The Ninth Day

by Ruth Tenzer Feldman

  She put the doll on my desk. When she faced me again, her eyes had hardened. “Hope, we must talk of your grandmother Miriam, daughter of Julius, who has worn this garment. We must talk of the young woman Dolcette. She has great need of you. Please sit by my side. I have much to explain.”

  I didn’t budge. “You were in my grandfather’s room, weren’t you? I heard you talking to him.”

  She tapped a finger on her knee, a fast, impatient rhythm. “Your grandfather knows of me. Your grandmother has traveled with me.”

  I shook my head. “You had no right barging into his room and telling him that he’s dying.” My throat tightened. This strange girl voiced a truth I didn’t want to hear.

  I took a breath and continued. “If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police.” Me? Using the phone? Highly unlikely, but I didn’t have to tell her that. I swallowed hard, forcing myself to stay calm.

  The girl stared at my rug, her finger frozen mid-tap.

  Silence.

  Then she stood and smoothed her robe. “This is difficult for you, and I cannot force you. Please know that Dolcette cannot wait long. Once you are intertwined with her, you may leave your here and now and return in an instant, but a day in your time is also a day for Dolcette.”

  ”Who’s Dolcette? You’re not making any sense.”

  ”Come and see.” She stepped closer.

  I reached behind my back for the doorknob, and eased the door open a crack.

  ”I have traveled a long way through the olam for you. Through every place and all time. Time is boundless for me, but Dolcette needs you now. She has only eight days. Less and less as the minutes go by.”

  ”I see,” I said. And I did. She was definitely tripping on something.

  The girl touched the box of dreidels I planned to give to my friends. “May I have one of these Hanukkah tops as a token in exchange for the guardian doll?”

  I wanted to shout at her to go away and leave me alone, but I’ve learned the hard way with Dagmar that when someone’s high you don’t shout at them. They could freak, and then you’d really have a problem on your hands.

  Instead I said, “Sure. Take two. It’s really time for you to leave.” I motioned toward the window. Letting her out through the garage would have been easier, but I didn’t want her to come any closer.

  ”I will take only one for Dolcette.” She cocked her head and looked at my bandages. “You have an injury?”

  ”I’m fine.”

  ”Then I shall not fear for your safety when we travel through the olam. Now it is time for you to fetch your cat.”

  ”Why?”

  ”I must leave the way that I came.”

  Which I figured was through the window. At least that made sense. Maybe she didn’t want Sylvester to run after her. Okay, I could play that game. The instant I turned my back and stepped into the hall, I saw a bluish spark of light reflecting off the wallpaper in front of me. That same blue. Was my brain becoming sensitive to a certain kind of light? Could there be some crazy post-LSD neural link between seeing blue flashes and speaking like a normal person? That would be a welcome side effect. Bring on the blue! I made a mental note to ask the doctor when Mom and I saw him again.

  Sylvester meowed from under my workbench. By the time I coaxed him into my arms and returned to my room, the girl was gone. I latched the window shut. I was not about to let any of Dagmar’s friends scare me like that again.

  Sylvester attacked the doll. I let him claw it to pieces.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Fifteen minutes later, Dagmar knocked on the window. I helped her climb inside.

  Judging from her breath, she was more drunk than high. While she stripped for bed, she showed me the remains of a large chrysanthemum she’d tucked into her cleavage. Her mango-sized breasts jiggled, teasing me that the demi-gods of DNA had bestowed Mom’s gorgeous figure, thick black curls, and hazel eyes on my sister. I got stuck with cow-brown eyes, tits the size of Meyer lemons, and the droopy blond hair belonging to Dad’s side of the family.

  ”Feel how soft the petals are, Hopey-Poo,” she said, sounding more like nine than nineteen. “Soft as a baby’s behind. Soft as my behind.” She patted her bare bottom, which is another reason why I don’t bring my friends down here, not even Leona. You never know when my sister is going to be sleeping something off, but you can bet she’ll be sleeping in the nude.

  ”Y-you c-came home early.” I said, voicing my excuse for the window being latched. I sounded like me again, which was both comforting and a disappointment.

