Chapter 10 Days of Awe
Days of Awe
In September, my people remember.
—Florence Jeanne Goodman
They are driving to see Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Lew for Yom Kippur when Lily says, “I think I’m feeling worse.”
Her dad Richard says, “What do you mean worse?”
Lily doesn’t answer that because worse means worse. She’s carsick. She’s always carsick, her older sister Sophie says, but it’s not true. Only when they drive to Boston.
Actually, it’s not Boston; they are driving to Weston, where there is nothing to do. It’s a six-hour drive and Lily is sitting in front, as per usual. That’s how Sophie puts it.
“Come on, Soph,” says Richard. “You have the whole back seat to yourself.”
Sophie leans her head on her pillow and closes her eyes. She thinks Lily is faking so she can sit in front. Lily knows that. Her sister is fifteen and hardly believes anything about her. Lily is twelve and should have outgrown carsickness by now, but hasn’t.
“Try eating something,” her dad says.
Lily unzips her backpack and pulls out the peanut butter granola bar her mom packed for her. Even the orange wrapper makes her queasy. “Could we just stop and walk around?”
“We’re making good time,” Richard tells her. “We’re almost there.”
Suddenly she feels it coming. She tries to stop it, but she can’t, so they have to pull over.
Lily’s dad cleans her seat while she changes in the women’s room at the rest area.
She stands at the sinks, and her face is freckled in the mirror; her arms are thin as sticks.
She is wearing a clean T-shirt from her suitcase.
Her dirty shirt is too disgusting to bring back to the car, so she throws it in the trash.
“Better?” her dad asks when they start driving again.
“Sort of.”
“I wish we were there already,” says Sophie.
“I wish we were home,” says Lily. When her parents divided up the holidays, her dad got Yom Kippur. That’s why they are driving to his parents’. “Dad?” she says, after a while.
“Open the window and lean out.”
“I just have a question.”
“Okay.”
“Why can’t Grandma and Grandpa come to us?”
“Because they like their own services.”
“No, they don’t. They’re always in a bad mood.”
“That’s just Yom Kippur.”
“It’s not fun.”
“It’s not supposed to be.”
“I wish I was a different religion.”
“Well. All religions have something.”
“Is Grandma Sylvia religious?”
Richard looks over at Lily. “No.”
“Is Grandpa Lew?”
“Not at all.”
“Then why do they celebrate Yom Kippur?”
“Because they’re not religious.”
“What does that mean?”
Sophie suggests, “They’re guilty.”
“They aren’t guilty,” Richard says.
“What are they then?” Lily asks.
“What do you mean, what are they? They’re Jewish people who go to temple on Yom Kippur.”
“But why?” Lily says. Because why did they pick this holiday—the depressing one? Why would you choose to sit in temple fasting in cold air-conditioning? Grandma Sylvia always says the air-conditioning is so cold someone should do something, and then she has a headache.
—
The Weston house is glass, so you can see the trees outside. The furniture and rugs are white. There are no stairs, and all the doors and cabinets are white, so you can’t find anything.
“Hello, sweetheart!” Grandma Sylvia is not in a bad mood yet. She hugs Lily and smears lipstick on her cheek. Sophie gets a lipstick kiss too.
There is honey cake in the oven, and it smells sticky-sweet. Lily lingers in the kitchen, but they have to keep an eye on the time, because it’s later than it’s supposed to be. Grandpa Lew says, “Girls, go ahead and unpack and we’ll have a quick bite.”
Lew has a thing about unpacking. He always says, Don’t live out of a suitcase—but Sophie and Lily do anyway. As soon as they get to their room, they stuff their suitcases into the closet without unzipping them.
Their bedroom is white with white twin beds and a black nightstand between them. The beds are so white and the duvets so fluffy that Lily is afraid to make a dent. On each bed stands a black pillow with a white cursive letter. S for Sophie. L for Lily.
“Why is this house so bleak?” Lily asks Sophie.
“Bleak?” Sophie jumps face down onto her bed.
“The Lenox house is pretty.”
“This one is more important,” Sophie says.
“For what?”
Before Sophie can answer, their dad knocks and opens the door. “Time to change.”
“Can I bring a book?” asks Lily.
“To Kol Nidre? No! And no phones either.”
Everyone is in a rush, dressing up and eating dinner. The honey cake is golden brown, and it’s got toasted walnuts and it’s still warm, but Lew upsets Sylvia by having seconds. His blood sugar will go through the roof.
