“Here, put this on,” Carole says, pushing a torn black ribbon and a safety pin into my hands.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Just put it on, please. We’re supposed to wear them. Don’t ask me why; I can’t remember much of anything at the moment.” The doorbell rings, and Carole stands up straight, making an attempt at a smile. “Okay, Little Bug, here we go.”
30
Sitting Shiva, Day Two
Sitting shiva hasn’t been the tooth-pulling experience I expected it to be. Yes, it is difficult greeting people I hardly know and some, I swear, I have never seen before. But the worst part is being stuck in a loop of consolations: How are you doing? Such a tragedy! And the most egregious—she is in a better place now. What the absolute fuck! It’s a good thing my mother was overworked and exhausted, fell asleep at the wheel, and crashed into a tree? To go where? What better place? The best place is here with me and Carole. Fuck that!
The best part of sitting shiva was having PJ and Mags with me all last evening. Neel had a family obligation and couldn’t make it, but he will be coming over later tonight. The biggest surprise—and shock—for me was when PJ’s friend, Suzi, arrived in her usual dressed-for-death look. I wasn’t surprised by her inky-black lips or fork-tailed trench coat, but I was shocked, and genuinely touched, that she wanted to stop by. I have spent the entire semester convinced she hates me. Even PJ didn’t know she was coming. Through her kindness, I came to see the vulnerable, sweet side of her that PJ has been telling me about. The four of us sequestered ourselves in my room most of the night eating bagels and talking. That was the best part of shiva. One more night to go.
“What are we going to do with all this food?” Carole says, seemingly talking to no one from the kitchen. At the moment, the apartment is hushed. It’s Aunt Sarah, Carole, PJ, Mags, and me. Aunt Sarah is taking a nap on my bed, and even though we shouldn’t, Mags, PJ, and I are playing video games. We’ve had a few visitors today, but it’s been mostly quiet. That will all change as soon as evening arrives, and everyone comes for the Rabbi’s prayer.
My cell phone rings, and it’s Neel. He is in the parking lot with a back seat filled with food. “Simon, can you guys help me bring all this stuff up?”
“Sure, we’ll be right there.”
Mags, PJ, and I meet Neel in the parking lot, and it’s a good thing there are four of us, because Mrs. Gupta appears to have been cooking since five o’clock this morning.
“Whoa!” I say. “Carole is going to freak out. I don’t know where we are going to put all this food.”
“I know,” Neel says. “I tried to tell my mother she was going overboard, but she wouldn’t listen. She doesn’t know how to stop. Oh, and Simon, I’m sorry about your mom. She was always so nice to me. I will miss her too.”
“Thanks.”
“Neel, are these samosas in this tray?” Mags asks. Leave it to her to steer the conversation.
“Yes, I think so.”
Without a word, Mags carries the tray of samosas over to her car and secures them in her back seat. She saunters back to Neel’s car. We look on, dumbfounded.
“What?” she says. “You just said you had too much food.”
“Here, don’t worry.” Neel hands me a small brown bag with my name scrawled in black Sharpie. “These are special ones. I don’t know what makes them special, but Mom knows how much you like her samosas. She wanted to make sure these were just for you.”
“Um, hello? Why is there no special bag for me?” Mags says in exasperation. “Your mom knows I love her samosas too.”
“Um, hello, you’re not the one whose mother died, and, besides, you helped yourself to an entire tray of them. There must be like twenty in there.”
Mags ignores Neel and heads off toward the apartment building carrying another tray of food. We carry the bounty inside, and Carole gives Neel a hug and tells him to thank his mother for being so generous. Neel goes to the dining room to pour himself some Dr. Brown’s cream soda from the drink station.
Carole throws her hands up in the air as I walk over to her.
“We have no room left in the refrigerator,” she whispers, “and there’s no counter space. What are we going to do with all this food? It’s going to spoil.”
I don’t know what to say. The doorbell rings, and to my surprise, it’s Suzi, back again for the second night. Today, she arrives with a foil-covered casserole.
“Surprise! I made a kugel with my mom,” she says with a slight frown. She hesitates in the doorway holding the rectangular pan. “Um, are you going to invite me in?”
“Oh, sorry. I was just trying to figure out where you can put it. Come on in, we’ll figure something out. Thanks for coming back.”
What Suzi can’t possibly know is that this is the fourth kugel someone has brought today. In the Jewish tradition, you don’t send flowers; you bring food—lots and lots of food.
“So, I want you to know that I’m still angry at you for the way you treated PJ. Also, the jury is still out on whether I actually like you. But PJ is important to me, and you, for some reason, are important to PJ. So, here we are… Bet you didn’t know I can cook and that I’m Jewish too, huh?”
PJ and Mags howl with laughter.
