Gravity

by Leanne Lieberman

  Abba’s eyes are hooded, his face pale. A Talmud lies open in front of him, his desk covered in papers with his neat notes. He sits, shoulders hunched, rubbing his knees. He glances at my ocean encyclopedia. “What are you reading now?”

  I hold up the book.

  He taps his pen on his knee. “Your sister is also studying very hard these days?”

  My stomach contracts. “Yes, I think so.”

  “Good, good.” He swivels back to his desk and glances over his papers. “I wanted to tell you I spoke with Bubbie. She says she’ll be happy to have you, Neshama and your mother go to synagogue with her Saturday morning.”

  “To Bubbie’s shul?”

  “Yes.” Abba twists his hands, pulling at his hairy knuckles.

  “We have to go with her?”

  “I think it best.”

  I sigh and lean against the wall. “Ima is going to be very sad,” I whisper.

  “Yes.” His hand muffles his voice.

  “Are you going back to Beth El?”

  Abba wipes his eyes. I look away. I’ve never seen Abba cry, except at his parents’ funerals.

  “No, not right now anyway. I will daven at my school for a while.”

  The minyan at Abba’s school is all elderly Holocaust survivors who live nearby. They mumble and rush through the prayers. There’s no women’s section.

  Abba blows his nose and straightens his shoulders. “Your mother made a mistake, and now she needs to deal with the consequences.”

  My eyes narrow, and I glare at Abba. I’m not sure if I’m angry with him, or with Ima, for what she did. I turn to leave.

  “Ellisheva?”

  “What?” I face him.

  Abba ignores my rude tone. “You’ll ask your mother to go to shul with you and Bubbie?”

  I stare at him, my mouth open. “Me?”

  Abba sighs, takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes with his knuckled fist. He swallows. “You’ll ask her?”

  I stand at the doorway, my hands clenched, teeth bearing down on my lip. Abba’s eyes brim red and watery. I nod and storm out before the tears can slip out of the corners of his eyes.

  I hurl my ocean encyclopedia onto the couch and stomp to the hallway where I yank on my boots and coat. Outside, I shove the front door closed, letting it smash into the jamb with a satisfying clatter, the leaded side windows rattling in their frames. Snow has mounted on the driveway into a soft bed. I grab the shovel from the steps and start hacking a path from the front door to the driveway. The snow froths over me, offering no resistance. I chuck the shovel on the lawn and head toward the subway.

  Holiday shoppers pack the subway downtown, some jovial, others tired, their faces slack. I get off at the Eaton Centre and enter the mall. Carols blare and people jostle by, carrying shopping bags. I start to sweat, clutching my hat and gloves. Stores drip with mistletoe and glittering red and green tinsel. Mothers herd eager children toward the long line waiting to meet Santa in his white Styrofoam castle. Only seven more shopping days, reads a giant banner.

  I slowly make my way through the mall until I see Neshama at her stand. A few meters away, I stop and gawk. She wears a red and green apron over her turtleneck and skirt. A sprig of holly juts out of her headband. This is how Neshama will live: in God-less consumerism.

  She waves me over. “Isn’t this crazy? I’ve been wrapping since nine thirty.” She doesn’t even ask why I’m here.

  She wraps a white box in Santa paper and red ribbons, expertly pulling scissors through the ribbons until they stretch out long, then furl into tight curls. She hands the package to a man in a long overcoat. “Probably lingerie for his secretary,” she whispers after he leaves. “Wait a few minutes, and I’m off. Look busy talking to me about gifts and no one will come up and ask me to wrap. I tell all the men to buy jewelry. The smaller the box the bigger the love—”

  “How can you stand to be in here?” I interrupt.

  “Ka-ching.” She rubs her fingers together.

  I grab her hand. “Aren’t you taking this a little far?”

  “Blasphemous, isn’t it?”

  I sigh.

  At five o’clock, Neshama packs up her stand. As we walk through the mall, I tell her about Rabbi Abrams’ visit and Abba’s decision.

