Chapter Sixteen #2
My heart skips a beat. I turn to look at him, but he stares straight ahead, stone-faced. I swallow and gaze at the phone in my hands, my eyes going blurry.
“Don’t read into it,” he says, breaking the silence. “It was just the first thing that popped into my head.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. I clear my throat, then press the sequence of numbers that happens to coincide with my birthday. I go to his calendar app and type in the information for his date.
We drive the rest of the way in silence. When he pulls up in front of my house, I unbuckle the seatbelt and open the door. “Caleb?”
“Hmm?”
“This sad, poor orphan girl doesn’t feel so alone anymore.”
“She was never alone, Tinsel. She always had me.”
For the briefest of moments, I wonder if I’m wrong about Caleb. Maybe he wouldn’t be the type to abandon his family. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be the type to stick around and raise his kids and be a good husband. Maybe taking a chance would be worth it for someone like him.
But my father was sweet, and look how that turned out. No, I remind myself, he’s too much like my father for comfort. They were both nurturing and kind, and then they both left out of the blue one day. The only difference is that Caleb returned and my father never did.
And even if Caleb wouldn’t do what my father did, I still need him and the publicity that comes with making the match of the century. Maybe in a different time or place . . .
Clinging on to the company that was my mother’s dream is my number one priority. Because as long as I keep doing what I do, she lives on, and so does her legacy.
* * *
The next two weeks fly by in a series of highs and lows, with the ratio of lows being five to one.
I signed two new clients thanks to Miri’s recommendations, but then both backed out, my boiler broke, followed by my pride because I had to borrow money from Zevi to fix it, and then he gave me a loan to cover my cost of living until I get back on my feet, and now I feel like a total #AdultFail.
The only positive has been that I’m able to run three miles now without wanting to curl into a ball and cry. At least there’s that.
But the lowest of the low was when—
No. I’m not going to go there. Absolutely not. Instead, I’m going to relax and enjoy the scent of these obscenely expensive hair products and—
“I’m just SO MAD!” I yell, my eyes flying open. I bang my hands on the armrests of the chair in Miri’s salon. “That woman is a monster.”
Miri frowns down at me. From this angle, I can see directly up her nostrils.
They’re clean, thankfully. It’s ten o’clock at night and I’m in her basement apartment, which she’s converted part of into a hair salon, all because she wanted to try out a new haircut and needed a dummy dumb enough to let her.
“And I’d take her to the Beis Din, but she owns that too!” I continue. I pull at the collar of the smock. “This is choking me.”
“It isn’t choking you, look—there’s three fingers’ worth of space here—”
“She even chases me in my dreams. There’s no escaping her. She’s everywhere,” I hiss. “Like G-d—but evil.”
“She does seem slightly obsessed with you,” Miri says, gently pushing me back down so my head is in the sink, then turns on the faucet.
How does Mrs. Schwartz even find time in the day to come up with new inventive ways to ruin me? Is she really that bored? Can’t she get a normal hobby?
“Adding my name to the community prayer list and telling people to pray for me because ‘I have an invisible illness of the tongue’ is so . . . so . . .” I shake my head, words failing me.
I grab Miri’s wrists and tug until she’s at eye-level with me as she yelps in protest. “Be honest—doesn’t that sound like some kind of STD to you?”
“No, it sounds like a made-up disease that no one will believe,” she says, removing my hand from her arm. “Now close your eyes and relax. Let me wash the shampoo out.”
I close my eyes and try to let the warm water soothe me, but my thoughts are racing. Even old wounds from childhood are opening back up. Specifically, a sleepover I wasn’t invited to back in seventh grade. Apparently, I’m still not over that.
I open my eyes. “Do you know what it’s like to have a classmate from elementary school—who has since moved to Australia and either doesn’t care about the time difference or can’t do math—call you in the middle of the night to make sure you, and I quote, ‘hadn’t died before she could apologize for not inviting you to her birthday sleepover’? ”
Miri shakes her head and laughs. “That’s awful.”
“And then I couldn’t go back to sleep for the rest of the night because the child in me was really hurt.”
“I’m so . . . sorry,” Miri chokes out between her laughter. “I don’t know why Dini didn’t invite you.”
I gasp and twist my neck to look up at her. “How did you know it was Dini?” I point my finger at her. “Were you there?”
“Um, yes?” she says, no longer laughing. “But she made everyone promise not to tell you about it. So, that was considerate of her . . . in a way?” she adds when she sees my darkening expression.
“Whose side are you on?” I say, feeling my maturity level rapidly decreasing.
“Yours, of course.” She pats my shoulder. “Did she say why she thought you were dying though?”
“Remember Rachel? The quiet girl that always wore her hair in braids?” She nods. “She told Dini that she’d heard I had oral cancer.”
Miri grimaces and reaches for a towel from the cabinet. “Oh my gosh.”
“And now I’m hurt that Rachel didn’t call me!
I thought we were friends. I know we lost touch and everything, but she couldn’t bother picking up the phone to say goodbye?
