Inevitable and Only(19)

But she kept fiddling with the charm on her necklace. “Do you—I’d like to, if you don’t mind—we usually say grace before we eat.” We? She seemed to catch her usage of the plural pronoun at the same time, and bit her lip. And then I realized what the tiny necklace charm was. It was a gold crucifix.

Dad and Mom, for the first time in a week, looked like a team again—because they had the exact same stunned look on their faces, as if Elizabeth had just told them she was pregnant. Or the proud owner of a unicorn. Or pregnant with a unicorn.

“We’re Jewish,” Mom offered. As if this somehow answered Elizabeth’s implied question.

“Jew-ish,” Dad clarified. “You know, the atheist kind. We don’t do synagogue or any of that stuff, we don’t believe in God. But we sure are glad She created latkes and hamantaschen.” He grinned, but Elizabeth just stared at him.

I used to be embarrassed about trying to explain this to teachers who pointedly wished me “Happy Hanukkah” while doling out red-and-green plates and napkins at Christmas parties, or to friends who wanted to know in eighth grade why I was the only Jewish kid at school who wasn’t having a bat mitzvah.

Mom was still gazing at Elizabeth like they used to stare at me, and suddenly I wanted to put my hand under her chin and snap her mouth shut.

“Of course we can say grace,” I said, grabbing Josh’s hand on my right and Mom’s on my left. “Elizabeth, would you like to lead us off?”

The only time I remember ever saying grace was at Ahimsa House, where we used to join hands before meals sometimes and sing, while a man named Dancer played along on his guitar. But Elizabeth didn’t sing. She bowed her head, clasping her hands together under her chin.

“Bless us, O Lord, and these your gifts, which we are about to receive from your bounty. Through Christ, our Lord. Amen.”

Dad and I had bowed our heads, too, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Josh, his brow furrowed, looking around the table as if he wasn’t sure who these people were. And Mom was staring at Elizabeth as if she’d sprouted horns. Or angel wings.

“Amen!” I said loudly, releasing Mom’s and Josh’s hands, and picked up my chopsticks. “And l’chaim, and all that,” I added, trying to break the tension.

Dad reached across the table and patted Elizabeth’s hand. “That was lovely, just lovely. We’re excited to learn more about your traditions, sweetie. L’chaim indeed!”

Mom smiled weakly and echoed, “L’chaim.” Then she left the table to pour herself a glass of wine.



That night, as we lay in our separate beds, I tried to figure out what to say. I couldn’t ask her about her mother, of course. And I didn’t think she’d want to talk about her school, her friends, her old life in Ohio. “So,” I said, “do you go by Liz? Lizzie? Beth?”

“No, just Elizabeth.”

There was an awkward silence.

When Josh had gone up to his room to practice after dinner, Elizabeth had asked if she could come and listen. Josh brought his cello downstairs instead, and Elizabeth and Dad sat on the couch together and listened for an hour or so while Mom and I worked—homework for me and paperwork for her—at the kitchen table. Do you think she goes to church, too? Mom had whispered. Probably, I whispered back, and Mom grimaced. We have to make her feel at home, I hissed, angry that I was being forced to pick sides between Mom and Elizabeth here. I didn’t want to be on either of their sides. I wanted to be back on Dad’s side. The old Dad, the one who had two children, Acadia Rose and Joshua Tree, the Dad who—

“Do you play any instruments?” Elizabeth asked, saving me from spiraling further into that memory.

“I used to. I played the violin. But I wasn’t anywhere near as good as Josh, so I quit.” I sighed. “What about you?”

“Clarinet. I play in the band—I mean, if there’s a band at your school?”

“Yeah. We have a few bands. Jazz band, marching band, wind ensemble.” Elizabeth didn’t respond, so I tried to think of something else to say. “Um, our school is very big on the arts.”

There was a soft knock on our door.

“Girls? Can I come in?” It was Dad.

He flicked on the light and took a few steps into our room, hesitated, then sat down on the edge of Elizabeth’s bed.

Not mine.

“Just wanted to say good night,” he said softly. “To my two girls.” He paused, but neither of us said anything, so he kept going. “I know this is a lot of changes all at once, and maybe you haven’t even processed everything you’re going through right now. But Elizabeth, I want you to know that we’re all here for you. Whatever you need. We are your family, and we love you. How are you doing so far?”

I noticed how many times he said we again. Putting words in my mouth, speaking for me, without even asking me how I was doing.

“I’m okay, thanks,” she said, just as quietly. I started to feel like I was eavesdropping on a private conversation in my own room, for the love of God. (I mean, for the love of Zeus and Hera and all their children. I’d have to learn how to stop taking God’s name in vain around Elizabeth.)

“Okay?” Dad repeated. “Well, I guess that’s better than ‘not okay.’ But it’s also okay if you’re not okay—okay?”