arm thrown over her eyes, her chest rising and falling with even breaths. But her lips were slowly moving. Bemused, I leaned closer, trying to figure out what she was whispering. More often than not, her words were a jumble of nonsense, but tonight she kept repeating a name—Aaron. I frowned, trying to make sense of what she was saying. She gave a small laugh, said Aaron’s name again, mumbled, “We’ll see tomorrow,” and rolled over, her back to me.

  I lay back against my pillow, watching rain-drenched shadows ripple across the ceiling. The only Aaron I knew was the boy who went around town delivering groceries in his rickety wooden cart. His cap always lay askew on his head, and to me, he was gangly and awkward. I never so much as glanced at him. His fair hair curled delicately against his freckled face. His soft blue eyes were almost a dull gray in color. Because of his slight frame, he was always panting and sweaty while pushing his wagon. I wondered why Esther was dreaming about him, of all people. Then, with a start, I remembered how Esther had smiled to herself and smoothed her long skirt and dark hair when my mother had asked her to search him out in town to place an order earlier that day.

  Does she like him? I thought incredulously. They were both eighteen, but he seemed much younger. Jacob sometimes mentioned that it was a shame Aaron didn’t attend the yeshiva, the religious school for boys, because he was smart and inquisitive. But he was apprenticed to Mr. Abrams, the town grocer. Did that mean he would make a good living for himself? Would Mama and Papa think him a suitable match for Esther? Excited thoughts kept me from falling back to sleep, and I giggled into my pillow.

  The notion stuck in my mind for the remainder of the week. I attempted to mention him casually to Esther when we ran errands together or hung the laundry out to dry or washed the twins in the barrel that served as our tub.

  “Did you know that Mr. Abrams is selling more cabbage this year than last? That’s what Mama said. It must have been a good season, and Mama’s happy because she can make cabbage stew more often. In fact, I think I saw cabbage heads on Aaron’s cart the other day.”

  I’d watch her face for the slightest change. Esther’s face was smooth as silk, and her mouth could display the simplest message with a twist or a frown. Now, she smiled and gazed down at her feet, and I thought, Ah-ha! It’s true! She does like him!

  I was proud of myself for putting the pieces together, but like any pesky younger sister, I kept mentioning him, until one day, on our way home from school, she turned on me.

  “Will you please stop making fun of Aaron? He’s very sweet!” she said in a flash of anger, a blush coloring her cheeks. I realized that I had, in fact, been poking fun at him. I’d laughed at how he constantly had to push his sleeves up to his elbows because his arms were so slim, and how he was always blowing his hair out of his eyes. “I know you may not think so,” Esther continued, “but Aaron is kind and thoughtful. He’s always giving me little presents, like an extra vegetable from his cart or even, the other day, a flower.” Then, stopping herself from revealing more, she said, “Now, don’t go telling Mama. And quit staring at me like that, Sarah. Come on. We’re going to be late.”

  Presents! Well, it was easy to see why Aaron was so taken with my sister. Wherever we went, whispers followed Esther. In town, she was known as the shayna maidela, the “pretty girl.” From the time she was an infant, her raven hair and striking porcelain complexion drew attention. I had heard the stories of how strangers stopped my mother on the street to peer into Esther’s baby carriage. “Such a beautiful child!” they’d exclaimed. “Look at those eyes! And skin like a doll’s—flawless!” Later, as Esther grew into a toddler and skipped alongside my mother, passersby would gaze after her, enthralled. When she looked up, her eyes were pools of black, so dark the pupils were lost. Long lashes brushed her cheeks. Her lips were rosebud red and pouted naturally. “Have you ever seen such beauty?” the townspeople remarked. “Like an angel.”

  My mother always scowled at them and spat three times into her hand, “pu, pu, pu,” or muttered “keynahora” after such comments. They were meant as compliments, but my mother believed they brought the evil eye upon Esther. I knew my mother was superstitious. Every day she performed small rituals and strange routines that were supposed to protect us and keep us out of harm’s way. She took particular care with Esther. She had tied red ribbons to Esther’s baby buggy to ward off evil and later tied red ribbons to the ends of Esther’s braids.

