The week slips off me: Neshama and Abba’s argument, their silence, Lindsay’s phone calls and her silence. Voices harmonize around us. I start to hum, and the tension melts from my shoulders, my lips forming the words. I haven’t prayed in months, not at school or at home.
The prayer ends, the tune melting into a psalm: Yedid Nefesh. I peer over the screen to see who is leading, but all I can see are rows of men’s heads and a small red-headed child dancing wildly on the shoulders of a very tall man.
The room grows more crowded, heat pressing in. Girls in rows ahead take off sweaters and reveal thin bare arms, shoulders even.
We slip from prayer to prayer, one continuous burst of song-filled energy and passion. The tunes are new, but the words are the same. I close my eyes and let my voice resound with the others. I don’t care what the words mean, I just want to sing.
When the singing stops I open my eyes and file out of the room into the cool spring evening. Sweat evaporates from my hair.
Ima kisses me. “Shabbat Shalom.” We stand on the pavement watching people greet each other. We start the long walk home.
“That was really different,” I say. We head up the hill on Bathurst, cars whizzing by.
Ima smiles at me. “The singing is good, isn’t it?”
I nod.
“You can really feel the presence of Hashem there.”
I shuffle my feet on the pavement, look down. “Ima.” I clasp my hands behind my back. “Do you really believe in, you know, believe in God?”
“Of course I do.”
“Even after what happened at Beth El?”
She blushes a little. “That’s just people acting foolish.”
I raise my eyebrows.
She sighs. “Look, this is the way I think about it. God—it’s a hard concept. Think of it as just a force.”
“A force?”
“Yeah, like gravity. You believe in gravity, right?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Well, that’s all God is.”
I crinkle my brow. “Something that holds us on the earth? That doesn’t make sense at all.” I swing my hands down against my thighs. “You can measure gravity—you use Newtons or whatever—but you can’t measure God.”
Ima nods and doesn’t speak. She stops at the intersection to wait for the traffic to clear. “Do you believe in love?”
“Pardon?”
“Do you believe in love?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Can you measure that?”
I swallow. “I guess not.”
“How do you know you’re feeling it?”
I think about Lindsay in her kilt and sweater running down the halls of her house. I miss her bitterly. I shake my head and concentrate on Ima. “You just do.”
“So, what’s the difference? We can’t measure love, but we never deny its existence.”
The traffic light changes, and Ima starts walking. I pause on the sidewalk. We can’t measure love, but we never deny its existence. And God? I jog to catch up to her. “I don’t get it. It’s just the same?”
“Well, that’s the way I think of it.”
“And science?”
Ima looks at me. “Sure. Love, science—I don’t think there’s much difference. Do you want to walk through the ravine?”
The light is starting to fade around us. “We’ll have to walk fast.”
We head down the slope to the path. The snow has melted and the earth looks raw and tired, dark piles of mulch, rotted leaves tamped down.
“In Jerusalem,” Ima continues, “when we walked to shul you could see the whole city quieting down, everyone getting ready for rest, the traffic thinning out. I loved that.”
“Ima, what you said about God and love, you think it’s in all love?”
“Sure. I think so, don’t you?”
I kick some rotted leaves. “Even if you love the wrong person?”
“Oh, I don’t think there’s any such thing.”
“Really?”
“As long as they don’t hurt you.”
“And if they do?”
She glances at me. I squirm. “Then you leave. Fast.” I avoid looking at her. “I still think love is always good. I loved being in California, and I don’t think it was the right thing for me, but I still felt loved there.”
“Do you ever think about going back?”
Ima looks up at the trees, shrugs her shoulders. “I want to be somewhere quiet, somewhere without traffic and, you know, people who judge, the Mrs. Bachners of the world maybe. But not there. I like that shul, just song and prayer.” Ima grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze. “I’m really glad you came with me tonight. I knew you’d like it.”
“The singing was good.”
“We’ll have to take Neshama or Abba.”
