No Vacancy

by Tziporah Cohen

  “If there hadn’t been an apparition, then we would have gone bankrupt a month ago.”

  Mom is crying.

  “Listen, you know I’m not a religious person, not like Mordy, but I still think that sometimes things happen for a reason. Or maybe it’s like the rabbi said. It’s not what happens to us, it’s what we do with what happens to us.”

  Mom makes a funny sound. “So what happened to me didn’t matter?”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  I push open the door.

  “What happened to you?”

  They look at me like I’m a ghost or something. Dad unfreezes first, gives Mom a gentle kiss on the cheek, says, “Talk to her,” and goes out, giving me a squeeze on the shoulder.

  I sit on the bed next to Mom.

  “What happened to you?”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  I sit quietly and wait, like Father Donovan.

  She turns her hand palm out. The scar is faded but I can still make it out.

  “I was twelve. Some older kids from the Catholic high school followed me home one day. They threw pennies at me and called me Jew-girl and when I ran, they chased me. I tripped and fell. I cut my hand open on some glass on the sidewalk. They stood over me. I thought they were going to …” Her voice trails off.

  I put my hand on hers and trace the scar with my finger. It’s a thin line about an inch long.

  “That’s horrible,” I say. “Why would they do that?”

  Mom stares at her hand. “I don’t know, Miriam. I think I’ve spent my life since then trying to figure that out.”

  “What happened? How did you get away?”

  “A car turned onto the street and the kids ran away. The driver asked if I was okay and I said yes and I went home and told Grandma and Grandpa I fell and cut my hand. They took me to the hospital for stitches and then everyone forgot about it. Everyone but me.”

  I let this sink in.

  “Why didn’t you tell them what happened?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I felt ashamed. Silly, huh?”

  I shake my head, thinking about how I told Kate I was a vegetarian instead of telling her that bacon isn’t kosher.

  Mom looks out the window at the Jewel’s sign. “I wonder if those kids ever thought about it after that. If they think about it now that they’re adults. Because I do.”

  “How come you never told me about this before?”

  She turns back to me. “I don’t like to talk about it.” She strokes my hair. “And I didn’t want you to be afraid.”

  I squeeze her hand — one, two, three. I’ve really missed her this summer even though she’s been right here.

  “The worst part is that it’s turned me into someone I don’t like anymore,” Mom says.

  I think about the conversation I had with Father Donovan about jumping to conclusions and not taking time to understand people who seem different. The way I did with Jonah.

  After I started hanging around at Dahlia’s house, it just seemed normal to me that her brother talked with his hands. I even learned some signs so I could talk to him a little on my own.

  I think about Anton too. He would have won that race, even if he hadn’t cheated at the end. And I was sure he could never go faster with his wheelchair than I could run. Watching him in the pool, I realized that just because he uses a wheelchair doesn’t mean that he can’t do just about anything I can, and some things much better. I just needed to spend time with him to realize all that.

  All of a sudden I know what to do.

  “I love you, Mom.” I give her a kiss and run to find Uncle Mordy, who lucky for me is by himself in the storeroom, flattening boxes. I explain my plan and he thinks it’s a great idea. I run back to my room and grab the envelope from the top drawer, the one where I’ve been storing all the five-dollar bills Mrs. Whitley gives me.

  As I close the drawer I see the little box that I keep my hamsa in.

  I pull out the necklace and put it around my neck. I get the clasp to catch the first time. I turn back and forth in front of the mirror. It looks like it belongs there, the way Maria’s cross belongs around her neck.

  Uncle Mordy and I count the money together. One hundred and fifteen dollars!

  “Is it enough?” I ask him.

  “It’s enough. But you don’t have to use your own money. I can pay for the groceries. Are you sure you don’t want to use it for something else? Something for you?”

  This is for me. “I’m sure.”

