by Cathy Lamb
I should have attached a tissue to my face with glue to catch all the tears spurting from my eyes.
On the second night, after another raucous family dinner, Grandma gave Uncle Ismael the three swans she had brought with her, including the blue glass swan she had keened over that night in her bedroom, as she moaned, “Now, I remember. I’ll never forget it.”
She stood in her full-length, satiny black evening gown, her white curls piled atop her head, and tapped a wineglass with a spoon and a grape at the same time. When she had everyone’s attention, she said, “Ismael loves swans. So I have brought him swans. Don’t let them fly away, Ismael! You have to hold on to them tight because of their wings. Don’t break their wings.”
Ismael stood up as soon as she started speaking, to respect his aunt, his face tight as he fought for control, even before she reached into her gold silk purse and, with great fanfare, handed the wood, ceramic, and blue glass swans to Uncle Ismael.
“These, I have saved for you, my nephew. I knew I would see you again in the Land of the Swans.”
Uncle Ismael took them with solemn ceremony, holding the three swans in his cupped hands, then kissing Grandma on both cheeks, twice. “Thank you, Aunt Dynah. Thank you.”
“And now, I have another gift for you, Ismael.”
My cousins brought out a huge canvas, easel, brushes, and paints, and Grandma, with those talented hands, painted, truly, the most realistic, awe-inspiring swan she had ever painted, the feathers white and fluffy, the lines elegant, the palm trees of Tel Aviv in the background. The swan cradled a violin in its wings.
“For you, Ismael,” she said when she was done. “May our violins never be apart again.”
“Never,” he rasped. “Never again will we be apart.”
“I love you, Ismael,” Grandma said, her hands cupping his face, and I could almost believe the dementia, for a moment, had left. “I have never stopped loving you.”
“It is the same for me, Aunt Dynah,” he choked. “I love you. I have always loved you.”
Uncle Ismael cried again so hard, he had to sit down.
“We are together again, Ismael,” Grandma said. “Together. A family of swans.”
All the rest of the family cried, too. Hankies flying, napkins shared, how they bawled.
The next day Uncle Ismael had the picture framed and hung as a centerpiece in his home so he could look at it every night and study the lines, the texture, the color, the love.
On the third night, Grandma, resplendent in a purple, off-the-shoulder ball gown and a diamond necklace, stood with the ring box in her hand. She hit her wineglass with a spoon and a slice of apple. When she had everyone’s attention she said, “Ismael, now we will be married!” She opened the box in front of her elegant, white-haired nephew who had, like the gentleman he is, stood again out of respect for his aunt.
Inside the box was the wedding ring. “My husband, he gave this to your mother, my beautiful sister, who jumped like a swan and had her wings broken when she saved you from the black ghosts. Now, it is yours.”
Uncle Ismael, once again a mess, could hardly hold his hand still when she pushed the wedding ring on his pinky finger. “Your mother, she and my husband loved each other. Then, when she was gone, and I was no longer a girl, I fell in love with your father, and he loved me back. There!” she announced. “Now we’re all married together!”
Uncle Ismael’s children are so emotional. They were a blubbery mess, and they made blubbery messes out of Annie and me and our granddad, too, and Granddad wrapped Uncle Ismael and Grandma in a huge hug, and that was a blubbery mess.
It was only relieved when Grandma shouted, “I can’t make hot love to you now, Abe! You have to wait until later! Then, I’ll take you to the stars!”
She pulled away, smiled seductively, and shimmied her chest at him.
On the fourth night, late, when the moon was soft and waiting, I saw Annie sit down at the piano in Uncle Ismael’s living room.
She ran her fingers over the keys, played scales, up and down, up and down.
She played one piece after another by Mozart as if she had been playing in her head for years, waiting to let it out through her delicate fingers. I lifted my violin. We played together.
Somehow, the family knew this was a special moment. They were quiet, that noisy bunch. They listened, they watched, they joined us in a bubble of wonder.
I was startled when I heard a second violinist join us, and Granddad, Granddad, who I had never heard play before, who had refused to play, stood beside me, then Ismael joined us.
