21 Marine Salute: 21 Always a Marine Tales (124 page)

So man up, Marine, and listen
.

The silence stretched out between them, and he forced patience while she studied him. Whatever she sought must have satisfied her because she held out her hand. “I want to share something I do every Hanukkah. Normally I do it alone, but you’re here and I want—I
need
to do it with you this year.”

Mild alarm rang through him and he ignored that as well, in favor of taking her hand. Her fingers threaded through his and the palm to palm clasp soothed him like a warm embrace. “Okay,” he said, the only word he could push out past the emotion clogging his throat. She tugged and he followed her into the community center, curiosity and dread an uncomfortable cocktail in his system.

Once inside, she hit the light switch and he shut the doors. Since the center should be closed, he went ahead and turned the lock. He didn’t need any unpleasant surprises walking in on them. Zehava gave his hand a squeeze then, releasing him, headed to the table with all of the menorahs. Wary, but curious, he followed.

“He was born in summer.” The words crashed down on him, and he was grateful her back was to him so he had time to absorb the blow and mitigate his reaction. “Our son, I mean,” she explained as though he might need the clarification.

His jaw hurt from clamping it shut, but he kept it closed. He couldn’t guarantee what would come out because the old anger roused like a bad case of heartburn to claw at his insides.

Squatting, Zehava pulled another menorah from beneath the table and set it on top. She ducked down again and took out two fresh candles. “I held him for a couple of hours after his birth.” The words were so soft he had to strain to hear them. “It took that long for the adopting family to arrive at the hospital. Mama stayed with me. She never said a word about the decision, in favor or against.”

Muscles cramping, he folded his arms and forced himself to stay exactly in place. The urge to storm out warred with the urge to hold her—both intent on tearing him apart. Maintaining his position was the best he could manage.

“I held him and I made him a promise. Well, a promise and a wish, actually.” Her voice trembled. “The first was I wished for him to have the best life he could have, with a wealth of opportunity, and a family who loved him. Both the parents who adopted him, and of course, the parents who gave him life.”

Hell opened up beneath Isaac and bellowed its fire through his soul. He stayed firm and didn’t give in to the need to slam his fist into the wall until it broke, or his knuckles did. He didn’t want to hear her damn story.

Yet, he desperately hung on every word.

“The second promise was I would light the menorah for him every year and remember him and pray for him. The first Hanukkah after his birth was very hard, but I kept my promise. I think I cried every night I lit the candles for him.” She twisted finally and looked at Isaac. “Would you light it with me this year?”

She held her breath after asking the question that had danced around in her mind all evening. Never had she felt so connected and yet utterly divided from the same person in the same moment. He stared at her, his expression inscrutable save for the muscle flexing in his jaw.

“Yes.”

The one word answer, single, rough, and raw, let her exhale and she fought a wave of dizzying relief. She held a candle out to him with trembling fingers. Isaac remained rooted in place, posture rigid. With agonizing slowness, he walked forward, until his hand closed on hers, steadying the shaking candle. Gentle as a breeze, he spun her, and they put the candle in position.

He didn’t let go of her, caging her slender fingers in a surprisingly careful grip. The trembling rippled upward until all of her quaked. Eight years had shrunk and stripped away, leaving her vulnerable to the past.

“The
Shamash
, Z.”

The murmured reminder jolted her and she rolled the wax candle between her fingers and held it up. He didn’t release her, but caught the end with his free hand and they lit from one of the other
Shamash
candles. “Do you…say anything, or just light it?”

Some dark emotion thickened his voice and her throat clogged with unshed tears. She fought for control, because what she’d asked from him wasn’t about her. “I do whatever feels natural,” she whispered, unwilling to release the hiccupping sob pushing up from her heart.

He sucked in a noisy breath of air. “Then I pray he always walks in sunshine and when night falls, he has a brother at his back.”

The weight of his expectation pressed down on her. “I pray he knows the simple joys of friendship and community, and that he never feels lonely.” She’d murmured that prayer for many years. Thankfully Isaac’s hand proved far steadier than hers, and they lit the first candle together.

