Gravity (13 page)

Purple stars, and mottled stars, leather stars and bat stars —I’m sick of sea stars. I sit up, water running in rivulets down my body, my skin puckered into pruned welts, and I pull the plug.

FRIDAY AFTER SCHOOL
, Neshama and I help Ima in the kitchen for our first
Shabbos
dinner with guests.

“What’re we supposed to do when they come?” I ask.

Ima looks up from the tray of chicken. “They’re just here to celebrate
Shabbos
, to see a traditional dinner.”

“How did you find these people?” Neshama spears a tomato with a paring knife.

“They’re students from Shalom House on campus. Mr. Mordecai, who coordinates it, says they don’t really know anything about being Jewish. He finds people who want to come and learn. He calls to ask how many I can seat.”

“We’re
seats
?” Neshama asks.

Ima ignores her. “Oh, Ellie, I almost forgot, there’s a phone message for you on the counter there.” She points a greasy finger at the pad of paper by the telephone. “Somebody named Mrs. McCullen called. Do you know who that is?”

I freeze, my eyes opening wide. Ima stirs the meatballs, her back toward me. “Did she say what she wanted?”

“No, you better go call her before
Shabbos
.”

I try to casually walk over to the pad of paper by the phone. I lean forward and let my hair hang in front of my face. Lindsay never returned my calls, and I stopped dropping by her school.

I dial the number in Ima and Abba’s office. The phone rings once before Lindsay’s mom picks up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Ellie Gold. I’m a friend of Lindsay’s from the cottage.”

“Oh, right. Hi, Ellie. I called to see if you’ve seen Lindsay.”

“Uh, no.” I slither my fingers through the coiled phone cord.

“She was supposed to go to her dad’s, but she never showed up.”

“I haven’t seen her.”

“She didn’t call and say where she was or anything?”

“No, I haven’t spoken with her in months.”

“Oh, well if you hear from her...”

“Sure.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“Wait. Mrs. McMullen?”

“Yes?”

“Can you have her call me?”

“Oh, sure. I’ll tell her.”

I hang up the phone and sit at Ima’s desk, swiveling back and forth in the chair.

“Who was that?” Ima leans in the doorway.

“Just a friend from the summer. Her mom was wondering if I’d seen her.”

“You should go and shower now.”

THE GUESTS STAND
awkwardly in our tiny dining room, the buffet cleared of clutter, the tablecloth crisp. They watch silently as Ima leads us in
Shalom Aleichem
and blesses the candles. Abba raises his cup of wine, blesses it, then holds up the two braided loaves, shiny with egg yolk and poppy seeds. “We have two
challot
to represent the double portion of manna that fell from the sky on
Shabbos
when the Jews
wandered in the desert.” He blesses the loaves and rips the warm, fleshy bread into chunks, sprinkles on salt and passes them around.

Neshama’s part is crooked and she’s not wearing any makeup. My own hair is damp and stringy, but Ima sparkles. Her white blouse with the lace collar is crisp, her hair perfectly combed, her hands steady. Ima’s limbs contract with new energy and then straighten out taut. I feel her enter a room like a slingshot, pulling herself tight, then exploding.

“Chana,” Abba says, “is writing a book that may interest you young people.”

Ima puts down her soup spoon, colors a bit. “It’s about why Orthodox marriages are so successful.”

“Did you know,” Abba adds, “the Orthodox rate of divorce is practically zero?”

Ima leans forward, her hands clasped in front of her. “In the secular world people often fall in love with a person’s appearance rather than their soul. You start dating someone and then realize you have different life goals. In the Orthodox world, when you are ready to get married, you are set up with someone, and you only get romantically involved after you
know
the person.”

How well do I know Lindsay? I know she goes to Havergal, has no siblings. I know she likes soccer and canoeing. She wants to be a stripper. She wants to disappear.

What I really know of Lindsay is the taste of her mouth and the feel of her skin. I tug at the back of my hair.

Ima continues, “In the Orthodox world, when a young woman or man is ready to get married, and when their
teacher or parent feels they are mature enough for the responsibility, they approach a go-between who sets up a date with another eligible young Jewish person. This young couple goes on a date, but they have to meet in a public place, like a hotel lobby, where other people are present. The couple is not allowed to meet in private until after the marriage.” Murmuring breaks out around the table.

