Like No Other

by Una LaMarche

  I run my fingers over the wall where I know the buttons should be, trying to count floors and guess where the HELP button might fall on the bumpy grid. The worst that can happen is I press the alarm bell, which won’t win me any suave points but will still help our case. I tentatively press one button, then the next, and when nothing happens I start punching them harder, hitting everything I can.

  “Nothing,” I say with a sigh, finally giving up. Devorah doesn’t react. In fact, I haven’t heard her move once, not even just to shift her weight or swallow. I realize she must be scared, or maybe even claustrophobic. I need to make her feel comfortable.

  I reach into my back pocket for my phone—even the subways get reception now, and we’re barely underground in here—but there are no bars. I hold it up above my head, and its light gives me a few feet of visibility. The elevator is deep, maybe eight feet long to accommodate gurneys, and Devorah is backed into a corner, clutching a rail with each hand. Even though her face is a mask of fear, and despite the low light, I can tell I was wrong. She’s not just pretty, she’s beautiful. I can feel my mouth getting dry. “Is it okay if I, um, move around a little to see if I can get a signal?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she says, squinting into the light, trying to make me out. “Just . . . I’m over here, so . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “I won’t get too close.” I don’t know why I feel like such a predator all of a sudden when I’m trying to be the hero.

  I inch around the perimeter of the car, keeping the phone up above my head. Who am I even going to call if I get a bar? I can’t call 911; we’re already at the hospital. And while I do owe my mother a phone call there’s no way I’m going to give her the opportunity to chew my ear off, the rhythm of her loud, lightly accented alto voice quickening the more worried and angry she gets, while I’m trapped five feet from Devorah. Luckily—or unluckily; I guess both—I can’t find service.

  “Do you think the power’s out in the whole building?” she asks tentatively.

  “Yeah, probably.” I stick my phone back into my pocket, but my eyes have adjusted to the dark now, and I can see Devorah clap a hand over her mouth. “Hey, you okay?” I ask.

  She shakes her head no.

  “We’re gonna be fine,” I say. “There’s nothing to be scared of in here.” I force a smile, my stomach curdling as I realize the thing she could be scared of is me.

  “It’s . . . my niece,” she says, slow and high-pitched and kind of halting, like she’s trying not to cry. “She came early and she’s . . . in the NICU. What if she’s . . .”

  Relief washes over me, followed by guilt for being glad Devorah’s upset about a sick baby and not my company. “No,” I say, trying to sound authoritative even though it’s just now dawning on me that the other people in the hospital could be in serious trouble. “She’s fine. Those babies are the first ones they’re going to check on. And they’re used to these hurricanes now. They have the backup generators ready to go.”

  She swallows hard. “Then why is it still dark in here?”

  “Because . . . the cafeteria elevator is low priority. They know the worst condition we’ve got in here is munchies.” Fourteen years of big brothering have made me pretty good at making stuff up on my feet. I wish I hadn’t said “munchies,” though. She’s not eight.

  Devorah nods and slides down to the floor, pulling her knees in close to her chest. And suddenly, there is nothing more important to me than getting this girl back to her niece. I get a rush of dumb machismo.

  “You know what?” I say. “I’m gonna get us out of here.” As usual, my mouth is a few steps ahead of my brain, but I feel unusually sure of myself, backed up by some Superman-caliber adrenaline. I know I’ve seen dudes escape from elevators in movies, but I’ve never exactly taken notes on the process. What I do know is that I have two options: Try to pry apart the doors or bust through the service hatch in the ceiling and climb up the cable. I look down at my beat-up Converse sneakers; I hope they have some tread left.

  I think we’re between floors, so I’m not going to risk messing with the doors (also, I’m not sure I’m strong enough, and I don’t want to look stupid). The hatch, though—I’m pretty positive I could kick that open if I can get in the right position. It can’t be heavier than a 150-pound punching bag.

  “Is it okay with you if I try something?” I ask, pointing up to the square two feet above us. Devorah looks stricken but nods.

