Milk Fed - Melissa Broder Page 0,69

looked at a photo of the Dome of the Rock, its intricate blue tiles and beaming golden dome. Qubbat As-Sakhrah: Seventh-century Islamic edifice enshrining the rock from which Muhammad is said to have ascended to heaven, read the caption. I thought about my grandparents, and I wondered how they felt about this beautiful old mosque. Did they love it like they loved the rest of Israel? Probably not.

What did it mean to love something so much and also be wrong about it? What did it mean to love a version of something that might not really exist—not as you saw it? Did this negate the love? Was the love still real?

Mrs. Schwebel came into the living room again.

“Rachel,” she said, “would you please cover your arms when you’re in our home?”

It was true, I was still wearing the T-shirt I’d worn to sleep, and it only came to my elbows.

“Oh shoot,” I said, flailing. “I’m sorry.”

“And Ezra, let’s go,” she said.

I stood up, followed her out of the living room, Ezra crawling behind me. Why was I such an idiot? In the hallway, we ran into Miriam coming down the stairs.

“Hi Mom,” said Miriam.

Mrs. Schwebel looked at her.

“What?” she asked her daughter.

“Hi,” said Miriam.

“Hi,” she replied briskly.

When Mrs. Schwebel went into the kitchen, I made Miriam stay out with me in the hall.

“Hey,” I whispered. “I hope everything is okay. Your mother seems—weird.”

“Shhhh,” she said. “You have to be quieter!”

Sorry! I mouthed.

It was the first time I could remember Miriam ever scolding me. She beckoned me to follow her farther down the hall, away from the kitchen.

“This is why I didn’t want you here for Shabbat,” she hissed.

“Why?”

“You know. You should not have come upstairs last night.”

“You didn’t exactly kick me out.”

We were quiet.

“I’m sorry,” I said finally. “I’m not trying to cause a rift between you and your mother.”

“But you are!”

“Do you think she knows?” I asked.

“She may not know exactly. But something is up. She’s a smart woman.”

“And you care?”

“About what?”

“What she thinks.”

“Of course I do,” she said. “I love her.”

This kind of love seemed strange to me. It was not out of love that I’d obeyed my mother, not really. It was out of fear, the way a person might placate a punishing god. Ultimately, I’d always been terrified that if I didn’t please my mother, she would smite me. But I believed Miriam when she said that she cared out of love.

“Even if she is dead wrong?” I asked.

“Wrong about what?” asked Miriam.

“That two women together are… disgusting!”

“Yes, even if she’s wrong,” she whispered. “But she isn’t.”

I felt like she’d punched me in my throat. My tongue was thick and furry in my mouth.

“Do you want me to leave?” I asked.

“No!” she said. “That would look weird. You have to stay.”

I thought about Rabbi Judah Loew ben Bezalel in the calla lily. He had said that Miriam and I were a mitzvah. I wanted to tell her that a famous rabbi from the sixteenth century, a mystical rabbi from Prague, had given us his blessing.

“Okay,” I said.

CHAPTER 63

I wished I could enjoy Saturday’s Shabbat lunch, all of the Schwebels gathered around the table. But the cholent tasted different this time, bland. I found it hard to swallow it down. I wondered if the dish had ever been flavorful at all.

“Look at my soldier,” said Mrs. Schwebel, ruffling Adiv’s hair. “Doing god’s work. Spiritually and physically.”

What did she imagine Adiv was doing in Israel? How could she be so sure of what god thought: about soldiers, the occupation?

“Do we really know?” I murmured.

Miriam, seated next to me, nudged my leg with hers under the table. But Mrs. Schwebel had heard me.

“Excuse me?” she asked.

“Nothing,” I said.

Everyone at the table was silent. They all looked at me. I could feel my pulse beating in my temples.

“Please, Rachel,” said Mrs. Schwebel calmly. “I’d like to know what you said.”

I took a deep breath. A tiny piece of vegetable flew from my molar into my throat. I coughed it back out into my mouth, then swallowed it.

“I guess I was just wondering how we know,” I said. “Like know, know. What god wants.”

“God wants to see the state of Israel protected,” she said. “Don’t you think god wants to see Israel protected? Don’t you think god wants Israel to flourish?”

What had I done?

“I just mean—I guess it’s hard for me to believe that god is happy when people are suffering,” I said. “You know. With the occupation and everything. The