  Dagmar flashed her little-girl pout. “No one to play with. My friends are pissed that Mario and some other free speech guys got this expulsion letter from the high mucky-mucks. Everybody and his uncle are glum, glum, glum, and then some. I had to settle for wine, ‘cause you don’t want to trip when you’re surrounded by totally bad karma.”

  Dagmar smiled at me and recited what she calls her LSD nursery rhyme:

  Sing a song of sixpence

  A pocketful of rye

  Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie

  When the pie was opened the birds began to sing.

  Oh wasn’t that a tasty dish to set before the king.

  ”Acid is just fungussy rye,” she explained to me for the gazillionth time. “It’s the fungus among us. A natural high, Hopey-Dope.”

  I clenched my fist. “You puh-romised that…”

  Dagmar hit her forehead with the palm of her hand. “You’re right, you’re right. You are so right. I promised no stashes of the good stuff in our bedroom and no jokes with you about acid until the day after forever.”

  Then she got that older sister, sympathetic look. “Aren’t you supposed to change your bandages every night? Here, let me help you.”

  I thrust my hands in front of my face. “All d-done,” I lied. “D-do you know a g-girl with buh-ronze skin and wh-white eyebrows?”

  ”What’s her name?”

  I shook my head. Had she told me? “She b-barged in on Guh-randpa. And and she cuh-limbed in the w-window.”

  ”Wild. And then what?”

  ”I g-gave her a duh-reidel, and she l-left.”

  My sister wiggled under the covers and giggled. “Good job, Hope Springs Eternal. We all love your dreidels.” She sang her crazy version of I Have a Little Dreidel off-key, which grated like nails on a blackboard.

  I have Hope’s little dreidel.

  She made it out of wood.

  And when I’m high and ready,

  I’ll spin it and feel good.

  So much for Dagmar’s promises.

  The garage door opened.

  ”D-Dad’s home. Puh-ipe down.”

  ”Ooh, shhhhhh,” she told herself. “We mustn’t disturb The Great Dane, our famous physicist, while he solves the mysteries of the universe!” She giggled again and stumbled out of bed. I managed to drape my quilt over her as she opened the bedroom door, and I wedged myself in front of her, in case the quilt slipped.

  Dagmar flapped the sides of the quilt like a bird in flight. “Hey! How’s the universe tonight?” So much for not disturbing Dad.

  Dad stopped wiping mud spatters from his bike. He looked up at us and shook his head. “The universe is complicated, Dagmar,” he said, his voice flat and tired. No stern lecture this time. I figured he knew Dagmar was naked and soused—two good reasons to avoid a father-daughter confrontation.

  ”Good night, Miriam Hope. Sleep well.”

  I smiled my good night.

  I guided Dagmar back to bed and put my grandmother’s prayer shawl on top of my bookcase, away from sister and cat. I set the alarm for six thirty because of school the next day, and I made sure the window was locked. Sylvester stretched out on the corner of my bed—my feline sentry in case that strange girl came back in the night.

  My pill
ow felt hot. The closed, dark room threatened to smother me. Listening to Dagmar’s soft snore, I stared at the ceiling, afraid to shut my eyes.

  Six twenty-eight. I woke from a dreamless night and turned off the alarm two minutes before it was set to ring. Mom says I was born with an alarm clock in my brain. I shuffled to the bathroom, changed the bandages on the Frankenstein half of my face, then turned on the overhead bathroom light and woke Dagmar.

  She rolled over and flung an arm in my direction. “What day is it?”

  ”M-Monday.”

  ”Do I have classes?”

  I looked at the calendar I keep for the both of us, otherwise Dagmar would never remember her schedule at Berkeley. “Cuh-chemistry l-lab at thuh-ree ten.”

  ”I’ll sleep in.”

  The prayer shawl was still hiding in Grandpa’s pillowcase, but Dagmar has a sixth sense for any new clothes on my side of the room. I decided the shawl would be safer in my school locker than left unguarded at home. Besides, I wanted Leona to see it.