  “Be careful,” she says as I brace my hands on the railing.

  “Relax, I do this all the time,” I joke. She doesn’t laugh.

  I bounce a little bit to get a feel for the strength of the railing and the give of the floor, which moves a little bit under my weight but not enough to do any damage if I can support myself on my arms. I almost can’t believe that my basement hobby is going to come in handy. I know my dad wishes I played baseball, or at least something he could come watch me play in the park while eating a hot dog. He’s been squirreling away money for years for a college fund, but I know he’d rather I get a scholarship. “Why don’t you drop the ‘kick’ and just do boxing like Muhammad Ali?” he’ll comment with a laugh when he sees me padding downstairs in my shin guards. This is why, Dad, I think as I launch myself off the floor.

  I swing my legs up like I’m doing a handstand on the bar and kick as hard as I can at the ceiling. The muscles in my forearms shake as the soles of my shoes hit the underside of the hatch with a dull, heavy thud. It dents but doesn’t open, and the whole car sways.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t,” Devorah says sharply.

  “I can do this,” I mutter, flexing my hands before trying again. This time I twist while I jump, coming at the hatch from an angle and using the torque of my body to increase the force of my legs against the metal, and even I’m surprised when it clangs open, echoing through the tunnel above and sending soft light streaming in.

  “The emergency lights are on in the shaft,” I pant. “That’s a good sign.” I catch my breath and stare up at the steep seven-foot climb. I didn’t really think this through. “Hello?!?” I yell, cupping my hands around my lips. “Anybody up there? We’re stuck!” I shout two more times before deciding it’s a lost cause. On the floor, Devorah is covering her ears.

  “Okay,” I say. “I’m gonna climb up.” Something passes over her face that looks like relief, and a pang of shame blooms in my chest. None of this is impressing her. She’d probably rather be alone in here. I bend my knees and jump up, grabbing the edge of the hatch like a chin-up bar, and hoist myself through.

  There are two sets of twin cables attaching the elevator to whatever secures it at the top of the building. In my mind I had seen myself climbing one of the cables like a gym-class rope until I reached the first-floor doors, which I would then pry open with my bare hands, but (A) these cables are no thicker than two inches across, way too skinny to climb; (B) there’s a safety ladder bolted into the wall; and (C) even if I did climb the ladder, to open the door I’d have to hug the sheer face of the wall, Spider-Man style, which wouldn’t give me any room to maneuver. I’d probably fall just reaching for it.

  I don’t know this girl, Devorah. I don’t know her and she’s barely said two words, and she seems weird and cold and totally uninterested in me, but for some reason I still have this powerful urge to do it anyway, to step off the ledge and basically sacrifice myself to make her like me. It’s crazy—especially since we’re not exactly in imminent danger. But then I think of my four little sisters, my mom, and my dad, and the shoebox full of bills on the top shelf of my parents’ closet that’ll pay for my education, something they’ve worked their whole lives just to give me, and I talk myself down. There’s no reason to take such a stupid risk. I saw what happened to Ryan, and he just tried to jump a skateboard over a tree. What would my tombstone say? Here lies Jaxon Hunte: “A” Student, Hopeless Romantic, Virgin, Dumbass.

  I
yell for help again, and when no answer comes I lower myself back into the elevator. “Sorry,” I say, wiping my hands on my jeans. “I guess I need a stunt double.”

  “No,” Devorah says, her voice sounding strong and sure for the first time. “That was really brave.” She stands up and takes a step toward me, and as the light filters down through the hole above us, like artificial moonlight on a movie set, I can really see her eyes for the first time, big and gray flecked with shimmering hints of sky blue, like someone bottled that moment when Dorothy steps out of her black-and-white farmhouse and into Oz.

  That’s the moment I know I’m in trouble.

