‘Barbra, thank you. That was so beautiful. I’m so sorry about the interruptions,’ my mother said.
My mother gave a little pull on Barbra’s white dress. Barbra’s arms fell limp and then she sat down beside me. Her eyes were now soap-bubble glossy as she nodded at each one of us in succession. First my mother, then Abigail, then my father, then me.
‘What was that?’ my father said.
‘Fuck, Dad, don’t you know when you’ve been blessed?’ I found my real voice. It felt like a fountain.
My father grunted. We sat in this stultifying silence.
No one can lead anyone out of oppression.
‘My parents taught me,’ Barbra said quietly, ‘to chant in Ge’ez.’
‘Will you teach it to me?’ Abigail asked.
Barbra shyly smiled and nodded. My mother exaggeratedly blew air out of her mouth to relax. She made a quick prayer over the wine. She told Abigail to cut up the challah. My father picked up chicken with his hands. I realized that Barbra had covered her eyes again.
I felt her hunched over in my peripheral vision. I stared at my plate. I knew that this was not still a part of her Shabbos. I got this hollow, cold feeling. She missed her real parents. Her real country. Barbra missed real Judaism.
It was as if she’d been forced into exile by lies.
‘I had a good time here, Ruth, thank you,’ Barbra whispered, face hidden, to the tablecloth.
My mother made a guttural sound. She slung her arm tightly around Barbra’s shoulder.
I wanted to help Barbra, too, but I felt like I had to cry.
‘It was the Rotary’s idea for you to even be here,’ my mother said quickly, her voice strangled. ‘I’m so, so sorry I have to leave…’
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‘Ruth,’ my dad choked.
‘Thank you, Dr. Cohn,’ Barbra got out, head bowed.
‘Okay, that’s fine, you can eat now,’ my dad said, his voice also strained.
Abigail instinctively got up from the table to pee.
‘We were not poor in Ethiopia,’ I heard Barbra whisper to my mother, her head tucked in like a swan’s.
My thigh twitched. I felt bad. This felt paralyzing.
She went on, ‘We had meals like this.’
My mother stroked Barbra arms. The candles melted onto Bubie Marsha’s gold candlesticks.
‘It’s okay,’ my mother whispered, ‘if you’re not okay with all this.’
Barbra nodded and took a deep, sharp inhale. She finally took her hands off her face. Her eyes were backlit. Our family was hewed right in half. Wax balls disfigured the candles like pimples. My father resumed with his chicken. My mother poured us more wine.
I reached for Barbra’s hand under the table. She let me have it. I pulsed on repeat. Motherless. Fearless. Buruk New, Ameyn.
§
The scalp-tattooed woman behind the counter asked if we were legal. Barbra handed the woman her crinkled Israeli id. I flipped through the binder of half-naked hula-hoop girls.
‘I’m here to get pierced,’ Barbra said.