Page 65 of Fighting

I shake my head, not sure what to say exactly.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she gives me a pointed stare. “Not nothing. Not you’re ‘fine.’ What’s going on with Mateo?”

I groan. “Mateo? Have you been reading The Springer? You should know better than to trust a gossip chain…”

Mom pokes her tongue into her cheek, inhaling, then shows me where I inherited my strong will from. “I have other sources.”

Voice dipping fully into an adolescent cadence, I grumble, “Shae Eliana, I’m going to strangle you in your sleep, I swear to…”

“Not during the holiest days of the year,” Mom says. “I know I can’t say a whole lot about the religion since I left the orthodox world and we chose to teach you that this is our cultural identity, but please. Be respectful, a little kavod. No need to sign yourself up for a bad year to come.”

She goes on to say something to ward off the evil eye, because you can take the girl out of Lakewood, but you can’t always take the Lakewood out of the girl it seems.

“Sorry, Ema,” I say, hoping to placate her by saying the words meant to prevent the evil eye.

“From your lips to Hashem’s ears, now, what is wrong with things with the young man? Betty said you were with him at the Kelly Orchards and that Gran taught you to make her famous cake.”

“Yes, it’s in the dining room with the desserts?—”

“He took you to the farm to bake. He’s given you that gorgeous car to drive while you are getting yours fixed, although, mamale, it is okay to say goodbye to the old clunker. You held on to her for a long time. He’s defended your education when folks try to call you Miss instead of Doctor, you worked hard for that honor. You work hard all the time. You are allowed to rest.”

“I rest,” I protest.

She waves a hand. “No, sweetheart, you do not rest. You take short breaks to switch gears, but you aren’t taking time for yourself. Or you weren’t. It seems like he’s helped you to get out of your own head, and to do the things you enjoy. How often do you add to that never-ending to-do list in your phone? How often are you letting your brain take a break from thinking about everything and everyone around you in an effort to just be in the moment?”

Eyes averted, I pick at my nails, a habit I’ve never been able to break.

“You don’t like that I’m correct, I can tell,” she gently places her hand over mine and softens her tone. “Mamale, you do not have to do everything for everyone. It’s okay to be selfish every so often. It’s all about balance.”

She pulls down the challah bread board, the honey and salt. She grabs a kiddush cup—a ritual wine goblet—with a beautiful stem full of shards of colorful glass and turns it, looking at the colored bits. Those are from the broken glass at their wedding.

“I wish your Zaydie could hear this. He’d never believe it, but let me put this the way my dad would. Take a look at this here: the challah is round because things continue to move: seasons, life. Time passes with or without our consent, so it’s best to keep that impermanence in mind. It’s dipped in both sweet honey and tart salt, we think of these in a number of ways because?—”

“Two Jews, three opinions?” I smirk, and she nods affirming the old adage.

“The table is a replica of the altar in the mishkan, the wandering tabernacle, and the temple in Jerusalem. Salt is for perseverance and honey to appreciate the goodness before us. To remind us that, as the fields are picked clean and the cold sets in this time of year, goodness is to come in its own time.”

Piling the items onto the wooden tray for me to carry, she pauses and takes my hand. “Good things take time, and you’veput a lot of time toward goodness. You are allowed to receive goodness too. Even when it comes from the last place you’d expect,” she says, her gaze drifting.

I was so lost in her speech I didn’t see my dad join us back in the room. The look they share is intimate.

“Sometimes, your bashert, your soul’s destiny, isn’t packaged the way you think it will be. That doesn’t mean it isn’t a gift.” She cups my cheek and looks at me sincerely. “Do not fight falling in love, my beautiful daughter. You deserve as much good as you put into the world.”

The pressure building behind my eyes is unbearable. I drag in a long breath, swallow hard, and hug her. “I love you, Ema,” I croak. “You really would have made your dad proud with that one.”

She drops a kiss on the crown of my head. As she pulls away, a commotion pulls our attention.

“Why didn’t we know you were coming home! Mrs. Carter! Mr. Carter!” Shua says from the entryway.

My heart thumps against my breastbone. “Ema, you didn’t.”

With a shrug, she strolls out of the room and an instant later, she greets the full Santos-Manolo/Carter family: Susan, Eddie, Stef, Lee, and Mateo.

Sighing, I straighten my sweater. Then I set the bread, salt, honey, and wine goblet on the table and greet our guests.

After dinner,Lee insists we light the firepit, so the four of us make our way to the back patio. Stef and I carry twin glasses of white wine and large slices of apple cake topped with vanilla ice cream to seats close together.

As I look around at the group, Stef’s inebriated text comes to mind. Thewe could be sisters.

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