Free If We Lived Here by Lindsey Palmer

Emma wanted to hear about was the wealthier, more successful, more committed couple who were her lucky new tenants; and how it was ridiculous to ask people to refer to you as “Mrs.” along with your first name. But she also didn’t want to waste another moment in conversation with her.
    Click. Emma hung up. She yearned to thrust her hand through the glass beside her, then stick her head out and drink in the fresh air. Also, she wanted to talk to her mother. But because of the intercontinental time difference, they always made Skype dates, catching up once a week at predetermined times with that weird computer screen delay. Her mom’s phone didn’t even take international calls.
    “What does Annie want now?” Nick said. “I hope you told her it’s too late to get the tablecloths monogrammed according to each guest’s seating placement.”
    Emma didn’t even attempt a smile. “The apartment’s out.” She didn’t bother filling him in on the reason. Meanwhile, the man in front of her jerked his seat back to recline fully.
    “Oh, Emma.” Nick pulled her into his arms as best as he could in the cramped two-seater. “I admit I’m sort of relieved. That woman was a nutcase.”
    “Yeah, but—”
    “I know you’re disappointed. But we still have plenty of time.”
    “I guess.” Emma did the math—they had three weeks until their respective leases were up. But in three days’ time Nick would be back in school and return home an exhausted lump each afternoon; evenings would be needed for planning and parent calls. Finding their future apartment, Emma sensed, would be a burden entirely hers to bear.
    “Slam.” Nick nudged her arm. She was unresponsive. “Come on, Em, slam.”
    “Fine. Slap,” she said, not thrilled to be playing Scrabble Slam. The game involved taking turns changing one letter in a word in order to create a new one. Emma usually enjoyed it.
    “Slip.”
    “Slim.”
    “Slit.”
    “Shit.” Emma said it loudly, and the man in front of her shot her a look of disdain. This from someone who had recently eliminated all of her legroom.
    “Shit is right,” Nick said. “This trip is the worst. Shin.” Nick made a motion to kick the offending passenger.
    “It is. Thin.” Emma sucked in her stomach.
    “At this rate, we won’t arrive until halfway through the rehearsal dinner. Thus, I wish you hadn’t been so irresponsible and slept through our original train.” Nick grinned.
    “Oh, shush.”
    “ Shush doesn’t work, Em. You can’t add two letters.”
    Emma elbowed her boyfriend, then reached for her vibrating phone. It was her brother, Max, no doubt calling to offer his weekly Shabbat Shalom tidings. Emma wasn’t up for it, so she let the call ring through to voicemail, then dialed to hear the message. The sharp sopranos of her niece and nephew, Aimee and Caleb, accosted Emma’s eardrums. They were singing some Hebrew school song. Aimee’s lisp was cute, but otherwise the song made Emma roll her eyes: “On Shabbat we are happy, we are bursting full of joy! For Shabbat is a festive day for every girl and boy!”
    Emma worried that her sister-in-law, Alysse, was the type of mother who wouldn’t allow her children to act anything but happy. Here the kids were, ages three and four, singing about their joy on Shabbat, but Emma wondered whether they even knew what the holiday was. She also thought it was no coincidence that Max called her every week after synagogue. His voice interrupted the children’s on the message: “Hey, Emmy, I hope you’re having a great weekend at the wedding. We just heard a very moving sermon from Rabbi Shimon and it made me think of you. Shabbat Shalom!”
    Emma noted her brother’s put-on Hebrew lilt. “The Shabbat police, calling to check in,” she said to Nick.
    “I think it’s nice,” he replied. Nick had been raised in one of those laid-back Unitarian homes, and so had no idea about all the subtle, guilt-inducing tactics Jewish families