“I don’t think Neshama wants to go to shul anymore.”
Ima’s voice is sad. “I know.”
The light around us dims into shadows, the bushes looming around us. “We’d better run if we’re going to make it before it’s really dark. Abba and Neshama will be waiting, hungry.”
Ima nods and we pick up our pace, jogging along the dark path toward the streetlights at the top of the hill.
Ten
The week before school finishes in June, I come home Friday afternoon to find Ima, Bubbie and Neshama in the living room. Bubbie’s silver hair is cut shorter, and her low neckline reveals a small diamond pendant. Her long nails are the same hot pink as her blouse and her high-heeled sandals.
“Hey,” I say, “what’s going on?”
“We’re talking about Neshama’s bright future in the business world.” Bubbie pats Neshama’s knee and gives me her brightest smile.
I look over at Ima. She is slumped in the wingback chair, her chin almost resting on her chest. She looks defeated, as if someone has socked her in the stomach.
Bubbie sighs and crosses her legs, dangling a sandal off her bare foot. “Annabelle, you have to be realistic. The girls don’t want to be teachers. And not all people in finance work such crazy schedules. You can still be frum and make money. And really, how do you expect the girls to support themselves, or families, anyway?”
Ima ignores the jab at her and Abba’s jobs. “Is this what you really want to do?” she asks Neshama.
Neshama nods.
“Oh,” Ima says. She cranes her neck around to look at me. “Ellie?”
“Fish,” Neshama says, before I can respond.
“Pardon?” Ima asks.
“She wants to study something to do with fish and rocks,” Bubbie explains.
“A zookeeper,” Neshama offers.
“Oceanographer,” Bubbie says.
“Ellie?” Ima asks.
I pause in the doorway. “Echinoderms,” I murmur. I taste the shape of the word on my lips. I have never said it aloud before. I’ve never been asked what I want to do.
Bubbie continues, “Ellie should take night school courses, in addition to her regular school. Maybe in the fall.”
I whisper, “Geology,” like it’s holy. I feel like I might swoon.
“The girls need to follow their interests,” Bubbie says. “You know, explore. Just like you did. Turkey for you. University for them.”
Ima blushes slightly. “I went to university.”
“You didn’t finish.”
“Tell us about Turkey, Ima,” Neshama says.
“Oh, you’ve heard it a million times.”
“Well, then, how about the nun stage?” Bubbie suggests.
“Yes, the nun stage!” Neshama exclaims.
I sit down on the sofa next to Neshama. “Why did you want to be a nun?”
“I liked the idea of silence.”
“That and being the bride of Christ.” Bubbie crosses herself.
“It was a very spiritual place.”
“So why didn’t you stay?” I ask.
“I was going to—”
“But her father swore he’d never talk to her again,�
� Bubbie says.
“He was always threatening that,” Ima says.
“He wouldn’t have been able to talk to you if you were in a silent convent,” Neshama adds.
“That’s true.”
“So, what happened?”
“I met your Abba.”
Neshama frowns. “That always happens just when a story is getting good. Some guy shows up and that’s the end.”
If it’s not a guy, then how does the story end?
The front door opens and we hear Abba call, “Shalom.”
“We’re all in the living room,” Bubbie replies.
Neshama darts into the kitchen and closes the swinging door. “I’m not here,” she whisper-hisses.
“Good evening. What’s going on?” Abba looks suspiciously at us.
“Ellie wants to study fish,” Ima says to him.
“Rocks and volcanoes too,” I add. I feel giddy with possibility.
“Rocks?”
“Uh-huh.” I turn myself upside down, hair hanging on the floor, long legs dangling over the armrest. “Not only sedimentary and igneous, but volcanic.” I think of hot lava pouring over a volcano’s edges. “Did you know...?” I swing myself back upright. “You can tell the age of the earth? And it’s old, so old it’s even older than...it’s absolutely ancient.”
“We think Ellie should take night school courses next fall—you know, geology,” Bubbie explains.
