The Matzah Ball by Jean Meltzer

Author:Jean Meltzer [Meltzer, Jean]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

chapter

20

In the morning, sunlight slips through the lace curtains and draws shadowed patterns on Rafael’s serene face. Under the duvet, his arm is around my waist, securing my naked body to his. He’s tired. I am too. Various interruptions kept us from sleeping through the night. First, his hardness against my backside jolted me from sleep. The next interruption came a little past three—approximately an hour after the first. In the dark, my lips found his, and I drew him out of sleep.

After that session, we couldn’t sleep. With me nestled at his side, he asked to hear the story my father used to tell me—the one about the cruel king who falls in love with a kind palace maid.

“Story, story . . .” I chanted. I waited for a response and realized he didn’t know it. “You’re supposed to respond, story.”

He frowned, puzzled.

“It’s a Nigerian thing. As children, it’s what we recited before telling a story. It’s how my father told us stories.”

“Okay.” He nodded. “Is there more to it?”

“Yeah. I say, ‘Once upon a time.’ And you respond, ‘Time, time.’ Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Okay. Story, story . . .”

“Story.” He even got the rhythm right.

“Once upon a time . . .”

“Time, time.”

I told him the romantic tale, and he listened attentively, and a little after four, when the story ended, we fell asleep.

Now, according to the clock on my vanity, it’s 10:15 a.m. He’s probably exhausted, but I want to wake him anyway. I have the strangest urge to sing him a morning lullaby, something hushed and mellow that will gently lure him awake. It’s a pity when that urge is overpowered by another—the urge to vomit.

In my stomach, nausea writhes like snakes in a pit. The sickening sensation intensifies. Vomit rises. Chunks of food scrape my gagging throat. I roll off the bed and run to the bathroom. After shutting the door, my head comes over the toilet bowl. The substances tickling my throat surge through my mouth again and again. After every release, I’m light-headed.

“Zere.” Rafael is at the bathroom door. “Are you okay?” There’s concern in his disembodied voice.

“I’m fine.” Lies. My head is throbbing and my vision is blurry.

“Zere, you don’t sound fine.”

“I’m totally fine. Just chilling on the bathroom floor, doing a little puking. It’s really no big deal.”

“I’m coming in.”

Before the knob twists open, I turn the lock.

“Azere, open the door. You’re sick. I’ll take you to a hospital.”

A wave of morning sickness doesn’t warrant a visit to the hospital. Because it’s my third time experiencing the illness this week, I know rest is the only remedy.

“I just need to sleep it off. That’s all,” I tell him. “You should go home.”

“I’m not leaving.”

And I don’t want him to. Not after last night. But he can’t see me like this—frail and nauseous with chunks of vomit probably at the corners of my lips. He would likely want to know why I’m sick. And what would I say? What answer would I give to

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