  Recently, I’d noticed how the town boys stared after my sister as we walked home from school, or even changed direction to follow close behind us. Her changing body was hard to hide, despite the long skirts and shawls she wore. I no longer teased Esther or chattered idly on our walks but instead watched every move she made, finding the way her hips swayed intriguing and the way her hair flowed straight down her back enviable. I wanted her dark hair, hair so dark it was almost black. My hair was lighter, like my mother’s had been, but unlike my mother’s, it still had too much red in it.

  I hated my red hair and freckles, especially when the boys poked fun at me. My mother often told me that it would grow into the rich auburn locks hers had once been. After marrying my father, she had cropped her hair short, as was customary, and wore her head covered beneath a kerchief. But among her possessions was a single photograph taken in her youth. She would sit me on her lap and show me the sepia-toned image of a young girl with honey-colored eyes and thick hair spilling over her shoulders. “See,” she would remark, gently brushing back my unruly mane. “Your sister looks like your papa with his dark hair and eyes, but you, you look like me.” I would study the beautiful girl in the photograph, hoping breathlessly one day to look like my mother, but I didn’t believe her.

  I was used to being Esther’s shadow, used to receiving everyone’s polite, remembered nods after they’d addressed her. Lovely was often the way she was described. And I? Playful, willful, precocious, pretty for a young girl. Young girl! I would fume when I heard this. I was thirteen, after all!

  Quietly, I observed the exchanges that became more frequent between Esther and Aaron. I noticed how Esther began watching for him in town, stopping on the street corners that were his known route or asking after his whereabouts from Mr. Abrams. More often than not, when they saw each other, my presence was quickly forgotten.

  “I wish I could go to the university in Krakow or Warsaw,” Aaron told her one time, while they huddled in a narrow alley behind the town’s water tower. I sat on the street corner, drawing random patterns in the dirt with a stick and listening to their every word, though I feigned indifference. “I want to see more of Poland and Europe, maybe even America. But my mother and father won’t hear of it. They think I shouldn’t risk a future as a grocer for something unknown. Mr. Abrams is nice and all, but I feel restless delivering onions and turnips all day.”

  “Why, Aaron?” Esther asked. “You’ll make a good living when you take over for Mr. Abrams. It’s an honor he picked you. You’ll be able to support a family. I’ve heard my mother say you’ll make a fine match for someone. Isn’t that the most important thing?”

  “Important for us, you mean?” Aaron whispered.

  I looked up at that. Esther’s face flushed a bright red as she fixed her gaze on her shuffling feet. She bit her lip and whispered, “You shouldn’t say such things. It’s not right.”

  “What’s not right?” Aaron asked. “To speak about our feelings?”

  Esther put her hand to her mouth, pu, pu, pu, in perfect imitation of our mother. Aaron reached out and too
k her hands in his own. In a voice I strained to hear, he whispered, “Let me say a prayer for us, Esther. God will surely grant our union if I were to ask for your hand in marriage.”

  I breathlessly pretended not to hear. The moment felt suspended, frozen, as they stared into each other’s eyes. But then Aaron stuck out his lower lip and blew the hair from his face, and the magic of the moment was broken. He noticed me for the first time. “Ah, Sarah, let me give you something,” and he pulled from his basket a ripe apple. I eagerly took it, looking at Esther. She was embarrassed as she smoothed her skirt with her hands, but she smiled and nodded.

  “Thank you, Aaron,” I said. My approval of him increased in that moment, until he said, “A red apple, just like your hair.”

  I frowned and took a large bite, chewing loudly, irritably. But he didn’t notice. He had turned back to Esther and was handing her an apple as well. “And red, like your lips,” he said to her. Esther took the apple and placed it in her basket. She looked away shyly and said, “Come on, Sarah. It’s time to go home.”

