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ABA PLAYS NIRVANA THE ENTIRE drive. His fingers drum the wheel, his eyes occasionally catching mine in the rearview mirror. He smiles whenever this happens. We hum along as Kurt Cobain growls we can plant a house, we can build a tree, since neither of our voices compares to Kurt’s scratchy, raw one.
Adi is asleep next to me and Ima is asleep next to Aba, but I can’t nap during road trips. A couple hours of sleep isn’t worth missing the scenery. The farther north we go, the shorter and stockier the buildings get. Streets are replaced with forests, strip malls with acres of farmland, cars with cows and horses.
Canada for Thanksgiving was my parents’ idea. We’ll trade turkey and cranberries for a long weekend of family time. A distraction from our sad reality. British Columbia doesn’t look all that different from Washington. Same mountains and trees and gray skies. When I was small, I thought all countries had some defining feature. Ima’s few photos of her life in Israel gave me visions of an exotic, sacred place. Synagogues with high ceilings and ornate architecture. Sandy beaches and ancient ruins.
I’m hoping, too, that the time away from home will give me a chance to talk to the sister I’ve spent years pushing away. It can take years for people to come to terms with a positive result, but regardless of where we end up
in the fall, this is probably my last year living across the hall from Adina—and therefore, my last chance to make things right between us.
My phone vibrates in my pocket.
You around this weekend? Troy went with Lindsay to her grandparents’ and I am BORED.
I’m in Canada.
Not helping my boredom.
I’ll see what I can do.
I take a photo of someone walking a dog. I text it to Zack with the caption CANADIAN DOG. Then I do the same with a fire hydrant, a telephone pole, a plastic bag on the sidewalk. I’m not sure it’s very entertaining, until Zack responds.
You’re funny
When we reach the hotel, my parents retreat to one room, and Adina and I unpack our suitcases across the hall. I plug in my laptop and open an AP Bio lab report, but I can’t concentrate. Adina’s already swapping her dress and tights for pajamas. Taking her phone into bed with her, fingers flying across the screen.
I almost start talking to her half a dozen times, but my sister is a deer, and I don’t want to frighten her away by being too forward. If I’m going to make progress, I have to be gentle.
Every so often, I hear her laughing, and it’s so, so nice to hear that I don’t ruin it by asking her what’s so funny.
We pretend we’re a normal American family on vacation. We tour gardens and historic churches and a museum devoted entirely to miniatures. In the car after the museum, Ima sighs deeply and says, “Matt, girls, I might have to call it a day.” Her face is weary, and my heart pinches. I wonder if she notices how much other people stare at her near-constant jerking and twitching. If that adds to the weariness.
For the first time, I wonder if getting into Johns Hopkins will mean missing the last few good years with Ima. But Ima would hate for me to close myself off to an opportunity because of her.
“We can rest before dinner,” Aba says.
“I might take a nap too.” Adina looks up from her phone for what seems like the first time today. “Unless you need the room for anything, Tovah.”
“Go ahead,” I say too quickly. God, it’s like I’m scared of her or something. She should be able to take all the naps she wants.
Aba and I spend the next few hours exploring the city. We meet Ima and Adina for dinner at a kosher restaurant that takes forever to find. We’ve only ever spent Thanksgiving with the Mizrahis or other friends of our parents. It’s odd to share this one with strangers and waiters.
I’m used to people gawking at Ima in public, though in the past they stared at our family for other reasons. It’s unusual to hear Hebrew spoken in Seattle; most people can’t identify the language. I’ve been asked multiple times if I’m speaking German or Arabic or Russian, and when I say that it’s actually Hebrew, I’m met with, “Isn’t that a dead language?” It nearly went extinct thousands of years ago but was revived during the nineteenth century. Today more than nine million people speak Modern Israeli Hebrew. The guttural “chet” and “resh” sounds feel natural on my lips.
Once when Adina and I were little, we were in a restaurant with our parents, the two of us fighting about me quitting orchestra. Adina thought I hadn’t given it a fair chance. We eventually grew so loud we were yelling at each other. “Die! Die!” Ima said to us over and over, which in Hebrew means “enough,” but to all the nearby restaurant-goers, it appeared as though she was wishing death upon her children. Sheepishly, she explained to them that she was not, in fact, a murderous mother.
Tonight, though, the waiter’s gaze lingers more on Adina than my mother, and for an entirely different reason. It’s been this way with my sister and ninety percent of human males for a long time. His name tag says Beau. I comb my fingers through my short hair and eye the curls that crest Adina’s shoulders.
After we order, I lean in to my sister and say, “Beau was checking you out.” Trying to be conversational. Trying to talk to her the way I’d talk to Lindsay.
“Who?”
My stomach twists in annoyance. It was so obvious. “The waiter.”
“Oh,” she says, like she didn’t even notice.
We recite a bracha before we eat, as always, and then my father raps on his water glass with a knife and clears his throat.
“Please don’t make us talk about what we’re thankful for,” Adina says before Aba can say anything.