Tears filmed her vision, and the flames wavered dangerously. Isaac settled the
Shamash
in the center and a cloak of silence wrapped around them. She thought he would let her go after but, if anything, his grip tightened.

“Tell me.” The request was so low it approached inaudible.

Stomach tying in knots, she dared a glance up and met his steady gaze. “All of it?”

He nodded.

She could do that. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she rested her head against his arm. Isaac stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. She stared at the wavering candles and barely saw them.

“It was June, hot and sultry and way too much humidity. I was miserable all the time, like I couldn’t regulate my body temperature, and that morning I woke up more miserable than usual. Nothing was comfortable—my back ached, my legs hurt, and I swear I could hear my pulse beating in my ears. Mama went to work, and I was supposed to walk down later and spend a couple of hours on the register. I got more and more uncomfortable as the day went on—I found out later I was having contractions, only I’d barely felt those. I’d made it to the shop when my water broke.”

Heat flushed through her, and she smiled at the memory. “I’ve never been so embarrassed or relieved in my entire life. There I was—standing on the sidewalk, and my pants were soaking wet like I’d just peed myself. Mama looked at me and said, ‘Well, that changes things.’”

A small, rough laugh dislodged from inside of her. “Mama was perfect, so calm and so rational. She sent all the customers home, put up the closed sign, locked the door, and ushered me to the car. Even at the hospital, when people started running around and giving orders, she was serene. I knew I could do it because I had her there. She held my hand, told me when to breathe and when to push, and never left me.”

Tears crept down her cheeks. “And then he was born…and it was wonderful and terrifying in the same breath. At first I didn’t want to hold him. I couldn’t imagine ever letting him go if they gave him to me. Still I couldn’t help it.” She licked the salty wetness from her lips. “He was perfect. Dark hair and dark eyes. Everyone swears babies’ eyes are blue, but not his. He had a really strong cry and stern little frown lines. I don’t think he enjoyed being born very much.”

Zehava closed her eyes and sucked her upper lip between her teeth. She’d fallen in love the first moment he’d lain in her arms, and the two hours she held him cemented that love and planted it deep in her soul.

“When the family came, I had a front row seat to their utter joy, and when I let his mother take him from my arms, I watched worry and fear leave them. They stayed another hour, and we talked and then they walked out of the room with the nurse. He couldn’t leave the hospital for another day at least, though he was their son now.” Their son and hers. “Mama said nothing until they left. She came and sat on the edge of the bed, took my hands, and I broke. I cried for hours. She said nothing, and simply held me. The next day she drove me home and took care of me until I recovered. When I was ready, she made me return to school, to work—to life.”

“You called me.” His voice held a ragged quality, and she chanced a look up at him. So many emotions clouded his expression—anger, regret, and sadness. It tore her apart.

“I did. You asked me if he’d been born.”

A curt nod was his only response.

“And I told you yes. Then you asked if I went through with it.” When she’d said she had, he hung up on her. Those were the last words they’d spoken before he’d come home.

He lifted their joined hands and kissed her knuckles, a whisper of his lips to her flesh, then released her. Pivoting on his heel, he strode away. Her heart sank, and she didn’t know what to say to stop him or if she even wanted to.

The door closed behind him, and he was gone.

He’d had to get out of there. For the barest of seconds, while she’d told him the story, he’d been in that room and felt her pain, loneliness, and—God help him—her courage to follow through with her choices no matter how difficult. Not once had he heard an ounce of self-pity or self-recrimination in her words. One of the toughest, most brutal days of her life, and he’d been thousands of miles away.

He remembered her phone call. The soft whisper of her voice—probably hoarse from tears. She’d called because she needed him and, blinded by his resentment, he hadn’t
listened
to her need. Isaac made it six blocks before he stopped and kicked a trashcan so hard it flew out into the street and bounced over twice. Thankfully, someone had already collected the garbage. He grabbed the can and hauled it back into place.