  As we walked back to our house, I kept glancing behind at Aaron, who stood by his cart watching after us. “Not a word of this to Mama and Papa, Sarah, understand?” Esther whispered, looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Do you promise?”

  I nodded. “Yes, Esther,” I said. “I promise.”

  Three

  Shortly after that, I began to notice a change in my sister. She always lagged behind on our way to school, arriving at the steps with a pale, clammy face and short of breath. It was early spring, and while her cheeks were usually sun-kissed and rosy, they now appeared pallid and gray. When I asked her what was wrong, she only shrugged. While she was subdued and quiet during the day, her nights were restless. She tossed and turned until she was twisted up in the sheets, leaving me shivering on the edge of the bed. Sometimes she’d wake herself gasping for breath, and other times I’d have to shake her awake to stop from being assaulted by her flailing arms and kicking legs. She’d contemplate me with red, puzzled eyes. “Why’d you do that, Sarah?” she’d wheeze.

  “It’s just … you were … oh, nothing,” I’d sigh. “You were dreaming again.”

  I was afraid to tell her how agitated she seemed because I didn’t want to upset her, but I suspected something was wrong. I felt an overwhelming sense of disquiet every morning when I watched her rise painfully from bed and try to blink back the look of exhaustion that lingered in her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I’d ask.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t seem fine.”

  “I’m fine!”

  “I think I should tell Mama.”

  “Quit being a busybody, Sarah!”

  The memory of Esther’s shaking hand was still fresh in my mind. I kept my silence, but guilt weighed heavily on my conscience. I worried that if I didn’t tell my mother soon, something bad was going to happen. Each night, Esther’s sleep was becoming more and more troubled. She moaned as if in pain. One morning, I waited until I was alone with my mother to tell her what was happening.

  “Mama?” I asked, watching as my mother boiled water on the stove for the twins’ bath. I heard their laughter in the yard outside as they chased a stray tomcat who liked to come begging for scraps. “Hmm?” my mother replied distractedly, wiping a hand across her forehead. The small counter of our kitchen was already crowded with pots and pans for that evening’s Sabbath meal. Chopped onions and parsley lay beside the whole chicken my mother had been plucking. Steam rose from the pot on the stove, condensation fogging the glass window that looked out to our yard. I wanted to ask if she had sensed a change in Esther, but my mouth was dry. I swallowed and shuffled my feet instead.

  “What is it, Sarah?” my mother asked impatiently, turning to glance at me. When she saw the look of concern on my face, she wiped her hands on her apron and knelt beside me.

  “Mama,” I said again, “I think something’s wrong with Esther.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, frowning.

  “She doesn’t sleep well at night. She tosses and turns. I don’t think she feels well. Have you noticed, Mama?” My mother’s face grew pensive and she stared at the wall over my head. She started nodding thoughtfully, and I wondered if she was just now realizing something was amiss.

  “How long has this been happening?” she asked.

  “A few weeks maybe?” I said, feeling even worse for not confiding in her sooner.

  Laying a hand on my cheek, my mother smiled gently and said, “Don’t worry yourself, Sarah. I’ll take care of it.” Her soft arms came around me in a hug, and I instantly felt better. I nestled into her embrace, inhaling her familiar scent of talcum powder and lye soap, and was comforted for the moment.

  Although I felt a weight had been lifted, I was still worried about my sister. My parents became watchful. My mother sent Esther on fewer errands after school, which meant I had to do more. She told Esther to rest in bed or sent her outside to soak in the sun to bring some color back to her skin. Esther complained and was irritable when my mother confined her to the house. She claimed she was fine. I knew the real reason she wanted to leave—to see Aaron. Soon, she gave up trying to persuade my mother to let her go and asked me to be her messenger instead. She told me little confessions to repeat to him, how she missed seeing him on the street and kept the bouquet of wildflowers he’d given her pressed between her schoolbooks. I felt uncomfortable telling all this to Aaron, watching him squint and wipe at the perspiration on his brow, but I knew it was the least I could do for her.

