CHAPTER ONE - Amazon S3Spun+-++Cha… · always, always the wheel was spinning, a soft, ... lifting...

Miriam Gitlin ~ HOME SPUN / 1

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CHAPTER ONE

It never was just about the yarn. Not for us, anyhow. Sitting in a circle, wheels

whirling before us, our hearts, our dreams, our memories all came together, just like the

skeins in our hands.

Sometimes we would all spin; other times we’d each do different tasks, washing the

freshly sheared wool, carding the clean, dried lumps, or knitting the finished product. But

always, always the wheel was spinning, a soft, vibrant hum that blended our laughter, our

songs and our whispers together, into a creation in its own right.

The sweaters we’d knit, the socks and caps, the crocheted throws—they were so much

more than just the sum of their fibers. Woven into them was the very scent of our souls, the

essence of tradition, of sisterhood, of a mother-daughter legacy that stretched beyond the

confines of dimension.

You could feel it in those garments we created. Even strangers would comment on it,

lifting the textiles to kiss their cheeks, sighing as they closed their eyes, overtaken by

experience. I’d watch the bliss spread across their features, as if that soft caress of fabric held

within it the euphoria of our bond.

They’re gone now, all of those things. Burned or buried or lost in the dust of war-

battered time. But just as our creations held the essence of our hearts, the memories of those

nights spent spinning carry the tangible shape, the feel of a mother’s love, a sister’s laughter,

the sense of eternity in stitching through a pattern that’s been passed down for generations.

Those memories of spinning, they’re strongest of all.

MIRA

As long as she keeps her eyes shut, she can still feel Aharon’s presence in the

room.

It isn’t always like this, but today the feel of him is strong. Thick and there. It

tempts her, makes her want to reach out and touch it. But, she knows from experience,

that will just end it all, so she resists its call and lies still, just being in the rich, homey

warmth.

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Any moment now, the children will wake and pull her full-thrust into the

morning. But for now, as long as she keeps her eyes shut, she is just an ordinary woman.

Not a widow.

“Mommy?”

It’s bittersweet, that voice.

Mira takes one last inhale of serenity and opens her eyes.

The sun streams through the thin curtains, landing in a neat, golden square on

Aharon’s ever-made bed.

“What is it, sweetie?” she calls out. Her voice still has the dull croak of sleep.

“Can I come in?”

“Of course,” she says.

The door squeaks open and a lavender flannel blur tumbles into her bed.

“I dreamed of Tatty,” Tzivi says, as she nuzzles into the mass of sheets.

Mira’s heart soars. She reaches out and stokes the soft honeyed curls that stretch

across her pillows.

“What did you dream, tzadeikes?”

“I dreamed that Tatty picked me up and danced with me all the way to the end of

the pier. And then we jumped in the water and swam, and Tatty started to get bigger and

bigger and he said, ‘Hold me,’ and I held onto his hand, but he just got bigger and bigger

until he filled the whole bay, and all of the ocean, too.”

Mira’s heart freezes for a moment. She holds her breath. “Was it—”

“Wonderful. It was a wonderful dream. All soft-in-your-tummy.”

Mira exhales and wraps her arms tighter around her miracle child, her last bit of

Aharon.

“I’m glad it was a wonderful dream,” she says. “You should always have such

wonderful dreams.”

“Is it really like that?” Tzivi asks. “Is Tatty everywhere, like Hashem?”

“Well, not like Hashem. And I don’t know exactly how neshamos work. But I think

he’s still with us, tied to us somehow. Sometimes I feel him, too.”

Tzivi squirms to look at her. Their faces are so close, noses almost touching at the

tips, that Tzivi’s little eyes are glowing aquamarine orbs.

“You do?” she asks, stretching the words out wide. “How do you feel him? Can you

touch him?” Her voice drops an octave. “Can you see him?”

Mira hesitates. A slender spike of uncertainty pokes at her. They are so close, the

two of them. Tzivi slips into her bed and pulls open the secrets of her heart. She is wise

and intuitive, as if Aharon had poured his essence into her before he left this world, a

safebox that would survive the winds of time.

But she is still just a little girl.

Is it good? Is it too much?

She doesn’t know.

But there is a question waiting, hovering in the small space between them.

“No.” She smiles. “I can’t see him.”

Tzivi’s eyelashes flutter, and she tilts her head, listening with her whole self.





“I can’t touch him, either. But sometimes it feels as if he’s so close that I could if I’d

just reach out. As if he was right there next to me and I’d see him if I opened my eyes.”

“I can feel him,” Tzivi says. “He hugs me sometimes, just before I fall asleep.”

She sounds so sure, so secure in this ethereal conviction, and Mira is racked with a

fierce, awful jealousy.

“Do you miss him?” she whispers.

“Mommy!” Mendy’s voice barrels through the thin wood of her door. “I don’t have

any socks!”

And the morning has caught her.

DOV

Barech aleinu…

Pour down Your abundant, unchecked blessing upon us, Hashem… oh please—on

Ilana, on Shaina and Moishy, on me—every day, in every moment, in everything that

happens this year… that it should all be good. Really, truly good….

He wasn’t the type to have a long shemonah esrei, to stand in private prayer after

all the other men in shul were already unwinding their retzuos and packing up their tallis

bags.

