forks dry on a dishcloth. I sit down at the kitchen table and pull out Mrs. Lowenstein’s letter. Evil impulses are often just like a bad habit.
I used to suck my thumb and chew my fingernails. Neshama picked her scabs until they bled. I pinch my arm again, my fingernails leaving white impressions.
When I hear Bubbie coming back I ram Mrs. Lowenstein’s letter in my pocket. Bubbie pulls out a chair next to me and puts a pink floral cosmetic bag on the table. She uncaps a bottle of nail polish remover and starts rubbing off the fuchsia polish. The acrid smell burns my nostrils.
“You didn’t like that color?”
“I thought I’d go back to this one.” She lifts a bottle of burgundy polish with the tips of her fingers. “More subdued. You wanted to ask me something?”
“Oh...I wanted to ask you...do you think people can change?” I twist the polyester edge of my skirt, lean on one elbow.
“Can you do my right hand?” Bubbie holds out the cotton swab. “What do you mean?”
I rub off the polish. “Well, just become different.”
“Your mom certainly has changed,” Bubbie says. “From Eaton’s and her scarf collection to that convent thing and now this, this new plan.” She draws burgundy polish over herthumbnail in one long stroke. “And your sister is determined to change.”
“Yeah, maybe. That’s not what I really mean. Besides, Neshama isn’t changing that much.”
“No?”
“Well, she’s always wanted to be different.”
“I guess so.” Bubbie holds out her fingers.“ Do you like this color better?”
I nod yes, chew on a hangnail.
“I’ll do yours if you like,” Bubbie offers.
“Neh, I don’t think Abba would like it.” I kiss Bubbie’s cheek. “I gotta go.”
“Stop by again soon.”
I jog back home through the ravine.
Neshama and Ima are slowly transforming day by day, Ima into her own self-styled prophet, Neshama into Bubbie.
Lindsay wants to become a stripper instead of a private school girl.
Me, I just want to be normal.
AT HOME IMA is typing in her and Abba’s office. “Hello,” I call to her.
She looks up, says, “Oh, hi,” and goes back to her writing.
I join Abba in the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” I ask.
“Salmon. Can you set the table?”
I nod and start pulling dishes out of the cupboard. From the corner of my eye I watch Ima pounding on her typewriter.She pulls out the paper, reads it over, then leans forward and licks the words, one long reach of her tongue from the bottom of the page to the top. I watch her rip off a corner, put the scrap in her mouth. She rests back in her chair, chewing.
I sigh and turn back to Abba. “Can I ask you something?”
Abba starts washing small red potatoes. “Shoot.”
“Jews are chosen, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, what if you do something that makes you un-chosen?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say, you’re like Bubbie—not religious.”
“You’re still chosen.”
I pull out place mats from under the counter. “What if it’s something worse, like...like you’re a leper?”
“A leper?” Abba turns to look at me.
“Just say someone was.”
“Lepers are still part of the chosen. Jewish lepers, that is.”
“Okay, what about if you do something the Torah says you shouldn’t do, and you do it regularly and know it’s wrong?”
“You’re still part of the chosen, you’re just not living up to your potential. What’s this all about?”
“Oh, nothing really.”
We are quiet a few minutes. I finish setting the table. “Abba, do you ever find a part of the Torah you can’t follow?”
“Like what?”
“Um...well, oh, forget it.”
I decide to bite the inside of my cheek where no can see, and to memorize the periodic table of elements whenever I think of Lindsay. I’m not keen on psalms.
SUNDAY MORNING I get up early, and Abba drives me to the Ontario Science Centre. Other than the ravine, this is one of my favorite places.
“So, what are you going
I used to suck my thumb and chew my fingernails. Neshama picked her scabs until they bled. I pinch my arm again, my fingernails leaving white impressions.
When I hear Bubbie coming back I ram Mrs. Lowenstein’s letter in my pocket. Bubbie pulls out a chair next to me and puts a pink floral cosmetic bag on the table. She uncaps a bottle of nail polish remover and starts rubbing off the fuchsia polish. The acrid smell burns my nostrils.
“You didn’t like that color?”
“I thought I’d go back to this one.” She lifts a bottle of burgundy polish with the tips of her fingers. “More subdued. You wanted to ask me something?”
“Oh...I wanted to ask you...do you think people can change?” I twist the polyester edge of my skirt, lean on one elbow.
“Can you do my right hand?” Bubbie holds out the cotton swab. “What do you mean?”
I rub off the polish. “Well, just become different.”
“Your mom certainly has changed,” Bubbie says. “From Eaton’s and her scarf collection to that convent thing and now this, this new plan.” She draws burgundy polish over herthumbnail in one long stroke. “And your sister is determined to change.”
“Yeah, maybe. That’s not what I really mean. Besides, Neshama isn’t changing that much.”
“No?”
“Well, she’s always wanted to be different.”
“I guess so.” Bubbie holds out her fingers.“ Do you like this color better?”
I nod yes, chew on a hangnail.
“I’ll do yours if you like,” Bubbie offers.
“Neh, I don’t think Abba would like it.” I kiss Bubbie’s cheek. “I gotta go.”
“Stop by again soon.”
I jog back home through the ravine.
Neshama and Ima are slowly transforming day by day, Ima into her own self-styled prophet, Neshama into Bubbie.
Lindsay wants to become a stripper instead of a private school girl.
Me, I just want to be normal.
AT HOME IMA is typing in her and Abba’s office. “Hello,” I call to her.
She looks up, says, “Oh, hi,” and goes back to her writing.
I join Abba in the kitchen. “What’s for dinner?” I ask.
“Salmon. Can you set the table?”
I nod and start pulling dishes out of the cupboard. From the corner of my eye I watch Ima pounding on her typewriter.She pulls out the paper, reads it over, then leans forward and licks the words, one long reach of her tongue from the bottom of the page to the top. I watch her rip off a corner, put the scrap in her mouth. She rests back in her chair, chewing.
I sigh and turn back to Abba. “Can I ask you something?”
Abba starts washing small red potatoes. “Shoot.”
“Jews are chosen, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, what if you do something that makes you un-chosen?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s say, you’re like Bubbie—not religious.”
“You’re still chosen.”
I pull out place mats from under the counter. “What if it’s something worse, like...like you’re a leper?”
“A leper?” Abba turns to look at me.
“Just say someone was.”
“Lepers are still part of the chosen. Jewish lepers, that is.”
“Okay, what about if you do something the Torah says you shouldn’t do, and you do it regularly and know it’s wrong?”
“You’re still part of the chosen, you’re just not living up to your potential. What’s this all about?”
“Oh, nothing really.”
We are quiet a few minutes. I finish setting the table. “Abba, do you ever find a part of the Torah you can’t follow?”
“Like what?”
“Um...well, oh, forget it.”
I decide to bite the inside of my cheek where no can see, and to memorize the periodic table of elements whenever I think of Lindsay. I’m not keen on psalms.
SUNDAY MORNING I get up early, and Abba drives me to the Ontario Science Centre. Other than the ravine, this is one of my favorite places.
“So, what are you going
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