For long seconds, Annie’s fingers froze, my hands didn’t move, struck again at the head-banging surprises one finds in life, the surprises that leap and jump and twirl around, alighting at the most unexpected moments.
We dove back into our music, after Annie and I grinned at each other, confused and surprised, but hey. What the heck. There would be answers later as to why Granddad had never played his violin for us. And, if we did not receive answers, that would be okay. Life is not going to answer all my questions. I can rest in that. I can hold on to it, and be at peace with it.
We played together, my granddad, Uncle Ismael, Annie and I, Grandma waltzing around the room, resplendent in yellow, singing a song of love and lust about my granddad.
“It is a miracle,” Uncle Ismael said to me. “A most happy miracle.”
“Yes,” I said, as the sun set, purple here, orange there, yellow, a bit of pink, embracing and hopeful. “It is a miracle.”
“It was a pleasure to hear you play the violin last night,” Uncle Ismael said, those eyes so warm. “You are very talented.”
“Not like you, nothing like you.”
“You get it from your granddad.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Your talent. He was one of the finest violinists, ever, in France.”
My mouth dropped open. I had heard him the night before, I knew he was talented....
“I was so proud of him. . . .” Ismael told me about the orchestra Granddad played in, how Grandma Madeline also played the violin.
“It is the strangest thing. I . . .” I paused. “You will think you have a crazy niece on your hands but . . .”
“Tell me. I want to know. Please.” He leaned toward me, eager, trusting, so kind, despite the insane horrificness of his past.
I looked into his brown eyes with a touch of gold, so like my momma’s. “Uncle Ismael, I hear . . .”
He blinked at me, and something dawned in his eyes, excitement, disbelief. “You hear?”
“I hear . . . I’m so embarrassed, but ever since I was a little girl, in my head, no one else can hear it, but I . . .”
He stared at me intently. “Madeline, do you hear violin music in your head?”
I caught my breath. “I do.” I paused, worrying about what he would think. “I’ve heard you play the last couple of days and I’m sure . . . Uncle Ismael, I am sure that I am hearing you.”
He closed his eyes, then opened them, and grabbed my hand. “It is you I hear, too.”
“You hear me?” I ran a hand through my curls. “How . . . how do you know?”
“I have heard violin music in my head for over thirty years. First I heard a child, a talented child. I knew because of the skill level it was a child, but the child became better and better. She improved in every area, and she became a master. Listening to you, I knew it was true, but I thought I should not bring it up so soon.” He laughed. “I thought you would think I was crazy. But you are a rebel violinist, aren’t you?”
I was shocked once again. “Yes, I am.”
“You play everything. From Mendelssohn, Mozart, Bach, Beethoven, Jewish folk music, Texas-style fiddling, Western swing, Irish jigs and reels, Stéphane Grappelli, bluegrass . . .”
“Yes. I’m all over the place. I like the change, the moods, the . . . tunes!” I laughed again.
“I’ve played in the orchestra here for years.”
“I swea
r I’ve heard clapping.”
“I’ve practiced alone, duets and quartets . . .”
“I’ve heard you.”
“I could hear someone practicing, starting and stopping . . . finished pieces, eloquently played.”
We watched the light play on the hills, the shadows, basking in the miracle, a miracle that should not have been, that had no reason, no explanation, but it was there, between us.
“We have heard each other,” he said, wonder in his voice. “We have heard each other for decades.”
“Over an ocean, over land, over thousands of miles . . .”
Uncle Ismael stood up with his violin.
Before he started, I knew what he would play. I stood next to him. He looked in my eyes, nodded. Together, in perfect timing, we began.
It was one of my favorites: Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 in G Minor.
Grandma began her ritual of giving Uncle Ismael a swan on a regular basis.
“We are in the Land of the Swans,” she told everyone. “I must make sure he has enough. He loves swans!”
Nola and other members of that massive family would take her “swan shopping.” The swans she bought were made of all different materials: woods, ceramic, glazed pottery, steel, natural elements, glass. She also drew him swans.
