How to Find What You're Not Looking For

by Veera Hiranandani

  You run to your parents’ bedroom and open the door without knocking. The radio is on, but Ma is asleep. She looks so peaceful, almost like a young girl. You back out of the room, closing the door slowly. If she forgot about Rosh Hashanah, you don’t want to be the one to tell her.

  You go back in the kitchen and look in the refrigerator. You and Daddy had TV dinners last night, but the thought of having them again tonight feels wrong. There are some onions, celery, and carrots in the crisper. You take them out. They look a little wilted, but not rotten. In the freezer are some chicken parts. You’ve seen Ma cook soup a million times, so you try to remember what she does. You put the vegetables and chicken in Ma’s big soup pot, fill it with water, and plop in a bouillon cube. Then you turn up the heat.

  Ma always puts in fresh dill, which looks like big hairy pieces of grass, but you don’t see any. She usually puts other vegetables in it, too, but the carrots, celery, and onion will have to do. You find some dry dill in the spice drawer. You sprinkle that in with some salt and pepper. You don’t know how to make matzo balls, but there’s a bag of egg noodles in the pantry, so you take those out. Ma always cooks them separately and then puts them in the soup, so you boil another pot of water for those.

  When Daddy comes home, the soup pot has been simmering for a while and the noodles are done, drained, and waiting. You don’t know how long you’re supposed to cook the soup, but the apartment has started to smell the way it’s supposed to, the steamy scent of boiled vegetables, chicken, and dill taking over.

  “What are you making?” Daddy says to you, surprised. He doesn’t seem mad that you were cooking by yourself.

  “Soup. I think.”

  Daddy comes over next to you and looks in the pot. “I’m impressed,” he says and starts making his coffee in the percolator. You both stand there quietly, watching things boil. Daddy puts his hand on your shoulder and squeezes before getting a mug.

  “Why is Ma sleeping so much?” you ask, stirring and stirring the soup.

  He sighs. “Why don’t you put the cover on so the water doesn’t boil off?”

  “Okay,” you say and do as you’re told. “I thought she was almost better.”

  “It’s her medication,” he says. “But she’ll stop taking it when she’s not dizzy anymore. Don’t worry, your mother will bounce back. She’s a fighter.”

  A fighter. You never thought about Ma that way. Maybe the way she puts on her heels and marches off to the bakery every morning—always ready to roll out dough, always ready to argue with the delivery people—then comes home and puts dinner on the table, no matter what, all the while keeping her lipstick fresh, is kind of a fight.

  You find an apple. It’s a little bruised, but it will do. You cut it up and put some honey in a little glass bowl. You set that on the table before serving the soup. Daddy looks at it, confused, and then his face fills with recognition.

  “I didn’t think you’d remember.”

  “Daddy, did you not want me to remember?”

  He looks at you carefully. “Oh no, that’s not why.”

  “It makes me sad to miss Rosh Hashanah.” As you say it, you’re surprised how sad it does make you.

  “It was just too much right now, the trip to Brooklyn or having family here. We thought it would be easier if we didn’t talk about it or make a big deal.”

  You swallow. “I think most things are easier if you do talk about them. I feel like everyone is lying to me all the time.”

  Daddy takes off his glasses and faces you. “Oh, Ari. I don’t mean for you to feel that way.”

  A few seconds go by as you stare at the honey glistening in its little glass bowl. “Ma must be sad, too.”

  “She is,” he says. “She loves this time of year.”

  “Are you sad?” you ask him.

  “Yes, I am,” he says.

  You hand him an apple slice. “Baruch atah Adonai,” he says in Hebrew as he begins the blessing over the apples and the prayer for a sweet new year. You say it along with him, and then you both dip the slices in honey, clink them together, and eat them.

  Then Daddy says, “I’m kind of glad that you’re sad.”

  “Why?” You wipe some honey off your lip, but now your hands are sticky.

  “Because the holiday means something to you. When we decided to move to a place with such a small Jewish community, we didn’t know how it would be for you and Leah. And lately I wonder if we made the wrong decision.” He sits back in his chair and rubs his chin. Then he takes another apple slice and eats it slowly, bite by bite. “You make choices in life,” he says while he chews. “But sometimes you want one thing so much, you don’t see what you might lose if you get it.”

  You think about what your father is saying and drag an apple slice through the thick honey before putting it in your mouth. Maybe it also means that Leah wanted Raj so much that she didn’t see what she’d lose, either.

  “Let’s have the soup before it gets cold,” Daddy says.

  The bowl of steaming broth heaped with noodles makes you feel a little better, and it tastes pretty good with lots of salt and pepper. After dinner, Daddy checks on Ma and then gets in his easy chair with the paper. You go to your room. You sit down and write:

  Sticky Fingers

  Tonight I said the blessing

  for the sweet new year,

  my fingers sticky

  with honey

  and the apples I spread it on.

  It feels good

  to at least be able

  to make this wish.