“Yes, I know, shocking. There’s a very good reason for this. The young couple must not ever touch, not even hold hands before their marriage.”

Ima smiles as the murmuring breaks into outright disbelief. “We all know,” she continues, “that holding hands leads to further physical intimacy. Once you’ve started a physical relationship, it’s difficult to objectively decide if someone is the best person for you.”

And Lindsay—is she the best person for me? I think of her teasing me, the way she dared me to disappear. I shake away the thought.

Neshama and I get up to clear the table. “The reason the divorce rate is so low,” Neshama hisses at me in the kitchen, “is that divorce isn’t allowed.”

Mrs. Bachner’s daughter crawled home from New York with her five children and her black eye.

Back at the table Ima pours the tea and continues, “When I first became religiously observant I was invited to a wedding. I remember watching the bride walk down the aisle and thinking, she has never even touched the hand of the man she is going to marry! I thought it was awful, but when it was my turn, I was so in love with my
b’shert
,
my one beloved, I just thought how wonderful it would be to hold his hand once we were
kallah v’chatan
, bride and groom.”

I watch Ima smile at Abba, her shoulders relaxed, her hands loose on the table. That’s it. I’m going to change. I want to meet a perfect stranger, talk to them about the ocean, about
Hashem
and lighting candles. My name is Ellie Gold, I’d say, and I love the sea.

Ima leads us in
zemirot
about the beauty of Shabbat and God and His commandments, and even though I am tired, my exhaustion melts away as I join in the singing, softly harmonizing with Ima.

After the guests leave, Neshama and I clean up the kitchen. “One man?” Neshama hisses. “Could you imagine only ever sleeping with one man?”

I nod and scrape plates into the garbage can.

“Wouldn’t you want to test drive your spouse before you marry him? I mean, what if he’s a horrible slob? What if the sex is terrible?”

“One spouse would be enough, I think. If it’s your
b’shert
.”

Neshama snorts. “You don’t really believe that, do you? Ima wants people to get married, reproduce, follow laws God doesn’t care about and that’s it. That’s not a way to live, that’s...that’s imprisonment. Not even Ima and Abba lived that way. They had a life,
then
they got married.”

“Um, I guess so.” I return to the table for more plates.

I’m Ellie Gold and I love the sea, but I’ve already pressed my hands against Lindsay’s jean-clad hip, let our lips brush.
My fingers climb through my hair, twist strands around my pinky and pull. Hair coils around my fingers. I nudge the clump into the garbage with the chicken bones and greasy napkins. Slender-rayed star,
Evasterias troschelii.

Seven

“S
o I hear your mother’s out to convert the masses.” Bubbie leans on the counter and pours Neshama and me tall glasses of orange juice.

“Only the chosen Jewish masses,” Neshama points out.

I sit on a stool and stare out at the bleak November sky. A light rain drizzles over the barren trees.

“What’s her plan of attack?”

“Arranged marriages.”

“Aye-yah-yie,” Bubbie sighs. “Unbelievable. And you, what do you think?” She taps my arm.

“Huh?”

“Your mom’s dinners, how are you holding up?”

“Well, it’s a little like being an unpaid caterer.”

Bubbie pats my shoulder. “You just stay here and relax.”

“Do you mind if we watch
TV
?” Neshama asks.

“Go right ahead. I taped
Days of Our Lives
for you. Do you want me to turn it on?”

Neshama slides off her stool. “No, that’s okay. I don’t keep
Shabbos
anymore.”

“Oh, how interesting. And you?” Bubbie looks at me.

“She follows the party line,” Neshama says.

“How come you’re so quiet?” Bubbie asks me.

“I dunno. Just tired.”

She strokes my hair. “Go, watch
TV
. I have to run to the store.”

Bubbie’s
TV
room is down a short flight of stairs off her kitchen. Huge windows overlook a sea of leaves, scarlet and yellow, crisp and curly on the lawn. I sink into one of the deep, white leather couches and curl up under an afghan.