Sometimes at night, after dinner, she would smile serenely, with such love in her eyes, and she would present Uncle Ismael with a swan. “This is from your mother,” she would tell him. “She loved you so, like I do!” Or “This is from your sister. She loved you so, like I do.”
And Uncle Ismael would take the swan, and he would sob, for his mother, his sister, for life, and others would cry. This was a very emotional family we had entered into. The men did not try to cover their emotions, and the women were equally bad. Very bad. They cried and laughed all the time, often at once.
When the gifts of the swans started to arrive, Uncle Ismael had shelves built in his living room, floor to ceiling, and the new swans joined the ones Grandma brought him from Oregon. They were displayed as one would display great art.
“Ismael,” my grandma would say to him often, smiling, but reprimanding, “no more hiding!”
“Never,” he would answer, bringing Grandma’s hands to his lips and kissing them.
“We are staying in Israel.”
“You’re . . . what? Did you say you’re staying?” I asked, struggling to understand.
“What do you mean, staying?” Annie asked. “You mean, you’re staying for a week? For two? We can extend our vacation. . . . ”
“No, dear. We are staying. Your grandma and I are not leaving. I am not leaving my son again.” Granddad’s face started to crumple. “I can’t leave him again. I love you both, you know that—”
“Granddad, we know that.” I reached for his shaking hand. We were in one of the lush gardens around Uncle Ismael’s home, out on the patio, under a green umbrella, two palm trees swaying.
“And we love you,” Annie said, “but, what do you mean, you’re staying?”
“We are not leaving. We will be buried here in Israel.”
I cleared my throat. Every day in Israel had been a day of emotions. We were hugged and held, our hands caressed, our cheeks patted, our shoulders linked by others’ arms.
Annie, Annie, who avoided human contact except from Grandma and Granddad and me, actually embraced our family. She hugged them and didn’t look like she was under forced oppression. One of our cousins said, “Annie is such a warm and generous person, so affectionate, Madeline, like you.”
I was watching a miraculous miracle.
“You . . . ,” Annie said. “You mean, you mean you’re not going back to Oregon?”
He shook his head.
“You . . . ,” I said, tripping on my words. “You’re going to live here?”
He nodded. “Ismael and Devora have invited us to live with them here, and Nola has accepted, too. She will stay with us. We will fly her sons over three times a year to visit. Their house has plenty of room.”
That was true. Uncle Ismael and Devora, his cozy, comfy wife who had fought in a war and was a crack shot, were very successful. They had a thriving import–export business that reached worldwide.
“But even if there was hardly any room,” Granddad said, his lips tightening together, “or my son lived in a shack, or a one-room home that he would not leave, and he invited us to stay, we would stay. I would stay with them in a hut. I would stay with them anywhere.” He turned to us, gripped our hands hard. “Stay here, Madeline, Annie, please. Stay with us. Let’s make a new life here, all of us, together.”
I leaned back in my chair, as did Annie.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“No, my love, I am not. You girls, you are my life,” Granddad said, anguished, breaking. “I love you more than my own life, I always, always have, but please understand, I can’t leave my son again, I can’t. It will kill me.”
“But Granddad—” I said.
“But Granddad—” Annie said.
Then we closed our mouths and were silent.
But what? What argument was there? None.
“My brain is almost exploding,” Annie said, “but I can’t think of any good reason why you shouldn’t stay here.”
“I have only met my son again, after all these years,” Granddad said, a hand brushing his white hair back.
“We understand,” I said.
And we did. We got it.
Annie leaned over and kissed him. “Granddad, you can’t be away from Uncle Ismael and the gang. Not for one day. Not for one minute.”
Nope. He couldn’t. No can do. I would react the same.
“Will you all stay, too?” he asked, eager. “We can sell The Lavender Farm, or keep it, whatever you wish to do. You can build houses here, start a new life, be with your family. Seven children, Ismael has. Seven. All of your first cousins, and they have children, too. They are your family. . . .”
