“A book inspired by God,” I whisper.
Neshama scoffs. “Can you even prove that God exists? Can you?”
When I pray, the words reverberate through my chest and esophagus, filling my head. They ground me, like bull kelp, thick and bulbous, rooted to the ocean floor, yet still moving, undulating in the waves. How to explain this to Neshama?
“Anyway,” Neshama says, “I only have eight more months to go of this—this charade.”
“And then?”
“I’m done. With school, the skirts, the hand washing—all of it.”
The wind starts to pick up. I pull my hood over my toque. We turn onto a side street.
“Neshama, can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah?”
I hesitate. “How are you going to live?”
“Whaddya mean?”
“Well, what will you do Friday nights?”
“What won’t I do? Go out with friends, see movies, go dancing.”
“You mean, live like Bubbie?” I cringe.
“Yeah. You did it for a summer and you survived.” Neshama arches one eyebrow.
I lick my lips. “That was different,” I say quietly.
Neshama laughs. “I bet.”
I turn away without answering. I want to ask how she’ll feel if she doesn’t wake up each morning with Hashem on her lips, but I know she’ll just laugh.
ALL THROUGH DINNER a silent rage courses through me. Judaism says I am an abomination, yet God and His commandments are supposed to be good. Mrs. Lowenstein says I can change, but I’ve tried and it didn’t work. Neshama says God is just an idea made up by stupid men who say women can’t love other women. What is God anyway? Some big guy in the sky? The creator? Creator of what? I know dinosaur bones are older than the Torah.
Ima starts singing a zemirot, the guests joining in. I open my mouth to sing, but the words stick in my throat, choking me. When I push the sounds past the lump and out my dry mouth, I sound off-key. I stop singing and look down at my hands.
If I’m not part of this religion, who am I anyway? Just Ellie Gold, whoever that is.
MONDAY MORNING I stand with the other girls at school, feeling tired and grumpy, to chant the morning prayers. The sky is dark and heavy, the fluorescent lights glaring over the tables. I let my gaze wander out the window to the gray street.
The girls chant, “Praised are you, Lord our God, King of the universe who made me in His image.” Except I’m not in His image, not in the nicey-nice boy-likes-girl way. If I am in your image, are you gay, God? Are you?
“Praised are you God who made me a Jew,” the girls chant.
Yeah, thanks a lot.
“Praised are you God who gives sight to the blind. Praised are you who clothes the naked.” Does He? Not that I can see.
Thanks for making me a sinner by nature, I chant in my head to the same sing-song tune the girls use. Thanks for making me an outcast by design.
I slam my book shut. All around me the girls continue mumbling through the prayers. What good is God anyway, and what good are His stupid exclusive rules? Heat rises up my cheeks and my temples throb. When everyone rises for the Barchu, I slip out to the bathroom. Just to hide.
IN MISHNA CLASS I stare at the wall, drumming my thumbs on the table.
“Ellie?” Jill, my study partner, tries to get my attention.
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m just not into this.” I gesture to the book in front of us. “I don’t really care what you should or shouldn’t do if you’re riding a camel and it’s time to pray.”
“But it’s the Mishna,” she whispers.
“I don’t care.” I cross my arms.
“What’s with you?”
“Nothing,” I say, too loudly. Esther and Becca look over from a table nearby.
Jill sucks in her breath. “Do you want to study alone?”
I sigh. “Yeah, maybe.”
I slip out of the room when no one is looking and head back to the bathroom. In the stall I lean my head against the cold tile wall, press my fingers against my temples.
The bathroom door swings open. “Ellie?” Becca asks.
“Yeah?”
“What’s wrong?”
I don’t say anything.
“Can I come in?”
I unlatch the door and sniffle back some tears. “I just don’t feel well. Cramps.”
Becca eyes me. “That’s not it, is it?”
I stare down at the floor. “I’m okay, really.”
She strokes my arm. “Are you... are you in trouble?”
“No, I’m fine, really.”
“If you need to talk, I’m ready to listen.”
“Thanks.”
She reaches up and hugs me. “Maybe if you pray really hard, Hashem will help you.”
