You'll Miss Me When I'm Gone

“I just want to play,” I say professionally, so I do. I play Bach and Bartók and Giorgetti and Simonetti and of course Debussy’s “The Girl with the Flaxen Hair.” At my audition last week, this prelude earned me a spot in the New Year’s Eve showcase, but I haven’t allowed myself to feel victorious about it yet. I will play two pieces for the showcase, but the Debussy is my showstopper. If I audition for conservatory, I’ll play it there, too.

I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. I thought—hoped—he’d tell me he was wrong, that he does have feelings for me. Evidently, I know nothing.

It’s not just that I want to kiss him. It’s that I feel more connected to him than I do to anyone else. I’ve spent my entire life feeling different because I speak another language, because I don’t celebrate the same holidays as most people, because I don’t call my parents Mom and Dad. Arjun, who immigrated to the United States as an adult, knows what it is like to be tied to a complicated country. There is a lot of good in India, he’s said, but also a lot of bad. Israel is similar. I’ve never met a person who doesn’t have a strong opinion about its politics. They always have to share it with me, like there’s something I can do about it, like being half Israeli makes me a representative for an entire nation, an entire people. I don’t feel fully American, but a language and half my genes can’t be enough to tie me to a place I’ve never been.

Arjun has no praise for today, only critique, though I know I cannot be playing quite that poorly. Perhaps he is trying to more solidly establish himself as the teacher, and me, the student. For the first time, I am relieved when our hour is up.

On my way to the bus stop, I buy a cheeseburger from the food truck parked across the street. I am in desperate need of food therapy. It greases up my fingers and tastes perfectly, excessively salty. The guy at the counter knows me, since I’ve been coming here after some lessons for nearly a year. He asked for my number once, but greasy food truck guy isn’t exac

tly my type. I have an incurable fondness for musicians.

No one knows I don’t keep kosher when I’m not at home. After Ima’s diagnosis, it stopped seeming important. Why did God care what I ate? Why did separating meat and dairy, and a hundred other provisions, matter when my mother was suffering so much? At home I observe Shabbat because it means so much to my family. But the day of rest makes me restless, and the services at synagogue are too long. I’m not sure what I believe in anymore, or what I ever believed in, but it’s not anything as insignificant as this. When I move out, I will eat whatever I want and practice any time I want. Even on Shabbat.

A blessing spills from my lips, meaningless. I murmur along as Ima leads us in the hamotzi over the braided loaf of challah, but the words are hollow, even if I love the way they sound.

Ba-ruch a-tah A-do-nai e-lo-hei-nu me-lech ha-o-lam, ha-mo-tzi le-chem min ha-a-retz.

Prayers in Hebrew are sung in minor keys. They lilt up and down; they tremble. When I was small, I could trace the ribbon of Ima’s voice even when we sang in large groups at synagogue. It was more confident, more on-key than any of the others. I always wished I could sing, but my vocal cords have never cooperated. That is another reason I fell in love with classical music: no lyrics.

Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, began on Shabbat this year. The holiest day of the year—to everyone in my house but me. Ima didn’t fast because the ill don’t have to, but I’ve been fasting all day, unable to sneak food past my parents. The last thing I put in my stomach was a bottle of Gatorade yesterday, which helps prepare the body for a fast.

Earlier today we sat through services at our synagogue. Shabbat is sunset Friday to the appearance of stars Saturday night every week, twenty-five hours that endlessly drag. No phones, no computers, no money, no fun. Some Conservative Jews drive on Shabbat, but my family likes the tradition of walking to and from synagogue when we can. The exercise is good for Ima.

“Amen,” Ima says, and we all echo her. Her fingers twitch as she reaches for her fork, and her head jerks back and forth.

We’re breaking the fast along with my parents’ Israeli best friends, the Mizrahis. Gil Mizrahi works with my father at Microsoft, where they are both software engineers, and his wife, Tamar, is a real estate agent and the synagogue gossip. Before dinner, I overheard her telling my parents about Devorah Cohen’s daughter, who supposedly left college because the workload was stressing her out. The real reason was that her TA had gotten her pregnant. Since Ima got sick, people from synagogue have visited her regularly, including Devorah Cohen and her daughter, so I am unsure how to react to this rumor.

I add beef brisket, potatoes, and salad to my plate while my father pours wine for Tovah and me. When we were little, we drank grape juice on holidays, but we graduated to wine after our b’not mitzvah—that’s the plural of bat mitzvah. I used to get so bored waiting to eat on Jewish holidays, because when you are nine years old, you have no patience for prayers. One thing I never grew out of, I suppose.

Tamar Mizrahi asks us about college, and Tovah monopolizes the conversation with chatter about Johns Hopkins.

“There are so many research centers and opportunities for undergrads to actually get involved,” Tovah says between bites. She’s talking so fast she can’t fully chew her food. I want to tell her chew, then speak. “And most of the med students have done undergrad there, so I figure I have a good chance of getting into their med school, too, which is what I want. Plus, I love Baltimore.”

Please. She’s been there once.

“I’m sure you’re a shoo-in,” Tamar says.

“We’ll see!” Tovah chirps, though I detect a layer of nerves in her voice. I’m certain Tovah will earn a monster scholarship that will thrill Aba more than any of the schools I’m applying to—though I still haven’t applied. But I mumble to Tamar about the conservatories on my list anyway. However, Manhattan School of Music doesn’t have the same name recognition as Johns Hopkins. People know Juilliard, maybe Berklee.

“Both your girls are so ambitious, Simcha,” Tamar says to Ima, though she’s looking at Tovah, smiling at Tovah. Gil is too. Tovah’s accomplishments are tangible. Worthy.

“We got lucky.”

Tamar tucks a wisp of hair back into the blond cloud on top of her head. “You’re maturing into such a beautiful young lady, Adina. Such a precious figure. Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope.” I pop the p.

“I always thought you and Eitan would make a good couple.” She pierces a slice of brisket with her fork. Her eyes are the same deep brown as Eitan’s. “You were both always so serious about your music. Him with the piano, you with viola. You know, he’s teaching lessons to some of his students in Jerusalem in his spare time.”

“Eitan’s much too old for Adi!” Gil says. “How much wine have you had?”

Laughter. Too much of it. My face flames. There are no beautiful young lady comments directed at Tovah, who’s staring down at her plate. Tovah is cute, with her pixie haircut and faint freckles. But her body language projects so much insecurity, like her skin isn’t the right size for her.

I wonder if words like Tamar’s make it worse.

A clang steals my attention. Ima’s knocked two serving dishes into each other. “Clumsy me,” she says, and my stomach twists.

“I’m only saying, it’s a shame,” Tamar continues. “A pretty girl like you should have a boyfriend.”