Chapter 10
10
I barely have time after work to trek home before the concert. But I have to go home to get my ugly Hanukkah sweater—which, of course, I would have just brought with me that morning if I’d remembered the concert was that night. I can’t show up without it, or Bryan will know I forgot about his big event. This week is messy enough; I don’t need to piss off one of my closest friends.
Hurrying into my apartment, I dig through the back of my closet, and there it is: a royal blue sweater with a big gold Hanukkah menorah sprawling across the chest. And the best part: I push a small button near the lower edge of the shirt, and voilà. The tiny lights representing the flames at the top of each candle in the menorah begin twinkling obnoxiously. Nine little lights blinking cheerily, right there on the chest. And beneath the menorah, in English letters shaped to look like Hebrew, are the yellow-gold words LET’S GET LIT.
It’s gloriously over-the-top, as if some drunken Jewish designer was told that no one could top the tackiness of ugly Christmas sweaters, and said with miraculous confidence, “Hold my Macca-beer.”
I pull the sweater over my windblown curls. It’s tighter on me than it was the last time I wore it. Two years ago, it was still sort of baggy. Now it’s hugging my boobs so much that the fabric stretches, warping the menorah. But the lights are still twinkling and it’s not uncomfortable. Besides, I don’t have any other ugly holiday shirts on hand, so snug light-up menorah it is.
I grab my keys, throw a scarf around my neck, try to make sure I’m not forgetting anything else. Then, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I gasp.
For a half second, a few stray curls spilling over my cheek and the scarf lending a more elegant element, I look like my grandmother in her younger years.
Bubbe always said I looked like her. Whenever she said so, I scoffed, because I just couldn’t see it. She was so crisp, sharp and well-dressed, while I was always messy and soft around the edges. But after she was gone, and I went through a bunch of old photographs of her, I started to see what she meant. Now, every now and then, in the right light, I see the shadow of my grandmother in my face. It’s not just the shared jawline, easy to miss because of my fuller cheeks. It’s our skin, the arch of our brow, and most of all, it’s our eyes. Big, dark, and questioning. I always assumed hers held more answers than mine, but maybe they didn’t when she was my age.
My vision swims a little, and I lean closer to the mirror. The face staring back at me is mine, but then for a second, it isn’t. My heart stutters. It’s me in the glass, it has to be—or is it my grandmother? Like on the train?
Suddenly, the lights cut out in my bedroom.
An eerie swath of moonlight slices downward through my window and onto the mirror, providing just enough illumination to see the haunted reflection still staring at me. My stomach rumbles, and the darkness behind me seems to shift.
Like there’s something lurking behind the woman in the mirror.
Something lurking behind me .
There’s a whining buzz in my ears. With a sharp intake of breath, still facing the mirror, I raise my gaze and see a shadowy figure looming over me. The buzzing in my ears grows louder. Louder. Looking back in the mirror, I stare at the terrified face of my grandmother—myself—my grandmother—
I close my eyes—
The buzzing stops.
I open my eyes, and everything’s normal. The lights are on. It’s just me in the mirror. Just me, standing there, the menorah stretching across my front blinking expectantly. I let out a shaky breath, and pull the scarf from my neck. I don’t need it tonight. My coat will be enough.
I turn on every light in my apartment, trying to stop my heart from flying into my ribs like a deranged bird. Usually I’m a stickler for green living, turning out all the lights, unplugging small appliances, conserving energy. But tonight I need to literally lighten the atmosphere. I’m going to leave the lights on when I head out so my apartment will welcome me with brightness instead of darkness.
The little lights on my Hanukkah shirt twinkle in solidarity. My heart is beating more regularly now. I’m ready to head out—all dressed up with somewhere to go. The stupid shirt really does make me feel better about everything. Although I can’t help but wonder what Bubbe would think of this outfit. I can almost hear her voice, the thick Slavic accent, the clucking of her tongue.
Oy, Eve , she’d say, shaking her head in well-coiffed disapproval. That shirt...it’s a lot.
My father, on the other hand, thought it was hilarious. He was the one who bought it for me, almost ten years ago. Saw it at a TJ Maxx and couldn’t resist. He bought it on sale, post-holidays, for ten bucks. This memory calms me, slows my racing heart, makes me feel like myself again. I recall how my father made a big show of giving the tacky Hanukkah sweater to me when I came home for Passover, that walrus mustache of his twitching with glee.
Um, I cannot pull this off , I told him.
Sure you can! Dad beamed. You’ve got this, Evie! And if you don’t bust this thing out for Hanukkah, I’m going to be very disappointed.
And so I have, every year since. Except last year, when I was still too sad to wear it. But now the sweater’s back on, bright and cheesy as ever—and while one of the family ghosts haunting me might roll her eyes at it, the other would high-five me.
God, I miss them.
I turn on my phone to check the time. Shit. I’m supposed to be in Boystown in half an hour, and even if I drive, parking will definitely make me late. I’m probably going to have to get a Lyft. I’ll walk outside and call for one at the corner—I don’t like ride-share drivers picking me up from my actual address. I probably have Bubbe to thank for all my paranoia.
My apartment is sweltering, but since I’ll need my coat later, I tuck it under my arm when I head out the door. Swiping my lips with some more Holiday Cheer lip gloss, I step out into the courtyard and nearly run smack into Hot Josh.
“Wow,” he says, taking a hasty step back. “That’s...quite the jumper.”
“Oh,” I say, flushing and wishing I’d put my coat on already. I look down at my blatantly twinkling chest, the fabric pulled so tight that it looks like I’m wearing a light-up holiday billboard advertisement for my boobs. “Yeah, uh, yep.”
“Off to a party, then?”
“Concert, actually,” I say, glad that at least I really am going out and not just hanging around my apartment, alone and weird in my battery-powered Hanukkah apparel.
“Concert,” Josh says, amused. “What concert, exactly?”
“Rainbow Chorus.”
“Oh,” says Josh, with what seems like recognition. I guess Bryan’s singing group has gotten pretty popular. He gestures vaguely with his hand, like he’s trying to find the right words. “So, er, are you—”
“Gay? No, although I mean I definitely believe we’re all on a spectrum and—” I blurt hastily, completely steamrolling over the end of Josh’s question and hearing the final word of it way too late:
“—Jewish?”
“Yes,” I squeak, face burning with the blazing intensity of a full eighth-night Hanukkah menorah. “I’m Jewish.”
“Cool,” says Hot Josh. “Me, too.”
Then he walks into the building, like he didn’t just upend my universe.