  Then one evening when I entered our alcove, I found Esther frantically combing out her long hair, pulling almost ruthlessly on the brush. “What’s wrong, Esther?” I cried, running to her and taking the brush from her hand. “Don’t do that!” Her nose was red, and a rash of small bumps stood out near the corner of her mouth. I frowned as I gently placed the brush on the bed and sat beside her. Usually so composed, her complexion so flawless, I was shocked by her appearance. She wiped at the corner of her nose and sniffed. I noticed that her arm was covered in bruises. “What happened?” I asked, taking her arm and pushing up her sleeve to get a better look. She wrenched her arm from my grasp.

  “Why don’t Mama and Papa let me out?” she cried. “Are they punishing me?”

  “No, Esther,” I said softly. “No, they’re worried. You don’t … seem like yourself lately.”

  “I’m fine!” she insisted again, but her flushed face and wild expression told a different story. “Did you see Aaron today, Sarah?” she asked. “What does he say to you? What does he tell you?”

  I wanted to reassure her, to describe in perfect detail how he frowned when I said our mother was keeping her home to rest, how he searched my face and listened to my every word for some sign of affection from Esther, how he told me he missed her and hoped to see her soon. But before I could open my mouth, Esther’s frenzied energy faded completely, and she closed her eyes, leaning against me heavily. “I guess I do feel a little strange,” she admitted.

  “Rest, Esther,” I said, helping her lie back against the pillows. She blinked up at me as I brushed her hair from her forehead. Her skin felt warm. “Do you want a cool washcloth?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. She seemed asleep already. I changed into my nightgown, then crept under the blankets beside her. I closed my eyes and felt myself shaking. Something was definitely wrong with my sister. I’d overheard my parents say that if she did not improve by the end of the month, they’d fetch the doctor again. I silently vowed to tell my mother the following morning not to wait.

  My parents, particularly my mother, did not put much faith in doctors. She had her own remedies that had been passed down to her from her mother and grandmother. The women in town exchanged their secret recipes so that the entire community tended to take care of each other. My mother had given my sister most of the food and drink our neighbors
said would help restore energy and revive the blood. Esther had taken long baths surrounded by certain flower blossoms. She had drunk tea infused with medicinal spices. I, however, felt nothing was working.

  As I thought of these cures, I drifted into a troubled sleep. The blankets around me became large flower petals. I was trapped in their heat and strange scent, fighting against blossoms that seemed to suffocate when, all of a sudden, I was drenched in water. Someone was watering the flower, and I was reaching out, trying to escape the petals that enfolded me, the water that doused me, crying for them to stop, to help me.

  Then I heard a horrible sound. It was animal-like and guttural. I sat upright in bed, startled, roused quickly out of the nightmare. I was momentarily relieved to find that the quilt I threw from my body was not the hungry flower petals of my dream. But the sound still reached my ears. It took me a moment to realize it was coming from Esther. She was groaning, low and deep, and the sound was terrible, like it was being wrenched from her throat.

  “Esther,” I whispered, turning to shake her awake. “Esther!” I repeated louder as I reached for the candle and match on the bedside table. The moment I lit the wick and turned to look at her, I gasped.

  She was completely drenched in sweat. Her nightgown clung to her, as did the blankets that were twisted around her thrashing legs. Her head was tossing from side to side with each moan, and beads of perspiration stood out on her cheeks and forehead. Her lips were blue.

  “Esther!” I cried again, planting my hands firmly beside her. I only half acknowledged that the whole bed was wet, that my nightgown was clinging to me as it had in the dream. I placed my hand on her forehead then withdrew it in shock. She was burning up.

  “Oh, God, oh, God,” I murmured, trying to shake her awake. I felt her fever emanating from her so that our whole alcove was filled with heat and smelled of sickness. Then she finally opened her eyes. I couldn’t tell if she saw me or not. She started crying and moaned, “My legs. Oh, my legs … they hurt!”