We stand there in silence for a while as the party sounds get louder. Through my pantyhose, my knees are wrinkled by the carpet. Peering at myself in a gilded wall mirror, I repin my hair as best I can. Arjun’s reflection looks uncomfortable, like he doesn’t know quite what to do with himself.
He scratches at his elbow. “Do you want to go up to the roof?” he asks. “We’d probably have a better view of the fireworks up there.”
I don’t want to share him, and I can’t understand why he wants to rejoin the rest of the party after what we’
ve done. But the rest of the night, he’ll be thinking about this, so I agree. I sift through the coats and bags on the bed to find my silver clutch and, unclasping it, I check my phone.
Six missed calls and two voice mails, all from Tovah. Shit. Shit.
My hands are shaking so badly, it takes a few tries for me to find the right keys.
“What is it?” Arjun asks, but I can’t answer.
“Adina, it’s Ima,” Tovah’s recorded voice says. “She was in the bathroom and . . . and she fell again. We’re taking her to the ER right now. Call me. Please. Or just come to the hospital.” She gives the cross streets and then hangs up. The next voice mail is her saying they’re at the hospital and “pick up, pick up, why the hell are you not answering your phone?”
I drop the phone from my ear.
“Adi, what’s wrong?”
Ignoring him, I push a trembling index finger to Tovah’s name. Five rings. She doesn’t answer.
“Adina?”
“It’s my mom. She fell, and she’s in the hospital.”
Arjun’s face completely changes. “I’ll drive you,” he says, fishing my coat from the pile. I want to be able to appreciate that he knows which one is mine, but I can’t dwell on the insignificance of that now.
Everyone else is so distracted by New Year’s festivities that we’re able to slip out of the party unnoticed. Arjun pulls a ticket from his inside jacket pocket and hands it to the valet, and soon we’re on the freeway, pushing eighty miles per hour. We don’t talk. When he pulls up to the hospital, I lean over to hug him. Cling to him, really.
“She’ll be okay,” he says. He traces the braids in my hair. Some of my bobby pins have fallen out, possibly making a Hansel-and-Gretel trail from the symphony hall to the party to the hospital. Then he pulls back, pats my shoulder. “Let me know if you need anything?”
“Okay.” What I need is for him to come inside with me, hold my hand in the hospital elevator.
Instead, I get out of the car and into the cold, and he drives away, leaving me aching for more things than I can count.
She smacked her head on the side of the bathtub. They needed to use staples to close her up. I can’t even imagine the gruesomeness of it all, can’t let myself wonder if there is red staining the rug in my parents’ bathroom.
“She lost her balance,” Aba explains. He, Tovah, and I are in the waiting room. Ima is sleeping; they pumped her body full of drugs that will lessen the pain. She doesn’t have a concussion, thank God, and the CAT scan didn’t show any bleeding in her brain. Still, the doctors wanted to keep her overnight for observation, and we’ll have to monitor her closely for the next couple weeks.
My eyes burn, threatening to spill over. Tovah stares out the windows at the slowly brightening sky. None of us says much. We try to sleep as best we can, but I cannot relax with the terrible smell of hospital and a coughing man in the corner and a quietly weeping family across the room. The waiting room chair digs grooves in my spine and neck. My performance clothes are stiff, and Ima’s too-tight heels are numbing my toes. I haven’t brushed my teeth and my throat is dry and my lips are raw from rubbing off my lipstick.
Around seven in the morning of a brand-new year, a doctor tells us we can see her, but she’s drowsy and “might still be a little out of it.” When I get to my feet, I almost lose my balance, forgetting I’m still in heels. The doctor guides us down the hall, past rooms and rooms of sick, sick people.
A bandage is wrapped around Ima’s head and a needle is threaded through the veins in the crook of her elbow. I am sure Tovah could explain what all this is, but it is easier not to know. My mother is broken: that is what is happening.
“Ima,” I croak. I squeeze her other hand, the one without a needle in it. Her skin is tissue paper, her veins the brightest blue.
“This is a sign.” Aba strokes her hair. “You can’t keep working if this continues to happen. It isn’t safe for you, Simcha.”
And she agrees. My strong mother agrees with my father telling her what to do for maybe the first time. “I think you’re right,” she says. “I . . . don’t have the focus. I want to be able . . . to give it my full attention. . . .”
“Shh,” Aba says. “Don’t talk too much right now. Save your energy.”
A grapefruit-size lump forms in my throat, but I can’t swallow it away. Looking at my mother, I am slammed with a tidal wave of fear. This is going to be me.
Slipping in the bathroom.
Banging my head on a bathtub.