I really want to go over to the diner first to find out what happened at the meeting last night, but Mom tells me to get into the car. On the highway we pass a bunch of signs advertising other motels as we get closer to Spartanburg.
The synagogue is a big brick building with a parking lot, really different from back home where everyone walks or takes the subway to services. I sit and listen while someone reads from the big Torah scroll and the cantor sings some prayers.
Then the rabbi starts her sermon.
She tells a story from the Torah about a man named Balaam who was a sorcerer. Balaam isn’t Jewish, and his king tells him to go and curse the Jews. Balaam agrees, but then God tells him not to. The king convinces him to go curse them anyway, but on the way, Balaam’s donkey sees an angel in the road and stops, refusing to walk past it. Balaam can’t see the angel and beats the donkey for stopping. He keeps at it until the donkey asks Balaam why he is beating him. After that, Balaam can see the angel. And when he gets to where he is supposed to curse the Jews, a blessing comes out of his mouth instead.
It all sounds totally unbelievable. If Judaism believes in angels and talking donkeys, then what’s so weird about people believing that the Virgin Mary appeared on a movie screen?
The rabbi never says why Balaam wants to curse the Jews. What did they ever do to him? Maybe this is what Mom was talking about when she said people do hateful things to Jews.
The rabbi is still talking and I try hard to pay attention again.
“Of all the things we are blessed with, I believe the most important blessing of all is the blessing of choice. We are the ones who choose the path we take with our lives. We are the ones who choose the kind of person we will become. This is an enormous responsibility, yes, but the fact that we get to choose is truly a blessing, one that we should never take for granted.
“Life is not simply what happens to us. Life is what we do with what happens to us.” She pauses a moment, looking around the room.
“Choose wisely,” she finishes. “Shabbat shalom.”
Everyone opens their siddur, the prayer book, to continue with the service.
I open mine but can’t concentrate on the prayers. I couldn’t do anything about moving to a dump of a motel even though I didn’t want to. I didn’t have a choice, but now I’m doing something to make it better.
I ignore the fact that my choice involves lying and fooling people. I’m guessing that’s not what the rabbi meant.
After services, the rabbi comes over and introduces herself as Rabbi Yael. She asks if we’re visiting someone in the community.
“No, we live on the outskirts of Greenvale,” Dad says. “We bought and moved into the Jewel Motor Inn at the end of June.”
The rabbi hasn’t heard of the Jewel. But she has heard about the apparition.
“Father Donovan’s been working overtime, that’s for sure,” she says.
“You know Father Donovan?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “All the clergy in the area get together a couple of times a year to talk about various concerns in the community. There aren’t that many of us, and we try to collaborate on an inter-denominational — that means involving different religions — project each year or two.”
As we head to the next room to have cookies and fruit, I wonder if me and Kate and the drive-in would be considered inter-denominational collaboration.
I’m pushing Sammy on the swings after we get back from synagogue and have lunch when a car drives into the parking lot and pulls into the spot right in front of Reception — the one with the blue-and-white wheelchair sign painted on it. A woman gets out and pulls a wheelchair out of the back and brings it around to the side of the car and helps someone get into it.
When the wheelchair turns around, I see that it’s not her husband in it. It’s a kid.
I’m not sure how old he is because he’s sitting down, but his face looks like he might be around my age, maybe a little older. The top of his body looks healthy, but his legs are kind of small and thin and his shorts look too big on him.
“Mi-wam! Push me!”
I turn to give him another push as the woman pushes the wheelchair into Reception. By the time they come out, Sammy’s tired of the swings and wants to play in the sandbox. I feel the boy watching me as I lift Sammy out of the swing and plop him down on the sand. When I turn around, he waves. I give a small wave back. He smiles and goes into Room 101, the room right next to Reception.
I see Maria wheeling her cart down the balcony on the second floor. She waves and calls down to me to come up and keep her company.
I wonder how you say wheelchair in Spanish.
The kid with the wheelchair is at breakfast the next morning. He must have used the service elevator to get up here, the one that the delivery people use. He wheels around with his plate on his lap. When he’s filled it with hard-boiled eggs and whole wheat toast, he wheels up to the only free table, in the corner, and puts the plate on it.
He sees me and waves again and I wave back from behind the counter where Mom and I are laying out more bagels. There are so many guests now that the bakery man comes every day instead of every other day. I’m putting the bagels in a pattern on the tray: first a poppy seed one, then a sesame seed, then plain, then cinnamon raisin. It helps me not die of boredom.
“Can I go eat breakfast with him?” I ask Mom. I had breakfast early when Sammy woke up, but serving the guests always makes me hungry again.
“Let the guests eat in peace,” says Mom.
“No, that would be great,” a voice says. It’s the boy’s mother. She takes a poppy seed bagel and messes up my pattern.
“It would be nice for Anton to have some company his own age. And I have to go back to the room to make a phone call in five minutes.”
Mom nods, so I grab a bagel, a cream cheese packet and a banana that looks like it might be ripe enough to eat and go over to his table. He’s straightened out his wheelchair so he’s facing forward, but the table leg is in the way and he needs to stretch his arm way out to reach his food. It doesn’t look too comfortable.
