Gravity (17 page)

“Okay, I guess a cup of tea.”

We make our way through the ice-slick parking lot, stepping over frozen ruts and slushy puddles. The sky shadows gray, the midday light like late afternoon.

We sit at a table at the back of the restaurant, removing hats and gloves.

“So, you’re joining me for
shul
this week I hear.”

I stop folding my coat. “Yes.”

Bubbie picks up her menu. “I heard your mother gave quite the performance the other night.”

“Who told you that?”

“Your father called. You know, none of this would have happened if your parents went to a normal synagogue where women could participate. We fought for women’s rights at The Shar—”

“Bubbie, Ima stood up and sang at the top of her lungs in the middle of a concert. If Abba did that it would have been wrong too.”

Bubbie spreads her manicured, ringed hands on the Formica table. “Well, at least now you don’t have to go back to that
shul
.”

I slap my menu closed, my eyes flashing. “I
like
that
shul
. I
want
to go back.” Even if I don’t believe anymore, even if I can’t pray. My heart hammers in my chest.

A waitress passes by, her rubber soles slapping the linoleum. Bubbie plays with the clasp on her gold bracelet, snapping it open and closed. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Yeah, that’s because you’re still waiting for me to become Neshama,” I mutter.

Bubbie licks her lips. “That’s not true.”

The waitress stops to take our order.

“Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?” Bubbie asks again.

“Bubbie, it’s not kosher.”

“It’s so important?”

“I’m sorry,” I say to the waitress, “we’re not ready to order yet.” I stand up and push in my chair.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

Bubbie stands up. “Let me drive you.”

I put on my coat. “If you want to.”

She nods and walks to the counter for her order.

While she waits for her change, I mumble, embarrassed. “Thanks for taking me to the pool.”

“You’re welcome.” Bubbie doesn’t look at me. She tucks her scarf inside her beige coat, tightens the sash at her waist.

We drive home in silence. Bubbie’s mouth twists into a grimace. She pulls up in front of the house. “Good-bye, Ellisheva.”

I peck her on the cheek. “I’ll see you at
shul
Saturday morning.”

“Call if you decide not to come.”

“Not on
Shabbos
,” I say, and I slam the door of the Cadillac. I open it again. “Sorry Bubbie, about the door, I mean. And thanks for the swim. And—”

Bubbie waves. “Enough. I’ll see you Saturday.”

THE DOORBELL RINGS
after
Shabbos
dinner just as Ima and I are clearing the table of dessert dishes. Neshama has gone to see Ruchi, and Abba has escaped to
shul
.

I peer out the frosty window into the darkness. Lindsay stands on the doorstep, chewing her lower lip, her braided hair flowing out from under a toque and over a long black coat. Nausea rises up my throat until I can taste bile in my mouth. I step back from the window a moment, my heart racing. I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.

I open the door a crack. “Why are you here?” I whisper.

Lindsay puts her hands on her hips, cocks her head to the side. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d say hi.”

“My parents are home,” I hiss. “It’s the Sabbath.”

“Oh.” Lindsay glances uncertainly behind her.

“Ellie,” Ima calls, “who’s there?”

“It’s just a friend.”

“Well, invite her inside already. It’s freezing out.”

I want to shove Lindsay aside, shut the door in her face. Either that, or take her in my arms. I take her coat, watch her tuck a white blouse into her blue and green kilt, smooth a navy sweater with a school crest over her hips. My teeth grind my cheek until I taste blood.

I lead Lindsay into the dining room. “This is Lindsay McMullen. And this is my mom.”

“Chana Gold,” Ima whispers, holding out her hand. “Please sit down. Excuse my voice, I’ve got a touch of laryngitis.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lindsay replies. “I’m sorry. I’m interrupting your dinner, aren’t I?”

“No we were just cleaning up. Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well—”

“Let me get you something.”

I sit next to Lindsay, pushing the crumbs on the tablecloth into a small mound in front of me. Lindsay looks around the dining room at the walnut china cupboard, the brass
Seder
plate hanging over the buffet.

Ima comes back with a plate of chicken, potatoes and noodle
kugel
. “So how do you two know each other?”

I clear my throat, sit on my hands. “Lindsay and her mom have the cottage next to the one Bubbie rents.”

