Chapter 7
7
“...outside is frightful But the fire is so delightful And since we’ve no place to go Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!”
Dean Martin croons through my radio alarm, the chorus of the classic Christmas carol waking me up in a pleasant haze of hope that maybe there really will be snow outside. A winter wonderland of glistening snowflakes might actually revive whatever cheer is still buried in my increasingly Grinch-like heart.
But when I check the weather, no luck. All we have in store is more of the same freezing temperatures, without a single predicted flurry in the forecast. In other words, all the winter with none of the charm: cold, gray, snowless. The crappy weather piled atop the suffocating combination of strange train encounters, looming office layoffs, my baby sister’s wedding imminent, and my fortieth birthday means I’m fresh out of fa-la-la-la optimism.
Forcing myself to turn my phone on for a brief morning check-in of missed alerts, I scroll through all the notifications. Emails I’m not going to read until I’m at my desk, some probably inane Instagram tag from Bryan, a neighborhood newsgroup alert about swastikas spray-painted on a bunch of garages in Albany Park—yeah, it’s too early for me to deal with the world. I start to set my phone down when it dings, a text popping up.
Hey call me plz
Rosie.
Guilt tugs at me. After ordering my dinner last night, I really did think about calling my sister. But then Netflix asked me, “Are you still watching?” And I said yes, and that was that. No phone calls, no nothing, just me and my Gilmore Girls marathon.
My desire to call my sister has not increased since then, nor will it. I’m already feeling sour and surly. I want coffee, I want breakfast, and I don’t want to talk to Rosie. But I can’t keep ignoring her like this. My mother is right. Rosie’s wedding is in less than a week, and I’m her maid of honor. But only technically , because while I hold the title, Rosie’s best friend, Layla, has done all of the maid-of-honor heavy lifting.
Layla is the one who lives in St. Louis, where Rosie and Ana live, and therefore had the ability to spend weeks poring over magazines and Pinterest boards with Rosie. She’s the one who planned the bachelorette weekend in Lake Geneva. The one who came in to Chicago with Rosie and Ana to sample cakes, meet with the rabbi, select a rehearsal dinner spot, and go bridesmaid-dress shopping. They invited me to join, since that was the right thing to do— but no pressure, of course , said Layla’s text.
I read between the lines, and politely declined.
Truly, Layla has taken every single maid-of-honor duty off my plate except for making a toast at the wedding. Rosie claimed this was all just so we wouldn’t have to work around my pesky office day-jobber schedule. Rosie and Layla have been fast friends since the day they met in college. Layla recently took a pause on her Ph.D. program, and now she and Rosie are both Peloton, SoulCycle, and Pilates instructors in St. Louis. Which means not only that they have a lot in common, but also that they share a lot of literal and figurative flexibility.
But I’m pretty sure the real reason Layla has played a bigger role than me has less to do with geography and more to do with personal dynamics. Layla and Rosie consistently get along, whereas Rosie and I have a far spottier track record. We’ve never been close, and this past year hasn’t brought us any closer.
When we lost Dad, I thought Rosie might reach out. Might step away from her social media and SoulCycle for long enough to have a real conversation. Might think to invite me to spend a holiday with her and Ana. Something. Anything. But she never did. She just kept posting sunny selfies, and got engaged, and went on Insta-worthy road trips with Layla and the girls. Honestly, I don’t know why Rosie isn’t just talking with Layla right now, and leaving me out of the whole thing.
But I suck it up and call my little sister.
“Eve! Hi,” Rosie says, picking up immediately.
She’s talking in that bright, perky tone that means other people might be listening. She’s probably about to lead a spin class or something, pacing outside the workout room. She’s doubtless wearing tight dark yoga pants and a loose but flattering workout top, her clavicle-length honey-blonde hair pulled into a low ponytail.
“What’s up?” I ask, already exasperated.
“Just checking in on a few things before we hit the road and head your way. Ana and I are driving in tomorrow. We’re gonna stop at camp on the way, just do sort of a walk-through, then we’ll be in Chicago ’til the big day. I’m going to stay with Mom, Ana’s gonna stay with her parents in Skokie—”
“Sounds great,” I say. “Hey, I have to get ready for work, so—”
“Right, work, that’s what I’m calling about, actually,” Rosie says, and for a hot second I wonder if somehow she knows about the layoffs threatening my office. But no: “You took Friday off, right?”
