Read Online A Picture of Guilt by Libby Fischer Hellmann - Free Book Online Page B

Nordstrom. With her blond curls, blue eyes, and pale skin, she looked like a princess. And much too grown up.
    Dad draped an arm around David’s shoulder and headed to the car. Though David was half a foot taller than Dad, he made the movement seem natural.
    “What’s for lunch?” David asked.
    “You’ll see,” I smiled.
    I’d made most of the meal before services, though perhaps “assembled” was a better word. Blintzes, bagels, and salad. The omelets I’d make once we got home. And, of course, apples and honey. Cooking has never been one of my core strengths. Don’t get me wrong; I love to eat. Especially when someone else feeds me. But today was special.
    “Oh, boy,” Dad grinned. “We’re in for a treat. Your mother’s cooking.”
    Rachel rolled her eyes. “You must be feeling brave.”
    “Rah-chel,” Dad said, using the Hebrew pronunciation. “It’s a new year. Let’s start out treating your mother right.”
    Rachel threw me an icy look.
    I shot her the old arched-eyebrow in reply.
    Her eyes narrowed, and she skipped over to Dad. “I’ll bet we don’t go to services tomorrow.”
    “Want that extra day off of school, huh?” I cracked.
    My father glared at us. “Stop it. Both of you.”
    David cut in. “I wouldn’t mind going again.”
    The way he looked at me made me suddenly ashamed of myself. “You know something? That’s a good idea.” I turned to Rachel. “We’ll all go, okay?”
    She shrugged.
    To be perfectly honest, though, Rachel does have a point. I’m not as observant as I once was. My father says it’s because I’m the product of a mixed marriage. My mother was raised Reform, about as assimilated as you can get. Her mother used to host an open house every Christmas Eve during which she wore a tiny Christmas tree on top of her head. My father, on the other hand, grew up in Hyde Park among a tightly knit group of observant German Jews. In fact, Mother used to joke that she was about as far as he could go and still marry a Jewish girl. Still, I suspected she was grateful that my father was there to teach me who I was and where I came from.
    After services the next day, Barry took Rachel for the rest of the day. I dropped David at the airport for his flight back to Philly, took Dad home, then changed and headed to the mall. All the talk about new suits was inspiring. Once I got there, though, I lost my nerve. I usually need Susan’s approval for a major purchase. I’ve brought home too many mistakes.
    I window-shopped for a while, then wandered into a small, narrow gift shop with faux stucco on the walls. Merchandise was displayed on both sides of the aisle, and a blue-haired woman sat behind the register. She seemed to be the only employee in the store, but I was aware of one other shopper. I stopped in front of an end-aisle display of prettily packaged soaps, admiring the tiny butterflies, delicate flowers, and other designs painted on them. A sign declared that Soap Art was the latest thing. Guaranteed not to dissolve when wet. Maybe I’d get some for Rachel. A peace offering.
    I kept browsing, admiring the wrapped baskets, ceramic pillboxes, and other tsatskehs , then headed back to the soaps. The other shopper stood with her back to me, juggling two soaps in one hand. I was about to say, “Excuse me,” so I could take some, when she slipped hers into her pocket.
    I froze. After a moment she turned around—and froze, too, guilt and fear stamped on her face. I knew what I was supposed to do: demand she put the soap back, call the manager, shout for security. But I didn’t. I was paralyzed, riveted to the floor.
    We eyed each other warily, neither of us moving, until it must have dawned on her that I was either unable or unwilling to react. Then, something new edged into her eyes. Defiance, perhaps. Or triumph. She swept by me and exited the store.
    I cowered in the aisle until the adrenaline drained out of my body. I picked out three soaps, took them to the counter,