Read Online No One is Here Except All of Us by Ramona Ausubel - Free Book Online Page A

strokes. Regina was standing with my brother and me, hoping not to be recognized. But she had the nicest dress and the flattest hair and the cleanest cheeks. There was no question which child was for sale.
    Aunt Kayla put her hand on Regina’s head and smoothed the light brown waves of hair. “Nice hair,” she said, as if starting a list, but she did not seem convinced by it yet. Hersh agreed. “Nice bluish eyes,” he added. They nodded together. I looked at her hair and her eyes, never having noticed either before. I felt sorry about this, that only now as she was leaving did I appreciate her.
    “Nice nose,” I said, wanting suddenly to complete the list of my sister, before it was too late. “Nice ears, nice legs, nice mouth, nice forehead, nice teeth,” I said.
    “I guess,” Hersh said, “I guess it’s time to go.” He put his two first fingers under his sister’s chin and lifted her face up. “Thank you,” he said. “Perl. Thank you forever. We will do everything that has ever been done well, only better.”
    Kayla scooted closer and closer to the big blue door, as if it might suddenly vanish and leave them with no exit, no way to complete the miracle.
    The whole knot of people moved outside to watch the departure. There were some magpies around and a few early flies out in the wet cold, but they were silent in this moment. A gust of wind shook water out of the trees, a cool mist. I watched my father kick a rock back and forth in the mud between his dingy leather boots. I watched my mother adjust her long black dress and Regina’s white lace collar. We took turns hugging her, and I licked my own chin and watched out of the corners of my eyes. I saw my mother sneak one glance, the girl turning from her daughter into her niece as she went, her old wool coat swishing, and waves of hair catching light. Black boots turning the mud.
    That night,
my father rolled over to his wife. He put his hands on her bare head. He held them there, not polishing the surface, just holding.
    “Now we really are in a new world,” he said.
    “We have enough,” my mother said, which was not a statement but a prayer. She wondered whether she should write it down.
    “Oh, help!” our father suddenly cried, loud enough to wake Moishe and me. He picked up a cabbage from the floor and threw it as hard as he could against the far wall, where it splashed open. My mother beckoned all three of us. She held us against her chest, my father crying and my brother and I stunned cold. She whispered into our hair, “You are reasons to live. You are enough to survive for.” I grew older and heavier then, my mother’s love bigger than my own small body could hold. Her love would hang on to my ankles and wrists on every journey I would ever have to take, even if she was the one who sent me on it. My mother’s heart beat, oblivious to the upended universe around it. Everything goes on, it said. That is the best we can hope for.

THE FIFTH DAY
    T he stranger was welcomed into all of our homes. The butcher gave her the nicest pieces of herb-roasted chicken and the biggest squares of chocolate left in the universe. The banker’s wife made Igor wash the stranger’s socks every day in the river while the other children rubbed her feet with oil. She was very quiet, but always smiled at us when we offered her something.
    “I’m not God,” she kept telling us.
    “Of course not,” the banker’s wife said, “but here is a candied orange rind. And here is another glass of fresh milk. And Igor will give you his own pillow, which will bring you sweet dreams.”
    “I will?” asked Igor quietly.
    Even while we knew that she was a person like any of us and not God, or probably not God since none of us had any idea who God was or was not, she did suddenly seem important and useful. At least, we said, if we treat her well she will get the prayers right. A person who was upset might copy down a request for a new cow as a request for a new plow. A