But then again, it’s not like he’s said anything to explain his presence here either.
“Oh, you didn’t need to do that,” Michal says, but when she peeks inside and spots the babka, she goes, “Hell yes, good choice. People are going to fight over this bread.”
She introduces us to some of the other people who have gathered here, including her wife, Shoshana, an adorable five-foot-nothing woman wearing a blond wig and a gauzy kerchief who ignores my extended hand in favor of outright hugging me—one-armed, since the other arm holds the fattest baby I’ve ever seen.
“Gut Shabbos,” Shoshana says. “Michal’s told me so much about you.”
I feel my cheeks pinken. I can only imagine what Michal had to say. I mean, how would I describe me to someone else? Especially after I flaked on the last Shabbos dinner?
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I say, falling back on politeness. “And who is this?”
“This is Hadas,” Shoshana says. “She just turned six months.”
I grin and hold out my finger for Hadas to latch onto. She gives me a gummy smile, just two little teeth sticking out above her bottom lip. “She’s adorable. I had no idea Michal had a daughter.” She’d mentioned the stepson, but that’s it.
“She’d tell you she’s glad you missed her awkward pregnant stage,” Shoshana says.
“Valid.” I glance around at the apartment, its gorgeous art, and I’m overwhelmed by the sense that I ought to be here. Or at least, if not here, then someplace like this. Someplace warm, with someone I love. A future with a family, even if that doesn’t involve children. Not for me.
I want it so bad it’s like a sailor’s knot twisted rough and tight in my stomach.
You gave up this life, a voice murmurs in the back of my mind. You left.
“You have a beautiful home,” I say at last, although with my dry mouth it seems to come out scratchy and raw.
“What?” Shoshana says. “Oh, no, this isn’t ours. This is Kinneret’s house. We’re just borrowing it for tonight. We switch around—someone new hosts each time. And sometimes, if the weather’s nice, we’ll meet in a park for Kabbalat Shabbat instead.”
Somehow it had literally never occurred to me that you could celebrate Shabbos outside. But I guess there’s no real prohibition against it, at least for the evening services. Usually those just involve a few prayers and songs, followed by dinner—or at least an oneg with snacks and wine. I just—still—can’t put my finger on this group. Kinneret seems to have materialized a mechitza from somewhere and is erecting it in the space between the living room and the small fenced-in backyard. Which I guess means we’re going to have a service at Kinneret’s house, the way you might with a Chabad couple on shlichus. The mechitza cloth is meant to separate men and women during prayers and is very much an Orthodox thing. But on the other hand, I’ve never been to an Orthodox service quite like this.
“Would you like to do the honors?” Michal asks me when it’s time to light the candles, offering me a box of matches. They’re the long kind, the sort that can be used for decoration or to light fireplaces.
“I—” I glance sidelong, hoping for Wyatt to step in and save me. But he, traitor that he is, just nods and smiles encouragingly. “Well, I was hoping to get a photo of someone else doing it. For my project. If that’s still okay.”
“Ah, right, of course,” Michal says, tossing both hands up as if to say, Silly me. “How could I forget! Shoshana, it’s all you, my love.”
Her wife takes over, and I lift my camera, focusing the lens so that the flame sparks like magic as she bends it toward the wick. I want to capture the glow of gold light in the air, the warmth that bathes Shoshana’s face as she folds her hands around the flames and draws them toward herself once, twice, three times. Here, only Shoshana is performing the mitzvah—but in Chabad every girl lights candles, even as young children. Every Shabbos I’d light my little votive next to my sisters and my mother. We’d murmur the blessing together. I wish my lens could immortalize the feeling of standing there whispering the bracha and knowing you’re carrying on the same tradition as your mother, and her mother, and her mother, all the way back for thousands of years.
A tradition I broke.
One of the men starts singing “Lecha Dodi,” and I snap another photo, another, as other voices join in.
If I were to close my eyes, I could be back there again. I could hear my father’s voice coursing over the notes like cool water over stone. See my mother’s cheeks amber in the candlelight, auburn strands glittering in her sheitel and falling across her face as she tips forward in prayer. My sisters and I lighting our own candles and murmuring brachos under our breath. Dvora with her secret smile just for me, our hands lacing together as our mother prays for us. For our family.
I wonder if she really believed that would be enough.
I lower my camera and glance down at the screen, flipping through the last few shots I’ve taken. Wyatt peers over my shoulder, his breath a warm gust against the curve of my ear.
“These look good,” he says, low enough that only I can hear him over the song. “You’ve captured the magic.”
I don’t know if that’s true or if it’s even possible. I feel strange right now, disembodied almost. Similar to the way I used to feel when I was high—as if flesh and bone were just constructs. My skin tingles where Wyatt’s breath touched it, and I sway on my feet. I imagine him wrapping his arms around me and pulling me close, holding me like Michal is holding Shoshana, her lips grazing Shoshana’s temple.
Too much. I whisper my thanks and step back, letting Wyatt join the stream of men heading into the back garden for prayers.
This part is familiar. I’ve been to a thousand Chabad services just like it—the murmur of baritone voices reciting Hebrew, the women whispering among each other, one lady bouncing a baby on her knee while Shoshana and Kinneret fawn over its tiny chubby hands. The only person not separated out is the nonbinary person I’d spotted earlier, whose chair is positioned exactly halfway between inside and outside, one foot in the women’s space and one in the men’s.
I was worried about how we were going to get away with skipping the wine at kiddush without making things awkward, but I shouldn’t have been. Wyatt is smoother than I give him credit for; I’ve just finished snapping a fresh photo as the mechitza comes down before he’s there, passing a cup of grape juice into my hand. I don’t think anyone even notices.
Not that I’m ashamed of my sobriety. But.
Some of the tension has leached out of me by the time we’re seated properly at the dinner table. The food is a mix of things I’m used to—typical Ashkenazic cholent and kugel—and more Sephardic things, like golden-brown kibbeh stuffed with mint and lamb. I help myself to a stuffed pepper that oozes spicy tomato sauce onto a bed of couscous and tastes better than a lot of meals I’ve had in Manhattan restaurants.