Not that he didn’t want to be that type, not that he didn’t try to focus more, not

that he hadn’t ever been that way, back in his yeshiva days, before his mind was rattling

with crazy, wonderful distractions like a wife and kids.

Brachos, all of them, but they weighed on his mind, tapping away at the strands of

concentration he kept trying to pull tighter, until he gave in to that, and the exhaustion,

too, and found himself stepping backwards and murmuring “Oseh shalom,” already at

the end.

Today, though, a shard of clarity, of mental focus had winked at him, and he was

grasping it for all it was worth. Let it pull him up as much as it can.

He holds onto that high even after he steps back and starts to unwind the black

stripes of leather circling his arm. Men jostle him from behind and it winks at him,

starting to fade, but he finds himself smiling. It’ll be a good day. A good davening sets

everything off on a high note.

“How’s the mishpacha?”

He looks up. Yitz Freifeld is inches away, smiling past his tightly curled beard.

“Boruch Hashem. Thanks for the humidifier, by the way. Gotta get that back to

you. It really helped.”

“Ah, geshmak. Who was that for again? Your little girl?”

“Nah, my Moishy. He just started walking on Shabbos.” Ilana would tease him if

she heard, that proud fathers never miss a chance to boast. But hey, she’d be right. As

usual.

Yitz’s smile widens, sharing the nachas. “Wow, they grow fast. I remember his

bris. Hey, I remember your bris.”





Dov snorts. “What, you say that to everyone? You can’t possibly remember my

bris. You’re too young, and besides, it was in Cleveland, not here.”

“No, for real. My grandparents lived there for a while, and I was visiting them

then.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “And you remember my bris. From when you were like

five.”

“Eight, actually. But yeah, I do. My mother had just had a baby and his name was

also Dov, so it stuck out in my mind.”

“No kidding.”

A grimace brushes Yitz’s face.

Dov tilts his head. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just some heartburn. I might have been a bit too generous with myself at

the Klein vort last night.”

“Well, feel good.” He nods at Yitz and slips his tefillin into its case.

The sound comes just as he’s zipping the bag shut. It’s barely there, so soft he’s not

even sure he actually heard it. But he turns anyway, and from the back he sees Yitz

stagger, his arm going up in front as if to clutch his chest.

“Yitz?” he says.

The words aren’t fully out before Yitz jerks to the side, and Dov knows from the

angle of his body that this isn’t just a slight stumble.

This is total collapse.

He lunges.

Time slows as he flies forward, sharpening his awareness.

The halo of easy chatter dimming to a faint buzz.

The men around him shifting into a geometric mash of black and white shapes

that blur at the edges, revealing an endless sea of gray.

The lightening in his hands as his tefillin bag drops, and the thud of his heart as

he thinks of his tefillin hitting the floor, the holy words of the Torah dishonored in their

fall, even as he reaches out to catch a living, ever more precious, sefer Torah.

The fibers of the carpet looming large as they zoom closer, tiny loops made of

more strands than you could imagine could fit in that microscopic space.

His arms reaching out before his mind can instruct him, fingers stretching on

their own accord, aching, trying, desperate to catch what is by all rights far beyond his

reach.

He makes it.

Yitz’s head falls ear-first into the waiting cradle of his hands, inches from the

floor.

The weight of his body—dead weight, says his mind, but Dov can’t, won’t accept

that—pulls him down, smashing his knees into the floor, burning the side of his palm in

the rough brush against the carpet grain, but before he can register the pain he is on his

knees, crouched over Yitz’s body, ripping his collar open.

His fingers search the side of his throat as he bends his head, listening, watching

Yitz’s inert form.

But there’s nothing.





No comforting rise and fall of the chest. No breath tickling the short hairs of his

beard. No flow of life pulsing against his fingertips. A terrible, wretched silence.

No—

CHAPTER TWO

DOV

No pulse. No breathing.

Code.

“Get my bag and the defibrillator.” He tosses his car keys to Miller, standing

behind him. “They’re on the back seat.”

“P21 to H base: I have a code in the shul at 386 Elm Street,” he says into his radio.

“I need a bus, backup and medics.”

“10-4 P21,” Hecht’s voice cackles over the radio. “Any units available for a code at

Zichron Yaakov, 386 Elm Street.”

And then he is leaning forward, hands clasped one on top of the other, doing

compressions.

Work, he thinks, ordering Yitz’s heart to obey, to respond. Hashem, make it work,

make it start beating.

There are movements around him, sounds, but his focus is wound around the

one-two, one-two of his hands, his shoulders screaming as he bears down with all his

might, Yitz’s arms flailing about him crazily, as if trying to prove he’s alive.

“I got it.” Miller is on his knees beside him, the bag and the defibrillator there,

ready. “What do I do?”

“Open the defibrillator, take out the patches.”

He watches as Miller fumbles with the box. He could do it himself, faster, but his

hands are busy and he isn’t stopping—one-two, one-two, beat, beat, live, live, please,

Hashem, please—

“Here.”

Miller hands him the patches and only now he stops, watching Yitz’s mouth, his

throat, as he rips open the buttons of his shirt, pushes his tzitzis to the side, grabs the

scissors from the pocket on the side of his bag and slices through his undershirt, straight

through the point of the v at the neck.

“Apply pads to patient's bare chest,” orders the mechanical voice.

But he’s already ripping them open. One patch on, then the other one, and—

“Plug in pads connector next to flashing light. Analyzing heart rhythm...”