Then kicked it again.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he stood on the darkened street illuminated by a porch light here or a street lamp there. Cars lined the sidewalk on one side, while others sat parked in driveways. Families celebrating Hanukkah together or getting ready for Thanksgiving the next day, with kids out of school and parents taking vacation days. Some would travel, while others would be hosting. And he’d lit a candle for a son he’d never had a chance to see or to hold.

He walked and kept moving. Replaying the conversation in his head, he couldn’t get past the fact he’d cut her off. Yes, he’d been angry about her decision. Yes, he’d asked her to marry him.

She’d said no to the proposal. She wasn’t ready and, if he were completely honest, he hadn’t been ready either.
So the mature thing would have been to support her, but I didn’t do that
…. He’d signed the legal documents, had them witnessed, and sent them to her. He took her call and he hung up on her.

Then…nothing.

Eight bitterly long years of nothing.

By the time he returned to the community center, she’d locked it up, probably gone home. His watch told him it neared midnight. Of course she’d gone home. Walking to his parents was like a retreat through time, right down to finding his grandmother waiting on the front porch.

“Nona?” He opened the gate and stepped into the yard. His parents maintained their four-foot chain-link fence around the yard. It kept the neighbors off his mother’s flowers, and no one’s pet could have an
accident
on his father’s manicured lawn. Little things kept them happy.

“I wondered if you would be home tonight.” Although a diminutive woman, she ruled their household with absolute authority. His parents, despite their age, deferred to his grandmother in nearly every matter. So did his siblings.

Hell, so did Isaac, to a point. He’d talked about the Marines with her before anyone, including Zehava. She’d given him her blessing, and that had been enough.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” And he meant it. “I needed to walk off a mad.”

She patted the porch swing next to her and though he was a grown man, he took comfort in the familiar. Careful to keep the swing from swaying, he settled and braced it steady with his feet firmly on the porch.

“You still love her.” Nona sipped from a steaming mug. How many cups of tea had she sipped while waiting for him?

“I never stopped.” He’d forgotten how much he loved Zehava, tried to by burying it under resentment and hurt. If anything, spending the day with her reinforced how much he liked being in the same room with her. She’d been so vibrant and alive—even when she avoided him and he unsettled her.
And yes, I liked unsettling her
….

Nona patted his leg. “Then you will fight for her.”

“I thought I needed to forgive her.” He leaned forward, clasping his hands and staring into the past. “I thought if I could, then we could be friends again if nothing else.” But, he didn’t just want to be friends. He’d never wanted to be friends.

She thought he hadn’t noticed her until high school, and that wasn’t true. A year behind him in school, she’d always been a bit shy despite her warm nature. Added to that, his grandmother noticed his interest the first time she’d seen him watching Zehava at Temple.
You will wait
, she’d told him,
Wait until she is older
.

And he had, until the day he’d called her about the death of Zehava’s father. After Zehava had left with her mother late that night, Nona told him he didn’t have to wait anymore.

“What do you think now?” Nona asked, reminding him she was still there.

“I think I need her to forgive me. She doesn’t hate me although she has every right, and I’ve been a….” He hesitated to say it.

“You have been a jackass.” His grandmother nodded. “You were also a boy. Arrogant, stubborn, and full of pride. Now you are a man. Show her that. You have waited long enough, Isaac.”

The assessment stung, but he couldn’t find fault with it. “I do have one question.”

“What is that?” She patted his leg again and stood.

Rising to his feet quickly, he offered her an arm. “Why didn’t you or anyone else try to stop Zehava from putting our son up for adoption?” In the recesses of his mind, that always bothered him. He’d asked her not to. Practically begged, yet she’d been firm in her conviction. Her mother hadn’t fought her, and neither had his family. They were all so tight-knit in the community, always poking their heads into everyone else’s business. So why not that time?

Nona paused and caressed his cheek. “Ahh, Isaac. We all discussed it. She came to each of us, asked for our advice. She spoke to the rabbi, she spoke to her mother, and she spoke to yours. Like you, we were all included and we listened with our ears and our hearts. She treasured your son, as she treasured you. What she wanted for him was all any of us ever wanted for you. Zehava and you were both so very young, so very stubborn—what she needed from us was what you needed. Our support.”