  We figure out the details. It’s already Wednesday, so we have only two days to get everything done. Uncle Mordy will do the shopping tonight and we’ll start cooking tomorrow. We map out on paper how to put the tables together so that there will be enough seats for everyone. I spend the next hour on the computer making and printing enough invitations to put under all the room doors.

  Four days until the Jewel Motor Inn’s official Shabbat dinner.

  16

  ——

  We tell Mom and Dad that we’re taking care of Shabbat dinner this week and they don’t need to do anything and we want it to be a surprise so they shouldn’t ask questions. I tell Kate, of course, and we let Maria in on everything, and Mrs. Whitley, who, in addition to bringing over a gigantic bag of potatoes and enough vegetables for a ginormous salad, lends us a bunch of tablecloths and some folding chairs she had in her basement.

  On Thursday, Uncle Mordy, Kate and I make five huge potato kugels. Kate’s never even had potato kugel, which Uncle Mordy says is unacceptable, and cuts her a piece.

  “This is so good,” she says with her mouth full. “We need to tell Grandpa about it.”

  We lock the kugels in the motel fridge so my parents don’t come across them. Mrs. Whitley comes over late at night and bakes some grape pies in our oven so that Uncle Mordy can eat them. Mom used to say back home that making Shabbat meals was like trying to feed an army.

  And that was just for our family and guests!

  On Friday I wake up to sunlight streaming in through the crack in my curtains. It’s so bright out that I need to shield my eyes as I walk, still in my pajamas, across the parking lot and through the front office to get up to the kitchen. Uncle Mordy is whistling while he opens packages of cut-up chicken and lays the pieces in neat rows in a big pan. Forty-five minutes later we’re singing together and cutting up carrots and tomatoes while the smell of baking brownies fills the air.

  The bakery in Spartanburg delivers a big box of challahs along with the usual order of bagels. Maria’s been checking with the guests and it looks like most of them are coming. Father Donovan says he’ll be there, and all of Kate’s family, even her brother.

  I wish Anton were still here.

  I take a break to get out of my pajamas and have a snack, taking a banana and cereal bar up to the balcony to sit with Maria during her break and go over my to-do list.

  Before I’ve even peeled the banana, I hear noise on the stairs and Mom comes up. I quickly fold up the list and stick it under my leg.

  “Have you seen Sammy?” asks Mom. She looks worried.

  “Not since breakfast. Isn’t he with the sitter?”

  She shakes her head. “She couldn’t come today. He’s not with Uncle Mordy and your father just got back from town and …” Her voice quavers. “He was with me earlier at the Reception desk and then the phone rang … I’m going to check over at the diner.”

  Maria stands up. “We’ll find him. Miri, you take the first floor and I’ll check up here. Vamos. He’s probably hiding away somewhere to escape from all the fuss.”

  I wouldn’t blame him. At least being in the kitchen with Uncle Mordy I’ve gotten a break from all the stress around here.

  I stick my head in the dining room on my way down to see if he’s in there trying to reach the juice machine or playing
with the salt shakers. The room is empty, and so is the laundry room at the bottom of the stairs.

  I close my eyes and try to think where I last saw him. He was pouring syrup over a waffle at breakfast and making a big mess. He kept asking to go swimming, but Uncle Mordy told him he couldn’t, because of all the —

  A cold wave washes over me and I run toward Reception. The door to the pool is open.

  He’s not there. I’m so relieved I start to cry. But then I see a flash of color in the shallow end.

  No! My brain shouts, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

  He’s at the bottom of the water, near the steps, his body a blur of blue shorts and yellow T-shirt, all wavy through the water.

  “Sammy,” I yell, finding my voice. “Sammy!” The blue and yellow blob doesn’t move.

  “Help!” I scream. “Help! Sammy’s in the pool!” No one answers.

  I’ve got to get him out. I step into the water, go right up to my waist. I shout at Sammy to move but he doesn’t.

