Read Online Apart From Love by Uvi Poznansky - Free Book Online
Authors: Uvi Poznansky
Tags: Novel
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changing that pad, down in your cute little panties?”
“What?” I ask, in great outrage.
“Yes, dear,” says aunt Hadassa. “Lenny, he found you right there, right outside the kitchen door. He said he’d called you, and called you again, then again, because the omelette, it was almost ready, and you never answered. So he figured you must have left.”
“And the omelette,” she continues, before I have time to catch my breath. “Oy, it was getting cold, and of course it is no good cold, so finally he figured, of course, that he was hungry, because all he had for breakfast was coffee. You know he is sick of your egg salad, right? He never eats it, dear, now does he. Why you keep making it is beyond me!”
By now I’ve opened my mouth to answer, which at once makes her raise her voice. “So,” she says, “he transferred the omelette to a plate, and added some butter on top, and waited a bit, just to let it melt, and to make sure you, dear, were not coming back. Nu, then he just ate it, after which he came out and realized, all of a sudden, that quite sadly, he had been mistaken; that in fact, you were there all along, in the corridor, lying flat on your back, and barely breathing, too. Which is when he picked up the phone and, finally, called us.”
In disbelief I say, “Help? I don’t need none of your help! And where, where is he now?”
To which she says, “My, my! He is so exhausted now, after all that excitement, I mean the wedding first of all, and then his stay at the hospital. Too weak, I am afraid, to be of any use! And his son, Ben, nu! What can I say? Men! They managed to lift you, somehow, and carry you to bed. So now, consider yourself lucky, dear, to be in one piece. As soon as we came, they went out.”
“Out? Out where?” I ask.
But in place of an answer she just waves her hand, saying, “I do not wish to lump them all in one heap, but somehow, you see, men can never take care of themselves, let alone take care of us women. They are never there for us when we need them—now are they!”
For a minute I hesitate to ask, “What did you say, just now, about changing my pad? What pad?”
Which makes her lay down her square of wool and say, this time real slow and careful, “You know you are bleeding, right?”
It is then that I try to jump from the bed, because not only do I feel ashamed, even violated, which of course isn’t the first time in my life—but all of a sudden I sense a cramp, just like a stab, down in my stomach, in the same place where so far, the pain’s been dull.
So she hurries over, and places the palm of her hand, like, real heavy, on top of my shoulder. “You can’t do that, dear,” she says, pushing me back, and propping up my pillow—even as I rise up to ask, “Why? Why the hell not?”
“Nu,” she says. “Just be a good girl for me and lie down, nice and easy now, and for God’s sake, be still. Take up knitting if you like. I can bring you instructions,” she adds, “for anything. Baby blanket? Baby socks? Just tell me, dear, tell me what you like.”
Despite her offer, I’m sick of the way she keeps saying dear .
There’s no way for me to know what she means by that, because her tone is like, bitter, and it don’t hardly agree with the sweet taste of this word, and because she keeps repeating it all too often; all of which tell me one thing: aunt Hadassa is torn. She can’t decide between wishing me ill—and helping me back to my feet.
“I won’t lie down,” I say, defiantly. “And I really, really don’t like knitting.”
Her painted eyebrows arch even higher, and I begin to get an uneasy feeling, because at this point, she’s much too close to me, and the light bounces off her needle much too sharply, and now the tip is right here, against my skin, and it scratches.
I point a finger at her, like, right in her face, to make her take note of my nails. “Shove off! Away from me,” I tell her. “I mean it, don’t
“What?” I ask, in great outrage.
“Yes, dear,” says aunt Hadassa. “Lenny, he found you right there, right outside the kitchen door. He said he’d called you, and called you again, then again, because the omelette, it was almost ready, and you never answered. So he figured you must have left.”
“And the omelette,” she continues, before I have time to catch my breath. “Oy, it was getting cold, and of course it is no good cold, so finally he figured, of course, that he was hungry, because all he had for breakfast was coffee. You know he is sick of your egg salad, right? He never eats it, dear, now does he. Why you keep making it is beyond me!”
By now I’ve opened my mouth to answer, which at once makes her raise her voice. “So,” she says, “he transferred the omelette to a plate, and added some butter on top, and waited a bit, just to let it melt, and to make sure you, dear, were not coming back. Nu, then he just ate it, after which he came out and realized, all of a sudden, that quite sadly, he had been mistaken; that in fact, you were there all along, in the corridor, lying flat on your back, and barely breathing, too. Which is when he picked up the phone and, finally, called us.”
In disbelief I say, “Help? I don’t need none of your help! And where, where is he now?”
To which she says, “My, my! He is so exhausted now, after all that excitement, I mean the wedding first of all, and then his stay at the hospital. Too weak, I am afraid, to be of any use! And his son, Ben, nu! What can I say? Men! They managed to lift you, somehow, and carry you to bed. So now, consider yourself lucky, dear, to be in one piece. As soon as we came, they went out.”
“Out? Out where?” I ask.
But in place of an answer she just waves her hand, saying, “I do not wish to lump them all in one heap, but somehow, you see, men can never take care of themselves, let alone take care of us women. They are never there for us when we need them—now are they!”
For a minute I hesitate to ask, “What did you say, just now, about changing my pad? What pad?”
Which makes her lay down her square of wool and say, this time real slow and careful, “You know you are bleeding, right?”
It is then that I try to jump from the bed, because not only do I feel ashamed, even violated, which of course isn’t the first time in my life—but all of a sudden I sense a cramp, just like a stab, down in my stomach, in the same place where so far, the pain’s been dull.
So she hurries over, and places the palm of her hand, like, real heavy, on top of my shoulder. “You can’t do that, dear,” she says, pushing me back, and propping up my pillow—even as I rise up to ask, “Why? Why the hell not?”
“Nu,” she says. “Just be a good girl for me and lie down, nice and easy now, and for God’s sake, be still. Take up knitting if you like. I can bring you instructions,” she adds, “for anything. Baby blanket? Baby socks? Just tell me, dear, tell me what you like.”
Despite her offer, I’m sick of the way she keeps saying dear .
There’s no way for me to know what she means by that, because her tone is like, bitter, and it don’t hardly agree with the sweet taste of this word, and because she keeps repeating it all too often; all of which tell me one thing: aunt Hadassa is torn. She can’t decide between wishing me ill—and helping me back to my feet.
“I won’t lie down,” I say, defiantly. “And I really, really don’t like knitting.”
Her painted eyebrows arch even higher, and I begin to get an uneasy feeling, because at this point, she’s much too close to me, and the light bounces off her needle much too sharply, and now the tip is right here, against my skin, and it scratches.
I point a finger at her, like, right in her face, to make her take note of my nails. “Shove off! Away from me,” I tell her. “I mean it, don’t
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