“Don’t do that!” Sylvia says.
Lew talks back. “Don’t mind if I do.”
Sylvia says, “I thought you were worried we’d be late.”
Meanwhile, Sophie whispers to Lily, “Isn’t this so fun?” Sometimes, when she is away from all her friends, Sophie is sarcastic with Lily, instead of against her.
Side by side, the girls sit in the back of Grandpa Lew’s black SUV while their dad drives Sylvia. Together, they walk into the temple and take their places next to their dad and behind their grandparents. At least five hundred people fill the sanctuary, but the girls don’t know anybody.
They are wearing white which is the tradition so you’ll look pure and think about the shroud you’ll wear when you are dead.
Sophie’s dress has puffed sleeves and a square neckline.
Lily’s dress is sleeveless, but she is wearing a white cardigan.
The dresses are babyish, but at least no one they know will see them. That’s what Sophie says.
The rabbi is up there in a white robe, and the cantor is wearing white as well.
She is slowly chanting kol nidre, v’esserei, ushvuei which means all vows and oaths because all promises are canceled on Yom Kippur.
After this holiday you can start the year with a clean slate—except first you have to ask forgiveness for all the things that you have done and for all the things everybody else has done intentionally or unintentionally, and for all the things anybody might even have been thinking about doing.
“We ask as a community,” says the rabbi. “Have we lived up to our potential? Have we been the people we should be?”
Lily runs her fingers over the brass plaque on the pew in front of her. In memory of Jeanne Rubinstein.
“Have we been good to each other?” The rabbi’s voice is piercing. “Have we done good? There is injustice in our world. Hunger. Pain. Abuse. Discrimination. There is systemic racism in our country. Sexism. Violence. Think back on this year. Did we step up?” He pauses. “Or did we stand by?”
“Look,” Lily whispers to Sophie very very softly so their dad won’t take them out into the parking lot and lecture them.
“What?”
She points to the brass plaque. “It’s Great-Aunt Jeanne.”
Sophie leans forward to read the name. “Are you sure?”
“Who else could it be?” Jeanne was Sylvia’s younger sister, the one who died of cancer. Sylvia has an older sister too. Her name is Helen, and she won’t speak to Sylvia because when Jeanne died, Sylvia baked an apple cake. Why was that wrong? Nobody knows, but it’s a feud.
“Please rise,” the rabbi says.
—
Lily is already hungry on the ride back.
By the time they get to the house, she’s starving, even though she had dinner earlier.
She shouldn’t be hungry so soon. She’s not even fasting, but her dad is, and Grandma Sylvia and Grandpa Lew are, and Sophie sort of is, and Lily can’t eat in front of them.
Her grandparents and her dad sit in the family room which is open to the kitchen, so Lily can’t sneak a bite.
She waits and waits, until at last she and Sophie can escape to their room. Then while Sophie is brushing her teeth, Lily finds the granola bar in her backpack. She hides it under her pillow and dives under the covers, pretending to sleep.
For a long time, Sophie sits cross-legged on her bed texting friends.
She is sitting there laughing, while Lily’s stomach growls.
Finally, Sophie turns off the light on the nightstand, and Lily rips open the wrapper and starts nibbling.
She takes the smallest bites possible and chews with her mouth closed, but after just one second Sophie says, “What are you eating?”
“Nothing.”
Sophie turns on the light. “You’re eating a peanut butter granola bar in bed?”
“Where else can I eat it? Everybody’s fasting!”
“You’re getting crumbs everywhere.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.” Sophie turns off the light.
Lily rolls onto her stomach and pulls the duvet over her head, but even then, Sophie says, “Could you stop chewing?”
—
When Lily opens her eyes, the sun is shining through the trees. The room is green and gold, lovely as a secret garden. Sophie is fast asleep. All is quiet. Lily grabs her book and tiptoes to the kitchen.
She touches white cabinets, and they spring open, revealing coffee and sugar and spices and dried mushrooms. She opens a drawer, and it’s a refrigerator full of yogurt but it’s plain.
She checks the other cabinets, one after another.
There it is. The remains of the honey cake encased in plastic wrap.
She finds a huge knife and cuts the cake on the white stone counter.
The cake is amber and just a tiny bit sticky on the outside.
Her slice is golden, tender, crumbly. It’s ambrosia.
Ambrose! She cuts a second piece and stuffs it in her mouth.
She eats a third. Then there’s just a little piece left, so she eats that too. She can’t help it that she’s growing.