  I like how the sweetness

  stays on my tongue,

  even if all I can see

  right in front of me

  are hard days ahead.

  You read the poem over a few times, even once out loud. You never do that. Usually just getting something out on paper feels like plenty, so you only read them once. But this time, you see a few words that could be taken out and think of a few words you want to add. It’s almost like remembering a dream: The more you think about it, the clearer it becomes. Then you do something you’ve never done before. You rewrite it.

  A Blessing

  Tonight I said the blessing

  for a sweet new year,

  my fingers sticky

  with apples and honey.

  And it feels good

  to make this wish

  and taste the sweet honey

  on my tongue,

  even if all I can see

  in front of me

  are bitter days ahead.

  The next morning, Jane is at the bus stop, holding her gray wool coat together by the front, her schoolbag hanging off her shoulder. She’s wearing a headband that pulls her bangs back. You don’t think you’ve ever seen so much of her face.

  “Your eyes look pretty,” you say.

  “Why, thank you,” Jane says in a southern accent and bats her eyelashes. She shivers. “It’s really cold. When is the stupid bus coming?”

  You both look down. The air is brisk, and you can smell the drying leaves all around you. But your body feels warm.

  “Time is running out,” you say.

  Jane looks alarmed. “What do you mean? Is your mother okay?” she asks.

  “I think so,” you say. “But I wonder if her migraine problem would have gotten this bad if she had just talked to Leah. It’s gotten so much worse since Leah left. My parents didn’t even want to celebrate Rosh Hashanah yesterday. I don’t know what’s going to happen next.”

  “What’s Rosh Hashanah again?” Jane asks.

  “It’s the Jewish New Year,” you say. You explain it to Jane every year, because normally you get to miss school for the holiday. It’s weird that a holiday you’ve celebrated your whole life is a mystery to so many people around y
ou.

  “Oh, that’s right.” Jane kicks a pebble on the sidewalk. “Are you really going to move?” she asks, looking toward the pebble.

  “I think so,” you say and look at Jane.

  “That would really be rotten.”

  “I know. We’ve lived in the same building forever. But we’ll still be friends, right?”

  “Of course,” Jane says.

  Then you both walk in silence for a bit.

  “I also don’t want to move without Leah knowing where we are,” you say. “It’s too much. I have to find her no matter what happens.” Any doubts you had evaporated when Ma went to the hospital. You’ve never been more sure that this is what you have to do.

  “Then we’ll find her,” Jane says. “Next Tuesday.”

  “Next Tuesday?”

  “Yes, we’ll find her next Tuesday. Because I have play rehearsal then. But I’m barely in the show. They’re working on the opening number. They won’t even notice I’m gone.”

  “But my parents will notice,” you say.

  “Not if you say you’re in the play.”

  “Jane, they’ll never believe me.”

  The bus comes. You both hurry to your usual seat toward the back and sit for a moment, thinking as the bus lurches forward.

  “I could say I’m doing tech for the play. That sounds more believable.”

  “Great idea,” Jane says. Then she taps you on the knee. “I think you’d be a good actress, you know. You have a presence.”

  “A presence. Like how?”

  Jane turns her face up toward the bus window and then back at you. “It’s kind of hard to explain. Sort of like you’re more there than some people.”

  “Oh,” you say. “Thanks.”

  All day you think about what Jane said. Miss Field once told you an old saying—that a razor blade is sharp but can’t cut down a tree and that an ax is strong but can’t cut hair. When you asked her what it meant, she said, “It means you have everything you need. You just have to find the right purpose to suit the tools you have.”

  To you, acting in a play feels like trying to cut down a tree with a razor blade. Your presentation, though—the way people listened to you, wanted to know what you thought—felt like you were cutting hair with the razor. Or something like that.

  How to Make Stuff Up

  Missing

  I am searching for her

  because I need her

  even if she doesn’t need me.

  And I promise

  I will not be mad

  when I find her.

  You type this at lunch when Miss Field sits at her desk, going through papers, eating what smells like a tuna-fish sandwich. When you come up with a poem, you want to write it down as soon as possible because you forget it if you don’t, and that feels like dropping an ice-cream cone.

  As soon as you finish, you pull out the paper, fold it up, and stuff it in your pocket. Then you take a bite of your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich and chew for a moment.

  “Ariel,” Miss Field says. “I don’t mean to pry, but I think I saw you put a poem in your pocket.”

  You spin around before you can even think about it and the color rises in your cheeks. Miss Field gets up, walks toward you, and pulls up a chair.

  She leans forward. You lean back.

  “I really would love to see more of your poems,” she says. “I won’t correct them if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  She holds her chin with two fingers and then lets it go. You study her face. Her blinking blue eyes, her long features, her pale skin. You wonder what she was like as a girl in school. Was she like Jane? Like Leah? Was she like you?

  “I want you to read them,” you say. “But I also don’t.”