I loved Israel. I loved Tel Aviv. But I wanted to live on The Lavender Farm and, maybe, perhaps, I wanted to call the snake hunter. I choked up when I looked at Annie. I didn’t want her to move to Israel, but it was her choice.
“Granddad,” Annie said. “I’m not going to live here, but Israel is . . . it’s beautiful. I feel like it’s part of me, part of the missing part of me. So, I’ll make a deal with you, Granddad.”
Our granddad leaned forward.
“Madeline and I, we’ll stay for a while, then we’ll come and visit all the time, okay? We’ll visit. You stay with your son.”
“Is that a promise? You will visit often?”
“It is, Granddad. It is a promise.”
More tears.
Our new family was not pleased about Annie and my leaving for Oregon. They argued, they pleaded, they cajoled.
Why, Annie could work as a vet! Plenty of people in Tel Aviv needed life coaches! If we didn’t stay we would miss Kelila’s wedding, and Maya’s fortieth birthday, and Rivka and Yudel’s anniversary, and two bar mitzvahs! Two! All in the next few weeks. We couldn’t go! We couldn’t! It was a bad idea to return to Oregon. Bad! We were family! We had time to make up! Please! Don’t go!
They all came, as a noisy mob, to see Annie and me off at the airport when we left.
Granddad gave me a hug and left tears on my cheeks. Grandma hugged me tight, then slipped something into my pocket. It was a bag of colorful marbles. “For the swans in the lavender.”
They are an emotional group. The men all show their emotions and the women are equally bad.
Very bad.
We had found our family.
I loved them already.
32
When we returned to Oregon I bought Annie and myself Jeeps. They were pink. I ordered vanity license plates. They said PNK GRL 1 for me, because I am the oldest, and PNK GRL 2.
We drove my pink jeep to Anacortes, Washington, and rented a sailboat. For a week we sailed in and around the San Juan Islands. We saw porpoise, kille
r whales, seals, a bald eagle, and deer. We stopped off at Olga and hiked up to the café and had raspberry and boysenberry pie. We bought pottery. We walked through Eastsound and bought paintings and photographs of the sea. We went to San Juan on the horn-tooting white ferry and had peppermint ice cream. It was so delicious we went back and had strawberry ice cream. Both pink ice creams. We were not afraid of ice cream anymore.
We sailed and sailed, sometimes in silence, sometimes laughing and chatting, often allowing tears to roll, as we reintroduced ourselves to the ocean again, its depth, its personality, its freedom, as our dad used to say. We watched the colors glint off the water, and Annie declared, quoting our momma, “The only color the ocean is missing is pink.”
“I love you, sister,” I told her. I shook my hair in the wind, all the curls flying around my face, tight curls, loose curls, frizzy curls.
“I love you, too.” Her curls flew, too.
We had tossed our flat irons in a steel bin together at The Lavender Farm, and Annie had used a wee bit of explosives to blow them up. “Never again,” she’d said. “No flat ironing.”
We both agreed that our hair was looking a bit redder lately.
“Must be Dad,” Annie said. “I’ll bet he was impressed when you had all the Israeli family doing Irish jigs. You’re a boot-stomping fiddler.”
“Thank you. You’re a hellion on the piano. Your hard rock tunes were especially popular.”
Her face became contemplative as she studied a distant island. “It would be very cool to bang down on piano keys one day and somewhere else an explosion would fire into the sky.”
I rolled my eyes at her. She laughed.
I pulled the hood of my pink sweatshirt up, as Annie had done with hers, our sailboat creating a cool wind.
“It feels right to wear pink again, doesn’t it, Pink Girl?” she said.
“It sure does, Pink Girl Sister.” We had even bought matching pink tennis shoes. Geeky, we knew. In the distance I saw a fin. Yep. Killer whale. It was surrounded by the pinks and yellows of the sunset. There is hardly anything prettier than the sunsets you see when you’re in a boat on the Pacific Ocean, the green emerald islands of the San Juans sticking up like tips of mountains that had been scattered and dropped by a giant hand.