  I found a note on the kitchen table:

  0527.

  Driving Josh to airport.

  Then going to lab.

  Home for dinner.

  xo,

  Dad

  I shook my head and smiled. Being both scientific about the time and valentine-cutesy was so Dad. Grandpa gave me a real hug and kiss, plus oatmeal. “Porridge,” he calls it. He’s been okay with cooking something simple in the morning. Still, I checked to make sure he’d turned off the stove. He had.

  ”D-Dagmar is downstairs if you nuh-eed anything,” I told him. “I’ll buh-ring Chuh-inese home for d-dinner.”

  He stirred his instant coffee. “Where is Rachel?”

  ”M-Mom is on a tuh-rip.” I reminded him of the Thanksgiving dinner she made for us on Wednesday before she took the early morning flight Thanksgiving Day. “She’ll be b-back s-soon. T-tuna fuh-ish or c-corned beef?”

  He couldn’t decide which one he wanted for lunch, so I made half a sandwich of each. I grabbed an apple and a half-filled container of cottage cheese, and raced out the door to meet Leona.

  She waved to me as I turned the corner of Roosevelt and strode up Channing toward Grove. From a block away, Leona Nash could double for Audrey Hepburn in Funny Face. We were both wearing headscarves, Hepburn style. Up close, Leona’s hair is lighter and her eyebrows a little thinner than Audrey’s. She’s got that pixie look and perfect complexion I would resent, only she’s watched out for me since second grade so resentment isn’t on the agenda.

  ”My Thanksgiving was too horrid for words,” she said, her bubbly expression showing me I shouldn’t worry. “You know my cousin from Fremont? The one with the Harley? Well, he came up to visit for the weekend, and he brought us salamis for Hanukkah. Salamis, can you believe it? From some deli in Fremont that’s supposed to be the best in the galaxy. Our house smells positively putrid now. Hope, I’m telling you, Josh is a complete ratfink, but at least he doesn’t smoke cigars and walk around with salamis. How’s the…um…the wound?”

  ”B-better.”

  She squeezed my arm. “Excellent! I bet your singing’s gotten better over Thanksgiving break. You are so lucky the infection didn’t damage your vocal cords. You’ll sing great without the bandages.”

  I managed a nod. If I’d shrugged, she’d be all over me with a pep talk I didn’t feel like hearing, even from Leona. Six guys from our track team jogged past in their gym shorts. The last guy had these amazing leg muscles, flexing and pumping, flexing and pumping.

  Leona must have caught me watching, because she hummed the opening bars of “My Boy Lollipop.”

  I laughed for the first time in days.

  ”Can I persuade you to go to the Hanukkah party Saturday night?”

  ”M-maybe.”

  ”It’ll be fun. You haven’t gone out with the gang since…um… the accident. Kenny is coming. That new guy. He’ll talk your head off, but he’s nuts about opera and he’s got a great voice. You’ll like him.”

  Nearly everybody talked my head off. I’ve got a doctorate in listening.

  I tightened my scarf.

  ”Oh, come on. Eric was a jerk. Don’t let him put you off guys forever. If Stephen and I weren’t going together, I’d go out with Kenny myself.”

  ”M-maybe.”

  Leona opened the school door for us. “My friend, two maybes in a row from you mean yes.”

  I didn’t argue. When we got to my locker, I shifted my scarf from my head to my shoulders and decided to wait until our usual after-school nosh at Barston’s to show Leona my prayer shawl.

  ”I have a make-up quiz in geometry, so I’ll be late,” Leona said. “Meet me over there. See you third period. Hey, did your parents decide about the music festival yet?”

  I shook my head.

  ”Then good luck with Mr. Z.”

  I needed more than luck.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As soon as I got to choral music, Mr. Zegarelli summoned me to the piano, and I had to tell him I didn’t have my money or permission slip. Leona gave me her ultra-sympathetic look from the alto section.

  ”Miss Friis,” he said, his long, delicate fingers conducting our discussion in front of the whole class, “before you came back to us last week, you missed two and a half weeks of rehearsal due to your unfortunate accident.”

