even possible.
We drive home, a sports station squawking about the Bills, with each caller enumerating the ways each player sucks, and Scotty pulls into my driveway. “Is Mike there?”
“No, he’s working. You want to come in?” I ask.
“Nah. I got to get changed and back to work. Thanks anyway.”
“Okay, see you later.” I race in and let Arthur out of his crate. He immediately assumes the position, lying down rather promiscuously on his back, his tongue out and tail wagging. I can’t claim to be as happy. Though getting out of my soaked temple-wear and into my lovely, dry jeans is a good start.
Now that I’m home, though, I have no idea what to do with myself. Yom Kippur means no schedule and no work, filling a Type A-er like me with dispiriting ennui. And anything I might want to do surely constitutes sinning. I can’t study for the RITE or read up on further treatments for catatonia because that would definitely qualify as work. Crashing on my couch, I flip through a gossip magazine but realize this is most likely a sin, too. I vaguely recall a pronouncement against slander. The gas fireplace flickers orange over the fake gray-black stones. The fireplace would have been inconceivable before today, but the rain has finally stopped, and the day has turned precipitously cold. Fall has officially fallen. The sky outside is still gray, but a cool, misty gray now. Everything looks gray in fact, like the sky sucked out all the color. Gray glossy grass, gray sodden sidewalk, silver-gray underbellies of the leaves flittering like fish scales.
The gossip mag (more a picture book than a magazine really) is finished in two minutes, and I thump my fuzzy-socked feet against the coffee table. I am officially bored, a dangerous state of affairs for an ADHDer who needs her dopamine fix. I could call Mike, but he might not want to pause from stitching up a gunshot wound to chat with me. Then it occurs to me: I could call the Nigerian girl again. The family’s name was on the school website, but their machine has been “full and cannot accept new messages at this time” all week. I unfold the creased paper where the number is scribbled, make the call, and am shocked when someone picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
Even the hello has a Southern accent. “Um, hi. I was looking to speak with Sarima?”
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Well, yes, but she doesn’t know me. I’m a doctor from Buffalo. Dr. Zoe Goldman. And—”
“Oh, all right. I’ll get her.”
I hear a name being called. Arthur wanders by and tries to make off with the paper with her picture, and I shove him.
“Hello?” Now it’s a Nigerian hello.
“Yes, hi, this is Zoe Goldman.” I realize at once this will be an impossible situation to explain, especially with a language barrier, so I improvise. “I’m calling from a health agency. We just need to verify that you are in fact Sarima Balewa.”
“Yes. That is me.”
“And you are matriculating as a foreign exchange student in Oak Hills High School?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And your vaccinations are current?” I throw this one in to sound official.
“Absolutely,” she answers.
I pause then, out of things to say. “That’s fine then. Thank you for your time.” I hang up with a sigh. So I have proved the obvious. Sarima Balewa is in fact Sarima Balewa and not Jane. I put the paper down and lay back on the couch. My stomach growls, but it’ll have to wait until sundown. Maybe it’s the gray day, the fuzzy socks, or the empty stomach, but all at once I feel drugged. Pulling my blanket (Mom’s old lilac blanket that she knitted herself, pre-dementia) over me, I fall into a deep slumber.
When the phone wakes me up, three hours have slipped by. My right leg has gone numb from a dog lying on top of it, and I’m starved.
“Hello?” I sit straight up, and Arthur woofs awake.
“Hi, is this Dr. Goldman?” says a woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“Yes, it’s eleven north. We’re
We drive home, a sports station squawking about the Bills, with each caller enumerating the ways each player sucks, and Scotty pulls into my driveway. “Is Mike there?”
“No, he’s working. You want to come in?” I ask.
“Nah. I got to get changed and back to work. Thanks anyway.”
“Okay, see you later.” I race in and let Arthur out of his crate. He immediately assumes the position, lying down rather promiscuously on his back, his tongue out and tail wagging. I can’t claim to be as happy. Though getting out of my soaked temple-wear and into my lovely, dry jeans is a good start.
Now that I’m home, though, I have no idea what to do with myself. Yom Kippur means no schedule and no work, filling a Type A-er like me with dispiriting ennui. And anything I might want to do surely constitutes sinning. I can’t study for the RITE or read up on further treatments for catatonia because that would definitely qualify as work. Crashing on my couch, I flip through a gossip magazine but realize this is most likely a sin, too. I vaguely recall a pronouncement against slander. The gas fireplace flickers orange over the fake gray-black stones. The fireplace would have been inconceivable before today, but the rain has finally stopped, and the day has turned precipitously cold. Fall has officially fallen. The sky outside is still gray, but a cool, misty gray now. Everything looks gray in fact, like the sky sucked out all the color. Gray glossy grass, gray sodden sidewalk, silver-gray underbellies of the leaves flittering like fish scales.
The gossip mag (more a picture book than a magazine really) is finished in two minutes, and I thump my fuzzy-socked feet against the coffee table. I am officially bored, a dangerous state of affairs for an ADHDer who needs her dopamine fix. I could call Mike, but he might not want to pause from stitching up a gunshot wound to chat with me. Then it occurs to me: I could call the Nigerian girl again. The family’s name was on the school website, but their machine has been “full and cannot accept new messages at this time” all week. I unfold the creased paper where the number is scribbled, make the call, and am shocked when someone picks up the phone.
“Hello?”
Even the hello has a Southern accent. “Um, hi. I was looking to speak with Sarima?”
“Can I ask who’s calling?”
“Well, yes, but she doesn’t know me. I’m a doctor from Buffalo. Dr. Zoe Goldman. And—”
“Oh, all right. I’ll get her.”
I hear a name being called. Arthur wanders by and tries to make off with the paper with her picture, and I shove him.
“Hello?” Now it’s a Nigerian hello.
“Yes, hi, this is Zoe Goldman.” I realize at once this will be an impossible situation to explain, especially with a language barrier, so I improvise. “I’m calling from a health agency. We just need to verify that you are in fact Sarima Balewa.”
“Yes. That is me.”
“And you are matriculating as a foreign exchange student in Oak Hills High School?”
“Yes, I am.”
“And your vaccinations are current?” I throw this one in to sound official.
“Absolutely,” she answers.
I pause then, out of things to say. “That’s fine then. Thank you for your time.” I hang up with a sigh. So I have proved the obvious. Sarima Balewa is in fact Sarima Balewa and not Jane. I put the paper down and lay back on the couch. My stomach growls, but it’ll have to wait until sundown. Maybe it’s the gray day, the fuzzy socks, or the empty stomach, but all at once I feel drugged. Pulling my blanket (Mom’s old lilac blanket that she knitted herself, pre-dementia) over me, I fall into a deep slumber.
When the phone wakes me up, three hours have slipped by. My right leg has gone numb from a dog lying on top of it, and I’m starved.
“Hello?” I sit straight up, and Arthur woofs awake.
“Hi, is this Dr. Goldman?” says a woman’s voice.
“Yes?”
“Yes, it’s eleven north. We’re
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