  Chapter 5

  Devorah

  AUGUST 28, 8 PM

  The first ten minutes stuck in the elevator are some of the scariest in my life. In fact, they probably would be the scariest if I hadn’t already been through Rose’s water breaking dramatically in the party goods aisle this morning. The first thing that runs through my head when the lights go out is that I’m violating yichud, which sends me into a panic. But then I quickly realize how selfish I’m being, thinking about my own perceived virtue when Liya is upstairs, less than an hour old and all alone and stuck in some sort of futuristic chafing dish that’s being kept warm only by electricity—electricity that is now gone. For a few minutes I feel afraid I might throw up, or pass out, and so I sit on the floor, trying to pray while this boy—Jaxon, with an X—jumps around like we’re in a bouncy castle.

  At first I think he’s just posturing and showing off, the way boys always do, which makes me irrationally angry, but then he actually kicks through the ceiling and tries to climb the cables like a superhero. And he’s trying so hard to put me at ease that I have to admit I’m starting to kind of let my guard down.

  “You live around here?” he asks. We’re sitting on opposite sides of the elevator car now. He’s got his legs splayed out in front of him in a big V, and I’ve got mine shut tight as a steel trap, tucked underneath me, with my hands holding the hem against my knees just in case.

  I nod. “Near Eastern Parkway.”

  “Me, too!” he says. “What block?”

  “Um . . .” I know I shouldn’t be giving out my address to a stranger, but I don’t want to seem like I think he’s some kind of criminal. I decide to be vague. “Just off Kingston Avenue,” I say.

  “What?! Me, too! We’re neighbors!” He’s visibly excited, like a little kid; it’s cute. I don’t have the heart to point out that while we might fit the dictionary definition, we are most definitely not neighborly. I’m not allowed to cross Eastern Parkway. The other side—Jaxon’s side—is “not our people,” according to my father. I give him the benefit of the doubt and believe that what he means is they’re not Jewish, not that they’re not white.

  “Don’t leave me hanging,” a voice says, and I realize I’m spacing out. Jaxon is holding up his hand, but I’m not sure what he expects me to do in response. I raise my right palm in a little wave, which seems to please him.

  A minute goes by, and I examine the beds of my fingernails to avoid making eye contact. Maybe this won’t be so hard. Maybe he’ll take the hint and we’ll just sit here on our opposite sides of the elevator and when I get out no one will be able to blame me, because I’ve done the best I could.

  But you can’t control another person, and Jaxon doesn’t seem to like the silence. “So, um, what’s your niece’s name?” he asks.

  I amend my rules. As long as I only answer questions, I won’t be making things worse.

  “Her name’s Liya,” I say, despite a twinge of regret at sharing the name with a stranger when my parents don’t even know yet. For some reason I feel compelled to add, “Liya with a Y, not like Jacob’s wife in the Bible.” A failed, nervous attempt at ice-breaking humor: definitely not part of the rules. Jaxon smiles.

  “Are you religious?” he asks. It’s all I can do to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “Um, yeah. I mean, yes.” My mom always scolds us when we don’t use proper words. But she’s not here. No one who knows “me” is, which means that I can say anything I want to. I’ve already started to deviate from the script. This realization fills me simultaneously with excitement and fear.

  “Me too, kind of,” he says. “Roman Catholic. I mean, that’s how I was brought up. But I think I might be . . . what’s the word for when you don’t really know what you are?”

  Tell me about it, I think. “Agnostic?” I say.

  “Yes, thank you. That.” He smiles, and I can’t help but smile back. He’s handsome—not in an obvious way; when his face is still, the features look kind of plain and even a little haphazard: eyes a little close together, nose a half inch too wide for the narrowness of his face, bottom lip fuller than the top so that it juts out ever so slightly, like a child’s pout. But then, when he breaks into a grin, everything aligns, like a constellation bursting into view through a sky of endless, hazy stars.

  “So why are you here?” I ask quickly. (I desperately want to change the subject. I wish I hadn’t made that joke about Liya’s name. Of all the things we could be talking about, why did I have to bring up religion? Why couldn’t I have stuck with something easy like the weather? Especially since we’re in the middle of a category three hurricane?)

  Jaxon laughs. “My idiot friend tried to jump over a tree on his skateboard,” he says.