I wonder what’s wrong with his legs, but I’m not sure if it’s okay to ask.
“I’m Miriam,” I say. “Anton, right?”
“Sounds like you’ve met my mom already. Do you actually work here?”
“I live here. With my family. In Room 109.”
“That’s totally cool,” he says. “I’ve never heard of a kid living in a motel before. Do you get to raid the vending machines and order room service whenever you want? And people must leave stuff behind all the time. I once forgot a pair of brand-new sneakers at a motel.”
Hmm. Maybe it is cool to live here, even if it’s not the Plaza. And the Jewel is beginning to shape up a bit. Uncle Mordy gave the halls a new coat of paint and Maria washed all the windows so you can actually tell it’s daytime when you’re inside. We’ve all been working really hard and it’s finally starting to show.
“No room service here,” I say. “Which is good, because I’d probably get roped into delivering coffee to people at six in the morning.”
He grins at me, reaching for a butter packet that’s a little too far away on the table. I lean over and push it closer to him so he can grab it.
“Thanks. Most people would just hand it to me. I like that you didn’t do that.”
I shrug. I hadn’t thought about it, really.
His mom comes over, her bagel wrapped in a napkin.
“Have everything you need, hon? I need to go back to the room to make a call.”
“All set,” Anton tells her. He ducks as she tries to kiss him on the head. “Mom!”
“Where do you live?” I ask when she walks off.
“Chicago. It took like ten hours to get here, including stops.”
“You drove ten hours to see the apparition? That’
s —” I bite my tongue. “I mean …”
I’m not sure what I mean. That I can’t believe he’d drive ten hours to see a Virgin Mary apparition? Or to see a fake Virgin Mary apparition?
“I know. But my mom says there’s this place in, like, Europe or somewhere, where these kids saw the Virgin Mary appear. She says that some people who go there get cured of whatever’s wrong with them. She wanted to take me there when I was a baby, but we couldn’t afford it.”
“Oh.” I can’t think of anything else to say.
“She’s always looking for a miracle. She’s dragged me to, like, three or four of these since I was a kid.”
“And?”
“Still got the wheelchair, right?”
I cringe at his words and take a bite of my banana. It’s not ripe enough after all, and gives me an icky feeling on my teeth. I don’t want to spit it out in front of Anton, so I swallow it and try not to make a face.
“Don’t look so freaked out. What my mom doesn’t understand is that my life is fine the way it is. I don’t need to walk. What I really need is a Zabulon Sport.”
“A what?”
“A Zabulon Sport. With turbo castors and Top-Grip handrims and Vitalux SLX wheels. In red.”
“Is that some kind of motorcycle?”
Anton laughs. “Nah, it’s a basketball wheelchair.”
Wow. “You play basketball in a wheelchair?”
“Sure. You need a special one though. And the good ones cost like three thousand.”
I look at the wheelchair he’s sitting in. “Three thousand dollars?”
“Not this one. This is a crappy cheap one my mom got for traveling. I have a really good one at home. But it’s just for getting around. Insurance doesn’t pay for basketball wheelchairs.”
“That stinks.” I think about how when I want to play kickball at school or go biking with Kate, I can just go do it.
“Yeah. Maybe when we get back later I can show you some pictures. We’re here until Friday. Room 101.”
I already know what room he’s in and how long he’s staying, of course, but I don’t tell him that. His mom comes back and says they need to go.
“See you later, then?” he asks.
“Yeah. See you later.”
Now I have even more questions. Has a Virgin Mary apparition ever really healed someone? There are miracles in Judaism, but they all happened a long time ago. Like when the Jews left Egypt and the Red Sea split to let Moses and all the Jews through, but not the Egyptians who were chasing them. And Chanukah celebrates how after the Jews were attacked by the Greeks and won, they only had enough oil to light the menorah in the ancient Temple for one day, but it lasted for eight, until the Jews had time to make more.
Miracles like that don’t happen anymore. Unless you count me getting up to my thighs in the pool. Which probably wouldn’t be called a miracle.
But it should be.
12
——
I wake up late the next day after a dream about the Virgin Mary and people waking from the dead and walking around like zombies. I realize I need to do some research.
There’s an old computer on a rickety table in the corner of the dining room. It’s supposed to be for guests, but since everyone comes with their own laptop or phone, it just sits there.
Uncle Mordy’s in the dining room, cleaning up after breakfast.
“Can I use the computer?”
“Sure, but can you help me first? I have to get into town to the hardware store this morning.”
I take over setting the tables for tomorrow morning while Uncle Mordy fills the cereal containers and cleans the waffle maker from all the drips that went down the sides because people don’t follow directions and pour in too much batter.
While I work I review the Spanish words I know in my head. I put each piece of silverware in its place: tenedor, cuchillo, cuchara. Napkin is servilleta. I wipe the sal and pimienta shakers down just like I do at the diner.