  I can’t breathe and my legs won’t move. I force air into my lungs and tell my legs they have no choice and I throw myself off the step. My head stays above the water but I can’t reach Sammy like that so I do it —

  I go under, holding my breath and kicking my feet like Susan does.

  It works. I reach out my hands and grab Sammy under the arms. Water fills my nose and mouth and I’m screaming Sammy’s name underwater and then I stand up and pull him up to the surface.

  “Sammy, Sammy,” I’m yelling as I drag his limp body up the pool steps. He’s so heavy out of the water and I don’t think I can get him out and then all of sudden Uncle Mordy’s there, and Mom and Dad and Maria.

  Uncle Mordy lays Sammy down next to the pool and starts pushing on his chest while Dad yells into his phone for an ambulance. Mom kneels by Sammy’s head, saying his name over and over and over. I stand there shivering and dripping and I think I’m going to throw up.

  I run for the door, right into Mrs. Whitley. She takes one look at the scene inside and at the water dripping off me and scoops me up in her strong arms and buries my face in her shoulder. She somehow carries me out to Reception and sits down on the couch. She hugs me and rocks me back and forth and tells me it’s going to be okay.

  My eyes are closed but I can see Sammy’s still white face lying on the blue tile floor and I’m not sure it’s going to be okay.

  I scrunch my eyes even tighter together.

  And I pray.

  17

  ——

  The hospital is so quiet. Everyone seems to talk in whispers. Above all that silence is the beep-beep-beep of the machines that are supposed to be helping people get better.

  We sit in a little room next to a pair of electric doors that go into the ICU, where they are taking care of Sammy. I know why they call it a waiting room. That’s all we’ve been doing. Waiting.

  I’ve only been in a hospital once before, to visit Grandpa after he had surgery on his knee. That time everyone was smiling and Grandpa was making jokes about climbing Mount Everest and asking Grandma to sneak him in donuts because he didn’t like the hospital food.

  The only smiles here are the stiff, fake kind.

  Sammy hasn’t woken up. He’s only allowed to have two adult visitors at a time. But Uncle Mordy explains what happened and the nurse lets me go in. Dad takes me into the room, holding my hand tight. Mom is sitting next to the bed, stroking Sammy’s cheek. She looks up and reaches her hand out to me.

  My little brother looks so tiny on the big hospital bed, with a tube in his mouth and a bunch of thin tubes attached to his arms. The nurse says I can talk to him if I want to, that maybe he can hear me, so I put my face up to his ear.

  But then I can’t think of anything to say, so I take his hand and squeeze it — one, two, three — and I kiss his little cheek.

  Dad talks in a low voice to a doctor in the hallway and then takes me back to the waiting room before he goes back in to Sammy’s room. It feels like the clock on the wall has stopped. There are some other people here who must be waiting too, hoping that the person they love will be okay.

  I lie down across two of the chairs with my head in Uncle Mordy’s lap, and reach up and turn my hamsa around between my fingers.

  I must fall asleep because when I wake up Uncle Mordy’s moved to a chair and there’s a blanket over me. I sit up and can see the sun low in the sky through the window at the far end of the room. Mom and Dad are both in the waiting room, leaning against each other.

  “How’s Sammy?” I whisper.

  “He’s moving around a little, starting to wake up,” Dad says. “It’s a good sign.” He squeezes Mom’s shoulder. “The nurses are changing shifts and they asked us to go out for a bit.”

  There’s some noise in the hallway and I look over and see Father Donovan coming down the hall toward us. Dad goes to meet him and they talk quietly for a few moments. Dad looks back at me and Mom and then nods at Father Donovan, who heads back the way he came.

  And then he’s coming back, leading a group of people carrying bags and packages.

  Mr. and Mrs. Whitley.

  Maria and Susan.

  The couple who owns the gas station down the street and the guy who sells us popsicles.

  Kate and her brother, with her parents right behind them.

