Pearl would take me, Jeffrey and Mitchell for that weekend. To make things easier. Ida Pearl and Bella lived in adjoining apartments in the building on Decarie Boulevard that Ida Pearl had bought just after the war. Her jewellery store was on the ground floor, along with May Flowers, and she rented out the two storeys of apartments above. Until Elka got married Ida Pearl lived in a duplex in N.D.G., like we did, but not in such a nice one as ours—older, smaller. Once Elka and Sol got married, though, Ida Pearl moved into one of the apartments in the building she owned, and Bella moved into the one next door.
I spent a lot of time at my grandmother Bella’s, but not at Ida Pearl’s, because Ida Pearl worked all day at her store and she didn’t really like me. I don’t mean in the more general senseof her not really liking children. Bella didn’t really like children either, but in her case that general distaste broke down when a specific child that she loved was right in front of her. Me, for example. Bella regularly overcame her distaste for noisy, snivelling children to grab me in a big hug, or read a book to me, or tell me stories about being a little girl in Russia and getting buried in a snowdrift or some other such disaster. Ida’s distaste for me was something different, more particular. I sensed it, though she was never actually unkind to me in any way. It was her coldness, I think, the lack of pleasure she derived from seeing me. “You’re too sensitive,” Elka told me, tousling my hair. Which was different from saying there was no truth in what I was sensing.
I assumed, of course, that if Bella and Ida were taking care of us for the weekend, I would be sleeping at Bella’s, but that was not the plan. It was Jeffrey and Mitchell who were going to Bella’s. I would be going to Ida Pearl’s.
“Ida Pearl’s?” I asked when I heard the terrible news. It made no sense. But I couldn’t say outright to Elka that her mother hated me, so I put it another way. “She’s not even my grandmother.”
“She’s as good as one,” Elka responded. Because she was Elka’s mother and Elka was as good as a mother to me. That’s what Elka meant.
“But she doesn’t really like me.” It had to be said. I’d been pushed to the wall.
“Don’t be a goose,” Elka said. “This is a perfect chance for you two to get to know each other better.”
Elka, though, obviously had her own concerns about the bonding weekend ahead. As she got me ready she scrubbed my face so hard that my skin hurt, and she pulled my hair sotightly into pigtails that she caught half my scalp in the grip of the elastic bands, and all the while she kept reminding me that her mother didn’t like a lot of noise and fuss and that I was to eat whatever was put before me and to remember to say thank you. But whatever nervousness Elka felt couldn’t match my own as she deposited me at Ida’s door, flowered suitcase in hand.
Ida greeted me with a brisk hug and ushered me into the den, where she had made up the couch to serve as my bed. I placed my suitcase on top of the blanket, then worried it was the wrong place—the bed was so tidily made up, the blanket pulled flat as a skating rink—so I removed it to the floor. Then I worried that might also be wrong, so I cast about for the place that might be right, and while my mind was occupied with that I peed my pants. I had not peed my pants for years by that time, not even in sleep—I was eight years old, almost nine—and my mortification as I felt the spreading warmth was compounded by fears more specific than the heavy but vague sense of dread that I had felt about the weekend until then. I worried that Ida would yell at me, that Elka had not packed spare clothes and I would have to spend the rest of the weekend bare-bottomed or in my pyjamas. But Ida wordlessly extended her hand and led me to the bathroom, where she stripped off my pants and underwear and lifted me into the sink as if I
I spent a lot of time at my grandmother Bella’s, but not at Ida Pearl’s, because Ida Pearl worked all day at her store and she didn’t really like me. I don’t mean in the more general senseof her not really liking children. Bella didn’t really like children either, but in her case that general distaste broke down when a specific child that she loved was right in front of her. Me, for example. Bella regularly overcame her distaste for noisy, snivelling children to grab me in a big hug, or read a book to me, or tell me stories about being a little girl in Russia and getting buried in a snowdrift or some other such disaster. Ida’s distaste for me was something different, more particular. I sensed it, though she was never actually unkind to me in any way. It was her coldness, I think, the lack of pleasure she derived from seeing me. “You’re too sensitive,” Elka told me, tousling my hair. Which was different from saying there was no truth in what I was sensing.
I assumed, of course, that if Bella and Ida were taking care of us for the weekend, I would be sleeping at Bella’s, but that was not the plan. It was Jeffrey and Mitchell who were going to Bella’s. I would be going to Ida Pearl’s.
“Ida Pearl’s?” I asked when I heard the terrible news. It made no sense. But I couldn’t say outright to Elka that her mother hated me, so I put it another way. “She’s not even my grandmother.”
“She’s as good as one,” Elka responded. Because she was Elka’s mother and Elka was as good as a mother to me. That’s what Elka meant.
“But she doesn’t really like me.” It had to be said. I’d been pushed to the wall.
“Don’t be a goose,” Elka said. “This is a perfect chance for you two to get to know each other better.”
Elka, though, obviously had her own concerns about the bonding weekend ahead. As she got me ready she scrubbed my face so hard that my skin hurt, and she pulled my hair sotightly into pigtails that she caught half my scalp in the grip of the elastic bands, and all the while she kept reminding me that her mother didn’t like a lot of noise and fuss and that I was to eat whatever was put before me and to remember to say thank you. But whatever nervousness Elka felt couldn’t match my own as she deposited me at Ida’s door, flowered suitcase in hand.
Ida greeted me with a brisk hug and ushered me into the den, where she had made up the couch to serve as my bed. I placed my suitcase on top of the blanket, then worried it was the wrong place—the bed was so tidily made up, the blanket pulled flat as a skating rink—so I removed it to the floor. Then I worried that might also be wrong, so I cast about for the place that might be right, and while my mind was occupied with that I peed my pants. I had not peed my pants for years by that time, not even in sleep—I was eight years old, almost nine—and my mortification as I felt the spreading warmth was compounded by fears more specific than the heavy but vague sense of dread that I had felt about the weekend until then. I worried that Ida would yell at me, that Elka had not packed spare clothes and I would have to spend the rest of the weekend bare-bottomed or in my pyjamas. But Ida wordlessly extended her hand and led me to the bathroom, where she stripped off my pants and underwear and lifted me into the sink as if I
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