Abba drums his fingers on the doorjamb. “These rocks and fish, how will they make you live better?”
“Oh, Avram, it’s not about that,” Bubbie says.
“Ellie,” he says, sitting down next to me, “if it’s not about that, what good is it?”
Neshama sticks her head in the room. “It’s not for her soul. It’s for her mind. So it grows and expands.”
“And you can’t do that with Torah?”
“You can.”
“So?”
“It’s just not the only way.”
“But it’s the best way.”
“For you maybe,” Neshama says.
Abba doesn’t say anything, and again I see them locked eye to eye.
“Neshama is only half right,” I say softly. They turn to look at me. “Volcanoes and rocks, they’re science, but Hashem created them, right? And if we don’t learn to protect them, then we are ruining God’s creations. That’s got to be from the Sitra Achra, right?”
Abba smiles at me, laughs out loud. “A tongue she has,” he says, rubbing his hands together. “With it you will argue Torah well,” he announces.
“And what about fish and rocks?” Bubbie says.
“Maybe it’s all the same,” I say. “Maybe.” My mind reels. They all stare at me. “A geologist could help heal the earth. What better job could there be?” I back out of the room. “Excuse me, I need to do something.” I lope up the stairs to my room, grab the canister of fossils and my Chumash out of my backpack and start rifling through the pages. Yes, a geologist heals the earth. This is Torah.
I spend the afternoon in the backyard underneath the chestnut tree with my back pressed up against its trunk, reading through Deuteronomy for specific passages. I mark them with my pencil and fold the corners of the pages. From the house I hear Ima and Abba getting ready for Shabbos. Bubbie has invited herself for dinner and is making salads in the kitchen. I ignore Abba’s requests for help, pretending not to hear him. Gently I spill the canister of fossils across the open pages of my Chumash. I finger them, imagine the heat they’ve been exposed to, the pounding water carving that enormous depth in the middle of desert, sand stretching across the horizon, layered like a cake. I squeeze the shells tight. I’ve got love in my fingers, ocean in my hands, gravity here in my palms.
And protecting the land, all the lands, this has to be Torah.
WE ARE A silent, cautious group around the Shabbos table. I can hear birds singing from the yard through the open windows as we do the blessings. Neshama wears a short-sleeved T-shirt with her long skirt. Abba stares at her bare arms.
“So,” Bubbie says, “I was thinking I’d help Neshama get settled out in Vancouver.”
“That would be fine.” Abba’s voice is formal. “Thank you.”
“And I was thinking Ellie could come along, make a holiday of it.”
I sit bolt upright. “I get to go? To the sea?”
“If your parents allow you to go—”
“Oh, please, please, please.” I leap out of the chair and kneel by Abba. “Please let me go. I’ll wear whatever you want, and I’ll only eat kosher and—please.”
Abba stares at me, eyes uncertain. “I’ll think about it.”
“Abba, I have to go.”
“Why are you so anxious?”
“It’s the sea.”
“She’s been dying to go forever,” Neshama says.
“You know, the fish thing,” Bubbie explains.
“She has asked to go for years,” Ima adds.
“Enough, sha. I said I’d think about it.”
“It’s fine with me, Ellie.”
I turn to Ima. “Really?”
“Sure. You went away with Bubbie last summer and it was fine, wasn’t it?”
I blush.
“Yes, it was excellent,” Bubbie says. “We had a great time, didn’t we? We’ll get your sister settled in Vancouver, and after that we’ll head to Vancouver Island and explore the seashore for creatures.”
I do a small dance, wiggling my hips and shoulders. “I’m going to the sea!”
I’ll see rocks eroded by waves in small whirlpool clefts. I’ll peer into tide pools and see hermit crabs scuttle, the stillness followed by the sudden dart of tide pool sculpin. Bull kelp will wave in long tangly strands, and the shore will be squishy with rock lettuce. And when the tide goes really far out I’ll be able to find sea stars and sea cucumbers and...and...and... “Check it out.” I pull up my sleeve and flex for Neshama, grunting. Abba’s mouth falls open. Ima breaks into laughter.