“Oh, how nice.” Ima folds her hands on the tablecloth.

“Ellie taught me about the stars.”

I blush, my ears burning.

“This is delicious, Mrs. Gold.”

Ima smiles. “Ellie, you look flushed, are you okay?”

“Just hot.” I take off my cardigan.

Lindsay swallows a mouthful of potato. “I’m sorry to just drop by. I locked myself out of my house, and my mom won’t be back until really late.”

And so you just decided you’d come here? It’s not exactly around the block. “Don’t any of your neighbors have a key?”

“They weren’t home.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay here for the night,” Ima offers.

My eyes open wide. Stay here?

“Oh, that’s okay.”

“Please, it’s no problem. You and Ellie can catch up.”

Say no. Say your mother will be worried. Say you have to study in the morning.

“Well, if it’s not too much trouble...”

Ima waves a hand. “You should call your mother, leave a message for her.”

“For sure.”

“Would you like some tea?” Ima asks.

“That would be great.”

Ima disappears into the kitchen.

“You can’t stay here,” I whisper.

“Why not?”

“Are you nuts? You can’t.”

Ima comes back with a plate of chocolate
rugelach
and a cup of tea before I can respond. “Ellie’s father made these.”

Lindsay takes a bite. “Delicious.”

“You’re so quiet, Ellie,” Ima comments.

“I’m just tired.” Suddenly I feel drained, my limbs slumping into the chair.

Lindsay flicks her hair over her shoulder and flashes me a smile. I look away.

AFTER IMA AND
Neshama go to bed, Lindsay and I make up the hide-a-bed in the living room.

“Your mom’s really nice.” She stacks the beige sofa cushions by the bookshelf.

“She likes having guests.” I smooth yellow flannel sheets over the saggy mattress.

Lindsay scans the bookshelves. “So is this what you guys do Friday nights?”

“What, eat?”

“No, stay home.”

Thank God she didn’t come in the middle of the blessings. “It’s the start of the Sabbath, so we have a big dinner.”

“What if you wanted to go out?” She pulls a Hebrew book off the shelf, flips backward through the pages.

I shrug. “Not on Friday nights.” I shove a pillow into a case, punching the down with my fist. “So why are you here?” My voice drops to a whisper.

Lindsay slips the book back in the shelf, rubs the dust off her hands. “I was just in the neighborhood.”

I flop the pillows down on the bed and sit in the faded bluish gray armchair. “Right. You already told me that.”

“I just was.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, really? And what exactly were you doing here?”

Lindsay places her hands on her hips. “I was visiting friends.”

“And you’re really locked out?”

Lindsay turns around and pulls her vest and blouse over her head, reaching around to unhook a white lace bra.
I lean back in the armchair, stroke the worn velour nap of the armrests. The nausea in my stomach finally settles, my hands falling open at my sides.

“Of course not. I had a fight with my mom.”

Tan lines crisscross Lindsay’s golden back, three small plum-colored bruises etch her side. She reaches for the plaid nightgown Ima left for her and pulls it over her head. It falls all the way to her calves.

“How did you bruise your back?”

“What bruises?”

“On your side there.”

Lindsay lifts the nightgown, trying to peer over her shoulder.

“There,” I say pointing, resisting the urge to press my fingers into the three spots.

She probes her back, winces. “Oh, I don’t know.” She dismisses them with a wave of her hand.

“I have another question.”

“Some things never change.” Lindsay drops the nightgown, turns around and steps out of her kilt. “Yes?”

“Why did you leave the cottage without saying good-bye?”

She sits on the bed to roll off her tights. “At the end of the summer? Oh, yeah, we left a few days early because Dave had to get back to work. Of course my mom isn’t seeing him anymore—”

“And you couldn’t say good-bye?”

She unbraids her hair, the long waves falling over her shoulders and the open placket at the neck of the nightgown. “It was really early in the morning.”

“Oh. And the phone calls?” My toes press into the hardwood floor, my teeth grate over my lip.

She smoothes her hair over her breasts. “I thought you’d be happy to see me.”

I ignore the melting feeling in my chest. “You couldn’t return my calls?”

Lindsay sits up in the bed, rests her elbows on her upright knees, chin in her palms. “So you’re not happy to see me?”