This wait is always impossible. Too long, just too long. Please—”

“Shock advised. Stand clear.”

“Stand back,” he tells the crowd.

Go.

Yitz’s body jolts as the shock runs through it.





He’s just begun compressions again when Yaki falls to his knees beside him,

yellow vest slung over his shoulders.

“The bus should be here any minute,” he says, his voice familiar, welcome. “Want

me to spot you?”

“Nah,” Dov grunts. “I’m good for another few.” He’s fine, now that Yaki’s here, the

ambulance is on the way, and he’s not alone, he’s part of a team now, his team, doing

what they’ve done hundreds of times before.

“I’ll bag him,” Yaki says, placing the mask over Yitz’s mouth as Dov thrusts down.

Beat, beat, live, live—

Wait.

He stops. Listens.

Glances at the monitor.

“We’ve got a heartbeat,” he says. “We got a heartbeat!”

“I’ll intubate,” says Yaki. “You start a line.”

Around them, the men are a blur of ‘boruch Hashems,’ back-slapping, and tearful

laughter.

“It’s okay, Yitz,” he says as he locates a good vein for the IV. “We got you.”

MIRA

How on earth can he really have no socks?

Mira presses against her temples, fighting the headache brewing there.

“You checked the laundry basket?” she asks again.

“I told you I did!" Mendy's voice is shrill. "They’re not there. They’re all missing.”

It can’t be.

“I washed everything in your hamper last night. Why weren’t they in there?”

“They were. I always put my socks in the hamper.”

“I’m going, Mommy,” Doniel pokes his helmeted head into the boy’s room. “Have a

good day!”

“Bye, sweetie,” she says, the pressure in her temples lightening at the sight of him.

He was always conscientious, a classic oldest child. And the last few months, with his

bar mitzvah approaching, he’s been getting more and more responsible. She could set her

clocks by him. She glances at her wrist. Sure enough, it’s 7:33.

“Mendy,” she says, turning back to her nine-year-old’s bed.

He’s lost in a book.

“No.” She slides the book away from him. “Once you’re all ready, you can read

until 8:20. Until then, you’re on sock scavenging duty.”

“But they’re just gone.”

“Then find the ones you wore yesterday.”

“Blech.” He makes a twisted, tongue-tortured face. “They’ll be all hard and

smelly.”





“If that’s all you’ve got, that’s all you’ve got. Make sure they end up in the hamper

next time.”

She stands up and heads down the hallway, Mendy’s voice carrying behind her. “I

did put them there. I did!”

Next stop, the girls’ room.

Tzivi is half dressed. She’s wearing tights and the rainbow striped sweater they

picked out the night before, but she must have gotten distracted before she got to her

skirt, because she’s sitting in the corner, making some sort of interesting creation out of

clics, legos, and wads of tissues.

“Come, mamaleh.” Mira guides her to the bed and helps her into her skirt. “We

need to get dressed so you can get to Pre-1A on time. Where’s Esti?”

“She’s in the shower.”

“Still?”

Tzivi nods.

“Okay, you get your shoes on while I hurry her up, and then I’ll do your hair.

Deal?”

Tzivi nods again, eyes sparkling, and Mira has an urge to scoop her up and hold

her tight. She gives in, feeling little arms squeezing back, infusing her with warmth and

just enough patience to tide her through.

“Esti?” She knocks on the bathroom door, trying to be heard over the sound of

running water. “You know it’s Rubinoff driving carpool today, right? Got to be ready five

minutes early.”

“I’ll be fine,” comes Esti’s muffled voice.

“AARRAUGH!”

The scream is from downstairs, but it’s not shrill enough to be pain. It’ll be either

a hideous bug or a mess. Mira pounds down the steps, hoping against hope it’s just a bug.

It’s a mess.

Creamy white liquid forms an ever-increasing lake across the kitchen floor.

Efraim stands at the edge of it, hands frozen in the air, looking aghast.

It’s soy milk.

Shaina’s soy milk.

“Pick it up,” she calls as she reaches the bottom step. “It’s still coming out! Pick it

up now!”

Efraim bends down and picks up the cardboard container. He peers inside.

“It’s empty,” he says.

Her shoulders sag.

“Put it in the garbage and call Tante Ilana and tell her to bring a new one today.”

She gets to work on the spill as he makes the call. When he hangs up he clears his

throat.

“I got dressed early today, Mommy.”

There are endless amounts of soy milk on the floor. It’s as if they fit a whole

reservoir of the stuff inside that little box. She forces a smile on her face and looks up

from the wet shmatta in her hand. “I see that,” she says, looking him over.





“Sorry about the soy milk.” He fiddles with the edge of his shirt. “I wanted to set

up breakfast. As a surprise.”

There are bowls set out on the kitchen table, and a jaunty pile of spoons.

“That’s so sweet, Efraim. Thank you.” Her voice has an edge to it, and the mess at

her feet shrinks somehow. A trick of the eye. Or the heart. That seems more likely than

rapid evaporation, anyway.

“Sorry about the spill,” he says again. “I was trying to get out the milk, and I don’t

know what happened ‘xactly.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says. “It means so much to me that you wanted to

surprise me.”

His smile stretches to the corners of his eyes.