DURING THE MINCHA prayers before lunch I concentrate on a particularly vicious hangnail. In the cafeteria I skip the washing of the hands and start eating without even saying a blessing. No one notices.
After school I consider sneaking out and trying a ham sandwich or some bacon, or even just some non-kosher beef jerky, even a few gelatin-laden gummy bears. My stomach twists at the thought of trafe food. I just go home.
When I get into bed at night, my shoulders knotted into lumps, the shma rises in my head automatically as I pull up the covers and fluff my pillow.
“Shma yisroel adonai eloheinu.” Hear O Israel: the Lord our God.
God sucks, I think, and I stop chanting. Instead I murmur, “Yay, nature. Praise the trees. Preserve our oceans and lakes.” It’s not the same.
Eight
Ima’s eyes grow wide and alert when the visiting cantor begins singing Eishet Chayil.
“Eishet chayil mi yimsa, verahak mifninim micarah?”
Oh, who can find a brave wife, one whose price is above rubies?
The cantor’s voice resonates through the shul.
Ima sits on the edge of her seat and smoothes her blue suit with the braid-trimmed lapels.
“I love this song,” she whispers to me. I smile at her. We’re sitting in the middle of the women’s section, Neshama and I on either side of Ima. The children’s choir has sung some Hanukah songs, we’ve lit the menorah, and in a few minutes we’ll eat potato latkas, with applesauce and sour cream, and jam-filled donuts in the synagogue basement. The rich greasy smell wafts up, making my tummy rumble.
I’ve been a nonbeliever for a whole month now. A whole month without praising God, except for the times when I accidentally start to mumble the prayers out of habit. Since I don’t even believe in God anymore, the prayers don’t count. I still keep Shabbos and all that because I don’t want Ima or Abba to get suspicious. When they’re not looking I flick the lights on and off a few times, just to prove I don’t care.
Ima starts to hum next to me. She plants her velvety pumps firmly on the floor and squeezes my hand. Neshama and I exchange glances as Ima sits up straighter and starts to sing. Don’t do it, Ima, I think, but I don’t want to stop her either. “Eishet chayil mi yimsa.” Oh, who can find a brave wife. Her voice courses through me, raw and pure, rising in volume, until she drops my hand, her eyes closing, head tilting back. She stands, stomach pushing out, shoulders back, eyes bright, too shiny. Her face is dreamy, the tension draining from her temples and tight jaw. She stands unaware, the lines of her face softening, the brim of her hat shading her face.
Neshama and I watch, paralyzed, as Ima sings louder and louder on each chorus, her eyes glazed, locked on the cantor’s as if they are the only two people present, their voices dipping around the melody. Ima’s voice is strong but breathy, a clear, warm soprano. If I listen closely, I can hear Bubbie’s smoky rasp in Ima’s singing.
I sit, hands clenched, on the edge of my seat.
Then Ima takes a huge breath and hits the high note. “Eishet chayil mi yimsa.” Her voice soars louder than I’ve ever heard, the sound more beautiful than I knew she was capable of, curling off
the ceiling in perfect harmony with the cantor.
The congregation collectively holds its breath, no one moving, just listening to voices, male and female, matched.
The cantor sings more passionately, neck cords straining.
I imagine the men downstairs blushing and mumbling corrections to their straying thoughts to think of Hashem and not Kol Isha, the voice of a woman. Tears trickle down old Mrs. Zissler’s wrinkled cheeks into the wool collar of her suit.
Children stop playing in the aisles and look at my mother, their eyes wide, mouths gaping.
I hear the beauty of her clear voice, and underneath I feel the pure force of her love for God.
The high note fades, the congregation moving, breathing, whispering. I hold still a moment longer, sitting up straight, letting Ima’s voice resonate through me.
Mrs. Bachner turns in her seat and glares at Ima.
Over the balcony, I see Rabbi Abrams twisting his fingers in his lap. Abba stares up at the women’s section, his face contracted into hard lines.
Neshama grabs my hand. “C’mon.” She gathers our coats and pulls Ima, stumbling, toward the exit. Our heels clatter down the stairs.
Abba is already waiting for us outside, soft dry flakes of snow dusting his shoulders.