  “What was he thinking? Ima hates Bubbie’s shul.” Neshama slaps her hand against the escalator handrail. “What are you going to say to her?”

  “Nothing.” We step onto the main floor of Eaton’s.

  “Hmm?” Neshama pulls me toward the makeup counter.

  “I’ll just invite her to come with us.”

  “She won’t come.” Neshama grabs a compact from one of the counters and starts powdering my cheeks. “This will even out your skin tone.”

  I grimace but let her. “When she asks why, I’ll just let Abba explain.”

  “What a coward, making you tell Ima. Serves her right though, how weird she was.”

  “Yeah, but—” The scented makeup tickles my nose. Neshama steps back, avoiding the spray of my sneeze.

  “But what?”

  “I feel bad for her, she’s going to...”

  “Crumple?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ima will deflate, melt into a puddle. She loves our shul. I push away Neshama’s hand and check my reflection in the mirror. The makeup has caked my skin white. “You’ve made me look like a ghost.”

  A salesgirl with a perfectly made-up face leans over the counter. “Can I help you girls?”

  “No, thank you,” Neshama says. She turns my chin toward her. “It is a little too pale, even for you.” She hands me a tissue, and I wipe off the makeup.

  Outside I let the night air ruffle my open coat, the wind refreshing after the crowds and the perfume section. I follow Neshama down Yonge Street and over to Nathan Phillips Square.

  “Isn’t this gorgeous?” She gestures toward the colored lights and the skaters in the square across from the mall. A giant Christmas tree looms behind.

  “I suppose.”

  Neshama sighs. “Maybe next year.”

  I whirl around. “You’ll have Christmas?”

  “Maybe,” she repeats.

  I shudder. “You’re kidding.”

  “Oh, just relax, Ellie.”

  BUBBIE BUYS ME swim goggles for Hanukah and takes me to the women-only swim at her club. She leaves me in the empty change room while she heads out for her tennis game. I pull on my blue swimsuit, adjust the straps over my shoulders. I flex in the mirror, the curve of my biceps, the slight bulge of my shoulders visible.

  The chlorine in the air tickles my nose and the tiles are cool and damp under my bare feet. The pool looks long and inviting. My new goggles suck tight against my face. An elderly woman swims in the far lane, but otherwise the pool is deserted. Holiday season. Most of Bubbie’s friends are in Florida already, and she’ll go down in a few weeks. I pause at the edge, glance at the ladder, and then swing my arms behind me and leap. The cool water shocks me, dissipating my anger from yesterday. I rise, gasping for air, spitting. I smile and push myself through the water. Breaststroke, like a frog. Rana clamitans peeping in the swamp beside the cottage.

  My muscles warm up, tendons loosening, the back of my neck relaxing with each stroke. I tentatively open my eyes under water. Below me I see bubbles, tiles, pool lines, my own hands fluttering.

  After a few slow lengths of breaststroke I stop, stretch my arms overhead and break into front crawl. One arm then the other. Cup and pull, breathe to the side, kick. Eyes open I can swim a straight line. I think of Ima singing in the shul, and a shiver runs through me, then a moment of anger, temples pulsing under the taut goggles. Just swim, Ellie. I kick harder, pulling the water past me with even more force. I will have calf muscles like Lindsay, abs like Neshama and pecs like Joey McIntyre. Energy surges through me. I break through the surface at the end of the pool, breathing hard.

  Back and forth, voices echo above the water; under the surface—quiet.

&nb
sp; AFTER THE SWIM Bubbie pulls into the parking lot at Bathurst and Lawrence. “I want to pick up some chopped liver.”

  “I could help you make some,” I offer.

  Bubbie un-clicks her seatbelt. “No, thanks. It’ll make my whole house smell greasy. I’ll just be a second. Do you want anything to eat?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

  “Even after all that swimming?”

  I’m actually starving, but United Bakery isn’t kosher. If I suddenly start eating non-kosher food, it will certainly get back to Abba and Ima. “No, thanks.”

  “Not even a cup of tea?”

  “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.”