“She really has to come live here. She should be near us. What else does she need at this point besides us and our children, her nachas?”
“She’s not answering.”
The phone is clammy in Gila’s palm. “I’ve been trying Mom all evening. Seriously, Avigail, whose phone is off at three in the afternoon?”
From her window, Gila takes in the inky blackness of the Jerusalem night. They’re half a day and half a world away from Mom who’s on her own, somewhere in a New York afternoon.
“I’m calling Dora from my cellphone,” Avigail says. “Hold on.”
Gila waits on the line, feeling the darkness, the distance, press in on her; all those lines of latitude away. She closes the curtain in one nervous swipe.
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