forward, his left cheek protruding as he anxiously bit the side of his tongue.
If a wardrobe had fallen on me, pinning my body to the floor, the only way I wouldn’t have shrieked loud enough that they’d hear me all the way to Heaven was if I were dead. But my brother was alive, with eyes that looked but could not see, ears that worked but didn’t hear, and skin that touched but did not feel—not the cold of the snow, not the warmth of my mother’s arms, not the slamming of an armoire against his small body. Yet if you tried to hug him, he jumped as if he’d been scorched by fire. He felt too much, or not at all. He was like a prisoner wrongfully jailed, and he kept knocking his head against the ground, begging to be let out.
Later, after the doctor left, I saw my father enter Nachum’s room. My brother was curled up on his bed, eyes shut, swaying back and forth like a pendulum, his head banging into the mattress springs, maybe looking for a way inside, into his strange, walled-off world. My father stared down at my brother, his mouth grim beneath his mustache, his eyes like dark tunnels.
Back. Forth.
Back. Forth.
Back. Forth.
Back…
And this after he’d been home for three weeks, attending the special Chush school that was to cure him.
It was the next day that I made my second deal with God.
Ten
Friday is a terrible time to make a deal with God. It is a busy time, only half a day, really, with Shabbos coming at sundown, and all the work to be done beforehand.
On Friday, we had only three hours of school. By noon, we were dismissed, sent home to help our mothers prepare. The Friday of my failed deal with God began no differently than the others. I sat in the blanket box at the head of my bed, hiding from my mother and the chores I did not want to do. I was preparing myself for a meaningful conversation with God.
There was no time to waste. I folded my legs so that I was comfortable. I carefully covered my knees with my uniform skirt, so as not to be immodest. Then, with my hands spread out like a prayer book, I eased my way into my heavenly request. I explained to God that I wanted to do the fast thing, the forty-days-and-nights thing, the way I’d done for the earrings back when He had made me that miracle.
I thought things were going well. I was pleading and promising extra psalms, but this time God got mad. Suddenly, everything went dark. I was buried in shadows and could not see a thing.
“Help!” I screamed. “Help!” I pushed at the suffocating darkness until there was light again. I blinked in the brightness, my head sticking out from under two heavy blankets, and found myself looking up at my sister, the one who’d thrown the quilts inside without bothering to check first.
Rivky stared down at me in surprise.
“What are you doing in the blanket box?”
I pushed the blankets away. “You buried me alive!” I yelled angrily. “And it’s none of your business! Get out!”
My sister stomped away. “You have to set the table for the Shabbos meal!” she shouted.
I shoved the blankets out of the box and sat down again. I leaned back, ready to start whispering fervently to God. But then, just as I began, I heard my mother’s voice.
“ Me-nu- chah!”
I could tell that she was angry.
“Come now!”
That meant now.
I threw up my hands, exasperated. Did they not know what I was doing? I banged my fist against the side of the box.
“I’m praying!” I screeched.
There was quiet. I took a deep breath, sighed, and started again. My mother’s puzzled face peered in at me. Wisps of red hair stuck out from under her kerchief. There were smudges of white flour on her housecoat.
“You’re what?” she asked.
I thought of explaining. Then I thought better of it. I stared back at her silently.
She shook her head impatiently. “Where do you think you are—a hotel? Shabbos is in three hours! You don’t sit in a box now! Come peel the potatoes! And make sure you turn off the
If a wardrobe had fallen on me, pinning my body to the floor, the only way I wouldn’t have shrieked loud enough that they’d hear me all the way to Heaven was if I were dead. But my brother was alive, with eyes that looked but could not see, ears that worked but didn’t hear, and skin that touched but did not feel—not the cold of the snow, not the warmth of my mother’s arms, not the slamming of an armoire against his small body. Yet if you tried to hug him, he jumped as if he’d been scorched by fire. He felt too much, or not at all. He was like a prisoner wrongfully jailed, and he kept knocking his head against the ground, begging to be let out.
Later, after the doctor left, I saw my father enter Nachum’s room. My brother was curled up on his bed, eyes shut, swaying back and forth like a pendulum, his head banging into the mattress springs, maybe looking for a way inside, into his strange, walled-off world. My father stared down at my brother, his mouth grim beneath his mustache, his eyes like dark tunnels.
Back. Forth.
Back. Forth.
Back. Forth.
Back…
And this after he’d been home for three weeks, attending the special Chush school that was to cure him.
It was the next day that I made my second deal with God.
Ten
Friday is a terrible time to make a deal with God. It is a busy time, only half a day, really, with Shabbos coming at sundown, and all the work to be done beforehand.
On Friday, we had only three hours of school. By noon, we were dismissed, sent home to help our mothers prepare. The Friday of my failed deal with God began no differently than the others. I sat in the blanket box at the head of my bed, hiding from my mother and the chores I did not want to do. I was preparing myself for a meaningful conversation with God.
There was no time to waste. I folded my legs so that I was comfortable. I carefully covered my knees with my uniform skirt, so as not to be immodest. Then, with my hands spread out like a prayer book, I eased my way into my heavenly request. I explained to God that I wanted to do the fast thing, the forty-days-and-nights thing, the way I’d done for the earrings back when He had made me that miracle.
I thought things were going well. I was pleading and promising extra psalms, but this time God got mad. Suddenly, everything went dark. I was buried in shadows and could not see a thing.
“Help!” I screamed. “Help!” I pushed at the suffocating darkness until there was light again. I blinked in the brightness, my head sticking out from under two heavy blankets, and found myself looking up at my sister, the one who’d thrown the quilts inside without bothering to check first.
Rivky stared down at me in surprise.
“What are you doing in the blanket box?”
I pushed the blankets away. “You buried me alive!” I yelled angrily. “And it’s none of your business! Get out!”
My sister stomped away. “You have to set the table for the Shabbos meal!” she shouted.
I shoved the blankets out of the box and sat down again. I leaned back, ready to start whispering fervently to God. But then, just as I began, I heard my mother’s voice.
“ Me-nu- chah!”
I could tell that she was angry.
“Come now!”
That meant now.
I threw up my hands, exasperated. Did they not know what I was doing? I banged my fist against the side of the box.
“I’m praying!” I screeched.
There was quiet. I took a deep breath, sighed, and started again. My mother’s puzzled face peered in at me. Wisps of red hair stuck out from under her kerchief. There were smudges of white flour on her housecoat.
“You’re what?” she asked.
I thought of explaining. Then I thought better of it. I stared back at her silently.
She shook her head impatiently. “Where do you think you are—a hotel? Shabbos is in three hours! You don’t sit in a box now! Come peel the potatoes! And make sure you turn off the
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