I cried. And he held me. That’s my big brother for you. In a nutshell.
It was also the first time that I understood what being a girl meant.
As we sat in the pews for Tommy’s bar mitzvah, I wanted to pull Rachel onto my lap and tell her that she could do anything she wanted, but it would be a lie.
That sorrow for Rachel didn’t stop me from being proud of my nephew as I watched him. My nephew had spent the week practicing his Hebrew over and over. Apparently, he’d heard the story from Hershel about how he hadn’t practiced his maftir enough. Tommy wouldn’t make that mistake. He said it while he was running up the stairs. He said it carrying out the trash. He said it while he was throwing gliders on a hill overlooking the ocean with me.
When they called him up to the bimah, he looked like such a dapper young man, in a suit, with his bow tie snugged up against his collar and a neatly pressed prayer shawl draped over his shoulders. Hershel slid out of the aisle and followed Tommy to the front with the rattle and click of crutches and dress shoes.
Beside me, Doris gave a little sobbing breath and pressed her handkerchief to her eyes. I was glad mine was already in my hand.
Hershel’s voice cracked as he said, “Blessed is He who has now freed me from the responsibility of this one.”
Thank God for handkerchiefs. Mine was going to be soaked by the end of the service.
Then Tommy pulled back his shoulders and recited, “Lo marbechem mikol ha’amim chashak Hashem ba’chem, va’yichbar ba’chem ki atem hahm’at mikol ha’amim…” No wobble. No fear. Just a clear, youthful voice, reaching toward Heaven and God’s ears.
… It is not because you are the most numerous of peoples that the LORD set His heart on you and chose you—indeed, you are the smallest of peoples …
I was going to need another handkerchief.
Hershel and I sat at a table off to the side of the banquet room they’d rented. Doris was across the room, talking to one of her many cousins. In the middle of the dance floor, Tommy gyrated with a gaggle of his friends, resplendent in a white evening jacket.
They looked so young. What sort of world would they inherit?
Hershel nudged me with his shoulder. “What was that sigh?”
“Doomsday stuff.” I waved it away and picked up my champagne glass. This party must have cost them a fortune. France hadn’t been able to get a vintage ripe since before the Meteor.
“Ah … you’re also looking at those kids and doing weather projections forty years out, huh?” He nodded and picked up his own glass, lifting it in a toast. “To the long summer.”
“To space.” I clinked my glass against his and sipped it, bubbles rising up to bring flavors of apricot and flint along the top of my palate. “Do you think they’ll remember what the stars looked like?”
He shook his head. “Rachel doesn’t.”
My breath caught in my throat. Of course. She’d only been five when the Meteor hit. By the time the dust settled, there was enough steam in the air to give us near constant cloud cover. “That’s appallingly tragic.”
“Not for her.” He pointed with his champagne flute toward where she spun with some of her friends. Her little taffeta party dress twirled out around her. “She thinks all of this is normal and just the way the world works.”
“Even with a father who is a meteorologist.”
“Oh … she has an intellectual understanding of it, but, it’s like … I don’t remember what it was like to walk. The polio hit when I was so young, you know?” He rested a hand on his crutches where they sat propped against the table. “This is my normal. Intellectually, I know that it’s not. That a disease paralyzed my legs. But I have no memory of being able to move them.”
I hadn’t known that, oddly. But I suppose my own memory was just as skewed. My brother had used crutches since before I was born. That was just normal. So, I guess I had firsthand experience that proved his point. These kids wouldn’t realize how much things had changed. “How … how bad does the global climate look? I’m so focused on the IAC that I haven’t been tracking it.”
“Well … the cold went a little longer than we projected, but I think that’s because our models were based on volcanic eruptions, and ash is nonreflective. Plus, we didn’t take into account how long things burned. I mean, we did, but the data from the early days was pretty scarce, so…” He shrugged, light glinting off his glasses as he looked toward the ceiling. “The greenhouse effect is still going to hit, but it’s looking like the ozone wasn’t damaged as badly as we thought it would be. Again, modeling based on A-bomb testing.”
“So … it’s not an extinction event?”
“This is why I’m not allowed to talk to the press.” He wiped the back of his hand across the back of his mouth. “The Earth is going to heat up. That’s going to be permanent. But if we can limit the amount of greenhouse gases we generate, then we might—and I stress the word might—be able to keep the Earth habitable. Or at least habitable longer.”
“Well … that’s something.” After that, what do you say? We sat and watched people dancing. Doris’s brother had pulled her out on the dance floor. I was a little jealous of her for getting to dance with her brother. Or anyone, really. I cleared my throat. “Nathaniel is sorry he couldn’t be here.”
Hershel waved that away. “The crash. I understand.”
“Still.” All of these people, and we were the only Wexlers. I wasn’t even properly a Wexler anymore, and Rachel wouldn’t be when she got married.
“How’s he doing?”
“Fairly well, all things considered.” The actual answer was “poorly,” but if I was going to complain about him discussing me with my brother, I couldn’t very well go disclosing Nathaniel’s troubles. Across the room, the jazz band struck up another tune. I don’t remember what, because I could feel Hershel’s next question gathering.
“And you?” His tone was too quiet. He rolled the stem of his glass between his fingers, but he was staring at me.
I could blow off his question. Answer it socially. Lie. But on the day of my nephew’s bar mitzvah, when I was sitting next to one of three blood relatives I had left in the world … I kept my gaze on the dancers, maintaining the placid smile Mama had taught me how to use. “Remember that semester at Stanford.”
“Yeah.” Not needing me to specify which semester, he reached over and put a hand on my arm. “God. Elma. I’m so sorry. I’d wondered … when you talked about Mr. Wizard. I was hoping you were joking.”
“Twice. Before the show.” In this beautiful ballroom, with all of these smiling people, I couldn’t bring myself to say the word “vomit.” My muscles were so tight they started to tremble. I took a breath and tried letting it out again, trying to let the tension go with it. “And before every interview.”
“And … has it—” He wet his lips. Looking around us, in case anyone was going to approach, he leaned toward me. “Have you tried—tried it again?”
I was already shaking my head to stop him. “No. I broke down, and that’s the worst Nathaniel has seen. He knows that I had a breakdown in college and why, but not the details. Please don’t tell him. Please, please don’t tell him.”
“I won’t.” He squeezed my arm. “I won’t. I promised I never would, and that’s going to my grave—even if that’s the worst possible metaphor I could have used.”
My own laugh surprised me. It cut through the ballroom in a space between notes and bounced off the far wall. Heads turned our way, but I think that all they saw was a brother and sister, sitting together while nervous giggles rocked them.