Page 15 of Margins of Love
Rachel sucked her cheeks in, knowing this situation all too well. She dashed through the corridor between their rooms and found her mother clutching a pillow. Her hair was disheveled, her dry eyes wide open and her eyebrows raised. Her expression, as well as the single candle lighting the room, cut deep, harsh shadows on her wrinkled forehead.
“Leave us. Close the door and find father,Schmuli.” Rachel used her brother’s nickname to calm him. He was too young to see the pain in their mother’s eyes, but Rachel felt it in her heart, for she herself felt it all too keenly.
“Mama,kenst mikh hern? Can you hear me?” There was no sense in using English when only Yiddish would get through to her mother when she was in this state.
Her mother shook relentlessly, her gaze clouded at the horror unfolding in her mind’s eye.
“Mama, es iz iber.” It is over. Rachel tried again, touching her mother’s arm gently.
But she could not wake her. Stella was reliving that night in the lake. She clutched the pillow just as she had Maya as her tiny body had grown cold and stiff.
“Vas ken ikh tihn?” What can I do? Rachel’s voice wavered.
Her mother did not respond.
“I will do whatever you and Father want. But please stop, Mama, please!” Rachel leaned toward her mother’s face, trying to make herself seen. If she could only erase the memories from Stella’s eyes, she could break her out of the trance.
Rachel wrapped herself around her mother in a warm and steadying hug. At first, her mother swayed and squirmed in Rachel’s hold, but Rachel maintained her grip. Soon, her mother’s breathing slowed and she slouched against Rachel. She collapsed into herself, as if the hurt was consuming her insides.
Rachel kept her eyes downcast. A cleft opened between the present and past. She could not reconcile her hopes for romance and balls with her constant fear of persecution. Rachel clutched her mother’s limp hand for familiarity and love more than support.
Truly, Rachel had never considered living without their secret language. She had always imagined that she would one day speak Yiddish with her husband, as her parents, their parents, and theirs before them had done. It was ingrained in her that every language had a role to play. She spoke English with the gentiles of the ton, French with the merchants and seamstresses in France and Belgium, German with her tutors and the locals, Flemish and Italian with the borrowers who had visited their old home. She inadvertently assigned a mood and level of security to each language. Yiddish ranked the highest in proximity, familiarity, and trust. If someone spoke Yiddish, they were in her inner circle. Nobody at the ton would ever fit that description. Including Fave.
She imagined again how she might talk to her betrothed. As she tried to picture the sort of man the rabbi and her father had chosen, her mind circled back to the life she had not chosen for herself.
Her inability to mix her worlds, each compartmentalized by another language, pressed upon her subconscious. When her eyes fell on her Greek mythology book on the nightstand, Rachel realized her life was entirely unlike that of the Greek goddesses. They took charge of their destiny, roamed freely among the Greek islands, conquered monsters, and loved heroes. They had no chaperones to guard their virtues, bonnets to prevent freckling, shawls to cover their shoulders, and no affected modesty to subdue their personalities. Most importantly, they did not marry complete strangers that a rabbi had selected for reasons they could not understand. Her mind drifted like tidal waves between scenarios in which she defied hershadchenand avoided the nuptials to the fate she might have as a wife of someone she didn’t love. Not even the next two hours helped her reconcile a path between resignation and obedience to please her parents.
“We need more light. The candle is burning low.” Rachel rose to light the wall sconce, and her eyes returned to Sammy’s copy of theOdyssey.
Adventures like Athena’s, who fought alongside her father Zeus, even permitted to use his thunderbolt in defense, were suddenly just fairy tales. Ilan would never entrust her with anything. Athena’s autonomy was all but a dream for Rachel. She would have to resign to an obedient domestic role, busying herself with whatever married women did. Her father had encouraged Rachel to read as much as she could, to have tutors of every available subject, to broaden her mind, and for what? To think deeply about how low she had to hold her head alongside that anonymous betrothed of hers? She could not reconcile what her father had decided for her and how he had raised her. There was no reason and no justification for her not to partake in her father’s business. Well, except for the reason that she was a girl and that it was a dangerous business.
“I will read you a passage, Mama.” Rachel rifled through the book in search of a distracting story.
Her mother whimpered. Rachel’s heart felt wrung out like a piece of cloth because she could feel her mother’s pain from the awful night back in Lausanne. Maya’s demise was haunting her.
Rachel could not decide where to begin to distract her mother, but all the ancient Greek adventures were preferable to the confusion of dilemmas her life had become. “Ah, here is the council of the gods on Mount Olympus. Hmm…Let me see…”
“They are exactly like that,” her mother said suddenly, her cheeks tear-stained, her eyes red. She sniffled, blinking quickly as if her eyes could not focus. She had awoken from her stupor and was now sobbing with grief. Rachel handed her another handkerchief.
“Who is like what?” Rachel knew her mother disapproved of it when she had her “nose stuck in the books,” but she needed an escape from the heartache. And wherever they had moved, books had been her constant companions. The stories had been the only friends Rachel could trust.
“The gossips of the ton, all the ‘fine ladies’ at this party.” Her mother fumbled in her sleeve for a handkerchief. “They look down on others as if they are high up on Mount Olympus. But they are the worst of the lot. Their schemes, lies, betrayals…Bah!” Stella spat in disgust and warned Rachel to stay away from the dangerous gossips. “Du must zikh farnhaltn, Maidale. You have to keep your distance, my girl.”
She got up and wrapped Rachel in a warm hug.
Rachel’s father peeked into the room. “Is she better?”
“Where have you been?” Rachel asked.
“Correspondence,” he muttered as he gently shoved Rachel aside and took Stella in his arms.
Rachel went to her bedroom and pressed her head into the pillow. Exhausted from her mother’s episode, she closed her eyes. She caught the faint smell of marzipan from the crumbs in the napkin on her nightstand. It reminded her of Fave, the way his dark lashes framed the brown irises, his straight posture at dinner. His pupils had seemed bigger when he saw her. He had looked stiff, uncomfortable at dinner, and yet he had been kind and generous to her. He had combed his hands through his hair every so often, a gesture of frustration, but one that warmed Rachel from the inside. The frown line between his eyebrows had disappeared when he had whispered to her and handed her the package with the tart. Rivulets of glee coated her insides when she thought about the seductive smile he had given her before he said good night. She had felt his breath on her ear and the side of her neck, and a tingle traveled along her back at the memory.
She remembered her mother’s warning, and her spirits fell. Her face crumpled, and soon she was sobbing. She was not ready to resign herself to a life of a submissive wife just yet. Not before she had the chance to walk in the arms of a gentleman, dance at candlelit balls, and—her breath hitched at the idea—share a sweeping, passionate kiss.
She cried herself to sleep because she might not experience such a kiss, because she’d seen her mother so shattered with grief, because she was upset at the unfairness of her life – and because she liked Fave but knew she couldn’t have him.
CHAPTER13