“I was there,” Ima exclaims, pounding her fist against her patent leather purse. We stare at her. “I was there, I was there. I sang and I sang and my voice, it hit the ceiling, but I was there.” Ima practically dances down the street. “I was there.”
I shiver, wind whipping around my ankles.
Abba drapes Ima’s coat around her. “Where else would you have been?”
“Oh, Avram, you don’t understand.” Ima paces on the pavement. “The note, the words, all reached, I...well, after I finished singing I was still in the room.”
“Where else would you have been?” he asks again. He buttons up his coat, his shoulders stiff, hands rigid.
“I don’t know.” Ima swings her arms down. “Just not present. I’ve only had that once before.”
“Where was that?” I ask.
“Oh,” she mumbles, “it was when I was at the convent in Carmel. I was singing.” Ima starts talking faster, “I was singing and singing and it was Ave Maria, and I hit this high note I could never get before, and my voice just rose, but it was as if I was looking down at myself and I couldn’t really remember being there afterward. I couldn’t remember. The nuns said I sat down and stopped singing, but I don’t remember that.”
“And this time?”
“I hit the high note and stayed in the room.” Ima beams. We gape at her, shivering on the street, coats undone, snow falling in our hair. “Let’s go back in and eat,” she urges.
Abba takes her arm. “I’ll make you latkas at home,” he says and guides her down Bathurst.
THE NEXT MORNING Ima shuffles into the kitchen in her slippers and gray robe, her eyes blurry and bagged. “Good morning,” she says, her voice hoarse. She pours herself a cup of tea and sits down at the table.
Abba nods, smiling weakly. When I got up this morning he was seated in the kitchen, still wearing his shirt from last night, the collar soft and creased. He stared out at the snow accumulating like thick fur over the trees and bushes, his eyes bloodshot, his beard unruly.
I unload the dishwasher, placing the glasses in the cupboard by the sink.
Ima yawns, stretches her arms over her head. “I slept a long time.” Her voice cracks.
“Yes, you did.” Abba rubs his eyes.
“My voice,” she rasps.
Abba’s sips his coffee. “You must have overdone it.”
She nods, smiling. “I sang.”
“Yes.” Abba ducks his head. “I’ll get you something for your throat.” He digs in the pantry for the honey and pulls the lemon juice from the refrigerator. “Add some of that.”
Ima stirs her tea. “When I sang,” she croaks, “it totally filled my head, you know what I mean? I saw this color, deep purple. It turned bright blue, aqua.” She cocks her head. “No, like indigo.”
I stop sorting cutlery. Abba and I gaze at her.
Ima presses her hand against her breast. “And the song was pushing against my chest like it had been waiting there for years.”
“That’s great,” Abba mutters into his coffee. He clears his throat. “I was thinking, this Friday for dinner, we’d just have our family.”
Ima’s smile falls. “No guests?”
“I thought it would be nice to have a rest, you know, be on vacation.”
Ima wraps her hands around the mug, her smile uncertain. “If I work on my book, then I’ll have more to say when the students come the following week.”
“Yes,” Abba says, “a good idea.”
Ima picks up her tea and settles herself on the living room couch with her notebook. I stand in the kitchen, watching Abba rub his temples, his head in his hands.
ON MONDAY MORNING, the first real day of vacation, Neshama is already dressed when I come downstairs. She sits at the table next to Abba, shoveling bran flakes into her mouth.
“Where are you going so early?”
She glares at me. “To the library.”
I raise my eyebrows. Abba stares out the window. Neshama puts her bowl in the dishwasher and picks up her backpack. “Bye, Abba.”
He waves back, sips his coffee.
I follow her to the front hall closet. She pulls on her coat.
“I got a job for the break,” she whispers.
“Where?”
“Eaton Centre, wrapping Christmas gifts.”
“You did?”
She nods.
Upstairs Ima sings, “Lo yisa goy el goy cherev.” Nation shall not fight nation. Her voice is still raspy.
“That’s going to be a long day at the library.”
“You’ll cover for me, right?”
I nod.
Ima comes downstairs singing, “One tin soldier rides away.” Her voice is a thin scrape.
“Bye, Ima.”
Ima squints at her. “Oh, have a good day.”
Neshama slips out the door.