The floor is washed and nearly dry by the time Ilana’s quick knock sounds at the

door. Mira heads into the hall just as Ilana pushes the door open, Moishy in one arm, and

Shaina holding her other hand.

“Oh, really?” she says, shifting her hold on Moishy’s diaper bag to straighten the

phone at her ear. “Well, you tell them that they’ll just have to make it work.”

“Outrageous,” she says, plopping Moishy into Mira’s open arms and a quick kiss on

her cheek. “I’m telling you, if I didn’t show up every day, the school would fall to pieces.

It’s gorgeous on you, by the way,” she says, nodding at the navy chenille snood on Mira’s

head.

Mira feels an incongruous rush of pleasure at her little sister’s praise. It’s always

like that with Ilana, both warming her and nudging her slightly off center.

“So glad you took my advice and gave it a try. Isn’t it comfy? It softens your face.

And makes you look happier, too.”

She stops and locks eyes with Mira, peering into her soul with that strange blend

of intuition and appraisal that always leaves Mira feeling bare.

“You are okay, aren’t you?” Her eyes narrow, concern prickling at the corners.

“Because if you need a break, anything—”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry so much about me.”

Ilana shakes her head, her features tender. “But I do.” She shakes her head slightly,

sending the choppy angles of her sheitel whistling against her cheeks. The soft concern

fades from her features, leaving the dynamic determination that makes the world think

twice before messing with Ilana Kramer.

“You brought more soy milk?”

“Yeah, it’s in the bag.”

“Good, because last time we ran out, Shaina kept trying to sneak the other kids’

milk at snack time.”

Ilana sighs. “She knows she can’t do that. Right, Shain?”

Shaina tilts her head to the side and shrugs her shoulder.

“Well, we’re okay as long as we’re well-stocked. I’ve got to go and beat the traffic.

Oh, and Dov said he’d stop by after shacharis to fix the faucet. Bye, sweeties,” she says,

brushing quick kisses on Moishy and Shaina’s cloudpuff hair. “Mommy loves you. Have a

good day!”

And she’s out the door, like a gust of wind blown in and out.





Mira eyes Moishy and Shaina. On days where everything goes smoothly, Tzivi is

downstairs and plays with them until she needs to leave, while Mira hustles everyone

else along. But today, everything is upside down, and Tzivi is probably back playing with

her creations with only one shoe on, and Shaina and Moishy are trouble on their own.

Mira glances up the stairs and back at her niece and nephew. Moishy is already

pulling at the edge of the wallpaper, trying to peel it back.

Sometimes this arrangement is hard. Too hard.

But she would never tell Ilana that.

Never.

She knows that Ilana only sends them to her to help her out, to give her the extra

parnassah she desperately needs to keep everything afloat, just one of the endless ways

she helps her out. Moishy’s younger than the other kids, and Shaina’s older than them,

but Ilana sends them to her, and early drop-off is part of the picture, and even if she

could manage without the money, she would never say a word to Ilana about it about it

being hard.

Not ever.

CHANA PEREL

Ilana always calls just when Chana Perel is finishing the last bit of her grapefruit.

This morning is no different.

“So, Mommy,” she says as Chana Perel scrapes the serrated edge of the spoon

against the ragged sides of the fruit. “How is it this morning, sweet or sour?”

She brings the cold metal to her lips, letting the final drops of juice tingle against

the pad of her tongue.

“Just right,” she says. “The perfect blend.”

“We have to talk about Bubby,” Ilana says, and Chana Perel smiles.

That is Ilana, diving right into the thick of the matter. Her daughter was never

one to dwell on trivialities like ‘good mornings.’

“Tomorrow,” she says. “She’s coming home tomorrow.”

“Is everything arranged? You have a cleaner coming at 10, right? And the therapy

appointments are finalized?”

Chana Perel’s heart beats faster, threads of anxiety twisting around her arteries.

She has the unsettling sensation of being a young girl again, accounting for just how

thoroughly she has studied the night before a test, uncovering exactly where she has

fallen short.

Only then it was Mommy she was answering to, not her daughter.

“Everything’s taken care of,” she says, forcing the words past the too-tight space

of her throat. Even as she speaks them, her voice smooth and strong, she wavers,

doubting their validity, doubting her confidence.

There is so much to be on top of, so many details, and she is sure to have missed

something. She doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to these things.

Mommy needs her to pull through, and she hopes, desperately, that she will manage.





But Ilana seems to take her word for it, because all she says is, “Good,” before

diving into the next item on her list.

“Now. Sleeping arrangements and meals.” In the background Chana Perel hears

the click-click of the turn signal and she smiles. Ilana is not one to cut corners.

“I’m going to make her supper for when she comes home,” Ilana says, “and Elky’s

sleeping by her the first night, right? What about the next day?”

Chana Perel thinks of the chicken marinating in the fridge since last night,

Mommy’s favorite, lemon and rosemary with a touch of garlic. She hadn’t asked Ilana to

make tomorrow’s supper. She had wanted to do that herself, to show Mommy on her

first night home how much she cared for her, how she could bring her home in style.

No matter.

Ilana’s already planned on that coveted first meal, and Chana Perel won’t

disappoint her. Narishkeit, that’s what it is. She’ll arrange the chicken and vegetables in

the pan and keep it in the fridge one more day.

It will be fine. Perfect. Everyone will be happy.

