Outside, kites in rows stood on invisible satin strings, swaying with every breath of the wind. Hindi sat at the old family kitchen table. The wood was deeply scratched from her seventh birthday when she took the cake knife to it like a sketchbook. Twenty years later and looking at it still gave her the Jewish guilt. That will never go away. Almost a week since her mother passed away, the light flooded through the house in waves, casting long shadows underneath Hindi’s eyes. She sat, looking past the glare coming in through the window. Her son, Aaron, was outside for the first time in six days, and instead of playing, he was glued to his favorite book, The Hobbit. Sitting Shiva was the first Jewish custom Hindi had willingly participated in since childhood. Seven days of covered mirrors and mourning. “It would give your mother such nachas, bubbula,” her father had said. “You want your son to think you have no faith? It’s his Bubby! And this old Zayde, well, I’m not going to live forever.” He would ramble like this; however, the last few days had been quiet.
The ceiling fan stirred the corners of the newspaper up and down, dampening a ring of coffee around Hindi’s mother’s obituary. It smeared onto the lace place mat as Hindi tipped the cup to her lips. It was cold now, bitter. Aaron had a red kite somewhere packed in the garage. Dad would know where it is. Aaron was eight, and was raised by his Bubby and Zayde. They raised him like they had raised Hindi twenty eight years prior: to be loving and caring and smart and Jewish.
Leaving the half drunken coffee on the table, Hindi walked to the pistachio colored fridge. Above it, a small Hibiscus in a large pot hid a pack of Turkish Royals. She stole a cigarette and counted that there were only six left. In the drawer that opened at an angle, only slightly wider than a sponge, she hid the lighter. Aaron could come in any minute and she felt rushed even before lighting it.
Sucking the cigarette to the butt, she pulled her hair away from her face so she wouldn’t smell like smoke. Her hair was red and she hadn’t washed it in several days, so it was tangled from the Florida coast’s salty air. Aaron looked like her mirror image with his hazel eyes, burnt red hair, dimples, and slightly crooked teeth. She moved her slender fingers, bare of any jewelry, over her waistline. She could still remember the tiny pokes inside when he would kick, but now she tasted hollow smoke, filling her.
Hindi had moved into an apartment in West Palm Beach, thirty minutes from her parents and newborn son, in Jupiter. She got a job on Worth Avenue selling overpriced skincare to rich old ladies that had nothing better to do than try to enhance their plasticized faces while walking their pedigree pooches with Louis Vuitton collars.
The sun was burning hot, just creeping over the horizon line from the backyard. She held her cigarette like a tiny baton, changing fingers in a smoky dance. The loss of her mother had been covered up with the band-aid of being with her son. She had always wanted to be a mother, to have someone who would always love her, and listen to her, and need her. When she found out she was pregnant, she couldn’t tell her parents right away. Jewish guilt. She stared in the mirror and looked at the reflection of the dirty clothes falling out of the hamper. Looking past her reflection, she noticed the smudges on the mirror. Her eyes tapered down to her stomach. “How could you be so stupid, bubbula?” The voice of her father rang in her head.
A quick ping of a salty tear fell down her cheek and rolled on to her smoking hand. Eight years was a long time ago, she thought, taking in a long drag, trying not to purse her lips.
She could still remember her parents holding her baby in the delivery room. Their happy smiles were stained with something else no one could talk about. Hindi looked at her father holding Aaron. A lumpy-red-loud-bastard baby that needed a man in his life. It was decided then that he would grow up with his grandparents. There was no argument.
Hindi decided to puff down one more before Aaron came in. He was still reading his book under a tree, while other children flew their kites. She thought of rummaging through the garage to find his kite, and then counted four cigarettes left, put the pack back behind the Hibiscus, and opened the fridge. Plates of homemade quiches, brisket, potato salad, and cookies stared back at her. She held her hand against her waist, took deep hollow breaths, and then she decided to take a nap in the parlor.
*
Aaron walked into an empty house. The lights were dim, but plenty of natural light flooded the kitchen and the family room. The fan ran in circles sending a quiet hum through the first floor. He walked past the parlor doors, tall white doors with crystal knobs gleaming. An ashtray rested outside on the table. Two wrinkled butts poked over the glass, like poisonous worms, he thought. He grabbed a stool from inside the pantry, but he could barely see the top of the fridge. Flailing his hand around behind the Hibiscus, he grabbed his mother’s cigarettes. He slid one out and held it between his fingers. Catching his reflection in the metal on top of the fridge he pretended to smoke it for a second, just to see how he’d look. With one fake drag, he pinched the end of the white and yellow worm and pushed its guts out, all over the floor. He kicked off his white sneakers and pounded up the stairs. Every step grew closer together until he
was running straight for Bubby and Zayde’s room. He reached the door and stood quietly, tightening his fists, and taking in a gulp of lavender scented air.
