The day up above had gotten sunny and warm, but the station was warmer still. I pushed my sleeves past my elbows. Once through security, the platform was surprisingly uncrowded, as was the train. There were seats for everyone. I held my backpack on my lap, but it wasn’t in anyone’s way. I remembered the last time I’d been here, leaving April’s place, standing with guitar and coffee clutched close, and still feeling like I was taking up too much room.
Even after all that had happened, I’d somehow expected New York to be the same as always, unflappable. The subway had been overtaxed before, but the only way it could be this empty—the only way metering and inspecting could work without backing up the whole city—was if there were a whole lot fewer people using it. The pox, the people who’d shifted to working from home. I’d thought in a city this dense everyone would have just laughed at any proposed changes, but it felt like fear had made a dent even here.
As we crossed into Brooklyn, I realized I’d clenched my jaw tight enough to ache, and rubbed the joint to relax it. I didn’t have to make this trip, but I wanted to. Needed to, to see for myself. I tugged my sweater sleeves back down to my wrists.
The subway hadn’t been part of my childhood experience, so it wasn’t until I was streetside again that the eeriness kicked in. One block from the station, then two, then I was on the tree-lined streets I remembered. A knot of teenage girls walked toward me; like me, they wore long skirts and sweaters even on this spring day. I examined their faces, looking for familiarity, before realizing that they would have been small children when I left.
As they passed, one of them said, “Her boots!” in Yiddish, and they all burst into laughter. They didn’t even bother whispering; my boots marked me as an outsider.
The door to the girls’ school I’d attended was chained shut; I’d assumed it would be open, that there would be exceptions for private religious schools. The streets were crowded with mothers pushing double strollers, toddlers walking alongside, and more clusters of girls and boys, everyone giving me a wide berth. It took me a minute to figure out that the kids were all coming out of houses. A neat solution in a community this smalclass="underline" classes around dining room tables. That was my guess, anyway. I’d been wrong to assume even this place would be unchanged.
Four more blocks, three more blocks, two more blocks, one. This street had been our street. These steps had been our steps. This door had been our door.
I knocked, waited, knocked again. I imagined one of my sisters ushering me in. Would we sit at the dining room table and drink tea? Or in the living room? I settled on the top step, wishing I had my guitar with me to play away my nervousness, though this wasn’t the time or place. I traced arpeggiated patterns on my palm with my fingertips. Music only I could hear.
“Can I help you?”
I hadn’t seen her approach, and now that my mother stood on the sidewalk, and I sat blocking her door, I couldn’t move. She looked older, of course she did, and shorter, but maybe that was because I was on the top step. I didn’t recognize the two children hiding behind her.
She tried again. “Are you looking for some—Chava Leah?”
I nodded, incapable of speech. And then she was hugging me, touching my face like she wasn’t quite sure I was real. When she pulled away, it was to unlock the door. She looked up and down the block, then gestured me into the house behind the two boys. I wondered if they were my brothers or nephews, then was walloped by a wave of grief that I had created a situation where I didn’t know the answer to that question. No, I reminded myself. This was never your path. You couldn’t have stayed.
The door opened into a small vestibule filled with shoes. Just beyond it, to the left, the dining room, looking just as I remembered it. The dining room, the long table with the worn white tablecloth and a dozen mismatched chairs. The desk in the corner overflowing with books and papers. The side table displaying my great-great-grandmother’s candlesticks. The boys had gone straight to the table, and one was standing on a chair to reach a jar of crayons.
I followed my mother into the living room. I moved automatically toward my spot on the couch, but she gestured for me to sit in the guest chair, which didn’t creak or sag. She sat in my father’s reading chair beside me and took my hand in hers.
“Are you coming home?” There was hope in her voice.
To stay, she meant. “I wanted to see how you’re doing. I didn’t know… So many people got sick, and you never answered the phone…”
Her face closed off. I hadn’t given the answer she had hoped for; if I was returning, I would have led with that. “You shouldn’t be here. The rabbi doesn’t want outsiders coming here anymore. He says we’re safer with no contact at all.”
“I won’t stay long.” No wonder everyone had been eyeing me with suspicion. “I just want to know. Please.”
Her face twisted. “Two little ones, Rachie’s youngest daughter and Jacob, who was already so sick, may their memories be a blessing. Your sister Chana got a bad infection from it that spread to her brain; she has spells now, memory problems. Her boys are living with us so Eli doesn’t have to take care of them all on top of his studies.”
She kept going, listing friends and family. My oldest brother Avi’s son Jacob had been born with spina bifida and a host of developmental disabilities; he was only a couple of years younger than me, and all of us who were old enough had taken turns babysitting him. At least I knew his name to mourn him; I felt terrible that I’d lost a niece whose name I didn’t even know, and too ashamed to ask. “Is Chana in the house? Can I see her?”
She shook her head. “It’s not a good idea. She’s had a hard time.”
I don’t think I’d realized until that moment that this was it. She wouldn’t introduce me to the boys, or let me upstairs to see my sister. We both looked at the door, looked at each other, looked away. She still held my hand.
“I’m doing well,” I said. “I wanted to tell you. Do you need anything? Chana’s care, doctor bills, anything at all? I want to help.”
She lifted her chin. “We don’t need. Give to others if you want to help.”
Another mistake. I should have known I couldn’t offer outright; she’d always been too proud to take anything. Clothes got handed down until they were scraps; toys and furniture, too. For other things, the community stepped in. Need to see a doctor? Too poor for a wedding? There were people who made that happen, out of love and support, without ever making it feel like charity. I’d offered charity. We’d never had money, but we’d never wanted for anything; the community provided. I’d loved all of that, even when I knew I couldn’t stay.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come,” I said.
“No,” she agreed. “But it’s good to see you. You should probably go. It would hurt your father to see you.”
He wouldn’t be home for a couple of hours yet, if he still held the same job, so it was more than that. She didn’t want any of the others to see me. Didn’t want me confusing them; I was an aberration. Was I spoken of at all? Thought of, if not spoken of, judging from her expression. My being here was causing her pain.
I gently extricated my hand from hers. “I tried. I tried so hard to belong here, but it didn’t work.”
“I know.”
She leaned over and threw her arms around me, pulling me tight to her. When she let go, I stood and walked toward the door. I paused before opening it, digging in my pocket for the wad of cash I’d hoped to give to her.