“Thanks a million, Miriam,” Uncle Mordy says as he leaves. He doesn’t mention another swimming lesson. Sweet.
I ignore the sign that says No Food or Drink While on Computer and fill a glass with orange juice.
The computer takes forever to boot up, but when it does I do a search for “Jesus.”
The first link that pops up says that Jesus was a Jewish rabbi from the Galilee in Israel. I had no idea that Jesus was even Jewish, let alone a rabbi. Does that mean that Catholics and Jews come from the same roots? I wonder if Mom knows that.
I type in “Virgin Mary apparitions” and start clicking.
I don’t understand everything, but it’s clear that there have been a lot of Virgin Mary apparitions all over the world. Most of the apparitions are visions, or ghost-like appearances that only a few people see. But there are a few others where people saw the Virgin Mary appear on something like a piece of wood or a canvas.
Some of these were hundreds of years ago, but I read about some that were just a couple of years ago. A few have even been in places I’ve heard of, like one in a bush in Philadelphia and another on a farm in Maryland.
I click another link and there’s a photo of a piece of toast.
I push back in my chair and tilt my head back and forth. It does kind of look like there’s a face on the toast. The parts of the bread that are more brown form the hair and the eyes, which are kind of looking down toward the crust on the bottom. I can even make out a nose and a mouth.
“Ah, classic case of face pareidolia,” says a voice behind me, making me jump and knock over my juice.
“Oh, shoot, sorry!” says the voice. I grab napkins from the tables and frantically mop up the OJ heading toward the keyboard.
The woman behind me has a key card in her mouth as she uses both hands to help. She’s young like Maria.
“I’m Susan,” she says as we go over to the sink to wash our sticky hands. “Sorry to startle you. I was looking for my room and I got nosy.”
“I’m Miriam. Which room?”
“Huh?”
“Which room are you looking for?”
“Oh — 114.”
“Go to the right, halfway down the corridor. Next to the ice machine.”
“Great, thanks,” she says. She picks up her suitcase.
“Wait,” I say. “What is par … pari …?”
“Pareidolia.” She pronounces it par-ay-doh-lia.
“Yeah, that.”
“It’s a psychological phenomenon in which we perceive a vague or random stimulus as being significant.”
I stare at her.
“It means that we tend to see patterns — especially faces — in things that are random. Like when you look at a full moon and see a face. You know, the Man in the Moon.”
“Oh.” I’ve seen that.
She points at the computer screen. “Like that photograph, for example. That’s a famous one.”
“Really?”
“Really. What does it look like to you?”
“Like a woman’s face.”
“Right, the Virgin Mary. That got a lot of attention when it was first publicized. But look.” She puts her finger on the screen so that it covers the woman’s eyes. All of a sudden the rest of her face just looks like a bunch of random brown spots. Like any other piece of toast.
“Or take this.” She grabs a salt shaker from one of the tables and holds it so I can see the little holes on top. “Can you see a face here?”
I don’t at first, but then suddenly I see how the holes make a smiling face with wavy hair on top.
“Our brains are wired to see faces in things. We make them up. That’s the topic for my grad thesis. I came here to interview some of the people coming to the drive-in.”
My brain is going a million miles an hour trying to keep up. She’s here to stud
y people who are coming to see the apparition that Kate and I made up.
“So you don’t think it’s real,” I say carefully.
Susan wrinkles her nose. “Well, it’s real to the people who see it, but it’s not the Virgin Mary. It’s just their minds playing tricks on them.”
Or me and Kate playing tricks on them.
She picks up her suitcase. “To the right, you said?”
“Uh-huh.” I look back at the photo of the toast. Without Susan’s finger there, it looks like a face again.
A thought creeps up.
Kate and I saw the face of a woman with long hair on our own. Which must be face pareidolia. Then Kate added the cross so people would think the face was the Virgin Mary.
So we didn’t really fake a Virgin Mary apparition. Not totally. The face was already there.
I need to talk to Kate.
Maybe she doesn’t need to go to confession after all.
My stomach grumbles. All this staring at toast has made me hungry.
I’m in the mood for real food, not candy or chips from the vending machine. I open the small fridge in the back — the one we keep our own food in — but all that’s in it is a wilted lettuce and some fish sticks cut into Sammy-sized pieces. Someone needs to start a grocery delivery service in Greenvale.
I head over to the diner. Mrs. Whitley is outside directing a big white truck as it backs up to the delivery door. The driver hops out and unloads two big crates. Mrs. Whitley pries one open and inside are bunches and bunches of big, round, deep-purple grapes. There must be thousands! I breathe in deeply, holding the sweetness in my lungs, and imagine purple spreading though my body.
“Nothing like the smell of Concord grapes,” Mrs. Whitley says, closing her eyes and breathing in just like me. “Wait until next month, when the local grapes are ready. You’ll be dreaming in purple.”
Mrs. Whitley tripled her order because of all the people coming to Greenvale. Her pies made the paper again. This time the article said they were the best pies in all of upstate New York, not just the county. Now people stop at the diner for a slice on their way to the drive-in, and then pick up a whole pie to take home on their way back.
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