  My stomach twisted. Leona had told the kids at school that I was in a car accident, and so far no one seemed suspicious. But word gets around. By Christmas break, I might as well have tattooed a message on my forehead: LSD—the trip that lasts a lifetime.

  ”There are other young women in this class who do not have your God-given gift of perfect pitch, Miss Friis, but who are quite capable of singing first soprano in our madrigal group for the festival.”

  Martha and Francine. Yes, but they could care less about a scholarship to a music conservatory. I needed this solo.

  ”Surely you are well aware that the permission slips and trip deposits were due to me before Thanksgiving, and yet you have not turned them in. What do you have to say for yourself?”

  I didn’t want to admit that Mom still worried about my having flashbacks while I was away—and now I understood why—and that Dad insisted I pay for half the expenses—which I hadn’t managed to do yet. I concentrated on Mr. Z’s polished-mahogany piano bench and wished I could sing the words instead of say them.

  ”M-my m-m-mother is away,” I managed. “C-c-can I l-let y-you know n-next Tuesday?” Mom was coming back on Monday, and I was determined to show her how totally together and mentally sound I was. Maybe I would be by then.

  ”Miss Friis, look at me when I speak to you. There. That’s better. Next Tuesday is December eighth. I don’t need to remind you that the Portland festival starts January twenty-eighth. The rest of your classmates at Berkeley High School are counting on us to win.”

  I bobbed my head in affirmation.

  ”Have you been practicing all your scales, as I recommended?”

  ”Y-yes,” I whispered.

  Two full measures of silence. My face burned with embarrassment.

  ”You have until next Tuesday.”

  ”Thuh-ank you.” I hurried to my seat in the soprano section and pretended to sort pieces in my music folder until my cheeks cooled down.

  Mr. Zegarelli lectured the class. “As for the rest of you, do not think that your place in the competition is secure. You will not be allowed to represent Berkeley High School in any extracurricular event if you get involved with the student demonstrations at the university in any manner. The principal and I will not tolerate any participation in the unrest on campus. Is that clear?”

  Someone in the tenor section coughed. Mr. Zegarelli thrust an index finger at the tenors. “Do I make myself clear? Good. Let us begin with ‘Now Is the Month of Maying.’”

/>   Now is the month of praying, I thought. I could use a new face and a ton and a half of confidence to sing the way I used to. I could use a miracle.

  After school, I called home to check on Grandpa. There was a fifty-fifty chance he would get the phone. No answer. One day, my father and his physics friends might invent something useful, like a way for me to send him a note over the phone without speaking or for Sylvester to answer the phone and send an “all’s well” signal.

  Bright sun had broken through the clouds, and the afternoon was glorious. I unbuttoned my coat and listened to the melodies of sparrows and chickadees that avoided our yard thanks to Sylvester. Barston’s was packed, but I managed to find an empty two-seater booth wedged into the way back. The coffee shop was filled with so much clatter and chatter that I could ignore it all—no one was talking to me. The Drifters were belting out “Under the Boardwalk,” and I could smell the menu: cakes and pies and brownies and cinnamon buns. I leaned against the black vinyl seat and imagined how proud Grandpa would be if I went to the music festival in Portland. He still had family there. Maybe they’d come to the competition.

  ”What can I get for you?” The waitress twirled her pencil like a miniature baton. With so many customers in the shop, I didn’t dare tell her I was waiting for Leona.

  I cleared my throat and said, “Hmmm… a hot ch-ch…”

  ”Hot chocolate,” she spat back.

  I pursed my lips and dipped my chin once.

  ”Whipped cream?”

  I chin-dipped again.

  ”Will that be all?”

  I cleared my throat. “F-f-for now.”

  The waitress disappeared into the crowd. I left my book bag and pillow-cased prayer shawl in the booth and went to the ladies’ room. One sink, three stalls, a quiet, chilly refuge from the noise outside.

  When I got out of the stall, there she was again, that girl, standing by the sink. Caressing my prayer shawl.