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Authors: Dana Reinhardt
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another two hours. Newspapers are everywhere (on Sundays we get both the
Boston Globe
and the
New York Times
), and I think I smell freshly squeezed oranges.
“Morning, sweets.” Mom looks up from the paper and smiles. Her face is still red from the run or the cold or both. She motions for me to come and sit next to her. I oblige, and she runs her fingers through my hair. I quickly get up and go stretch out on the rug. Dad is in the armchair. Mom is on the couch. I have them both in my sight.
I reach for the comics section. I think that’s where they print the horoscopes.
“I just talked to Rivka,” I say.
They both quickly fold up their papers and straighten them into piles and sort of adjust themselves as if company has arrived unexpectedly. Dad goes first. “Tell us about it. How do you feel?”
“Insensate,” I say. They look puzzled.
“What do you mean, honey?” Mom asks.
“I mean exactly what
insensate
means. I mean I feel nothing. I have an absence of feeling.” This is of course entirely not true. I think I feel the exact opposite of insensate, but I don’t know a word for feeling every emotion that exists all at once. I feel tears coming on, but this time I don’t really mind.
“I think I have her voice,” I say in a voice that is very quiet and shaky and not at all like my real voice.
Mom and Dad exchange looks. Then they both look at me. My mom smiles sort of sadly. “We think so too,” she says.
Finally I have my big cry. Out in the open. Right there on the floor. With the newspapers and my mother and father as witnesses. I have to admit that it feels really good. I think the word for this is
cathartic
. I feel such overwhelming relief. My head is clearing, and at the same time it’s spinning with questions. I’ve kept them locked out for so long, and now the window has been thrown open and they are swarming in. There are so many questions that I hardly know where to begin. But while I was listening to the sound of Rivka’s voice and of her home and of her life in the background I realized that my first questions aren’t for Rivka. They’re for Mom and Dad. They tell me they have some answers whenever I’m ready. I’m grateful to them for leaving it at that and understanding that the Big Cry pretty much tapped me out for at least today, probably for longer.
Dad then does what Dad does best. He feeds me. He makes raspberry-banana pancakes, turkey sausages, and some scrambled eggs I leave untouched. I drink two huge glasses of orange juice and more coffee than I should. Jake finally stumbles out of his room (shirtless, of course), eats about twice what I did, and then polishes off my eggs. I take a close look at him, searching for signs of my little brother. Everything about him is changing. He sleeps forever. His appetite knows no bounds. His voice is deeper than Dad’s. And I think I’ve already mentioned his budding physique. Jake is in the middle of a spectacular transformation, and the signs of it are everywhere you turn. But here I am, sitting across from Jake while rapid and irreversible changes are happening to me, and if you took a closer look, you still wouldn’t be able to see anything at all.
In the afternoon I go apple picking with my family. I was supposed to see a movie with Cleo and Ivy, but when my dad suggests that we go apple picking, it just seems like the perfect way to spend the day. And it was. I don’t mean to make it sound sickeningly sweet, like look at this perfect family laughing and smiling and filling bushels with bright red apples and then piling the bushels into the back of their Subaru wagon and heading home, leaving whirling trails of brightly colored leaves on the country road behind them. But that’s pretty much how it was. I’m just happy to be with my family today. They make me laugh, and they also make me proud, and they make me feel safe. I think maybe I give Jake one too many completely uncalled-for squeezes around the
Boston Globe
and the
New York Times
), and I think I smell freshly squeezed oranges.
“Morning, sweets.” Mom looks up from the paper and smiles. Her face is still red from the run or the cold or both. She motions for me to come and sit next to her. I oblige, and she runs her fingers through my hair. I quickly get up and go stretch out on the rug. Dad is in the armchair. Mom is on the couch. I have them both in my sight.
I reach for the comics section. I think that’s where they print the horoscopes.
“I just talked to Rivka,” I say.
They both quickly fold up their papers and straighten them into piles and sort of adjust themselves as if company has arrived unexpectedly. Dad goes first. “Tell us about it. How do you feel?”
“Insensate,” I say. They look puzzled.
“What do you mean, honey?” Mom asks.
“I mean exactly what
insensate
means. I mean I feel nothing. I have an absence of feeling.” This is of course entirely not true. I think I feel the exact opposite of insensate, but I don’t know a word for feeling every emotion that exists all at once. I feel tears coming on, but this time I don’t really mind.
“I think I have her voice,” I say in a voice that is very quiet and shaky and not at all like my real voice.
Mom and Dad exchange looks. Then they both look at me. My mom smiles sort of sadly. “We think so too,” she says.
Finally I have my big cry. Out in the open. Right there on the floor. With the newspapers and my mother and father as witnesses. I have to admit that it feels really good. I think the word for this is
cathartic
. I feel such overwhelming relief. My head is clearing, and at the same time it’s spinning with questions. I’ve kept them locked out for so long, and now the window has been thrown open and they are swarming in. There are so many questions that I hardly know where to begin. But while I was listening to the sound of Rivka’s voice and of her home and of her life in the background I realized that my first questions aren’t for Rivka. They’re for Mom and Dad. They tell me they have some answers whenever I’m ready. I’m grateful to them for leaving it at that and understanding that the Big Cry pretty much tapped me out for at least today, probably for longer.
Dad then does what Dad does best. He feeds me. He makes raspberry-banana pancakes, turkey sausages, and some scrambled eggs I leave untouched. I drink two huge glasses of orange juice and more coffee than I should. Jake finally stumbles out of his room (shirtless, of course), eats about twice what I did, and then polishes off my eggs. I take a close look at him, searching for signs of my little brother. Everything about him is changing. He sleeps forever. His appetite knows no bounds. His voice is deeper than Dad’s. And I think I’ve already mentioned his budding physique. Jake is in the middle of a spectacular transformation, and the signs of it are everywhere you turn. But here I am, sitting across from Jake while rapid and irreversible changes are happening to me, and if you took a closer look, you still wouldn’t be able to see anything at all.
In the afternoon I go apple picking with my family. I was supposed to see a movie with Cleo and Ivy, but when my dad suggests that we go apple picking, it just seems like the perfect way to spend the day. And it was. I don’t mean to make it sound sickeningly sweet, like look at this perfect family laughing and smiling and filling bushels with bright red apples and then piling the bushels into the back of their Subaru wagon and heading home, leaving whirling trails of brightly colored leaves on the country road behind them. But that’s pretty much how it was. I’m just happy to be with my family today. They make me laugh, and they also make me proud, and they make me feel safe. I think maybe I give Jake one too many completely uncalled-for squeezes around the
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