Bee Season by Myla Goldberg

old woman slouch, and the way she freezes at Saul’s touch as if immobility will preserve the moment. Eliza spots unfamiliar hard lines around the man’s eyes, a strange emptiness to the woman’s face. Even the girl starts to look unfamiliar, her eyes a little too bright, her face a little too eager. Eliza struggles to convince herself that when she looks away from the picture she will be surrounded by familiar figures and not the strangers in the photo. Looking up from the newspaper is like walking into a darkened room from the noonday sun. It takes a moment for Eliza’s eyes to readjust. But there is her father, whistling one of his morning songs as he pages through the paper. There is her mother, head tilted to one side as she scours the pan Saul used to scramble eggs. She knows these people. She turns the
Times-Herald
photo side down.
    Saul, beaming like a new father, hands out papers like cigars. When he suggests they take turns reading aloud, Aaron says something about a sore throat, gets up to make himself a cup of tea. Between mouthfuls of egg, Saul does his best sportscaster imitation.
    “‘After four hours, only two remained. Chopak Singh, a three-time area champion, held his ground for a grueling ten rounds, but finally lost out to first-time speller’” — Saul performs a drum roll on the table with his fingers — “‘Eliza Naumann!’”
    Miriam appears at Eliza’s side, something gift-wrapped in one hand.
    “This is for you,” Miriam says.
    The room goes silent as Eliza stares at the present. Saul feels ashamed of the sudden spike of jealousy he feels toward his daughter, tries to bury it in bites of toast. Miriam gives sensible presents at sensible times: birthdays, Hanukah, their anniversary. In eighteen years, she has never surprised him.
    Miriam hands her daughter the gift as though she’s relaying a baton, her face concentrating entirely on the exchange. For an extended moment, both Eliza’s and Miriam’s hands hold fast to opposite ends of the gift and Eliza fears she has done something to change her mother’s mind. When Miriam finally releases her grip in a sudden flurry of fingers, it looks as if she is waving goodbye.
    In addition to Miriam’s gaze, which weighs Eliza’s every move, Eliza can sense her brother’s and father’s stares. Her initial thrill at the surprise has dulled into a vague dread. She suspects she has been given a pop quiz that will be evaluated three different ways, guaranteeing at least one failing grade.
    Eliza carefully unwraps, flinches when part of the paper pulls off with a piece of tape. When she uncovers the old kaleidoscope, she mistakes it for one of those fancy tubes that tights are sometimes sold in, maybe ones that aren’t so scratchy.
    “No,” Miriam says perhaps a little too harshly when Eliza tries to pull off the top, freezing her daughter like an animal sensing it has been sited in crosshairs. Miriam catches herself, softens her tone. “It doesn’t come apart. It’s a kaleidoscope. It was mine when I was a girl.”
    It’s nothing fancy. Once bright blue cardboard is muted by age, sun, and wear. Inside, the standard beads and baubles. Eliza holds it to the light, gives it a few turns, tries to imagine what she’s supposed to say.
    “Um, thanks, Mom. It’s neat.” Miriam is staring at her so intently that she puts the toy to her eye again. Maybe her mother stuck something special inside the tube. She turns it a few more times, but no. It’s just a kaleidoscope.
    Miriam can taste her disappointment, goes to the sink for a glass of water. She needs the distance to stop herself from grabbing the gift back. They’re all three watching her as she returns to the table.
    “I should have given it to you sooner. I suppose you’re too old now.” She ignores Saul’s continued stare, the questions in his eyes.
    Eliza’s face brightens. “No, Mom, it’s good you waited or I might have messed it up. I mean, this is
old,
right? You had it