I smack the edge of the chair with the palm of my hand. “You don’t get it, do you? You can’t just come here.”

“I thought you wanted to see me again.”

I sigh. “I do, just not here.” A toilet flushes upstairs. My shoulders stiffen. “We’ll talk in the morning, okay?”

Lindsay nods and yawns, stretching her arms over her head.

Upstairs I lock myself in the bathroom, where the floor doesn’t squeak, and do push-ups, not the ones with your knees on the floor either, but real push-ups, three sets, until my arms ache. Lindsay, in my living room, with only a nightgown on. The new cut in my mouth bleeds. A hundred sit-ups, my back pressing into the linoleum through the thin bath mat. Ten stairs down and I could curl up behind her on the saggy sofa bed, bury my face in her hair, like Bo and Hope, finally reunited. Thirty squats, breathing fast. Plum-colored bruises like finger marks, like someone squeezed her tight.

Imagine: enough confidence to just show up at someone’s house.

I spend the night twisting in my sheets, restless, rolling over. In the dim early morning light I watch the Christmas
lights glowing across the street. I pull on my terrycloth robe and quietly make my way down the painted orange stairs, feeling the edges with my feet, my hands resting on the wooden banister. In the darkened kitchen I sip not-quite-steaming tea from the prepared thermos, trying to warm my hands around the white pottery mug. At seven the light timers click on, and the kitchen is suddenly bright.

In the doorway of the living room I whisper, “Lindsay?”

She mumbles and rolls over.

I tiptoe into the room, poke her shoulder. “You need to wake up.”

She squints at me. “Why so early?”

I sit on the edge of the bed. “They’ll be up soon.” My hand snakes up to my neck to the hair growing in at the back of my head. “I...you can’t come back here again.”

“Oh.” She sits, rubbing her eyes, looking strangely disappointed. “I was just in the neighborhood and I needed a place to go...” She stops, her voice tired. She pushes her hair out of her face, her eyes shadowed, her cheeks hollow since the summer.

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Lindsay?”

She doesn’t say anything.

“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say.

She waves a hand. “No worry. Thanks for having me.”

I twist my hands. I need her to leave before I have to explain how to make kosher tea, before I have to tell Ima that she can’t go to
shul
anymore.

“You really should leave, before my parents get up.”

Lindsay nods. “Just a second, and I’ll get ready.”

“I’ll walk you to the subway.”

I creep upstairs and quickly get dressed. Lindsay is already by the front door putting on her boots when I come down.

We stand at the front door, pulling on our coats and hats. I reach for the door handle, anticipating the creaky hinges. Lindsay puts her hand over mine. “How about a kiss?”

I stop, stunned. “Here?”

“Sure. That’s the other reason I came.”

I pause. “What about—what about that guy?” My groin hums warm and wet, my arms heavy in my coat sleeves.

Lindsay steps closer to me. “He was
so
boring.” She touches my hand, pushes her fingers under the cuff of my coat.

Just one kiss and I can go back to being Ellisheva Gold, observant Jew, never been kissed—at least not by a boy.

The fronts of our coats touch. Lindsay’s hand slides up my arm to my cheek. She guides my face toward hers and brushes her lips against mine, soft and warm. My arms slide around her waist to clasp her to me. Her tongue probes my mouth, the kiss deepening, my knees melting.

Footsteps sound in the upstairs hallway. Lindsay and I spring apart.

“Ellie?” Ima whispers down the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just walking Lindsay to the subway. Did we wake you?”

Ima comes down in her robe. “No,” she whispers, “I’ve been up for hours. You didn’t want to stay for breakfast?”

“Oh, no, thanks.” Lindsay steps toward the door, pulling on her mitts.

Ima rubs her eyes sleepily. “I got up in the middle of the night and thought, did Lindsay ever call her mom?”

“Oh, well, I’m on my way home now.”

Ima’s eyes narrow. “Won’t she be worried?”

“Well, I’m heading there now.”

“Call anyway.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks for having me, Mrs. Gold. Call me, Ellie.” Lindsay flashes a smile, flips her hair over her shoulder and backs out the door, closing it quickly behind her. I swing the door open to follow her.