With closed eyes he thought he could hear his Bubby trying to breathe through the walls. He pressed his ear to the door, hoping. Listening for her. (Just the quiet hum of the fan.) The muffled sound, like the ocean, pulsated through him, so he didn’t hear his Zayde come up the stairs.
“Aaron?” Zayde asked. “What are you doing? Why don’t you come downstairs with me and we can go eat some of that cake Mrs. Bernstein brought us?”
“Cake?” Aaron asked. Staring through the sliver of light between the French doors.
“Come on. We’ll have some cake and you can read to your old Zayde,” he said, inching down the stairs.
“No, thanks.”
“Well, if you come join me, I’ll take you to see the alligators tomorrow,” he said inching farther down the stairs. “We all deserve to go outside and enjoy the sun. We’ll uncover the mirrors for the end of Shiva, then, alligators.” He kept stepping down the stairs.
“No!”
Hindi stood at the base of the stairs. “Aaron,” she said. Her voice sounded so weak, the opposite of maternal. Disconnected. She looked up at her father and waited for him to convince Aaron to step away from the doors.
“I know you love going to see the alligators and the giraffes,” Zayde said.
“Not anymore. I hate alligators!” He took a step back and ran down the hallway to his room. He slammed the door. It shook the hinges loose.
The walls of his room moved in and out like a pair of lungs suffocating, shrinking with each breath. Aaron paced the walls, gliding his finger against the cool surface. He reached for the yellow measuring tape on his closet shelf, but couldn’t grab it, so he stretched his arm holding a wire hanger, to knock it down. The walls are definitely moving, he thought. He walked from one side of the room to the other, pulling the tape out carefully, so it didn’t snap back and bite him. His chest was tight. The numbers bounced around and the lines were turning into squiggles. He let go quickly. The tape moved like a snake eating its own tail and then it was gone. He took his rolling backpack out of the closet. He packed a couple of books, two shirts, two pants, two underwear, a picture of him and Bubby and Zayde at the zoo, and a pair of socks. He slipped on his most comfortable shoes and took one last look at his room before running away forever. He imagined himself somewhere in the desert as a grown up, working as a pilot maybe, or even an astronaut.
*
Zayde looked down at his daughter as he walked down from the stairs. “We all need to spend some more time together. You need to spend time with him, Hindi.” He muttered under his breath. “You should go get his kite.”
Hindi felt the fabric of her linen dress against her waist and took in a big breath. She followed her dad into the kitchen, finding a little nicotine mess that needed cleaning up. Hindi knelt by the fridge, scooping a handful of brown shreds from the floor. Zayde stood by the center island, noticing the newspaper on the kitchen table. They kept low voices. “Dad, I know that you and Mom were doing what you thought was right for Aaron, but look at us,” she said. “I can’t do this.”
Zayde turned his attention to a dragging sound, followed by a thud. It was dragging and dropping, clopping down the stairs. Aaron appeared in the doorway. “I just wanted to say goodbye,” he said.
“Where are you going at this time?” Zayde asked.
“I’ve decided. This place isn’t really for me anymore. My room is shrinking. Too small,” Aaron said.
“You are getting a bit too big for that room,” Zayde said. “Well, where are you going to go?”
Hindi looked horrified.
“I’ll figure it out!” Aaron said.
Hindi looked at her father with confusion. “Dad, you’re letting him go? He’s eight!” she said, without raising her voice.
Zayde looked at Aaron. “He can go, bubbula.”
“Okay, then. I just wanted to say goodbye. So, bye,” Aaron said. He moved slowly to the front door, put his hand on the crystal knob, and looked back. Zayde and Hindi silently
watched him from the kitchen. He twisted the knob, feeling sweat on his palms for the first time, and stood in the open doorway.
“It’s getting late!” Zayde said. “You’ll want to get a good start before it gets too dark out!”
Aaron stuffed his sweaty hand in his pocket and started walking to the street. Once he got to the edge of it, Zayde walked to the door and yelled, “bahatzlacha, good luck,” before closing the door.
“What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?” Hindi asked.
“He won’t get past the street. See for yourself,” he said, pointing to the window. “Careful, don’t let him see you.”
She watched her son’s determined stride along her childhood street; a street she used to ride her bike and jump rope and play hopscotch on; a street she veered so far from; a street she somehow hadn’t thought much of until this moment. She peered through the white linen curtain at her son, who didn’t know her at all, running away from her.