“So, I can go, Abba, please?”
He looks down, moves his fork across his plate.
“What are you so worried about?” Bubbie folds her arms across her chest.
“I kept kosher last time. And I prayed and kept Shabbos.”
“I’m worried about other things.”
“Well, what?”
Abba blushes.
Ima glances at him. “You’re worried about boys. That’s it, isn’t it?”
Neshama spits a mouthful of red wine onto her dinner plate.
“I’m an excellent chaperone,” Bubbie says. “We had no problems last summer.”
Neshama starts to giggle so hard she chokes. I grab her arm and, pounding her back, drag her into the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Ellie,” she snorts.
“Shhhh!”
I stand behind the closed, swinging door.
“Let’s do the final scene from Dirty Dancing,” she says. “You be Baby—go sit in the corner—and I’ll be Patrick Swayze.”
“I’m trying to listen.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll get to go. As long as you promise, no boys.” She slaps a hand against her thigh.
“Shut up.” I elbow her in the ribs. She gets me in a head-lock, rubs her knuckles over my scalp. I pull away, trying to tickle her. She whoops, giggling. We knock over a chair.
“Girls?” Bubbie swings the door open.
We look up, still wrapped around each other, tittering. Our hair is mussed, our clothes askew.
“What are you doing?”
“Wrestling.” I pin Neshama against the wall by the phone.
Bubbie pauses. “Oh, well, I have to go. Canasta,” she says loudly. Then she whispers, “Before they start praying again.” She points toward the dining room.
Neshama wriggles one arm out of my grasp. “You won’t stay for dessert?”
“No, stop by tomorrow. We’ll talk about our trip.”
I let go of Neshama. “I get to go?”
Bubbie nods.
I fling my arms around Bubbie, smack a noisy kiss on her rouged cheek. Neshama stumbles and squeezes her arms around the both of us.
“Okay, enough with the love.” Bubbie grimaces.
“Love, a force like gravity!”
“What?”
“Never mind. Wanna see my triceps?” I roll up my sleeve. Bubbie pokes my arm. “Wow. Push-ups?”
“Yep.”
We kiss Bubbie good-bye and bring the fruit platter into the dining room.
Ima looks at me. “You can go.”
“Thank you.” I wrap my arms around her and give Abba a quick kiss on the cheek.
“You’re welcome.” She dishes pineapple out onto plates.
“What are you guys going to do this summer?”
“I’m teaching a summer course,” Abba says. He looks at Ima. “Nu?”
Ima doesn’t answer.
“Are you going to tell them?” he asks.
Ima blushes and puts down her fork. “I have a new plan.”
I freeze, fork in midair. “For what?”
“You know, helping people be more observant.”
“What’s that?” I ask. “I’m going to be teaching a class about women and Judaism this fall.”
I look at Abba. He smiles at us.
“More anti-dating?” Neshama asks.
“Yes, and other things too.” Ima hesitates. “I’d like one thing from all of you before the summer. I want you to come to shul with me. My shul.”
“That’s it?” Neshama blurts out.
“That’s it.”
Neshama nods. “No problem.”
“Avram?”
“What kind of shul?”
“Orthodox.”
He pauses. “I’ll think about it.”
AFTER DINNER, NESHAMA and I head to the back porch. The chestnut tree is in bloom, the leaves green and full, the blossoms small white tufts like popcorn. Next door the forsythia in Mrs. Fidderman’s yard has already bloomed. Magnolia petals litter her lawn.
We sit on the stairs, drinking tea. A warm breeze blows, ruffling our hair.
“Ellie, why do you want to be near the sea? You’ve never even seen it.”
“It’s not just the sea. I want to see tide pools.”
“Shells and seaweed?”
“Yes, but also jellyfish and sea stars, red and purple and—”
“But what do you like about it?”
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