The Face Tells the Secret by Jane Bernstein

Author:Jane Bernstein [Bernstein, Jane]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781947548787
Goodreads: 44313603
Publisher: Regal House Publishing
Published: 2019-10-18T00:00:00+00:00

Seventeen

This time, I returned to an empty house, no Harley hiding in the basement, only his voice on my answering machine. How are you, babe? It’s been too long! While I let the messages play, in case someone else beside Harley tried to reach me, I scooped up the mail and magazines fanned out on the floor and threw my dirty clothes down the chute. I dashed upstairs to prop Baruch’s business card against the lamp on my desk and returned to hear Harley say, “Give me a call so I know you’re okay.” A year had passed since we’d lived together, and still he was asking, “Where’ve you been hiding, hon?”

Later, while I was sitting at my desk, Mindy called, and when I tried to describe Chaverim, I said it was horrible and that I wished I’d never known about Aviva. As soon as I stopped speaking, every word seemed inadequate. Chaverim was beautiful, too, and I had known about Aviva, in a way, her name and existence made tangible what I had felt for so long.

When I got off the phone, I touched the raised letters on Baruch’s card, and saw his eyes, the deep pools of sadness, his half-hearted smile. What can you do? Eyes closed, a half nod. Why argue? What’s to say? An expression that sometimes seemed to suggest powerlessness and other times a rueful accommodation to life exactly as it was.

When I recalled his kindness, I let my head fall against the wooden desk. Wasn’t I supposed to feel better? I did what I was supposed to do—flew to Israel, held my sister’s hand, returned to say goodbye, expecting nothing in response. And now it was worse. Now I could see her face. Now she was the ache beneath my ribs, and I knew I would carry her with me always.

Even alone, I was ashamed of my sorrow. A punitive voice kept emerging to say, It’s not all about you. But it was about me—my grief, my acknowledgement of Aviva, which left me so weak, I could not lift my cheek from that slab of wood.

My desktop was a cold hard mother. I know you well, I thought.Then later: Selfish! Wipe your foolish tears, pull yourself together and go to work!

And so I did, just as I had been trained. At dawn I rose, showered, dressed. Before this trip to Israel, I had worn jeans to work unless we were scheduled to see clients. Now I dressed with inordinate care, but knew as I did so that I was crafting a veneer. Scrutinizing myself in the mirror, I thought of my mother, who loved fashion, though she would deny it, disguising her passion by speaking of cut and tailoring and the quality of cloth. Now, when I thought of her buttoning her mauve silk blouse, stepping into her slip with its lacy trim, adjusting the tweed wool skirt with its invisible zipper, and the jacket with its handmade button holes, when I thought of

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