First Edition features new original works by Northern California Jewish writers. Appearing the first issue of each month, it includes a poem and an excerpt from a novel or short story.
by esther ehrlich
Eleven-year-old Naomi “Chirp” Orenstein loves watching birds and lives on Cape Cod with her dancer mother, psychiatrist father and older sister, Rachel. Chirp’s mom, whom she adores, has recently been experiencing unexplained leg pain. In this scene near the beginning of the book, Chirp and her mom are spending some welcome time alone together.
The door handle on the car is hot, even though it’s still early. “Whew,” Mom says, “it’s going to be a scorcher!”
“Three h’s,” I say in my radio voice.
“Hazy, hot, and humid,” Mom says in her radio voice.
“The mother and the daughter roll down all of the car windows in an attempt to cool off the car before entering,” I say.
“Then, fearless and brave, they enter the car —”
“— hot as it is, and head off on their adventure!”
“Stay tuned for —”
“— the next installment of —”
Mom looks at me, giggling. “Umm … help me out here, honey.”
“Overheated Mama and Her Daughter, Toasty Roasty!”
Mom laughs. “Perfect.”
She pulls out onto Route 6. Since it’s summer, there’s plenty of traffic. The warm wind swirls around us. Mom’s smiling. I’m smiling. Mom turns on the radio. I feel the earth move under my feet. … I sing along, really loud. Mom shimmies her shoulders and hums off-key. I wish we could drive all the way to Hyannis. Or maybe we could keep on going right over the Sagamore Bridge to Boston. We could take a ride on the swan boats, like we did the last time we were there. We could eat a picnic in the Boston Public Garden. We could send a postcard home to Dad and Rachel: Sorry for the short notice, but we’ve always wanted to see Canada, where the geese come from and men who don’t want to be drafted to Vietnam can go and live in freedom. Don’t worry. Chirp will learn tons on the road. We’ll try to be home for the High Holidays. If not, please forgive us. All our love, Hannah/Mom, Chirp
Mom pulls off Route 6 onto a paved road that turns into a dirt road that turns into a bumpy sandy road that most summer people aren’t brave enough to drive on. Mom looks nervous, biting on her bottom lip, but I know she’s determined that we’ll have our expedition, since her achy leg already messed up our tradition of hiking on the Wood Thrush Trail and Mom is a big believer in traditions. “Here we go,” she says every time we hit a new bump or a blackberry bramble swipes our window. Even though Mom knows exactly where we are, this looks like the kind of road you could get lost on. Mom hates getting lost. Last Thanksgiving when we were going to visit Grandma and Grandpa, we took a wrong turn on the highway and Mom and Dad got in a fight right in front of us and Dad said, “You have got to work out this ancient fear, Hannah, because it’s absolutely impossible!” and Mom yelled, “I’m doing just fine, Mr. Privileged Childhood!” and Dad yelled, “Well, this is a good way to begin the visit with my parents!” and Mom yelled, “At least you have parents to visit!” because both of her parents have been dead for years. Rachel whispered to me, “Mom hates getting lost because of the orphanage,” which I still don’t really understand.
“Mom, is the reason you hate getting lost —”
“Shah, Chirp. I’m concentrating here,” she says, just as the road gets wider and ends, right in front of Dragonfly Pond. “Ta-da! I knew it!” She pulls over and parks the car.
We get out, take off our cutoffs, throw them on the seat, and walk right over to the edge of the pond. The water is tons of shades of blue and green. It ripples and dances, shooting off more sun sparks than I’ve ever seen.
“Wow,” Mom says. She takes my hand and we walk a few steps into the water. The sand is soft. The water bumps, warm, around our ankles.
“It’s a mystery, Chirp,” Mom says. “Magic. A scorcher in August and we have this whole sweet pond to ourselves!” Her voice is peaceful and excited at the same time, like she’s blessing the Shabbos candles. Even though she gave up most of her family’s Orthodox Jewish traditions when she left home at sixteen to study dance, she still thinks Shabbos is a special time that should be passed down through the generations, and so we always light the candles and say the blessings. I’m about to ask Mom if we can just sit in the shallow water and watch stuff for a while when she reaches for my hand.
“Let’s just sit for a while,” she says. She puts her arm around me. We watch two bright blue damselflies zip and dip and chase each other. We watch a bunch of minnows swim right up to our toes, then dart away. We watch a pickerel, like a dark green flute, floating around in the reeds. My plan was to put the kayak together and paddle us around the pond, but right now right here is just right.
“Whew, hot, hot, hot.” Mom slowly leans back until she’s stretched out in the water. “Ahhh,” she says, and when she laughs, her belly makes ripples. I lie down, too, warm water filling my ears. I hear my breath. I hear my heartbeat. The sky throbs, as bright blue as the damselflies. A flash of yellow. Goldfinches! Mom grabs my hand and squeezes. Yes! Yes! I squeeze back.
Esther Ehrlich was born and raised in Boston and spent childhood summers on Cape Cod. She graduated from Vassar College and lives in Richmond with her family. “Nest” is her first novel. www.estherehrlich.com
The author will be reading from her book at 4 p.m. Nov. 23 at Afikomen Judaica, 3042 Claremont Ave., Berkeley. www.afikomen.com
Works may be submitted to fiction editor Ilana DeBare at [email protected] or poetry editor Joan Gelfand at [email protected]. Fiction excerpts may run up to 2,500 words, but only 800 words will appear in the print edition, with the rest appearing online. All prose and poetry published to date can be viewed at jweeklylit.wordpress.com.