Chapter Fourteen
Hadassah

REALIZING THAT THE PATH OF MY LIFE had been irrevocably fixed, I grew resigned to marrying Binyamin. I told myself I would grow fond of him in time, and fondness would surely turn to love. Miriam assured me that I would love whomever I chose to make precious to me, and that through caring for Binyamin, he would become more precious than life itself.

After saying these words, she glanced over at the fire, where Mordecai sat squinting at a scroll. Though Miriam could no longer be called beautiful, at that moment her cheeks flushed and a sparkle lit her eyes. Comeliness returned to her face, and I realized that love had brought it back.

“May it be so,” I murmured, thinking of Binyamin. May my eyes shine when I am old and worn out. . . .

The days of waiting melted into weeks, and weeks into months as spring flowered into summer. Mordecai kept busy with his work, while Miriam continued to take care of the house, though she began to leave more of her responsibilities to me. At first I chafed at the extra work, and then I realized she was trying to prepare me for the life that would soon be mine.

I was standing at the well, holding an empty jug on my hip, when Devorah, a woman from our neighborhood, came huffing up the hill, her face flushed and perspiring. “Hadassah! You are needed at home.” She narrowed her eyes as if I had lingered by the well to escape my chores. “Miriam is ill.”

I should have dropped my jug and run home, but the woman’s chiding tone irritated me. “What’s wrong?” I asked, imagining that Miriam had twisted her ankle again. “I haven’t drawn the water yet.”

“Leave your jar.” Devorah’s gaze met mine, and her burning eyes held me still. “And pray that you make it home before your cousin departs this life.”

I stared. Surely the woman wasn’t serious. Miriam had been fine when I saw her last; she sent me to the well and asked me to stop by the bazaar to see if any figs were available. Miriam was never ill—clumsy, yes, especially lately, but she had never taken to her bed, not for a single day. . . .

I left my jar and sprinted home, my tunic flapping around my ankles and kicking up dust. I burst through the courtyard gate and entered the house, narrowly avoiding a chicken that had stopped to scratch the earthen floor. “Miriam!”

“Over here, Hadassah.”

The voice wasn’t Miriam’s. I spotted my cousin in a dark corner, lying on her straw-filled mattress. Mikhal, another neighbor, bent over her, holding an oil lamp aloft as she examined Miriam’s lined face.

I sank to a low stool, reeling with confusion. Half of Miriam’s face was composed in gentle lines, as if she were resting, but the other half had been pulled downward by some invisible hand. I had seen unbaked clay figurines droop in the same way when sprinkled with water, but I had never expected to see such an expression on Miriam’s face.

I tugged on Mikhal’s sleeve. “What’s wrong?”

Mikhal shook her head, then used a soft cloth to wipe a string of spittle from Miriam’s mouth. “She was fine,” Mikhal said, the sound of tears in her voice. “She was in the courtyard, talking to me over the wall, and suddenly she said something foolish. I laughed and asked what she meant, and she simply looked at me, her eyes confused. I reached for her, but she fell. By the time I ran around the wall, she was—” Mikhal pointed to Miriam’s distorted face—“like this. I have sent for a physician, but I don’t know if he will be able to help.”

“And Mordecai?” I glanced toward the doorway, hoping my cousin had somehow intuited this tragedy and come rushing home. “Did you send word to the King’s Gate?”

A frown filled the space between Mikhal’s brows. “I had no one to send. I sent Devorah to get you, and Rachel to get the doctor. Who could I send to the King’s Gate?”

I covered my mouth, horrified by the sight of Miriam’s mangled countenance. What was I supposed to do?

“Your place is here.” As if to emphasize her point, Mikhal placed the damp cloth in my palm, then guided my hand toward my cousin’s cheek. “You should care for her now. She has done so much for you.”

I knew she was right. I stood on trembling legs and approached the bed, then knelt by Miriam’s side. I tentatively brushed the corner of her mouth and looked into the one open eye.

And gasped.

The black pupil, usually so perfectly round in its band of brown, had spattered within its orb. It stared at me, open and unmoving. I didn’t need a physician to tell me Miriam was dead.

Something erupted from within me. I tried to clamp my mouth shut to stifle a cry, but I began to sob in a high, helpless hacking sound. I threw my arms around Miriam and hugged her as if I could hold her spirit in its place.

