Tomoko shyly asks Asako something in Japanese. Asako turns to me. “Is all right for to use the bathroom?”
“No problem!” I say.
Asako looks confused. “It’s a problem?”
“No!” I assure her. “It is not a problem. It is okay. Just let me know when you’re finished.”
“Ah, yes, okay,” she says, giving me a small bow.
The bathroom schedule is clearly the worst part of this whole experience. Nobody wants to share a bathroom with a teenage boy, which is understandable.
It’s a lot later when I finally brush my teeth and head to my room. I get into bed and try to fall asleep.
Knowing that something will happen tonight, I brace myself for a knock on the door. Or a visitation. Or anything. I wait, listening to the sound of my shallow breathing. But nothing happens.
I drift off, and it seems as though I might actually get a good night’s rest, until I feel someone poking me.
It’s Tomoko. But of course it isn’t. Her eyes are wide open, unfocused. There is the same glow about her, and her hair is standing straight up on her head. I’ve prepared myself for this, but it is still terrifying.
I fight the urge to scream, and try to remember Bubbe’s Ruth’s advice. I need to talk to whoever has taken over the body of Tomoko.
The young girl’s voice is coming out of her mouth, asking the same question. “Where is my little boy?”
I’m actually getting annoyed with this ghost, dybbuk or not. From somewhere, I find my voice and say, “Look, I don’t know where your little boy is.”
She turns and looks me full in the face. It’s like she’s seeing me for the first time. She looks confused, and angry.
“Who are you?” she demands.
I’ve had it. “Who am I? I’m Danny Kantrowitz, and I live here. Who are you?”
Her eyes widen in fright, and she backs away. “Where is Rochele? What have you done with her?”
Now we’re getting somewhere. I’m not sure where, but at least she’s asking a different question.
“What’s your name?” I ask her.
“Where is Rochele? I want to speak to Rochele!” She is almost screaming. I hear footsteps outside my room.
“What’s your name?” I demand.
Her eyes roll to the back of her head, and she drops to the floor.
As my parents open the door I reach out to Tomoko.
She is ice cold.
Asako is right behind my parents, and she rushes to her friend, who is murmuring something in Japanese. Asako rubs Tomoko’s hands and my mother steps in.
She is in full mother mode. These women may be in their twenties and from a totally different culture, but a mom is a mom. She insists on bringing Tomoko to the bathroom to take a hot shower to warm up and then to the kitchen to make her a cup of hot tea.
Both women are bowing and saying, “Thank you, not necessary,” over and over, but they know better than to argue.
After about an hour, things settle down, and Tomoko is led back to the room. Asako says that Tomoko is allergic to cats. Had we ever had a cat?
I don’t want to point out that that was a heck of an allergic reaction to cat dander.
“No, I’m allergic too. Maybe there was a cat outside, on the fire escape,” my mom suggests.
Asako nods. “Yes, perhaps,” she says thoughtfully.
My father looks skeptical. “Maureen, the window was closed.”
“You don’t know,” my mother says. “Maybe she’s really allergic.”
She pats Asako’s hand. Asako looks uncomfortable. I don’t blame her. I try to imagine something like this happening to me in Japan, and I think I’d be a lot less chill about the whole thing.
Everybody seems to want to believe that this was some sort of allergic reaction, and I don’t even get into her asking about the boy again, or freaking out when I asked her name. I know my folks will say I was just misunderstanding something she said in Japanese.
Asako says good night and bows. She apologizes yet again, and my mother waves her off. Asako looks totally embarrassed, as if it was her fault.
After she’s headed back to the room, I can’t help myself. “Isn’t it odd that all these people keep coming into my room? I mean, I didn’t imagine that.”
“It’s only been two guests,” my mother says. “And they were both, well…travel is very disorienting.”
“We really need to get a sign for the bathroom,” my dad adds. “I think late at night it’s confusing for people.”
My mom nods violently. “Yes! That’s a great idea, sweetheart.” She turns to me. “I’m sure that will stop your night visitors.”
I am not going to win this argument. They are both too stubborn to see what’s in front of them. I look at the time. One in the morning.
“I need to get back to sleep,” I announce.
“We all do,” Dad says, and hugs me.
I go back to my room and take out my phone. It occurs to me that we’ve got a puzzle on our hands here: how to get this dybbuk, or whatever it is, to speak to me.
I realize that there is someone who knows more about solving puzzles than anyone else, and not only does he live in California (where it’s only ten p.m.), but he’s my cousin.
I text Ted to see if he’s awake, knowing full well he’s probably playing some computer game or other. Whenever he visits for Thanksgiving with Uncle Artie and Aunt Amanda, he tries to get me to play these escape-the-room video games with him, but they’re too hard for me. Ted is amazing at them, though. He even made the news last summer, because he and two friends solved a treasure hunt that Aunt Amanda’s uncle had set up before he died. I don’t remember too much about it, except that Ted looked kind of goofy on TV, and they mentioned that the girl who helped them went to private school here, Saint Anselm’s, before moving to California.
Ted texts back that it’s cool to FaceTime. My phone makes the familiar tinkling sound, and I accept his call.
