The phone is not on silent as it usually is during the night. I wait for it to ring, hoping it won’t, hoping I’ll sleep through to morning. But at ten minutes to six when “Here Comes the Sun” charges out of its little aluminum body, I only need to lift myself out of a half-sleep to answer.
“Hello.”
“Simone.”
“Harold.”
“Simone.”
“When?”
“Two hours ago. We didn’t want to wake you.”
A swell of pain and I curl into myself, the phone hot against my ear.
“Simone.”
“Yes.”
“Natan went quietly. Didn’t suffer. They kept him on morphine.”
“Good.”
“Right before, before he stopped talking, he made me promise to take care of you and Lou.”
“Thank you, Harold.”
“You’re family, Simone, my sister, no different than if Nat were here.”
Harold starts crying.
I curl in tighter. My eyes and nose leak wet.
“When’s the funeral?”
“Tomorrow. Can’t believe your government closed the airport entirely. Damn this Covid.”
A wail tips out of me. I cover my face with the pillow. Lou sleeps in the next room.
“Simone?”
“I’m okay. It’s just. . . I want to come home for this and can’t.”
The word home reaches down through layers and years. Snowdrifts covering cars. Thanksgiving Day floats readied by the museum. Central Park. The Hudson. And more, and more. Home. Parents. I want my parents. I want my old neighborhood, its trees, its river, brick buildings, and concrete sidewalks. I want my old friends. And Zabar’s and bookstores with thousands of books in English.
“Simone, I’ve got to go. Lots of phone calls and arrangements.”
“You know Natan wanted to be buried here, in Tel Aviv. It’s not...
Subscribe now to keep reading
Please enter your email to log in or create a new account.