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She has good days and bad, and so far it seems this is a good one. She’s not the stammering, confused Ima she was a few nights ago, the one who forgot I wasn’t actually going to Johns Hopkins.
Tonight I can almost remember who she used to be.
“I like all your knitting projects, though,” I say, and she smiles sadly. “Can you tell me about savtah?” It feels weird to call her “savtah” when I never had a chance to use the word. It makes me think of the evil-eye bracelet, currently buried in a dresser drawer.
“My ima.” She waits a while before continuing, like she’s digging around in her memory. “She used to let me stay home from school every year on my birthday. She didn’t think you should have to spend your birthday in school. We’d go to the market, and we’d get something to eat, or we’d go to a park, or we’d buy a new outfit.” A sigh. “But I don’t remember much of anything else. I wish I did. I barely remember her going through this. She progressed so quickly, and the doctors weren’t able to determine what it was. They wouldn’t have known if it was genetic or not, if it was something I would inherit too. That you girls were at risk for it.”
“Is that why you left? Because she got sick?”
She shakes her head. “That was a long time before I left. I was eight years old when she died. My father . . . he changed after she passed. He had always had some trouble with alcohol, and her death made that even worse. He wasn’t abusive, not physically. Emotionally, perhaps. He yelled and swore constantly, came home late or sometimes not at all. I couldn’t stand to be in my own house.”
“Ima.” My heart twists. “I’m so sorry.”
“You can understand why I wanted to do my service and then get out of there.”
“What about your grandparents?” Optimism grabs hold of me. They could still be alive, just really, really old, living in a tiny house somewhere in Tel Aviv.
“They passed when I was a teenager.”
“Is your dad—”
“I stopped talking to him after I left the country, but I heard from some friends that he died a few years ago.”
“And you never told us.”
“No. I wouldn’t have wanted you to meet him. After I left . . . There were no good memories there, Tovah’le.” A smile crosses her lips. “Do you remember when you were little, you asked why I took Aba’s last name? Why I didn’t keep my own last name?”
I nod. I thought her maiden name, Shapira, was better than Aba’s because before I could spell I associated Siegel with the bird. And her names sounded so good together: Simcha Shapira. I wouldn’t have changed my name if I had one like that. In fact, I’m certain I’ll never change my name even if I get married.
“That was the one thing that tied me to my family,” she says. “To my father. I needed a new family.”
Growing up, Adina and I only knew Aba’s family, sprinkled all over the Pacific Northwest: an aunt in Portland, an uncle in the Tri-Cities, grandparents in Bellingham. We used to think it was odd that we didn’t have photos of our mom’s parents. We always wanted to know more about them. Our mysterious Israeli side.
Now I know why.
“The bracelets you gave us.” I say it quietly. “You told me they were from savtah. But . . . was it only Adina’s?”
She’s silent for a moment. “Ani miztaeret, Tovah’le. I should not have done that.”
“So you found mine online. You lied to me about it.” I’m more resigned than upset. Ima and Adina have a bond I’ll never understand, but my relationship with Ima doesn’t have to be identical to hers.
“Ani miztaeret,” she apologizes again. “I only had the one, but I wanted you each to have something special. And after the test . . . it seemed like she needed it a bit more. That connection to our family. It’s difficult, sometimes, trying to keep everything equal between the two of you.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible.”
“Perhaps not.”
“Does Adina know the reason you left Israel?”
“No,” Ima says, and that makes me feel like maybe things are more equal than she thinks. Adina has the bracelet, but I have the story. “I’ve been waiting for the right time to tell both of you. But it’s okay. I’m not upset about any of it anymore. I have my family here. I have you and I have Adina, and I have your father, and my friends . . . and it’s okay.” She takes a deep breath. “How did we get off topic? I thought we were talking about you.”
“I don’t know what else to say about me. I’m completely stuck.”
She sips her tea. “You know how many times I changed majors in school. And careers, too. You understand that you don’t have to know now, right this very instant, what you want to do for the rest of your life?”
The rest of my life. That suddenly sounds like a long, long time.
“I mean, yes, but . . .” I’ve always thought I had this one path, but maybe I’m more like my mother than I thought. “I like biology. I like the idea of being of a surgeon. And I had the right test scores and took all the right classes and the right extracurriculars. . . .”
