tence of water, soap and my mother’s determination. There was a moment when she suggested I wear gloves to the party, to hide the embarrassment of such hands. But the royal smudges gave way, and now the only reminder was their dark outline soaked in around each of my nails, and a strange sadness I felt at the return of my skin to its regular unimpressive color. Dusk is settling between the apartment buildings surrounding our garden, softening their gray cinder walls until they disappear into the background. Classical music is spilling from the balcony above, and our first guests are arriving. Festivities rarely begin early on this side of the world, partygoers waiting for the heat of the day to dissolve before venturing out. Among the invited is family having traveled from Tel Aviv, a negligible distance in American terms, while an entire day’s outing for the aunts, uncles and cousins now unfolding out of their cars, stretching and rubbing their muscles. My mother greets one and all, excusing herself to answer the jangling of our telephone, demanding to be answered despite the stream of people making their way into our courtyard. I am left with my father’s colleague, a short round-faced man everyone refers to as Perlberg, who offers me a small gift-wrapped box and waits expectantly for me to open it before him. Unlike the growing pile of books and sheet music I have already graciously accepted from guests clearly concerned with my educational well being, this present promises something different, and I am eager to learn its contents. So is its presenter, who helps me with the wrapping I am trying not to tear, then steps back to take in my reaction. The simple white box contains soft cotton in which is nestled the most beautiful necklace I had ever received. At the end of a delicate silver chain hangs a cylindrical piece of polished sea glass, its pale, green blue shades trapping waves and drawing my finger to feel its smooth flanks. I look up to thank Perlberg, the delight in his eyes at the offering’s effect matching my own at receiving it. It’s thousands of years old, he tells me as he offers to clasp it around my neck. It was found at an archeological dig, he continues, as I turn back to face him now wearing this piece of history. Thank you, I whisper, my shyness taking over as I leave his side and run into the house to show my mother who has not returned since going in to answer the call. The phone is missing from its stand on the second floor landing, and my eyes follow its curly cord as it wraps around the wall and into the narrow guest bathroom where it disappears behind the door left slightly ajar. I can hear my mother’s muffled voice from within, the few words of Polish I have picked up from years of listening to my mother and grandmother not enough to let me understand. I stand rooted to the floor, trying to figure out who could be on the other side of the line, since everyone we know has been invited and is now seated in the garden below. While I am still lost in thought my mother emerges, the phone clasped to her chest, a strained look on her face, which she quickly attempts to erase when she finds me standing there. Who called? I ask, watching her features intently, the hint of tears in her eyes making me suspicious. I had seen this look before, a rapid adjustment to protect me from a frightening truth. theMeadow 33
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==