  “Okay. Why?”

  You’re not quite sure of the answer. You take the poem out of your pocket and grip it tightly. You think and think. “Because,” you say after a moment. “Once you read it, the poem will change.”

  “Interesting,” she says. “Tell me more.”

  “The words I wrote might mean something different to you.”

  Miss Field sits back in her chair and crosses her arms.

  “They might,” she says.

  “I don’t want them to. I want them to mean to you exactly what they mean to me.”

  “That makes sense,” she says and pauses for a moment. “But that’s art, Ariel. It’s your gift to the world. People will see what they need to see. Sometimes it will mean to them exactly what it meant to you. Those people are your soul mates.”

  Your soul mates? You’re not sure about that. Sometimes Miss Field talks like she has an idea of how she wants things to be, but it isn’t how they really are.

  “I just write the poems for myself,” you say.

  Miss Field nods. “That’s good. That’s why you should write them. I didn’t show my poems to anyone for a while, either, but it got too hard for me to carry all alone. Writing is communication.”

  “What was too hard for you?” you ask. You’ve never spoken like this to a teacher, as if they were just another person, a friend.

  “Hard?” she asks.

  “Yes, you said it got too hard for you to carry all alone.”

  “Oh,” she says. “Just some difficult things that happened in my family. So I wrote about what I was feeling. After a while, I started showing them to people. I started reading them out loud. I still do.”

  You want to ask her what exactly those difficult things were, but you don’t, and you push the poem back into your pocket. The paper is a little damp now from the grip of your sweaty hand. Would it make you feel a little lighter to let Miss Field read it? Would it make you feel like you had less to carry?

  She watches you, and you give the poem to her, slowly, carefully, like you’re handing her a newly hatched chick. Miss Field seems to understand this, because she takes it from you just as delicately.

  “Thank you,” she says in a low tone. “It’ll be just between you and me.”

  “It’s just made-up stuff.”

  She reads it quickly with her eyebrows knitted together. Then she folds it gently and gives it back to you. “All poems are real and not real at the same time,” she says. “But what’s true and not true is your business.”

  “Okay,” you say, but you know your poems are not made-up. They are all real.

  “You manage to put a lot in just a few words. I like the way you connect the idea of needing and searching.”

  “Really?” you say.

  “Really. Don’t stop. You inspire me.”

  “Thank you,” you say, but you wonder if she’s lying to you just so you’ll keep writing. But maybe a lie like that isn’t so bad.

  Back on the bus, you think about Miss Field. You still don’t understand why she wants to help you.

  “So, Tuesday,” Jane says when she sits down next to you.

  You remember and smile as you sink back into your seat.

  “I drew up a plan,” Jane says. She opens one of her school folders and takes out an intricate map drawn on white paper. Everything on it is outlined in black ink and then filled in with colored pencils.

  It shows your town, the school, your apartment building, the train station, and even Gertie’s. There are little drawings of you and Jane and descriptions and dotted lines marking the places you’ll go. There are times and dates listed, even the train schedule.

  You especially love the way she drew Gertie’s. There are tiny pastries and cookies in the cases that sit near the window of the shop. You have never been more grateful for Jane. She’s helping you carry some of this.

  “This is really swell! I didn’t you know you could draw.”

  “I’m a multitalented gal,” she says, trying to brush off the compliment, but you see her grow pink
underneath her freckles.

  “How come you’ve never showed me anything before?”

  Jane shrugs. “There was no reason to,” she says.

  You nod because you know exactly what she means. Maybe someday you’ll show Jane some of your poems. You think of what Miss Field said about art again: It’s your gift to the world. This map feels like that: like a gift to you from Jane.

  You go over your plan. The first part takes place today. You’ll tell Daddy that you’ve joined the theater tech club. Then you’ll tell him that your first meeting is on Tuesday and you won’t be home until eight. It’s perfect.

  How to Lie and Tell the Truth at the Same Time

  At Gertie’s, you burst through the door, wave to Gabby, take off your coat, and ask Daddy what you can help with. It feels like months since you’ve been here. You stretch out your fingers. You don’t even want a snack. You just want to pull and push and pound and mix. The less you are at Gertie’s, the less you feel like yourself.

  “We need some more black and whites,” Daddy says. “Can you make a batch for me?”

  “Uh-huh,” you say. You haven’t made them in a while, but step by step, you remind yourself. Everything is easy like that.

  You head to the file drawers to check the recipe. Usually Daddy and Ma don’t need them anymore, but sometimes they change things, and you like to study them. The recipes make so much sense to you. In a way, they’re like poems. You read.

  For the batter:

  2 1/2 cups unbleached all-purpose flour

  1 tsp baking soda

  A big pinch of baking powder

  1 tsp salt

  2/3 cup buttermilk

  1 tsp vanilla

  2/3 cup unsalted butter, softened

  1 cup granulated sugar

  2 large eggs

  4 tsp grated lemon zest