“Um, no—”
“But it’s the day before the wedding!”
Her voice is lowered, her tone shifting, but she’s still got a little performative pep in there. She must have stepped into a side room or something so she could drop the upbeat demeanor. I’m sure there’s still a tight smile plastered on her face in case anyone walks in on her. Rosie enjoys her reputation as the ever-cheerful fitness coach. She apparently even does YouTube videos or something that have gotten kind of popular. Mom was telling me about it recently, but I wasn’t really listening.
“And?”
“And, there’s, like, a million things to do that day. Plus the rehearsal dinner.”
“Right, I’ll be there for that at six—”
“Oh my GOD, Eve, it’s not at six, it’s at five so that the rabbi can come, she has to be at the temple for services at seven so we had to do an early dinner, you know this, I know you know this—”
“Rosie, God, take a breath,” I snap, pushing myself up on my elbows, still in bed and already exhausted. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Okay. Okay, good,” she says, sounding relieved. Like she can finally check me off her to-do list. “Oh, hey, and while I’ve got you—are you getting your hair and nails done with us Friday afternoon, before dinner? Layla needs to confirm the numbers and she said you never texted her back.”
“Sorry, I thought the random number asking me about a salon appointment was spam.”
“Ha freaking ha,” Rosie says, and I can hear the eye roll in her voice. “Text her back.”
“Yep. Will do.”
I definitely will not be texting Layla.
“Good.” Rosie pauses. “Are you...still planning to mention Dad in your toast?”
My stomach clenches, an invisible fist grabbing my guts and twisting them into violent braids. Last night’s Thai dinner rolls around threateningly. I swallow hard, banishing any tremble from my voice.
“Yeah, I said I would.”
“And you’ll mention Bubbe, too?”
Another hit straight to my miserable gut.
Why was I the one who had to do all the emotional labor here, memorializing our dead relatives? Bubbe and Dad were the two family members with whom I’d been closest. Neither of them would be there to serve as my buffer or guide me through my bumpy little life. Going to the wedding alone and standing up in front of the assembled crowd to give a speech about the two people I wished most were there feels like a special kind of hell.
“Yeah, I’ll...mention Bubbe,” I say, voice flat and cold.
“Maybe a funny story about when she moved in with us,” Rosie suggests.
Bubbe moved in with us when we were kids—well, when Rosie was a kid, and I was racing toward adolescence. I was thirteen; Rosie was only seven. Our grandmother lived with us until she died, when Rosie was a senior in high school and I was a struggling young adult. She loomed so large, not only in our lives but in family lore. She was our direct connection to the Old World. I’m hard-pressed to think of funny stories featuring her, though.
Had Rosie found her funny?
I adored my grandmother, and was also always a little frightened around her. Not because she was frightening, but because she had seen so much of the world’s darkness. She bore witness to too much of the world’s cruelty. She was a tough-as-nails woman who made her way to a new world, learned a new language, married, had a daughter—my mother, her only child—and raised her alone when her husband died of a stroke in his thirties.
All the trauma she endured seemed to cling to her, an invisible dybbuk that never left her side. She was unapologetically superstitious, spitting through her fingers, throwing salt over her shoulder, warning us not to tempt the evil eye. She always wore a hamsa necklace, a small gilded silver hand intended to ward off malevolent spirits. She was untrusting of strangers, fiercely protective of family, ever vigilant. She tried to instill these traits in all of us, although it seemed that most of my family merely humored her when they nodded along to her stories or threw in a “God forbid!” after referencing any possible tragedy. They didn’t take her seriously.
I did, though.
Whenever she spoke, I hung on every word.
You have to remember what matters, bubbeleh , she’d say to me, eyes gazing off into the middle distance, steely and determined. And then do whatever you have to do to protect it, keep it safe. Farshtay? You understand?
I understand, Bubbe.
Good girl , she said, and slipped me a butter cookie.
I’m not sure I actually understood even half of what Bubbe meant when she shared her strange statements and stories, but I always knew the answer that was expected: Farshtay — I understand . Comprehension. Solidarity. Total agreement. A promise to make her proud.
A promise I haven’t kept very well.
“Yeah, sure,” I say. “A funny story.”
“Good,” Rosie says, all the sunshine brightness returning to her voice. “Okay, and I gotta know—who’re you bringing to the wedding?”
“It’s a surprise,” I say, and end the call.