“I’ll bring her supper the next day, and Mira’s sending lunch. For sleeping, that’s

right. Elky’s the first night and Leiba’s the second. I made a chart up,” she says. “It’s all

taken care of.”

It’s silly that she should even think about this, but she has a flash of hope that

Ilana will just trust that she has it all under control and drop the subject.

Please, she thinks, trust me that I can do this, that I can get it right.

But Ilana is Ilana, and the reason she is such a skilled supervisor, the reason she

has helped so many children, that she has transformed the entire special ed department,

secured grants and accolades and raised the success rate to unheard of numbers is that

she doesn’t drop things, doesn’t let things go. Chana Perel’s heart swells with nachas, but

that proud, happy feeling is too big for the space she has inside, and it stretches painfully

at the edges of her chest.

“Now, did they give a date on when the stair-lift will be installed?”

“Only next week. But I’ve already set up the study downstairs as a bedroom in the

interim.”

And so it goes.

By the time Ilana pulls up in front of George Washington Carver Elementary,

Chana Perel’s stomach is a hard, roiling mess, but everything has been arranged, all the

odds and ends talked out and confirmed.

“You’re a great daughter, Mommy.”

The compliment is golden and precious, a delicate, airy leaf dropped by a mighty

oak, and her heart lunges after it.

“You’ve made half these arrangements yourself, Ilana,” she manages.

“Well, I learned from the best.”

Chana Perel’s heart sighs.

If only that were true.





CHAPTER THREE

MIRA

She has just finished davening with the children when the doorbell rings.

Frustration explodes along with the peal of the bell. Everyone is all settled—was

all settled.

But now the children are up, eyes pulled towards the door of the playroom,

itching to see who has come.

“My Mommy?” asks Yosef, pulling at a loose curl from his blond pony.

Doniel had hair like that, she remembers, gorgeous flaxen twists that fell like

unfurled skeins over his shoulders. She was loath to cut them, dreading his upsherin

more than she was excited about it. She hadn’t said anything to Aharon, though,

embarrassed at how emotional she was being, how utterly ridiculous to be upset that her

son had grown, that they were approaching such a special occasion, that he was

graduating from toddler to boy, about to embark on his path of Torah in the sweetest

way imaginable.

She’d kept quiet about it, only telling Mommy and Perri about her aching heart,

until one night, just a few days before his birthday, when she’d gone in to check on the

children and found Aharon crouched beside the brand new toddler bed, his finger

wrapped in a tight corkscrew of gold that winked at them in the dim of the room.

“What are you doing here?” she whispered, sitting down beside him on the edge of

the bed.

“Collecting memories,” he said. “I’ll miss his babyness.”

She stared at him. “Me, too. I’ve been dreading his haircut.”

“I know.”

“You do? But how—I didn’t say anything. I felt so silly.”

“Don’t ever feel silly for what’s in your heart.” His eyes glistened in the shadows.

“But even if you don’t tell me, I still know.”

“How? How could you know?”

He smiled. “Because you and I are the same. I look at your face and I see my heart

reflected right back at me.”

She smiled, too, warming at the thought. He was right, and she’d known it deep

down, but had been afraid to believe it. They hadn’t even been married four years, and

yet they were so very one.

“Can you imagine what it’ll be like when we’re eighty,” she asked, reaching out to

sift her fingers through their son’s hair, so that his locks wound around both their

hands, binding them together in this world just as much as they were intertwined in

spirit.





“When we’re eighty we’ll even breathe in sync,” he’d said, and she’d laughed

together with him, their voices joining in a lullaby that washed away all but the greatest

joy at what they were, what they had, at the beautiful milestone they were approaching.

He’d been wrong, though.

They didn’t have to wait until they were eighty to breathe in sync. She was only

thirty-three and they breathed to the rhythm of her lonely breaths, the memory of his

filling empty space in time with hers.

The doorbell peals again.

“Come, kinderlach,” she says, turning towards the front hall. “Let’s see who came.”

Dov’s distorted face meets her through the peephole.

He’s so late. He never comes by now. She glances at her watch; surely seder started

already.

But he’s here, here to help her.

She opens the door, a watchful eye on the children. Malky, especially. She has a

tendency to slip through any open door, as if there’s some mysterious pull dragging her

away into the unknown.

And since she’ll need to leave the door open while Dov’s here, she’ll have to be on

super-high alert.

“I had a call right after shacharis,” Dov says by way of greeting. “Hope now works

for you?”

“Of course,” she says, stepping back so he can enter. The wall of children clods

back along with her. A pair of brown pigtails lingers at the door, and Mira reaches out to

catch Malky’s hand and guide her along.

“Tatty!” Shaina squeals, worming through the cluster of her friends to catch her

father’s leg.

“Ta-Ta!” Moishy’s voice bursts forth on puffs of air from the back of the group,

where he pushes on Zecharya’s back, unable to break through the crowd of older

children.

Dov reaches through the throng to give each of his children a hug. “Tatty can’t

stay now, so you go with Tanta Mira, okay?”

Moishy whines.

“Are you sure you have the time now?” Mira asks. “I don’t want you to miss seder

for this….”

She fades off, uncertain of her place here. If Aharon had been here, she’d never

had let him steal from those precious hours of Torah-learning for something as

mundane as fixing her sink.

But Aharon is not here.