  “I heard about that!” I blurt before I can stop myself. Talking to Jaxon feels so natural that I keep forgetting I’m not supposed to be doing it. Just answer his questions, I think. Don’t make conversation. Keep it together.

  “Wait, how?” He sits up straight and cocks his head, looking at me for a few seconds longer than feels comfortable. “You don’t go to my school, do you? I feel like I’d have noticed—” He pauses and smiles shyly. “I mean, I know I would remember you.” My cheeks flush, and I’m grateful for the dim lighting.

  “The doctor,” I say. “The doctor who took care of Rose—my sister—also fixed your friend’s shoulder.”

  “The redhead?” Jaxon relaxes and leans back, drawing one knee up. “Yeah, she was cool.”

  Conversation dies again, and I let it. Do not resuscitate! I think wryly, but that just makes me start to panic about Liya, so I take a few slow, deep breaths. Somewhere above, drifting down the elevator shaft, I can hear faint voices. I idly wonder if they’re coming from the main floor or from some other awkward little stage play in one of the other elevators.

  “So . . . your whole family must be up there freaking out right now, huh?” Jaxon says. He’s not willing to let this go. To let me go. And in spite of myself, I’m glad. No matter what it might say about me and my values, I need to talk to someone right now. I need distraction.

  “Actually, I’m the only one here,” I tell him. “My parents are out of town, and my brothers and sisters are at home with my zei . . . grandfather.” For some reason we’ve always called my grandfather “Zeidy,” but we never called my grandmother “Bubbe.” She was always Grandma—maybe because she converted from being a regular Jew to Chabad when she was eighteen, making her a ba’al t’shuvah, or “one who has returned.”

  “What happened to the baby daddy?” Jaxon asks. “He left?”

  “Oh, sorry, no, he’s here too.” How could I forget about my favorite person, Jacob? “But I had to be with my sister during the birth, because—” And yet again, I’ve steered the conversation right back where I started it.

  I smile tightly and think about how to explain yoledet to someone who doesn’t know it exists. I’ve never had a private conversation like this with an outsider. I’ve never had to explain anything, because in my world everything just is. For a second, I consider lying and just pretending I’m someone else. After all, I’ll never speak to Jaxon again once the power comes back on. This might as well be a dream. A very lucid and as it turns out very enjoyable dream. But then I decide that this oppor
tunity is too valuable. Where else will I find someone to listen without judgment? This might be the only chance I ever get to be completely honest without worrying about being proper.

  “Because,” I continue, “according to the laws of our religion, he’s not allowed to see or touch her body for at least two weeks.” Speaking of bodies, I almost feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. I can’t believe I’m talking about this to a guy—and not even a Jewish guy, let alone a fellow Hasid, which would be bad enough. This is exactly why the laws of yichud exist: Plop two teenagers in a confined space, let them get to talking, and sooner or later the conversation will go to a sinful place, and if they talk the talk . . . No. I have to shut down that train of thought before my brain explodes. I am going, my father would say, completely off the derech. I have to rein myself back in.

  “Wow,” Jaxon says. “That’s intense. What religion are you?”

  “I’m Hasidic,” I say. He looks at me again, his thoughtful brown eyes taking in my hair, my clothes, everything. I feel the blood rush to my face.

  “Well,” he finally says. “That explains the tights.” I’m so in need of tension release that I laugh much longer than I need to.

  “Yes. Yeah,” I say, course-correcting for my newfound freedom of speech. “I know it’s important, but in the summer it totally sucks.”

  “No disrespect,” he says, “but why does anyone care if you have bare legs? I mean, I get the no-booty-shorts policy, but if you’re wearing a long skirt who cares?”

  “It’s called tz’ni’ut,” I explain. “It means modesty. We’re not supposed to attract any attention to ourselves, so we have to keep covered up. Everything below the elbows and knees, at least. Some Chabad families are more liberal, but mine is . . .” I search for a kind word. There’s nothing wrong with my family’s values. The rules can feel very strict, but I have always respected them. “Traditional,” I finish.