*
He reached the sand where there was a long bridge covered in green century plants. The smacking of the waves on the other side of the bridge wrestled in his ears. He looked back at the house and paused. He looked toward the beach and paused, taking two steps back and one step forward until he decided to turn around and return home. Zayde laughed for the first time in days, “You did the same thing Shayna ponim.”
*
The seven days of Shiva had passed slowly, but every day grew lighter. Hindi walked through every room of the house and took down the coverings from the mirrors. Starting in her room, she took the sheet from the medicine cabinet and saw her face. She didn’t recognize the swollen reflection and looked away quickly. Ghostly. From the window of her bedroom, she saw the clear ocean water and decided a little sun would be good for her normally olive complexion. She threw on a black and white striped bathing suit that elongated her torso, a wide brim hat, sunscreen, and her favorite white skirt that dragged along the floor because she was one inch too short for it.
“Come on,” she said to Aaron, who had been reading his Space Book all morning. He didn’t look up. “We’re going to the beach.”
Aaron flinched slightly, but she didn’t notice the way his eyes darted. She put her hands on the book, forcing him to look at her. “I’m not a good swimmer,” he said.
“Okay,” she said, “You’ll never be good with that attitude. There’s nothing to be afraid of, Aaron. Swimming with the waves, there’s just nothing on earth that’s quite like it.”
Aaron leaned his head against the wall. Listening to it hum, he rolled his eyes. He closed the book and looked at his mother. He hated her and loved her at the same time, like he wanted her to go away and never leave all at once. “How about smoking? Isn’t that better than the beach?” he asked.
“Alright, you don’t have a choice. Get on your suit, young man. I’m going to get your Zayde ready,” she said, walking out of the room. It felt foreign being so direct with him.
*
Salt water foamed against the shore, pushing the line back and forth. Hindi held her son’s hand and her red sandals in the other. The sand was what he imagined it would be like to walk on the moon. Aaron fumbled with the bag of sunscreen, towels, and his book. His mother had told him not to bring it, but he brought it anyway. Waves consumed one another in a constant collision. No way am I going in there, he thought. The white crests of the waves shown their teeth at him as he moved closer. A symphony of seagulls paraded above them. His stomach dipped. Hindi confused this for excitement and let go of his hand. As she ran toward the tide, she yelled back for Aaron to follow. Her pleated skirt swayed like a seashell under water. This was the first time that he had ever seen his mom smile. She looked like a kid. He couldn’t help but smile.
Zayde strolling behind them, had finally caught up. Aaron laid the towel on the sand and stretched each corner, using his forearms to flatten the lumpy ground until the wrinkles disappeared. “What’s wrong with a little bit of wrinkles?” Zayde asked him, smiling proud. Aaron put their shoes down, one on each corner of the towel, to keep them from flapping in the crisp breezes that came in with the waves. He put on his hat, sat in the center of the towel, and picked up his book. The quest was always the same, but he learned something new every time he took the journey.
Hindi cast a wet shadow over Aaron and her dad. They looked up at her, squinting. The whole bottom half of her soaked skirt clung to her legs. She looked like a Mermaid from one of Aaron’s books. “Aaron, your book isn’t going anywhere.” She reached her hand out for him. “Up.”
The conviction in her voice struck him. He stood up. Carefully, he placed his book back in the bag, so it wouldn’t get crusty from the sand.
“Zayde will watch it,” she said, gesturing.
Hindi slipped her skirt off and placed it in a ball on the towel. She grabbed her son’s hand and walked at his pace down to the water. She told him to watch out for the manowars. “They look like giant pink bubblegum coated in sand,” she said. “But they hurt like hell!”
Aaron laughed. His feet barely skimmed the water. It was cold but it felt relaxing to let it wash over him. He picked up a pearlescent seashell with a crack running through it and put it in his pocket. Water leapt up and pounded his chest, knocking him back, and sending shivers down his arms.
“Jump towards them!” Hindi shouted. She was waist deep. A piece of kelp sat on top of her head.
Aaron inhaled the salty air and took two powerful steps to face his fear, but another wave pushed him back. He turned around and saw Zayde shooing away a nosey pigeon. Hindi grabbed his hand. Even though it was slippery, he felt safer. A wave snuck up and hit them on the back, almost reaching the top of his head. As they braved the tiny tide, Aaron started feeling the rhythm of the waves and pushed off the ground as they rolled in, taking him farther away from the shore. He felt like an ocean pilot, taking off. The day stayed like that, and for a moment, Hindi saw the portrait of her family in the reflection of the water. I can do this, she thought.