If he was here, it would not have been dripping for three days before she admitted

that she couldn’t figure out what the problem with it was. If he was here, it would not be

fixed during playgroup hours. There would be no other man in the house, no hilchos

yichud to think about, no need to keep the door open and worry about slippery runaways

entrusted in her care.

But Aharon is not here, and Dov is not her husband, and it is certainly not for her

to tell him how to spend his time, not when he is using that time to spare her the expense





of a plumber, not when he takes Doniel and Mendy and Efraim to shul with him and

shovels her snow and does so much more than she can ever repay, simply because she is

his wife’s sister.

“It’s fine,” he says. “Ilana doesn’t like me going out at night. Should just take a

minute. Besides, I had to come home anyway to grab something to eat.”

She swallows, thinking of how Ilana shares him with her, gives up so much for

her.

She is like a little muddy rock in the bend of a creek, stuck in a flow of favors she

has no choice but to accept.

“There’s some lukshen kugel on the counter,” she offers, “So you don’t have to

take time at home to put together breakfast.” But he’s already bounding up the stairs,

taking them two at a time. Her words feel dry and unwieldy in her mouth, as if they

don’t really belong there.

“Thanks.” Dov’s voice drops down from the second floor just as Malky steals free

of her hold, and she jolts back to her Morah mode, reclaiming Malky’s hand and ushering

them back to the playroom.

Storytime will be good now. With the playroom door shut firmly behind her and

the children seated in a semicircle in before her, Malky front and center.

The children now settled, she takes Blueberries for Sal off the shelf and opens the

book to face the curious faces in front of her.

A strange groan and some loud clanks echo from above their heads. Sixteen little

round eyes shoot upwards, and Pessy stands up on her chair and tilts her face up

towards the ceiling.

Mira clears her throat.

“One day,” she reads, “Little Sal went with her mother to Blueberry Hill to pick

blueberries….”

CHANA PEREL

The ride through Providence Harbor is peaceful, calm.

Chana Perel breathes it in, letting it fill her lungs and seep through her veins,

nurturing every inch of her body.

She’d always loved the colors of the houses in the old part of town, the

periwinkles and yellows and pinks and aquamarines winking at her as she drove by. She

remembers when they were painted, when the whole town was suddenly awash with

vibrant hues.

She’d been at the hardware store that day, when Nota Miller had opened a

shipment of paint in the back storeroom and yelped in horror, raced to the shiny black

rotary phone beside the cash register and dialed, beads of sweat sprouting across his

forehead. He’d shouted about orders and mix-ups, and then about responsibility and

good business practices, wrapping the cord around his arm over and over as he spoke.

Then he’d hung up the receiver and shook his head, murmuring to himself in Yiddish





until he noticed her standing in the doorway. Then he shook his head, smiled and asked

her what he could do for her, and if her family was well.

She must have been eight or nine; the prime of the ‘50’s. She’d ridden home on her

pink and white Schwinn Starlet, worrying about him the whole way. But then the ads

had come out—free paint jobs for the first ten customers, and discounts for the next ten,

new colors only—and then there were Miller kids with aprons and paint rollers all over

town, transforming the grays and browns and musty greens into a wash of seashell

shades that made her think of running along the bay. A House Beautiful editor had taken

a wrong turn off the highway, been so tickled with the transformation that she’d done a

feature on the quaint little seaside town, and a new norm was set in Providence Harbor.

She turns on Sycamore, driving along Anchor’s End Park. The road is lined with

evergreens, and despite the chill she cracks the window, inhaling deep to drink in the

heavy scent of pine.

The spicy sweetness stays with her as she drives down the highway and turns

into the Beacon Medical Complex, and even inside, as she walks down the hall to

Mommy’s room. She knocks gently, and then pushes open the door.

“Chana Perel!”

Mommy is awake and smiling, sitting in a chair beside the window, a drop spindle

twirling before her. Her fingers play the fibers, her arms move with such a steady

rhythm that the numbers on her forearm are no more than a dark blur, a thick, cranky

vein as she draws the pale blue roving onto the line of thread.

“Who’s this for?” Chana Perel asks. She reaches out—she can never resist—and

strokes the roving. It is nearly soft, with a fine, sturdy scratchiness. “Corriedale,” she

murmurs.

“Of course.” Mommy’s eyes flash. “You know that.” She shakes her head. “It’s for

Betty. That sweet nurse who likes to laugh. I’m making her a scarf to match her eyes.”

Chana Perel pauses. Even for Mommy, that is hours of work.

“You need to rest up, Mommy,” she says slowly. “I’m so glad you’re getting your

strength back, but a stroke is not something you can—”

“I’m going home tomorrow, Chanaleh.” Mommy’s eyes glisten. “Just the thought

that tomorrow I’ll be free, out of this prison, it gives me strength.”

“Mommy, the doctor will only discharge you if he thinks you’re well enough. If

you wear yourself out spinning and knitting, he’ll say you have to stay longer.”

“Don’t try to control me, Chana Perel.”

Her voice cuts, sharp and deep, and Chana Perel flinches.

She steadies herself and swallows. “I’m not, Mommy. I just—I want you to come

home tomorrow, too. I’m worried about you.”

Mommy nods slowly and her eyes soften. “I know. I know. But sometimes the

things that tire the body are the same things that invigorate the spirit. And it’s my spirit

that’s going to make everything in my body tick the boxes on Dr. Marcus’ list.”

