I remembered then the story she’d told me many years ago of birthing two sons, neither of whom had lived, and of her husband, Ruebel, who’d punished her for it with his fists. Remorse scorched my cheeks. “Forgive me. I forgot your dead sons. My words were cruel.”
“Your words were understandable. I remind you of my loss only because I wish to tell you something. Something I left out of my story.” She drew a deep breath. Outside the sun dipped and the room guttered. “There were two sons who died in infancy, yes. But there was also a daughter who lived.”
“A daughter.”
Her eyes brimmed—a rare sight. “When I was sent to the Therapeutae, she was two years old. Her name is Chaya.”
All at once a memory unwound. “Back in Sepphoris when you contracted the fever sickness, there was one night when you were lost in delirium and you called me by her name. You called me Chaya.”
“Did I? I can’t say I’m surprised. If Chaya is alive, she would be twenty-one years, almost as old as you. She had unruly hair like yours. I often think of her when I look at you. I’ve dreaded telling you about her. I feared what you would think of me. I left her behind.”
“Why do you tell me about her now?” I didn’t mean it cruelly. I truly wished to know.
“I should have told you long ago. I do so now because the death of your daughter has made my loss fresh again. I thought it might be a small solace for you to know I’ve suffered in a similar way, that I comprehend what it is to lose a daughter. Oh, child, I want no secrets between us.”
I couldn’t be angered by her deceit—it didn’t come from treachery. We women harbor our intimacies in locked places in our bodies. They are ours to relinquish when we choose.
“You may ask me the question,” she said. “Go ahead.”
I knew which one she meant. I said, “Why did you leave her?”
“I could tell you that I had no choice, and I think that’s mostly true; at least I believed it true at the time. It’s hard now to look back and know for certain. I told you once it was widely believed in Alexandria that I killed my husband with sorcery and poison, and for that I was sent away to the Therapeutae. They didn’t take in children, and I went to them anyway. Who can say now whether I might have found a way to keep my daughter? I did what I did.” Her face shone with pain as if her loss had only just happened.
“What became of her? Where did she go?”
She shook her head. “My brother Haran assured me he would care for her. I believed him. During all those years I was with the Therapeutae, I sent him many messages asking about her, without any response. After eight years, when Haran finally agreed I could leave the Therapeutae if I left Egypt, I begged to take her with me.”
“And he refused? How could he keep her from you?”
“He said he’d given her out for adoption. He would not tell me to whom or where she lived. For days I pleaded with him, until he threatened to revive the old charges against me. In the end I left. I left her behind.”
I pictured the girl, Chaya, with hair like mine. It was impossible to imagine what I might have done had I been in my aunt’s place.
“I made my peace with what happened,” she said. “I reasoned that Chaya was wanted and cared for. She had a family. Perhaps she didn’t even remember me. She was only two when I last saw her.”
She stood abruptly, stepping around the arrangement of broken pottery. She rubbed her fingers as if trying to unpeel them.
“You don’t look at peace,” I told her.
“You’re right, the peace has left me. Since Susanna died, Chaya has come every night in my dreams. She stands on a summit and begs me to come to her. Her voice is like