” I shake my head. “I’m not expecting her to make funeral arrangements or start a fundraiser to help cover my medical bills or anything, but at the very least, I’d expect a phone call or text or—”
“Sweetie.” Miri pauses combing my hair and gazes at me through the mirror. “I think we’re getting a little carried away here.”
“Instead, she calls Dini of all people!”
Miri nods. “I can see why that’s hurtful.”
“And the few clients I do have are all, maybe you should focus on your health right now. And now I think I might actually be sick. What if she cursed me?” I put my hand under the cape and clutch my heart which is beating unnaturally fast. “Do you see the mind games that Mrs. Schwartz is playing?” I get a small thrill every time I call her that.
“Do you want some chamomile tea?” Miri asks, putting down the comb. “I’ll make you a cup,” she says before I have time to respond.
“I don’t like tea,” I protest.
“Think of it as medicine.”
“I hate medicine. And you know what else happened yesterday?” I call after her. “Golda came home from school and asked my sister why her class is praying for Auntie Ashira. Because the only explanation the teacher provided was that I was ‘going through a rough time.’ Yeah, I wonder why!” I yell.
“Hurry up,” Miri mutters to the hot water machine.
“You know, I used to be against murder,” I say, crossing my arms. “But lately, I’ve been reconsidering my stance.”
“Let’s try to take some deep breaths,” Miri says, then demonstrates it for me.
“Is this your way of saying you won’t be my alibi?”
“That too.”
I tap my foot restlessly. “Do you think if I sent Mrs. Schwartz flowers and an apology note she’d move on?”
“Maybe?” Miri tears open a tea packet. “I don’t know. But I suppose it couldn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, or maybe,” I say, “I should add her name to the Tehillim list and make up some brain disease. Or better yet, hire an assassin.”
“Let’s put those ideas on hold for the moment,” she says, bringing me a Styrofoam cup with steam rising from it. “Careful, it’s hot.”
“Do you think anyone would miss her if she disappeared?” I ask.
Miri points to the cup. “Try the tea, Ash.”
I stare down at the murky liquid with the tea bag inside. “Must I?”
“Yes,” she replies firmly. “You definitely must.”
I murmur the Hebrew blessing and take a sip. It’s both hot and revolting. I gag.
“Oh, it can’t be that bad,” Miri protests.
“And yet, it is.”
Miri shakes her head and takes the cup from me. “Speaking of your questionable taste, how’s your arrangement with Caleb going? Has he been making sure you keep up your end of the bargain?”
“Yes. He’s on his Israel trip and still managing to get disturbing products masquerading as food delivered to my door.”
She laughs. “What, like spinach?”
“Yes! And arugula. Alfalfa sprouts. Half these things do not look meant for human consumption. Cow feed, yes? But people?” I shake my head. “I can’t decide if this is just some elaborate prank on his part.”
She laughs as she sprays product onto my wet hair. “Have you tried any of it?”
I purse my lips. “I’ve stared at it.”
“I don’t think that counts.”
I think about Caleb as Miri blow dries my hair. It feels like ages since I last saw him. He left two weeks ago to go on a men’s trip to Israel, where he and other prominent members of the community are volunteering their time and money to support families who’ve lost loved ones since the war.
I’ve been trying not to read too much into the fact that Caleb’s phone’s passcode is my birthday, but at the same time, I can’t not read into it.
He could’ve used Zevi’s birthday or his parents’ anniversary or made up some random combination, but he didn’t.
Instead, he chose the date that I came into this world.
And he was obviously embarrassed by it too.
It feels significant. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that it is, or at least, not in any meaningful way.
It might be a sentimental thing because of how close we were as kids.
How much he enjoyed being in that older male-figure role.
There’s no way to know what goes on in someone else’s mind.
Half the time, I struggle understanding my own.
“When does Caleb come back?” Miri says, shutting off the hair blow dryer.
“Tomorrow.”
“Are you excited to see him again?”
I narrow my eyes at her. “Why would you ask me that?”
“I don’t know,” she says innocently. “It just popped into my head.”
“Well pop it back out,” I command. “I’m a little nervous to tell you the truth,” I add after a moment. “I found him his next date, but I’m worried he’s going to mess it up.”
Right before he left for his trip, he’d taken Rivka out on a date, and the following morning she called me up and told me that she couldn’t stand him, and that being rich and handsome didn’t give him the right to talk nonstop.
Apparently, he walked her through the entire timeline of his existence, starting from his mother’s pregnancy right up until the moment he picked her up at her house.
And he never once paused to ask her anything about herself.
“How do you know it’s Caleb’s fault?” Miri says. “Maybe the women are exaggerating or upset because he wasn’t as into them as they would’ve liked.”
“Caleb claimed they were both exaggerating, but . . .” I lift my hands and then drop them. “There’s no way to know who’s telling the truth. I wasn’t there. I wish I could hire a spy,” I add wistfully.
“Why hire someone when you can do the job yourself?” Miri winks and plugs in the curling iron.
I tilt my head. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
“It’s the only way to know for sure. And this way,” she adds, “if it is his fault, then you can see exactly what he needs help with and coach him on how to improve.”
I close my eyes and groan. “I really hate it when you’re right.”
“Cheer up.” She smiles. “I can lend you the perfect disguise.”