Won't You Love Me?

CHAPTER SEVEN

Name: Joseph Levitch

Year: 1939

Age: 13

This is it. This is the day I've been waiting for. It's March 16, my birthday. But not just any birthday; my 13th birthday. The only day of my life where I get to be the one everyone looks at, everyone smiles at and claps for, and everyone loves.

My eyes fly open to the comforting, tantalizing aroma of Bisquick and syrup, poached eggs, and the sharp, but sweet tang of sliced oranges. Excitement brings me to my senses immediately, and I throw off the covers, leaping onto my feet. The floor is freezing, but I'm so eager I don't care enough to put on my slippers.

Bounding into the kitchen, I see Grandma Sarah placing two plates at the table sitting just a few feet from the oven and fridge. I sit down, fingers unconsciously tracing the chipped metal edge of the table. Grandma looks down at me, pleasantly surprised, and exclaims, "Joey! I was just going to wake you up! Happy birthday, my love!" She wraps me in a big hug, kissing me on the cheek, and a feeling of complete comfort and safety washes over me. She loves me.

'Thanks, Grandma. I'm so excited for the Bar Mitzvah!"

"Of course you are. It's going to be a very special time, so keep the memories of it safe here." She gestures towards my forehead, and I nod, practically beaming. My stomach rumbles, and she laughs cheerily, putting a fork in my hand.

"Eat, Joey! It's your day to enjoy yourself. You're a man now!"

That's right. It's my day. The best day.

This is the worst day. I want to die. I want to shrink into the size of an ant and be crushed and never have to face anyone again. But I'm not that lucky as I stand in the middle of the nearly empty shul, reciting my portion of the Haftarah with a voice that at any moment threatens to break. But I can't let it.

As I feel the heat begin to rise to my cheeks, and my eyes sting, I clench my fist at my side, nails cutting crescents into my palm, until my eyes and throat are clear. I can't meet eyes with the only person gazing up at me with adoration; the only person here at all—Grandma. It's too shameful, too embarrassing to admit that I'm a nothing. I'm jerky, and I'm nothing.

Once it's all over I sit in the car numbly, staring out the window as Grandma drives me back to her house where the reception was supposed to be.

"They'll come. Don't worry, Joey. They'll come. They must have a perfectly good reason for being late." But they never do, I want to say to her. Shout to her. Scream to her. But I just sit there silently facing the window, misting it with ragged breath, and smudging it with tears shed.

When we cross the long concrete walk up to the front door, I swipe at my eyes with the back of my hand; wanting there to be people to greet me, but not exactly expecting anyone given the last reception I received.

However, when Grandma swings the door open, I am shocked by the smattering of applause and shouted congratulations that greet me. My feet are rooted to the ground, and my eyes eagerly roam the crowd for those two faces; those two wonderful, sweet, adoring faces . . . that are not there. All excitement fades away almost immediately, and I shuffle in with red-rimmed eyes.

I somehow manage to endure all of the pleasantries and congratulations, and end up sitting in a thatch-backed chair in the corner of the room—but the worst part of it all comes when they do arrive. Mom and dad waltz through the doorway in all their splendor, all smiles and laughter. No 'I'm sorry's for being late, no rush to find me and sweep me up in a congratulatory hug; a happy and proud hug. Instead they bask in the glory of neighbors and relatives telling them how proud they must be their son is now a man, that he finally got his bar mitzvah, that they did a great job organizing this reception. But they don't deserve any of it.

###

That evening when everybody has been gone for hours, grandma is sitting at the sewing table working on a new pair of pants for me.

I know where she is, but she doesn't know where I am—she hasn't even gone looking for me yet. I bring my knees to my chest and place my chin on my knees so the light from the kitchen doesn't touch me. With the wall on one side of me, and the back of the couch on the other, I feel safe. Lonely, but safe.

Why didn't mom and dad come to the ceremony when they said they would? They always forget to see me. Forget. What a funny word. It seems as if everyone forgets about me. The dumb, jerky kid.

I'm alone. Used to it by now, but it still hurts. It hurts bad. No matter how many times mom lets me down, no matter how many times she's not there when I want her- when I need her- I can't help missing her like she's a part of me. The part of me that tells me I'm loved. The part of me that holds me tight and strokes my hair. The part of me that tells me everything's going to be alright.

I can't help the warm tears that escape my eyes in a torrent, but I clap my hand over my mouth, stifled sobs racking my body. Nevertheless grandma hears me, and peeks over the top of the couch, lips curled into a sympathetic smile.

"Oh, Joey, come here. I'm right here, you're going to be okay." Sniffling, I wipe my eyes and crawl over the couch into her arms. Hiding my face in her neck, I feel a strong but gentle hand rubbing my back up, down, up, down. My breathing slowly returns to normal, and I untwist my fingers from her sweater, sitting up.

"Can I stay up while you sew?" The small, frightened plea from a child.

"Of course you can." The confident, reassuring answer from an adult, followed by an amused smile.

I crawl underneath the table, head on my hands as I wearily watch grandma's feet press the pedals. As my eyes grow heavy, I let them close, still listening to the sound of the pedals and the needle whirring. They're nice sounds, comforting sounds. They keep on going in that rhythm, and I know that for a little while everything's going to be okay . . .

###

Name: Joey Levitch

Year: 1940

Age: 14

That red light above the emergency entrance of the hospital glitters ominously; threateningly. It has all the power in the world. Please be okay, Grandma. Please. I can't live without you. You're the only one in the world who cares for me. But even you pity me.

I tear myself away from the window, away from the glaring light. A thousand wonderful, warm memories flood through my mind of Grandma and me. Cooking in the kitchen. Talking at the table. When she gave me that wonderfully thoughtful baseball cap for my birthday—I thought I'd never take it off.

Shaking my head to come back to the present, I look back up to the window. The hospital entrance is dark. The light's gone. With trembling hands I grab the phone book and desperately leaf through the thin pages until I find the hospital's number.

"Can you tell me how Sarah Rothberg is, please?"

"She has expired." An emotionless female voice says. My heart drops, but I ask with the most hopeful of voices, "Does that mean she's getting better?"

"No . . ." There's a pause on the other end, and then the voice says awkwardly, "I'm sorry. She died."

My throat goes tight, and my mouth runs dry . . . She died? Grandma? My Grandma Sarah? No, it can't be. She's the only one who loves me. Who asks me about school. Who asks me how I feel . . . and now she's gone, and I'm all alone.