  Everyone pours into the room, and now I see the bakery guy and the man who cleans the pool. And guests from the motel. Lots of guests. People keep crowding in. I think maybe the whole Jewel is here.

  Father Donovan sets his bags down and I see challahs sticking out of them. Someone else has a tinfoil tray of chicken. I see the potato kugels and my brownies.

  “I hope we’re not intruding,” Father Donovan says. “We thought you could use your community at a time like this.”

  Mom starts to cry. Dad reaches for her hand.

  I look around at all the worried faces. Our community.

  Somehow there’s enough room for everyone. People sit on the other couches or the chairs along the sides of the room. Some stand. Susan and Kate sit on the floor.

  Father Donovan pulls something out of one of his bags and sets it on the counter across from the couch. It’s two little lights made to look like candles. He flicks a switch underneath them and the tiny bulbs at the top flicker like flames.

  “Rabbi Yael sent them. No real candles allowed in the hospital,” he says. He takes a plastic cup and a bottle of grape juice out of the bag. Maria pulls out two challahs and arranges them on a plate.

  I throw myself into Father Donovan’s arms, crying. He bends down and whispers into my ear, “You are so brave, Miriam. Like your namesake. She saved her brother too.”

  In the Torah, Miriam saves her baby brother, Moses. That makes me cry harder.

  He gives me a hug and a tissue and motions toward the window where the sky is getting dimmer. “Hurry.”

  I pull Mom over to the candles.

  I put my hands over my eyes and wait for Mom to say the blessing. Her voice is quivery so I join her:

  Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech Haolam, asher kidishanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel Shabbat.

  Blessed are You, Lord Our God, King of the Universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments, and commanded us to light the lights of Shabbat.

  I say an extra prayer to myself for Sammy and then turn around.

  Father Donovan takes Dad’s hand in his and then holds his free hand out to Maria. She takes it, and offers her other hand to Uncle Mordy. The ripple of hands moves from one person to another, the people sitting raising their hands to meet those who are standing and back down again. Mom takes my free hand in hers.

  A kind of silent hum takes over the room. It’s a vibration that seems to come from everyone’s hearts rather than their mouths.

  Some people have t
heir eyes closed and some look at the floor or at the candles. Mom catches Maria’s eye and they smile at each other, even though both of them are crying. Kate looks right at me and hugs me with her eyes.

  The room is still and quiet and at the same time bursts with energy.

  It’s as if everyone is praying, each in their own way.

  But for the same thing.

  18

  ——

  I’m on my back, eyes closed. I count out loud to ten, real slow, “… eight … nine … ten.”

  Next to me, Dahlia and Lekha start to cheer. “You did it! You did it!”

  Water splashes into my face and I roll onto my front. Even though I’m wearing floaties, I grab the railing of the ladder at the side of the deep end. Kate does a somersault underwater and comes up next to us.

  I love seeing Kate and Dahlia and Lekha together, even if it’s just for a few days.

  At the shallow end, Sammy paddles around in his water tube. Dad dives underneath him, making him giggle and shriek. He’s totally fine, and not the least bit afraid of the water, even though it’s been only two weeks since he almost drowned. The doctors at the hospital said it was a miracle.

  A real one.

  Through the open door, I hear Mom and Maria in Reception, laughing as they go through carpet samples, trying to find something that matches the couches and will hide the dirt from all the feet that walk through.

  Uncle Mordy went home last week to get ready for his classes. And even though Maria has a boyfriend again, a nurse she met at the hospital when Sammy was there, she and Uncle Mordy plan to talk on the phone once a week so he can practice his Spanish.

  It’s Friday. School starts next week.

  New kids, new teachers. Homework and tests.

  But today there’s swimming. And hanging out with my three best friends.

  “Yoo-hoo!” I hear through the pool door.

  And a grape pie to make for Shabbat dinner.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Like Miriam, community has always been very important to me, and I’m blessed to belong to so many of them.