Cricket in a Fist by Naomi K. Lewis

making her sad.” Ginny had been obsessed for several months with the notion of following her father’s medical career. “I think it will involve sending the medicine straight to her back instead of through her brain first, relaxing the vertebrae.” She hooked her pointer fingers together, looked at Tamar, pale eyebrows raised, and wiggled her fingers against each other in an eerie impersonation of Robert explaining the workings of the human body. Yes, Ginny was speaking gibberish, but she spoke it with Robert’s mannerisms, even his facial expressions. Tamar watched Ginny create new string-shapes with mechanical quickness, clearly deep in thought. “Don’t worry, Mother,” she said with conviction. “I’ll think of something.”
    â€œYou’re old enough to hear this,” said Tamar. “Those pills your father prescribed for your grandmother’s backaches are not medicine. They’re placebos.”
    â€œThey’re addictive.” Ginny nodded wisely. “Oma Esther’s a junkie.”
    â€œNo,” said Tamar. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise never to mention it to your grandmother?” Ginny nodded, rapt and worried.
    â€œThose pills are just made of sugar. Do you understand? There’s nothing wrong with your grandmother’s back. It’s more complicated than that. Your father said the pain was all in her head, but she wouldn’t believe him. She wanted medicine so he gave her those. No pill is going to make her happy.”
    Ginny lay in silence, staring at the wool between her hands. Taken aback by this uncommon stillness, Tamar tried to think of the right words — a more thorough and digestible explanation. Too soon, Ginny said, “How is it more complicated, Mother?”
    â€œShe’s not been herself. She’s been a different person since — everyone she ever knew is dead.”
    The yellow wool was wrapped so tightly around Ginny’s pointer fingers that, Tamar saw, they were turning white. Ginny said, “But she knows us.”
    â€œYour Oma Esther had a sister,” Tamar explained. “My Tante Anke. They were very close. Oma Esther was with Anke when she died of typhus. She had it, too, I think. You mustn’t ever say anything about this to her. All right, liefje?”
    Half an hour later, Ginny stood up and announced, “I think I should be a ballet dancer. Ballet is my destiny.” Freckles burning across her nose, eyes fever-bright, she told Tamar, “Watch this.”
    Standing with Ginny’s hands in hers, Asher’s engine running to take her away, Tamar clearly recalled her urge to grab the front of her small daughter’s nightgown; she could have reached it easily but instead willed herself to remain stock still and watch. The pirouette was out of control as it began, and Ginny hit the end table spinning. The vase fell and Ginny fell, twisted, on top of it. It took the doctors four hours to pick all the glass slivers out of her side.
    Tamar squeezed Ginny’s hands tighter. “For godsake. You’ve made your point. This is going too far.” Ginny eased her hands away.
    For the next month, Ginny called once a week and didn’t answerher phone when Tamar tried to phone more often. She let the telephone ring and ring. Then Asher started calling Tamar. He had a plan. He started showing up by himself again, inviting himself in for tea. It wasn’t like before; now he sat on the red sofa instead of in Robert’s old mustard and brown chair. He spoke quickly, tapping his long fingers on the upholstered arm. “You and Esther can come, too. What are you doing in Canada? There’s a whole country of people like us, Tamar. Where we wouldn’t be in exile.” People like us. Asher had unkempt dirty-yellow hair that he kept pushing out of his eyes, and he smelled of tobacco and wet wool. He said, “You have to think of me like a son.