While I wept, Mikhal squeezed my shoulder.

“She is gone,” the woman said, releasing a heavy sigh. “The grave has taken her. See? No breathing, not anymore. We will have to wash and wrap her for burial. Pull yourself together, Hadassah. First we work, then we mourn.”

I sat up, hot spurts of loss and love rolling down my face. I never knew my father, and I was a baby when my mother died. I had known loss, but I never felt real grief until that moment.

I stood, trying to control myself, but my lip wobbled and my eyes leaked in spite of my intentions. I wanted to prove to Mikhal and Devorah that I was capable of handling whatever life might throw at me, but I couldn’t handle this.

I wiped my face on my veil and took a long, slow breath.

Death had come to our home like an unwelcome guest. Just this morning Miriam had been living, breathing, and working, yet a few hours later she lay still and damaged. And we would have to bury her quickly, so we would need more women to prepare the body.

And someone had to tell Mordecai. I lifted my head and glanced around. Devorah had taken a bowl and gone outside, presumably in search of water, and Mikhal was cutting the tunic from Miriam’s body. I would help them, I would, but I had to do something first.

Forgetting everything else, I spun away from Mikhal and Devorah and ran toward the royal fortress.

Mordecai briefly entered the house to view his beloved Miriam, then retired to the courtyard with the rabbi, as was proper for any man who did not wish to be ceremonially defiled. I joined the women who had washed my cousin’s body, dressed her in a simple garment, and laid her out on the table. Now they were sprinkling her remains with spices to disguise the smell of death. Because the day was neither a holy day nor the Sabbath, we would bury her before sunset.

I sat on a stool at my cousin’s feet, marveling at their yellowed color even as I struggled to breathe. The air in the house seemed thick with the heaviness of grief.

“The Persians do not understand why we take such pains with the body,” Mikhal said, lowering her voice as if she feared someone might overhear. “But I have seen what they do when someone dies. After cutting themselves and weeping, they carry their dead out to the fields and leave them to the vultures. Later, they go back and bury the bones.” She shuddered. “I cannot believe they think their practice respectful.”

“They do not know any better,” Devorah said, speaking in the same low tones. She unrolled a strip of cloth beneath Miriam’s jaw and tied it at the top of my cousin’s head, effectively closing the mouth. “In this land where a man may worship whatever god he chooses, nothing is holy. No one respects the laws of any god.”

“But we know better.” Mikhal placed a clean square of woven cloth over Miriam’s face, then looked directly at me. “Aye, Hadassah?”

Her question jolted me back to reality. My thoughts had wandered as I imagined Parysatis caring for the body of her dead mother. Would she really carry the remains out into the fields? Would she and Babar dump their beloved mother on the ground like garbage?

“The mourners have arrived.” Another neighbor, a woman I had often seen with Miriam, entered the house, dragging a wooden bier behind her. “And so has this. Mordecai rented it from the carpenter.”

Mikhal tilted her head and regarded the bier with suspicion. “Altogether plain, isn’t it?”

“Mordecai knows best.” The woman left the bier on the floor and regarded our handiwork. “As one who moves so freely among the people of Susa, perhaps Mordecai doesn’t want to emphasize the differences in our customs.”

The women sighed, then drew closer to the table where Miriam lay on a length of fine linen. Accompanied by the cries and ululations of the mourners outside, the women lifted the remaining length of cloth and pulled it over Miriam’s frame, tucking the edges beneath the body. When they had finished, they looked at me. “Have you anything to add, Hadassah?”

I drew a breath, but couldn’t speak over the lump in my throat.

“That’s all right.” Mikhal gave me the first smile I’d received since learning the awful news. “Death comes as a shock to one so young, but now you are the woman of the house. How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I managed to whisper.

“More than ready for a husband, then, so prepare yourself. With Miriam gone, you need to move to your own home with your own husband. This is the way of all living things.”

I bowed my head as the hard hand of guilt smacked me. Mordecai had been so patient with me. He had stalled my impatient husband-to-be and diplomatically convinced Binyamin’s father that I needed more time with my family. But with half my family gone, how could he continue to delay the inevitable?

I stood, knowing that I was not only about to bury the only mother I had ever known, but a life of uncommon freedom and opportunity. Binyamin would soon come to make me his wife, and I had no more excuses.