*
Beneath the reflection, a pink hue grabbed her attention. Before she realized what it was, it had rubbed against her thigh with a fiery touch. A cocktail of panic and pain ran through her as she screamed out. Aaron wanted to save her, but the pull of the tide was too big for him to overcome.
Zayde was lying on his back, watching the clouds change from pirate ships to French maids. I miss you, my darling. The shrill jerked him up to see Hindi hobbling towards him, folded in half. Her right thigh had turned from a light olive to smoldering red.
“Was it the man wars?” Aaron yelled out. Finally making his way onto shore.
Zayde slowly rose, “Come, help me with all of this,” he said to Aaron, as he made his way closer. Hindi could hardly feel her right foot from the sting. “Those ocean assholes,” she said. This has to happen now, in front of my son, she thought.
“Mom, are you okay?” Aaron asked.
Mom. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “Just a little shock.” Her voice sounded hollow, like she had all the air sucked out of her. “Just need some warm water and aloe.”
*
Aaron gathered their bags, hats, and shoes, and then huddled by his mother so she could lean on him. They walked like that for the mile back to the house. Zayde tried to hurry behind, but was losing momentum in his stride. A proud breeze came over him as he watched them grow closer. He thought about his wife and how beautiful she had been and how lucky they had both been to be happy in marriage. As his steps slowed, and Hindi and Aaron grew smaller in the distance, he realized how important Hindi was to him and how that bond between Hindi and Aaron might have been more important than—They have each other, he thought.
He took in the statuesque palm trees, one after the other. He appreciated the wetness of the air. He saw his wife’s face in the floating clouds above. A light hushing wind blew the blades of grass in erratic circles, making the ground look like it was vibrating. His steps swayed and his heart wobbled inside of him. The blue sky faded into sleep and the grass held him close as he fell softly on top of it. Birds sang.
*
Aaron brought his mom a glass of warm water and a kitchen rag, like she had told him to do. She dipped the rag in the water and pushed it onto her thigh, which was now forming tiny little blisters. “Honey, can you run outside and break off a piece from the aloe?” She grimaced, but her voice had regained some of its strength. “Be careful! It has thorns!”
Aaron opened the door and walked over to the spiky teal plant. He carefully grabbed a leaf from the outer edge and bent it until a nice chunk snapped off. He put the fresh edge to his
nose and smelled. Wiping his nose, he looked down the street for his zayde. The hot sun waved the road and the horizon line, like a wormhole in outer space. Aaron glared through, but no sign of Zayde. He noticed something on the Garrison’s yard and his heart jumped out of place. His hands went limp and the aloe dropped to the ground. “Mom!”
“Aaron, what’s taking so long?” Hindi yelled from inside the house. With no response she stood, woozy like she had a shot of tequila. Not such a bad idea. She limped lightly to the front door, left wide open. Aaron stood frozen. “What’s the matter?” she asked, walking onto the front porch. Aaron didn’t move. She walked to where he was and looked out into the heat. Her eyes focused, and she swooped Aaron into her arms, heading towards the house. “I want you to stay inside,” she said.
She sat him in a chair with a glass of water. Her whole leg itched from the burn. “Everything is going to be fine,” she said, grabbing the telephone in the living room.
Hindi knelt on the grass by her father. His eyes had rolled towards the sky and she felt for his pulse. A grave heaviness hardened his hand, as if his blood had turned to lead. She gasped. The numbness had traveled to her stomach. She closed his eyes and kissed the top of his wrinkly forehead.
Sirens forced their way through the quiet beach street and men in blue uniforms charged towards her asking questions she couldn’t understand. Three men moved swiftly putting Zayde on a small cot. Another put some antibiotic on Hindi’s burn.
*
Sirens rang out. Aaron sat staring into his hands. After wiping his face, he reached into his pocket. The half broken seashell glimmered. He moved the wet sand around, feeling the ridges on one side and the other was gritty, but smooth. He stood up and dragged the stool from the fridge to the sink. He washed the shell of the sand and turned off the water. Holding back a stream of tears, he walked up the stairs, feeling the cool motion from the fan. He opened the door to his bubby and zayde’s room and walked over to Bubby’s side of the bed. Next to a picture of Zayde, Bubby, Hindi, and himself, he placed the broken shell.
Samantha Feldman graduated from the University of Arizona with a BA in creative writing. A
deep love of music sparked a passion for songwriting, which led her to poetry and fiction. She
has myriad other creative outlets, including painting, jewelry making, and cooking. She lives in
the Arizona desert with her husband and two young sons.