I see Ted smiling at me. “Hey, dude. What’s up?”
I try to fill him in on what’s happened. He’s totally ticked off on my behalf about not getting Jake’s room, and it’s hard for me to move him past that. But eventually we get around to the real issue.
“Ted, I didn’t call to whine about the room,” I say.
I tell him all about what’s happened, all the weird stuff. He doesn’t laugh or tell me I’m nuts. He just nods.
“So…you don’t think it’s all in my head?” I ask.
Ted has a funny expression on his face and he glances at his laptop. “I dunno, man. Before this thing happened last summer, maybe I wouldn’t have thought it possible. But there are definitely things that you just can’t explain, you know?”
“For sure,” I say. I go on to tell him what Bubbe Ruth said.
I notice a small smile appear. “Oh. Bubbe Ruth.”
“Look,” I say. “I know she’s kind of…I don’t know…”
“Nuts?” Ted suggests. He sees that I’m not laughing, and he gets serious. “Okay, let’s say she’s right. I mean, I know she’s hung up on this mezuzah thing. She was thrilled to find out that Lila’s roommate at college is Jewish and had already nailed a mezuzah on the doorpost before Lila got there. Bubbe Ruth is convinced that’s why Lila is doing so well. So yeah, I dunno. Why not just put up a mezuzah now?”
“It’s too late,” I tell him. “Once you’ve got a dybbuk, or whatever it is, she said you have to get rid of it.”
Ted thinks for a second. “Okay, you know the ghost is humming a lullaby, and you know she speaks English. What you need to do is find out why she’s unhappy. Maybe there was a boy she loved and he died in the war?”
“But then she’d know where he was, right?”
“Or maybe it was someone she wanted to marry but her
parents forbid it.”
“That’s possible,” I say. “But how am I going to find out? I tried asking her. She freaked out.”
I can see the wheels in Ted’s head turning. Like he’s playing one of his games with me. “You need to learn her name. That’s the most important thing. Get that and I bet you can unlock all the others. Now let’s solve the first clue. Who did she ask to speak to?”
“Someone named Rochele,” I say.
Ted looks at me the way he does when something is obvious to him but I’m not seeing it. “Think of Bubbe Ruth. She calls you Danele. She calls your mom Mamele. She calls my dad Mr. Smarty-Pants, so that doesn’t really count.”
“So…Rochele…Rochel…”
“Probably Rachel, don’t you think?” Ted says. “So we know she had someone close to her in life named Rachel. A sister…”
I smile at him. “Or a cousin. You’re amazing.”
“Nah,” Ted says. “You’ve still got a lot of work ahead of you. But I bet there are resources right there in Brooklyn. It’s such an old place, people must be doing research on buildings all the time. If it was me, I’d try to find out all the people who lived in your apartment who had a sister named Rachel.”
Ted checks his phone. “Jeez, Danny, it’s almost two in the morning where you are! Get some sleep, dude!”
I yawn. “Yeah, I think I will. And I think I’m going to sleep better than I have in a while.”
I wake up in the morning to the sound of my parents having a disagreement in the kitchen. I hear my mother say, “She didn’t have to do this!”
Then my father answers, for what sounds like not the first time (my mom tends to repeat herself when she’s upset), “Maureen, we have to respect her wishes.”
I join them and see a note on the table. It’s written in perfect cursive on a lined sheet of paper with a little egg-yolk person in one corner. The note reads:
Please accept once again our sincere apologies for disturbing everyone last night. We are so sorry, and have chosen to find accommodations elsewhere for the remainder of our trip. We very much enjoyed meeting you and hope you will not think badly of us. Thank you for all your attention and good wishes.
Best,
Tomoko and Asako
My mother gestures at the paper and looks up at me. “Can you believe this? They must have packed up and left in the middle of the night.”
She crosses her arms tightly. “I want to refund their money, but your dad insists that would only make them more uncomfortable.”
“I just think they’re embarrassed,” Dad replies. “I know it’s silly to us, but I get the feeling that they didn’t think they could face us after what happened.”
My mom gives me a look. “All of a sudden your father has become an expert on Japanese culture.”
I get some cereal out of the cupboard and pour myself a bowl. “They were probably scared. I can definitely understand if they didn’t want a repeat performance of last night.”
I know I don’t.
My mom sits down next to me and hands me a napkin. “That’s ridiculous. She just was out of sorts from the flight. It’s a long flight, after all.”
I wasn’t going to get into the fact that most people with jet lag don’t rush into some poor kid’s room and act like a long-dead girl asking about her little boy. That boat has sailed. Or that plane has left. Or—okay, you get the idea.
I let my parents figure out which of them knows more about the proper way to engage with young Japanese women (spoiler alert: neither of them) and change and head off to school.
I get there early and Nat is already there, eager to hear what happened. I tell her about my conversation with Ted.
“What a help,” she says.
“I know, right?” I answer.
Nat rolls her eyes. “I was being sarcastic. I could have figured that out. That’s the easy part. Duh. We need to find out who Rachel is. And what her relationship to the dybbuk is.”
Gus walks up at the tail end of the conversation. “She could be a friendly ghost.”
