Free Modern Girls by Jennifer S. Brown Page A

store?” I drew him back in for another sultry kiss, to guarantee the right answer.
    “Oh, I think they could,” he said, when we took a breath.
    “Well, then. Next weekend.” And with that, I turned and bounded up the stairs, knowing that Abe was following me with his eyes as far as he could in the darkened hallway.
    •   •   •
    WITH my family seeking a draft on the roof, I found myself alone in the apartment. All my bravado melted away. My stomach thrashed like a cat at the mercy of a cruel street gang. My worries flooded me, and I agonized about how to make Abe be with me.
    Sleep was impossible. The heat. My fears. My stomach. All of them added up to me tossing on the couch, my hand rubbing my belly, as I counted the days yet again. One week. Two weeks. Twelve weeks. Panic swelled in my chest. If this plan didn’t work, there was no way out. Soon it would be obvious to the world.

Rose

    Saturday, August 17
    WITH the breeze on the rooftop and a hint of sun peering over the edges of the buildings, my eyes sprang open that
Shabbes
morning. I guessed it was almost five o’clock. For me, since coming to America, there is awake and there is sleep; nothing between exists. When I was a child, curled next to my older sister Eta in our bed, beneath a full down blanket, those moments between sleep and wakefulness were treasured, that hazy feeling each morning when the angels decided whether to return your soul, the body tugging you back into slumber, the day beckoning you to begin.
    But since America, there is no extravagance of angels. On the journey here, my fear on the train that someone would stop me, the roiling of the ship, the terror of what was to come, made sleep a luxury I grabbed in snatches. When I first arrived and lived with my cousins, I was thrust into wakefulness by the worry I would miss a moment of work, of not earning enough to send money to my family back home. And, then, of course, mornings were filled with the sobs of babies, and later, the cries of the sick.
    Now that my babes were grown, my family safe, my needs few, lingering sleep would be acceptable. But my cursed body wouldn’t allow it. Too unused to it.
    Bedding was scattered across the rooftop and I listened to the sounds others made in sleep. Next to me, breathing deeply, was Ben. So soundly he slept, even among the snores and rustles ofothers. I smiled at the whistle his nose made. Turning on my side, I gently ran my finger down his face, tracing his forehead, his nose, his lips. He didn’t awaken, but the corners of his mouth turned up happily in his slumber.
    A queasiness in my stomach dismayed me. Inhaling, I tried to settle myself, but the morning air of New York was nothing like the morning air of home, and I breathed in the smell of smoke and dust.
    Gathering my sheet and pillow, I rose to head downstairs to begin making breakfast. As I entered the stairwell, I heard a noise behind me, and I turned to see Mrs. Anscher also making her way to her apartment. “Good
Shabbes
, Mrs. Anscher,” I said.
    “Good
Shabbes
, Mrs. Krasinsky,” she replied.
    A bubble rose in my belly, and my hand went instinctively to it. It didn’t escape Mrs. Anscher’s notice. “Try bicarbonate of soda in water,” she said. “It settles a stomach.”
    I resisted rolling my eyes at such obvious advice, but I had another thought. Mrs. Anscher was a good fifteen or twenty years older than me. We walked down the two floors to my apartment, and before she could continue on, I stopped her. “Mrs. Anscher,” I blurted.
    “Yes?” she said, pausing.
    But then I was at a loss. Even I wasn’t so bold as to ask such a question. “Never mind,” I said.
    I must have sounded odd because Mrs. Anscher pressed me. “What is it, dear?” Her Yiddish was the Yiddish of my own region, and I found it comforting to hear her voice.
    Shaking my head, I said, “It’s not a polite question.”
    Mrs. Anscher looked at me sympathetically. “Is your mother still