There is no arguing. Chana Perel feels a host of words swell up in her throat, but

it’s pointless, utterly pointless, so she pushes them back down. “I’m sure it will be

beautiful, Mommy,” is all she says.

“It will be. And when it’s finished, I’m coming home.”





CHAPTER FOUR

There is a strength within spun yarn. Before you spin it, it is just loose fibers, strands

of potential that are held together merely by their proximity to each other. They huddle

together, their closeness binding and supporting, creating the whole that is the roving.

But it is a fragile whole. A rough hand, touches of disregard, accidents of distraction,

and the roving is damaged, fragmented, bits of wool scattered and lost to the wind, to the

swish of skirts against furniture, to the heels of shoes clacking on the floor. And once they are

scattered, you can try to catch them if you wish, but in truth, it is a futile attempt. You will

never get them all.

Once it is spun, though… everything changes, then. Your yarn may not be perfect, it

may have too much twist and roll up into itself, it may pill, it may be uneven… but it will be

strong. It will stay together. What has been spun remains spun.

I once tried to unravel Esther’s yarn. Funny that I cannot recall what it was that she

had done to so vex me, but the burning rage, the unfairness that yowled through me is nearly

as vivid now when I think of it as it was then. Though it is different now, tempered by time

and trials and a longing for my sister that is so thick it permeates every one of my cells. I think

of my childhood ire and I feel its intensity, such anger over nothing, and I can only laugh at

my infantile self. A sad laugh, to have wasted precious time on such narishkeit, on

nothingness.

I wrenched that skein open, unfurling the yarn and whipping it about the room. It

tangled, messy and confused, flung hither and yon. But it was still that thread, that perfect,

beautiful yarn, soft and strong and stalwart, it’s crisp, even twists twinkling, taunting me.

I crumpled beside it, grasping the end and wrenching at the strands, pinching and

plucking at them. Some bits of it came undone, but just the ends, a few centimeters of tight

corkscrews standing on end, and that was all. For all my raging efforts, Esther’s work was still

solid, proud, immutable. It would stand forever.

I cried then, screamed and beat my fists against the worn wood of the floor, until

Mama came and gathered me into her arms, held me against the soft goodness of her chest,

whispering comfort until my hurt melted into a strange, tired quiet.

She held me, rocking, our bodies twisted together, solid and strong, rocking, rocking,

until I could not tell where she ended and I began, until we were just as one as the strands of

Esther’s yarn.

MIRA

Mira brings the wand close to her lips and blows. The bubble swells into glistening

life and floats towards the children lined up against the vestibule wall across from her.





“I got it!” Zecharya jumps into the air at the same moment that Malky lunges for it,

their puffy coats bumping against each other. They tumble down, laughing as they fall,

cushioned by polyester and down.

“Buh-buh,” coos Moishy, clasping the shimmery orb and beaming as it snaps into

nothingness.

Mira loves this time of day. Bubbles and Bye-Bye, she calls it, and the children love

it, too. Somehow, the way they stand in their coats and hats, waiting and watching as

she blows the bubbles, and then jumping and giggling as they try to catch them—it

weaves energy with meditation, diffusing any tension from a long day of play and

learning, and leaving them happy and calm when their parents come to pick them up.

The doorbell rings just as she blows the next bubble, and she turns to answer it,

the children more interested in catching the bubble than seeing who came.

It’s Shifra Glazer, Malky’s mother.

“Do you have a minute?” she asks nervously, stepping inside.

Mira nods and closes the door behind her as Malky flies like a bullet into her

mother’s skirts.

“Mommy,” she sings. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”

Shifra smiles and bends to give her a quick kiss. She stands and smooths her

sheitel, her movements slightly jerky.

Mira’s own smile falters. Why is Shifra uncomfortable?

“I had an idea for you.” Shifra’s words tumble out in a whispered rush. “Binyomin

Halb. Have you heard of him? He’s divorced with three kids. My husband’s cousin’s

neighbor, from Waterbury. Really nice guy. Sweet and on the quieter side, and I thought

it could really work.”

A shidduch.

Mira’s heart sinks. It’s nice that Shifra is thinking of her. Really, really nice. But

still, so awkward to turn her down. And it’ll be awkward tomorrow, too, at drop-off and

pick-up, and maybe even the day after that.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling as warmly as she can muster. “It’s so sweet of you, but

I’m not looking.”

Shifra’s face pans. “You’re not? But don’t you think—I mean, for the kids at least—

it’s got to be hard for them without a father. And for you, all alone…I can’t even imagine.

I mean, it’s been, what? Four years?” She trails off, pity blurring her eyes.

Mira forces her smile to stay wide and firm. “Almost four.” She nods. “And of

course it’s not easy. But Aharon’s not someone easily replaced, either.”

Shifra’s mouth drops open again, and Mira rushes on before she can say anything

else.

“My family helps out with the kids, and we manage. Aharon’s still a big part of our

lives. I don’t think the kids want a different father, and I’m not interested in a different

husband.” She shudders slightly. “You know, sometimes when you have something

really special, even if you lose it, you’d rather keep the memories of it alive than replace it

with something that can’t measure up.”

Shifra bobs her head and slips her hand into Malky’s. “I see,” she says, but Mira

knows she doesn’t. Most people don’t. “Malky’s getting antsy, so we better run.”