“She sure doesn’t seem friendly,” Nat says. “She seems totally mad.”
It seems so weird to discuss this in the school hallway, on what feels like just another totally normal day. Like something like this can’t really be happening. The noise around us, the babble of voices and giggles and general rushing off to class, this is real life. And yet…
Finally, I look up. “I don’t think she’s mad. I think she’s upset. And sad. She needs to hear that her little boy is okay, for some reason.”
“But first we need to learn who she is, right?” asks Gus.
“Yeah,” I admit. “And I haven’t a clue as to how we’re going to do that.”
Nat gets an “aha!” look on her face. “I know who would know all about it.”
She turns and heads briskly toward the staircase, and Gus and I rush to catch up with her.
As soon as Nat stops on the third floor and turns right, toward the teachers’ lounge, I have a feeling I know who she’s thinking of.
She knocks on the door and peers in. Her face lights up. “Mr. Nordstrom! Do you have a few minutes before your next class?”
Mr. Nordstrom is in the middle of taking a bite of pastry, but he gestures with his free hand for us to come in. By the time I’ve closed the door, he’s washed down his Danish with a swig from his water bottle. He is dressed, as usual, in his own style, which is hard to describe.
Mr. Nordstrom is not an old guy, but he dresses like an old professor from the movies or something. He always wears things like tweed jackets and fancy leather shoes with red soles and white shoelaces. Today he’s in a mustard-yellow cardigan sweater with leather patches on the elbows, and a bow tie. Of course he has a beard; sometimes (like today) he even waxes the ends of his mustache.
I guess you could say he is a character. But he’s also an awesome teacher, and really easy to talk to.
“And a very good morning to you, students!” he exclaims. He tends to exclaim everything he says. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I’m…doing research for a project,” I say. “It’s about the house I live in. I’m trying to find out all the people who’ve lived there.”
Mr. Nordstrom’s face lights up. He rubs his hands together. “What a great idea! The houses in Brooklyn have such stories to tell!”
“Especially this one,” Gus says. “It has a— Ow!”
Nat has bumped into him. Hard. “Oops. Sorry, Gus. Yes, it has a long history.”
Gus glares at Nat and checks his ribs. “That’s going to leave a bruise.”
Nat ignores him. “I told Danny if anyone knew where he could find that information, it would be you.”
Mr. Nordstrom smiles. “I really should make you figure this out for yourself. There is the Internet, you know. Or…” He pauses, like in class.
“We could try the library,” I suggest. “But I wouldn’t know where to look for something this specific.”
“If only there was a place that was dedicated to learning all about the history of Brooklyn,” Gus says wistfully.
Mr. Nordstrom looks almost giddy. “You mean…like a historical society?”
Nat laughs, while Gus and I look on in confusion. “You guys,” Nat says, “don’t you remember when we had a field trip last year for our research papers for Mr. Nordstrom’s class?”
It’s kind of embarrassing that we didn’t think of the Brooklyn Historical Society before. If there’s any place that has the answers we need, that would be it.
I do remember the trip to the Brooklyn Historical Society, which was cool because it’s right here in Brooklyn Heights, on one of the older streets.
The historical society is as grand and imposing as I remembered. The building has all this stuff carved into the stones ou
tside, and when our class visited, Mr. Nordstrom pointed them out: the busts of famous people like Benjamin Franklin, Christopher Columbus, William Shakespeare, and Ludwig van Beethoven, and also ones of an American Indian and a Viking right over the entrance, representing the first people here in Brooklyn.
Nat raised her hand and said, “I notice they’re all men, and all are white, except for the Indian, and his land was taken away from him.” Mr. Nordstrom looked really happy that Nat had said this, and nodded. I felt bad because I hadn’t noticed it until Nat said something.
To get to the library, you have to take this big dark wood staircase with soft lighting, so you feel like you’re stepping back in time, especially as you climb the stairs and see these huge oil paintings of guys who a lot of the streets in the Heights are named after. “More white guys,” Nat had said with a sniff.
Somehow it’s a lot more intimidating to go through those huge doors and into that hushed hallway all by ourselves, without the other kids and a teacher. Our steps echo as we walk up the stairs, which I hadn’t noticed last year, when everyone was chattering and pushing each other.
We walk into the Othmer Library (that’s what’s written on the door) and approach the main desk, which is raised above the reading area. There are about a half a dozen people doing research, with their laptops open to take notes.
And there’s plenty to do research on. During our field trip, the librarian showed us a record of a slave auction in 1786, and the bill of sale of a house from the 1860s and even a Brooklyn Dodgers uniform, along with the newspaper from 1955 when Brooklyn won the World Series. I bet the Old Man would have loved to see that.
The library looks exactly like the library in the Harry Potter movies, with lamps hanging from a high, high ceiling, and row after row of bookcases. But in this case, the books weren’t about magic, just history. I guess if they could help us learn the name of my dybbuk, they would be pretty magical too.
As we get to the main desk, a young lady with big glasses and her hair pulled back walks briskly over and regards us. She has sort of a severe expression on her face, the kind I think librarians have to practice. Or maybe they’re just born that way.
The Ghost in Apartment 2R Page 15