The Summer of No Regrets by Katherine Grace Bond Read Free Book Online Page B

he’d come back to haunt himself.
    My shoulders and head hurt. Couldn’t Malory leave it alone?
    Couldn’t she see how much better Dad was doing now that he had his shaman thing? He was calmer, more relaxed.
    After Nonni died, he’d been dangerously quiet. He’d paced a lot. When he did speak, his words were short and sharp. I’d lot. When he did speak, his words were short and sharp. I’d learned to stay out of his way. Shamanism had centered him, connected him with the land—“bound him to it,” he said.
    And yet part of me wanted to bite back the way Malory did.
    The cougar had come to me—or at least to Luke. If she had a message for anybody, it wasn’t Dad. And now Dad was all grief stricken about an animal that had nearly kiled me? Why did I feel as if I was disappearing? Probably because that’s the way it’s been since Dad started wearing feathers in the first place.
    Dad put his hand on Malory’s cheek. “My love, there are worse things than primitive thought.”
    She glared at him and stabbed her lettuce. “By the way, Mom, I don’t think Brigitta should be expected to write papers this late in the summer. It’s July first, for God’s sake.” July first. The date surged through me like an electric charge.
    “It’s Nonni’s birthday,” I blurted without thinking. “She’d be seventy-five.”
    Dad looked away from me. He took another swalow of wine and resalted his potatoes. Even Malory had nothing to say. It was as if I’d dropped a dead cat on the table.
    Mom put her hand on mine. “That’s right, she would, Gita.” Nobody said anything for the rest of dinner.

    •••
Mom left me with the upstairs dishes and took Malory downstairs to do dinner cleanup. Dad went out to his office.
    I sat on the indoor garden wal, wiggling my toes in the dirt.
    Faint wisps of Jewish music drifted up from the meditation room.
    Nonni might have liked that. She’d always said Judaism was the
    “roots” of Christianity. She’d have loved for me to become a Christian, but I couldn’t do it, not even for her. I guess I do need to “choose my own path.”
    Someone downstairs had a violin. It made me want to get out mine, but what would I do with it? Walk into their service like a mine, but what would I do with it? Walk into their service like a stroling minstrel?
    Mom and Dad wanted us to give the retreatants space when they were doing their rituals. We weren’t supposed to go barging in.
    I brushed off my feet and put the kitchen shears away. Maybe I could just stand outside the door.
    Our meditation room faces east, and the back wall is completely glass. Outside, the trees were silhouettes in the darkness. A woman in a prayer shawl was up front. Two candles iluminated her face. A bearded biker-looking guy in a leather skulcap played the violin.
    I’ve only been to a synagogue once: Natalie’s bat mitzvah.
    She read the Torah in this gorgeous river of Hebrew, and it made me cry (surreptitiously).
    The singing was sad and slow. Baruch Atah, Adonai, Eloheynu Vaylohey avoteynu v’emoteynu. One of the men brought me a booklet. He motioned me to join them, but I shook my head.
    I squinted to read the translation: Blessed are You, Eternal One, our god and God of our Fathers and Mothers. God of Abraham, God of Isaac, and God of Jacob. God of Sarah, God of Rebecca, God of Leah, and God of Rachel.
    God of Brigitta? Who could say?
    In front of me, the group joined hands, their prayer shawls draping together like a wall of wings. The melody spiraled out like smoke: Eileh chamda libi: chusa na v’all na titalem.
    This is my heart’s desire: have pity; do not hide yourself .
    My throat tightened. “You’re hungry, Brigitta,” Nonni used to say. “You’re hungry for God.”
    I slid into the halway and set the booklet on the floor. Why did I want to hurl it at something? Mom and Malory were laughing in the kitchen. At least my room would be mine for a while.
    Upstairs I wrapped myself in my Nonni coat.