“Where was she off to?”
“Library.”
Ima clears her throat, takes a breath and tries to sing. “Avinu Malkeinu.” Her voice is deep and hoarse. She coughs and pulls snow pants out of the closet. “I can’t believe my throat is still bad. Wanna help me shovel the walk?”
“No, thanks.”
She zips up her ski jacket and mitts and grabs the shovel. “Jesus loves me this I know...” Her voice trickles to a slow hiss of air. She shakes her head.
I SPEND MOST of the week with Becca and Esther. We watch videos, work on a school project and try and write a new song for Esther to play on her guitar. I talk them into going down to Toronto Island, but they get sidetracked by the shopping at the harbor. I babysit for the neighbor’s kids a few afternoons and use the money to buy more fossils from the museum gift shop. Becca buys me two new fish for Hanukah. We name them Nebachnezzar and Antiochus.
In the evenings, after we light the Hanukah candles, Neshama and I go to Mrs. Fidderman’s to feed her cat and watch taped videos of Days Of Our Lives. We fast-forward through the commercials and eat popcorn on Mrs. Fidderman’s floral sofa, waiting for Bo and Hope to finally reunite.
On Thursday when I come home from a trip to the science center, I make myself a cup of hot chocolate and settle on the living room sofa. Only Abba is home, swiveling back and forth on his office chair. Just as I flip open my ocean encyclopedia, the doorbell rings. I pull myself reluctantly from the sofa’s deep grip. Through the peephole I see Rabbi Abrams on our doorstep, wrapped in a long black coat. Tension creeps up the back of my neck and into my jaw. He has never come to our house except when Ima invited him and his wife for Shabbos.
Rabbi Abrams is about forty with light brown bushy hair radiating out from his head. He has pale eyes and thin lips that disappear into his beard. When he gives a d’var Torah, his nostrils flare
as he speaks. Neshama and I used to giggle through his sermons, watching his nose vibrate as his talk became more impassioned.
I open the door. “Please come in.”
“Hi, Ellie.” Rabbi Abrams steps into the hall. “I have an appointment with your father.”
“Oh, I’ll get him.”
I knock on Abba’s door. “Rabbi Abrams is here,” I whisper, pushing open the door.
Abba glances at his watch. He straightens the collar of his plaid shirt. Deep circles shroud his eyes. He follows me back to the hall, rubbing his hands over his corduroys, pulling his sleeves down over the dark hairs on his wrists.
“Rabbi, so nice to see you. Please, come in.” They shake hands.
“You are well?” Rabbi Abrams asks.
“Baruch Ha’shem.” Blessed is God.
Abba hangs up Rabbi Abrams’ coat, ushers him into the office and closes the door. I sidle up to the wall, holding my breath. Did Abba make the appointment, or did Rabbi Abrams request to see Abba?
The chairs creak, and Rabbi Abrams speaks in a low voice. He mentions “Chana” and “singing.” I straighten against the door. There’s a pause. Rabbi Abrams speaks more loudly. “You have been a member of our congregation for many years. I value your commitment and your faith.” He pauses. “I’m worried about Chana.” Rabbi Abrams coughs. “Maybe if you talked to her...”
Another long pause. I slide down the wall to the gray carpet. Poor Abba.
“We want Chana to be comfortable, to be able to daven,” Rabbi Abrams continues.
I hear Abba drum his fingers on his desk. “I...um...well, maybe she could pray somewhere else. Perhaps her mother’s synagogue.”
I gawk at the door, eyes bulging. What is he thinking? At Bubbie’s shul, which she hardly ever goes to, the rabbi says, “Please rise” and announces the page numbers. They recite most of the prayers in English, and a choir sings down from a balcony. No one actually prays.
Rabbi Abrams says something in Hebrew I can’t make out. I hear them shifting in their chairs. I hide in the living room until he leaves.
I hear Abba talking to someone on the phone for a few minutes and then the noise of him pacing back and forth. I lie rigid in the living room, waiting to see if Ima has really been sentenced to Bubbie’s reform temple. “Ellisheva,” Abba calls, “can you come here a moment?” I exhale and shuffle to Abba’s office, clutching my ocean encyclopedia.
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