Tovah
“I WANT TO GO HOME.” Adina taps her nails on her viola case, the security blanket I just now realize she brought with her. “Tovah, can you take me?”
“I can do that,” I say. My parents look as shocked as I feel, but at least they’ve stopped blasting her with questions.
“Take your time,” Aba says. “Come home when you’re ready.”
Naturally, the elevator stops at every single floor on our way down to the lobby. I open my mouth a dozen times but have no idea what to say. I’m sorry is too trivial. Even the Hebrew version, ani miztaeret, which has always felt full of more emotion to me, doesn’t fit. The ride is silent, except for the jazz piped in through the speakers. The soundtrack to getting bad news.
When we get in the car, Adina tucks her case between her knees and says, “I’m going to viola. Drop me off at Arjun’s.”
“Are you serious?” I assumed she’d have canceled her lesson.
It’s started to rain, fat drops spitting against the windshield. I turn on the wipers.
Adi is a statue. Somehow that makes her words sharp as scalpels. “I want my fucking normal life, okay? Can’t you let me have that right now?”
This shuts me up for the rest of the drive. Pound-pound-pound goes the rain. Drowning us.
“Do you want me to pick you up after?” I ask. “Or I could wait for you?”
“I’ll take the bus home.” She opens the car door, and I realize she forgot to buckle her seat belt.