Mira glances down at Malky, standing perfectly docilely, just watching.

“Sure.” She steps to the side to let them walk out.

The door closes with a quiet thud, and she leans back against it, letting her breath

rush out of her. Her arms hang at her sides, limp and tired.

“More bubbles!” Zecharya demands.

She smiles weakly and retakes her stance.

There is something calming about watching the bubbles rise before her, a

rainbow spray of soap and light and air, blooming into form and flight. They float into

being, barely there, but in their short little lives they are pure joy, a twinkle of rapture.

As she blows, as the bubbles form, as the children shriek and giggle and fall about,

she feels the firmness return to her bones. She is here, doing what she loves, being

herself, sharing that self with the children.

And in this moment, she is complete.

DOV

His triceps are screaming.

“Twenty-seven,” Shaina’s voice pipes from behind his ear.

He pushes up, straightening his elbows, then lowers back down and hovers above

the floor.

“Twenty-eight….”

He releases his muscles, letting his body melt into the floor. “And we’re done.”

“Aw, come on, Tatty, do two more. You got to thirty yesterday.” She sits back and

rocks her hands against his shoulders, as if that will spur him on.

“Well, today it’s going to be twenty-eight. I don’t have any more in me, Shains.”

“All right.” She slides off his back. “Crunches now?”

“Yup, it’s Moishy’s turn. Come here, kiddo.” He takes a deep breath, feeling the

strength start to ease back into his muscles, and rolls over.

Moishy toddles over and plops down on his chest, wrapping his pudgy little arms

around Dov’s neck, smiling wide.

Dov gets into position and looks up at Shaina. “You going to exercise, too?”

She nods and dances over to his feet. “I’m going to do jumping jacks.”

She counts for him again as she jumps in front of him, until he’s spent and falls

back onto the floor. Moishy pulls at his beard.

“Now what?” says Shaina.

“Now it’s time to do some dishes.” Once he manages to pry himself off the floor,

that is.

“Dishes are boring.”

“Dishes means your Mommy comes home to a clean house.”

“Okay, fine.” She dances off towards the kitchen.

He’s just climbing up off the floor when Ilana calls.

“Just bring the kids over to Mira,” she says. “I already called her. I’m going to be

late. There was a whole fiasco with the refreshments—the teacher who picked them up





had a bottle of motor oil in his trunk with a loose cap and it spilled all over the pastries. I

have to run over to the bakery.”

“That’s nuts.” He glances at his watch. He has to leave in ten minutes. “And you’re

going to be out by the time I get home, too. I’ll miss seeing you. What time did you say

you thought you’d be home, ten?”

“I hope. The worst part of PTA is getting everything set up and the first few

rounds of parents in and out smoothly. I don’t usually need to stay till the end.”

“Well, I guess I’ll see you late, then. Hope it goes smoothly.”

“Me, too.” She sighs, and he knows exactly how she’s wrinkling her nose, that little

line of frustration popping out between her eyebrows.

“Relax,” he says. “It’ll be fine. I’ll root for you from the home front.”

“Thanks.” She laughs, and he smiles.

“Alright,” he says to the kids, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Guess where

you’re going?”

Fifteen minutes later, he’s driving down Balsam Street, Abie Rotenberg’s Habeit

Mishamayim filling his ears.

He’s at the corner of Balsam and Maple when his radio crackles to life. Even as he

turns the music off, a heaviness floods his arms, pulling at his sore muscles. He doesn’t

want to take this call. Not after this morning with Yitz, not after an hour and a half with

the kids and missing Ilana. All he wants now is to get to yeshiva and sink into the sugya.

But that’s not how he works.

“Any units available for an MVA at Maple and Birch?"

Just four blocks away.

“P21,” he says.

"P21, you are going to Maple and Birch.”

“10-4.”

Lights on. Siren on. He hits the gas.

He keeps his eyes on the traffic as he drives. Everyone pulls over—people are good

about that in Providence Harbor, but you can’t assume, have to be on alert, and then

there are kids on bikes to be on the lookout for, in case they dart into the street.

Yaki calls in as he flies through a red light at Sierra, and then Rosenberg 10-4’s a

few seconds later.

He’s a block away when he sees it.

A tractor trailer is plowed into the front of a silver Camry. Same make that Ilana

drives. But so does half the country. Or close to it.

It’s the most popular car.

It means nothing.

The top of a gray car seat peeks out the rear-view window.

Everyone has kids.

The plate numbers shift in front of him. They look familiar, but they’re just

numbers, they don’t mean anything, and he can’t think, can’t remember.

A shock of auburn hair presses against the driver’s side window.

It.

He screeches to a stop.





Can’t.

Flings the door open.

Be.

He’s there, at the car.

He knows this car.

He knows the too-white jut of jaw that pokes past the layered edges of that three-

year-old sheitel.

He knows the too-still neck, stuck at a wrong, wrong angle.

He knows the purple sweater, bought on sale at Kiwi’s a month ago.

No.

Please, Hashem. No.

He pulls at the handle, rattling it madly, but it doesn’t budge.

Keys.

In his pocket.

He pulls them out, hands shaking as he finds the right one and jams it into the

keyhole.

Please let her live.

To be continued…



CHAPTER ONE - Amazon S3Spun+-++Cha… · always, always the wheel was spinning, a soft, ... lifting...

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