For Phillip—
Thank you for always encouraging my love of writing. You were the best brother in the world, and we didn’t get enough time together. I’ll love and miss you forever.
Your sister,
Laura
Chapter One
Barbra Streisand grinds and grinds before sputtering to a stop.
“Ugh!” I call out, and then plead with my car. “Barbra, sweetie.” I place my hand on her dashboard and rub in soothing circles. “I need you to start. I’m going to be late for work. Will you start for me? Pretty please? Okay, ready?”
I turn the keys again. The grinding sound is worse this time, metallic shrieking. “Darn you!” I yank out the key. It’s a freezing December morning, and as I exhale, I can see my frosted breath.
My phone buzzes with a text from Cheyenne: I just folded my 75th sweater of the morning. When do you get here?
The mall opens earlier than usual this week for the Christmas rush. Cheyenne has already been folding clothes at the Gap for an hour, and I’m supposed to be at Once Upon, the independent bookstore I work at, in twenty minutes.
I text back: Hopefully soon! Barbra won’t start
She replies: Rough! I’ll drive you home later
I send her an emoji kiss face, then step out of my car, tug my coat tight, and hurry inside. Mom and Mama are still home, but the house is silent. I peek into the living room first, then the kitchen. Nothing. I thud upstairs to their bedroom, but the door is shut. Muffled voices filter into the hallway at an inaudible murmur. Usually their door is open. Usually I’d waltz right inside and jump on their bed, playing with the tassels of a throw pillow while asking for a ride. But now their door is closed, dampening the tense voices inside.
I take a short breath, then square my shoulders and knock with two quick raps.
The voices stop, and moments later, Mom opens the door. We have the same brown eyes and the same curly brown hair, but her eyes are tired, and her hair is pulled back into a frizzy braid. It really needs a deep condition. I want to recommend a recipe for a great avocado hair mask I found online, but reading the room, now is not the time for hair-care essentials.
“Shoshanna,” Mom says. “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”
Her voice almost snaps, like she’s mad at me or something. I fiddle with my Star of David necklace and rock back on my heels. “Barbra won’t start. Again. Can I get a ride to the mall?”
“That car should’ve been junked years ago,” Mom mutters.
My pulse skips. She can’t junk Barbra Streisand. Yes, she’s old, passed down from my moms to me, but I need a car, and my Once Upon paycheck doesn’t cover much more than gas and insurance. “Um.” I clear my throat. “I don’t want to be late. Christmas rush and all.”
Mama walks over to us. Her blond hair is still wet from the shower, and she’s wearing her silk peach bathrobe, cinched lightly above her rounded hips. It’s strange, both of them standing by the cracked door, bare feet on their bedroom carpet, while I’m here in the hallway, boots on the hardwood floor.
“I wish I could take you,” Mama says. “But I’m teaching a class soon and need to get ready. Sorry, love.”
I give her a small smile. “That’s okay, Mama.”
“Fine.” Mom’s voice does snap this time. “I’ll take you on the way to work, then. I’ll be downstairs in five.”
“Okay.” I twist my fingers together. “Thanks.”
Mom nods and slides back into the room, closing the door behind her. Their murmurs continue, slightly louder than before. I catch a snippet about dirty dishes. Dishes? Is that really why they’re arguing?
I walk downstairs, but instead of going straight to the garage, I head into the kitchen. The coffeepot sits in the sink. Next to it are a spoon and a mug with an ounce of milky coffee at the bottom. It’s a silly thing to fight about; I can fix it, just like that, and everyone will be happy. I slip off my coat, pull on our pair of ladybug-patterned dish gloves, and wash and dry each piece.
* * *
Mom pulls to a stop in front of the mall and then slips a lipstick out of her purse. She applies the creamy pink color in two easy strokes. When I was younger, I’d sprawl out on her bedroom floor, rummaging through her countless bags of cosmetics and perfumes, while she sat at her vanity rubbing in moisturizer and lining her eyes with soft brown pencil. It was calm, our little sanctuary.
“Do you need a ride home later?” Mom asks, capping the lipstick. She sees me eyeing it. “Go on.”
Tension eases from my shoulders as I take her offering. She’s not mad at me. Of course not. It’s not like she was going to jump for joy upon hearing Barbra broke down yet again. “Cheyenne can drive me home,” I say. “Thanks, though!”
I pull down the passenger mirror and apply the color, immediately smudging some onto my skin. I rub my finger at the corner of my mouth to fix it and try not to feel like a little kid playing dress-up. Then I press my lips together and smile. The color is a much softer pink than my jacket and looks nice with my rosy winter cheeks.
“Pretty,” Mom replies. And then, “I need to get to work.”
“Right.” I place the lipstick in the center console. “Well, thanks for the ride.”
I unbuckle my seat belt, grab my tote bag, and slide out of the car. But as I’m about to shut the door, Mom turns to me, her eyes softened. “I’ll ask Eve to swing by later, see what it’ll take to fix Barbra. Okay?”
I beam. “Okay!” Eve is our family friend and a mechanic. Mom met her in their kickboxing class like a decade ago, and Eve always makes house calls when one of the cars, usually Barbra—okay, always Barbra—needs fixing. “See you at Latkepalooza tonight?”
“Of course,” Mom says. “See you tonight.”
I shut the door, and Mom gives a quick wave before driving away.
Latkepalooza is our last-night-of-Hanukkah family tradition. We aren’t the light-the-candles-all-eight-nights type of Jews, but we make sure to celebrate at least one evening with latkes and dreidel. My moms and I love spending time with each other, whether it’s for Latkepalooza, a 90 Day Fiancé marathon, or a night out bowling. We just click, fitting seamlessly together like the two-thousand-piece puzzle we tackled last year. One summer we even made it through a sixteen-hour road trip to New York without getting into a single argument, which is probably like a world record for traveling families everywhere.
But things have been different lately. Open doors and TLC binges have been replaced with shut doors and arguments. And more common than fighting, there’s been silence, all of us disconnected. As Mom drives away, I try to shake off my unease. It’s probably nothing. Just petty squabbles over dishes. We’ve all been busy—Mom works a million hours a week, Mama paints on the screened-in porch, space heater running full blast, often well past dinnertime, and now that it’s winter break, even I’m pulling double shifts. But tonight we’ll all light the candles and open presents and eat stacks of fried potatoes with applesauce, the best topping, and everything will be good again.
The frigid December air cuts through my jacket as I walk toward the mall entrance. It’s barely eight in the morning, but the parking lot is already half full. A silver sedan roams the packed front rows, looking for a close spot. I enter through the east-wing doors and sigh in relief at the burst of warm air. Most of the food court restaurants are still closed, but employees prep in the back, shouting to each other and blasting music. Starbucks is open, the line already fifteen people deep. I’m running late, so I ignore my taste buds begging for a peppermint mocha.