Mrs. Ramos throws her head back, chuckling. “I love to feed people, and I love it when they love my food!”
Emma puts a hand on her hip and looks at her. “How’s the knee?”
“It’s good,” Mrs. Ramos says in the soft Puerto Rican accent that Emma so enjoys. A torn meniscus put Mrs. Ramos into surgery and brought her here nearly two months ago for therapy.
“Are you being careful at work?”
“Yes!”
“Honest?”
The petite woman laughs. “Yes, honest! I sit on a stool when I’m rolling out the dough, and I sit on a chair when I work the cash register.”
“And you’re doing your exercises?”
She nods. “Yes, yes. I’m doing so many exercises I could go to the Olympics.” Mrs. Ramos extends her leg as Emma keeps her hands on the knee, feeling the motion.
“What’s the latest in the wedding plans?” Mrs. Ramos asks.
Emma tries to smile and makes her voice sound happy. “Sarah and Mom will be trying out caterers today. Can you do ten extensions for me?”
Mrs. Ramos does as she’s instructed and smiles. “And how is that cute boyfriend of yours?”
Emma shrugs. “The same. Working hard and going to law school.”
“Wedding bells in the future?”
“None that I’m aware of.” Emma leans in, whispering, “I’m not sure he’s the marrying type. Or maybe I’m not the type he wants to marry.”
Mrs. Ramos pats her arm. “That is impossible to believe. God has wonderful plans for you. Sometimes we’re just hard-of-hearing.”
Emma smiles. Mrs. Ramos reminds her so much of her own mom that she never gets angry or irritated when she brings up God. Somehow, God is a friend to both her mom and Mrs. Ramos, and somewhere deep inside she wishes she could be more like them.
CHAPTER 3
Israel
Twenty-seven-year-old Dr. Zerah Adler gets into his car in the physicians’ parking lot at Hadassah Medical Center in Jerusalem and begins the drive to Modiin, eighteen miles west of Jerusalem. He grew up there and thought he would eventually leave, but the parks, countryside, wineries, easy access to the airport, and his family have kept him rooted in the suburbs while other young professionals choose Tel Aviv, Petah Tikva, or some other city boasting high-tech industries. He lives in a small apartment just five miles from his parents.
He drives straight to their home, a small single-story house with a basement, in the neighborhood where Zerah rode his bike on the streets and played basketball and soccer at the park around the corner. When Zerah opens the door, the smell of chicken schnitzel makes him smile. “My favorite!” he says, closing the door.
“Zerah!” His mother Ada walks into the living room, drying her hands on the kitchen towel, the one with the apples printed on it. She grabs his face, kissing his cheek. “So glad you could join us! How was your work today? Come, come,” she says, leading him into the kitchen.
He pops a couple of spiced cracked olives into his mouth, nodding. “Good.”
His mother opens the oven door, looking inside at her noodle kugel. “Making progress in your research?”
Zerah has been part of a team researching what they hope will be a breakthrough in Parkinson’s disease. “I hope.” He reaches for some pita bread, tearing off a piece before dipping it into another of his favorites, his mother’s famous baba ganoush, careful to get a few slices of Kalamata olives sitting on top of the dip. “Mm! The best,” he says. “My whole meal could be this.” He scoops another piece of pita into the dip.
“Why do they keep you there so late each evening?”
“They don’t keep me there. I choose to be there and finish what I’ve started. Besides, seven-thirty isn’t that late,” he says, sliding another bite into his mouth.
She taps the face of her watch. “It’s eight-o’clock and it’s too late if you want to have a family. Little ones go to bed at this time.”
Zerah smiles, reaching for a few more spiced olives. “Well, the good thing is I don’t have a family right now.”
His mother puts the platter of chicken schnitzel on the table. “And you’ll never find a woman working these crazy hours.”
He sighs in exasperation and changes the subject. “Where’s Dad?”
“Downstairs watching the news. He turns it up so loud that I can’t hear myself think, so I make him go down there.”
Zerah removes the noodle kugel from the oven for his mom and places it on top of hot pads on the kitchen table. Whereas some cooks would take a shortcut and use applesauce in their kugel, his mom always takes the time to grate fresh apples into hers. “Mm,” he says, breathing in the aroma. “I’ll go get him.” He shoves another large bite of the baba ganoush into his mouth before opening the door to the basement. The voice of the newscaster pronouncing doom and gloom over the entire world fills the kitchen and Ada rolls her eyes, shaking her head. Zerah closes the door behind him.
His parents bought this home over twenty years ago because one room in the basement was a bomb shelter, a place that Zerah and his sister Rada ran to many times while they were growing up. One of his earliest memories of a bomb shelter was when he was around seven or so, huddled in a neighbor’s shelter playing cards with a girl two or three years older than him. His parents never let him or Rada live in fear; this was simply something that had to be done from time to time. The stark room features nothing more than a small television set, a two-decadesold couch, and a few folding chairs around a small folding table. The walls are still plain and gray, and his dad looks like he’s staring at a TV in a sterile waiting room.
Zerah watches as his dad’s hand shakes while pointing the remote at the TV. In a cruel twist of irony, his father Chaim was diagnosed with essential tremor, a cousin to Parkinson’s disease, just six months after Zerah landed the research position at the university. He has felt helpless, as his medical degrees have done little to help alleviate his father’s tremors. “Dad,” he says, touching his dad’s shoulder. “Dinner’s ready.”
“Zerah!” his father says, clicking off the TV. “I forgot you were coming! Of course you were. The only time we eat this late is when you’re coming.”
Zerah hugs his dad. “Not you too! I just took my first round from Mom.”
His father laughs. “She’s your mom. She worries. Your life is work, work, work.” He shrugs. “To your mother that’s unnatural. There’s an order to things for her.” He pats Zerah’s cheek. “I’ve got your back. In the meantime, you keep doing what you’re doing. Only wonderful things are ahead!”
Queens, NY
Emma uses earphones to talk with her mother on the phone as she makes the bacon appetizers. “So finger foods are cheaper than an actual meal for the wedding?” she asks, spreading ricotta cheese onto several toasted baguette slices.
“It ends up being about three dollars less a plate,” her mom says.
“Uh-huh,” Emma says, wanting to be interested. “Has Sarah asked Uncle Robert to walk her down the aisle?” Her heart hurts at the thought of having an uncle walk her sister down the aisle, and she misses her dad all over again.