Dinah." She folded her perfectly manicured hands on her lap. "I spoke to Addie this morning. She said she came yesterday."
Addie, another friend, an artist who designs book jackets for a publishing company in New York. When Elijah was born she gave him a small chest she'd hand-painted with white and blue polka-dot dinosaurs.
I nodded, looked down at my trembling hands. I couldn't bring myself to care if my friends came, or if they didn't come. Their coming didn't change anything. Either way I hurt more than I had ever believed possible. If Elijah didn't survive, I would never be able to forgive them for not coming, would never again consider them my friends no matter what their reasons: didn't know what to say, too busy, too far away, too uncomfortable, too scary, too whatever.
"Mark sends his love and prayers," Becky said.
I nodded as enthusiastically as I could. A barely perceptible nod. Where was Mark, anyway? Was he going to be one of the abandoners?
"Is there anything I can do for you, Dinah?" Becky said finally. "Do you want something to eat? It's just about dinnertime."
"I'm not hungry."
"How about at the house? Bring dinner for the kids tomorrow?"
"Sam's parents are staying with them," I said. "Bringing them down in the evenings."
Becky nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you, Di?"
I was listening to the ghost's music. But I'm smart. I wasn't going to ask for corroboration again.
"Could you call the Jewish Community Center, tell them I won't be teaching the class for a while?"
"They know, Dinah. Sam must have called. And I saw Mrs. Shoenfeld there the other day, when I took Brian to his swimming class."
Was it only a few days ago that Becky and I saw her on the street? No. It was a week. More than a week.
"I was amazed she recognized me," Becky said.
I wasn't.
"She asked me how you were doing, seemed very concerned about Elijah." Becky glanced at him. "Has she met him?"
"Once." Last summer I'd registered Elijah for Krafty Kids, an art class given at the same time I give my writing class. I'd talked to the teacher about his learning disabilities, and told her the day I brought him in that I'd be right down the hall if there was a problem. There was. Elijah tried to finger-paint one of the other kids, and the teacher brought him to me long before the hour was up. "I told him he couldn't do that," she said, "and he's been sitting in a corner and crying ever since. I'm sorry. It's too much of a disruption." She nudged him toward me, then left.
I introduced him to my class. Even though he went off into a corner and banged a pair of little plastic cars on the floor instead of standing there with me and letting them engage him the way most children would have, they fussed and fawned over him. That made me feel good, of course, and Ellen Shoenfeld was one of the fussers and fawners. But only she acknowledged the obvious, that Elijah was not a normal child. "It must be hard for you, Dinah."
"She asked me if it'd be all right if she wrote you a note," Becky said. "I told her I thought it would."
I felt oddly moved by this. Ellen is a Holocaust survivor. Nobody had told me, but she's eighty and Jewish and speaks with a fairly heavy German accent, which means she probably immigrated later in life, which means circumstances probably found her in Germany when Hitler came to power. Clearly she doesn't talk about it openly, as some survivors do, and when I asked the question all she said was, "Yes, I was there when it happened." Then she walked away.
"She said you're a wonderful woman," Becky said.
"Don't know why she thinks so. She's shown up at every class this session, but so far hasn't written a thing."
"Why would she come but not write?"
"I don't know."
Becky smiled. "You love that class, don't you?"
My eyes were filling with tears, my breath quickening with another wave of panic. Ordinary conversation felt like a runaway train. "I can't talk about the class now, Beck."
"I'm sorry. Look, I'm going
Addie, another friend, an artist who designs book jackets for a publishing company in New York. When Elijah was born she gave him a small chest she'd hand-painted with white and blue polka-dot dinosaurs.
I nodded, looked down at my trembling hands. I couldn't bring myself to care if my friends came, or if they didn't come. Their coming didn't change anything. Either way I hurt more than I had ever believed possible. If Elijah didn't survive, I would never be able to forgive them for not coming, would never again consider them my friends no matter what their reasons: didn't know what to say, too busy, too far away, too uncomfortable, too scary, too whatever.
"Mark sends his love and prayers," Becky said.
I nodded as enthusiastically as I could. A barely perceptible nod. Where was Mark, anyway? Was he going to be one of the abandoners?
"Is there anything I can do for you, Dinah?" Becky said finally. "Do you want something to eat? It's just about dinnertime."
"I'm not hungry."
"How about at the house? Bring dinner for the kids tomorrow?"
"Sam's parents are staying with them," I said. "Bringing them down in the evenings."
Becky nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you, Di?"
I was listening to the ghost's music. But I'm smart. I wasn't going to ask for corroboration again.
"Could you call the Jewish Community Center, tell them I won't be teaching the class for a while?"
"They know, Dinah. Sam must have called. And I saw Mrs. Shoenfeld there the other day, when I took Brian to his swimming class."
Was it only a few days ago that Becky and I saw her on the street? No. It was a week. More than a week.
"I was amazed she recognized me," Becky said.
I wasn't.
"She asked me how you were doing, seemed very concerned about Elijah." Becky glanced at him. "Has she met him?"
"Once." Last summer I'd registered Elijah for Krafty Kids, an art class given at the same time I give my writing class. I'd talked to the teacher about his learning disabilities, and told her the day I brought him in that I'd be right down the hall if there was a problem. There was. Elijah tried to finger-paint one of the other kids, and the teacher brought him to me long before the hour was up. "I told him he couldn't do that," she said, "and he's been sitting in a corner and crying ever since. I'm sorry. It's too much of a disruption." She nudged him toward me, then left.
I introduced him to my class. Even though he went off into a corner and banged a pair of little plastic cars on the floor instead of standing there with me and letting them engage him the way most children would have, they fussed and fawned over him. That made me feel good, of course, and Ellen Shoenfeld was one of the fussers and fawners. But only she acknowledged the obvious, that Elijah was not a normal child. "It must be hard for you, Dinah."
"She asked me if it'd be all right if she wrote you a note," Becky said. "I told her I thought it would."
I felt oddly moved by this. Ellen is a Holocaust survivor. Nobody had told me, but she's eighty and Jewish and speaks with a fairly heavy German accent, which means she probably immigrated later in life, which means circumstances probably found her in Germany when Hitler came to power. Clearly she doesn't talk about it openly, as some survivors do, and when I asked the question all she said was, "Yes, I was there when it happened." Then she walked away.
"She said you're a wonderful woman," Becky said.
"Don't know why she thinks so. She's shown up at every class this session, but so far hasn't written a thing."
"Why would she come but not write?"
"I don't know."
Becky smiled. "You love that class, don't you?"
My eyes were filling with tears, my breath quickening with another wave of panic. Ordinary conversation felt like a runaway train. "I can't talk about the class now, Beck."
"I'm sorry. Look, I'm going
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