In two months of trying to change myself, I now know the Latin names for thirty different kinds of sea stars and their attributes. I can do twenty push-ups without stopping and three sets of forty sit-ups. I started memorizing countries of the world
and
their capitals, from Afghanistan to Zimbabwe, but I’m not changing. In the middle of a psalm I’m thinking about Lindsay’s sassy way of talking. Halfway through the periodic table I’m wondering if she’ll call. When I recite countries, I’m imagining her calves by the time I get to Armenia. By Belize my hands are sliding up her knees, Bhutan her thighs, and by Brazil it’s all over. I’ve even started to enjoy pulling out my hair. I imagine Lindsay’s hands tugging, pulling me closer to her, her lips coming to kiss me again, her hands urgent and twisting in my hair. A tingle runs from the base of my skull all the way down my back to my bum.

I’ve done some research on gay people at the library, and being gay doesn’t sound too good. Besides being an abomination according to Jewish law, all the famous gay people I’ve read about had tragic ends, or at least disappointing sex lives. Virginia Woolf committed suicide, Frederich the Great’s
young male lovers were beheaded, Oscar Wilde died in jail and Tchaikovsky got married but had a nervous collapse and left his bride after a month.

Meanwhile, Lindsay hasn’t returned my calls, not even the polite one I left with her mother. She can’t be out of town, and it’s unlikely she’s too busy. Although I’ve stopped by her school a zillion times, I’ve never run into her again. I was just her summer fling. An experiment in girl kissing, to be discarded by the fall, forgotten in the approaching doom of winter. Someone to make fun of—poor, religious Ellie. Taunt, tease and shed.

Neshama flips between channels: news, sports, a sitcom with a laugh track. “Hey, a nature show. Just your thing.”

I look up, then let my cheek rest in my hands.

Neshama gasps. “Look what you’ve done to your hair!”

“What?” I flip up my head.

“You have a huge bald spot.”

My hand reaches up to the back of my neck.

“Let me see.” Neshama pushes my hand away. She traces her fingers over the bare waxy patch on my nape.

“It’s nothing.” I pull away from her.

Neshama flops back on the couch. “What’s with you? You’re starting to act like Ima.” She stuffs a handful of popcorn in her mouth.

On the
TV
, dolphins hurtle their sleek bodies over the surface of the water. Behind them seagulls dive and soar against the sunlit sea. “I’m not like Ima, I just...”

“What?”

I sit up and examine Neshama’s face. “You really want to know?”

Neshama nods, glancing back at the
TV
.

I squint at her. “You promise to listen?”

She nods again.

“You won’t tell?”

She turns to me. “Ellie!”

“Okay.” I turn sideways on the couch, resting my cheek on the slippery smooth leather. “Well, I met this...” I swallow. “This guy at the cottage that I...kinda like and now he won’t talk to me—”

“What?” Neshama bolts upright, her eyebrows shooting up her forehead.

I flex my legs nervously. “I told you, there was this guy—”

“You said you had a friend, a girl.”

Oh God. I squeeze my legs tighter. “I-I lied. He’s a guy.”

“Wait, you had a boyfriend?” Neshama slides off the couch onto the beige carpet toward me.

“Yes.”

“And he wasn’t Jewish?” She stares, mouth open.

“You promised to listen—”

“I’m sorry. And?”

“He won’t talk to me.”

Neshama crawls over to me, smiling. She leans her head next to mine. “Did you kiss, with your tongue?”

“Ness!”

“Well?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

Neshama’s hands drop to her sides. She stares out the window. “While I was at summer camp, you were... What’s he like?”

I roll over on my back and stare at the ceiling. “Well, he’s tall and a good swimmer and he taught me how to paddle—”

“Okay, but what was he
like
? Talkative, quiet?” She climbs onto the couch next to me, propping her chin in her hand.

“Well, she, I mean he...” I freeze.

Neshama narrows her eyes.

“He has great arms,” I say quickly, “and really nice...skin. He...he likes to play games, tease me. He’s very athletic.”

She stares at me for a long moment. My heart pounds. Behind her the dolphins dive into the sea. “Did Bubbie meet him?”

“Um...well, no, she didn’t. She didn’t ever meet him. Don’t say anything to Bubbie please. He...look, I just don’t want—” I sit upright on the sofa.

“I promise—”

“Because he won’t talk, and it’s over anyway.” I jam my hands tight under my legs to stop their fidgeting.

“You had a boyfriend,” Neshama says. “One question, okay?”