Tinderbox by Lisa Gornick Read Free Book Online

Monday, Eva for Tuesday, her mother for Wednesday, Rachida for Thursday, and her
     own name next to Friday with a question mark.
    “I wondered if you want to do one day a week. I put down Fridays, since that’s usually
     a lighter day for you.”
    Caro imagines Omar holding up his hand in delight, the miracle of a finger for each
     weekday, a day for each caregiver. “Sure,” she says, a beat too slowly, her response
     like a card poorly played as it dawns on her that her brother’s move is pulling them
     both back home.
    16
    At first, Eva brings only her pajamas upstairs to the room Myra intends for Omar.
     By the second week, though, Myra notices that Eva has brought up the remainder of
     her possessions: the pair of black pants, the two pairs of jeans, a handful of T-shirts,
     the fake leather jacket, the Lakers’ duffel bag, a dog-eared Old Testament, and a
     small wooden box that she puts on the dresser. Eva’s toothbrush sits in a glass atop
     the fourth-floor hallway bathroom sink. A bottle of her shampoo rests on the side
     of the tub.
    It is Tuesday. Adam, Rachida, and Omar are due on Saturday. In the evening, Myra will
     remind Eva that she needs to move back downstairs before Omar arrives. When Myra comes
     upstairs from her office, though, Eva is so exuberant about her plans—in the fall,
     she will find a class to study Hebrew and maybe one to improve her English as well;
     she has been reading Dr. M.’s New York guidebooks about places she can take Omar—that
     Myra puts off raising the subject for another day.
    At two, Myra wakes to the sound of a scream. She reaches the hall with Eva’s second
     scream. She knocks on Eva’s door, then pushes it open. Eva is sitting upright in the
     bed.
    “Eva?”
    Her eyes are open, fixed straight ahead. She screams again.
    Myra places a hand on Eva’s back. The girl does not move or speak. She seems to be
     still asleep. Gently, Myra rubs Eva’s back, speaking to her softly, the way she had
     with Adam when he would have a night terror.
    Eva squeezes her eyes tight, then opens them wide. She looks at Myra, unsure, it seems,
     who she is.
    “It’s Myra. Dr. M.”
    Eva vigorously shakes her head as though rejecting Myra’s words. Then she seems to
     come to. She covers her face with her hands.
    “What happen?” Eva asks.
    “You had a nightmare. You were screaming in your sleep.”
    “I am so embarrassed.”
    “Don’t be embarrassed. Everyone has nightmares on occasion.” Myra pauses. It is true
     that everyone has nightmares, but only children rouse the household with screams.
    “It happen before, but not in a very long time.”
    “Would you like some water?”
    “Yes, please.”
    Myra goes into the bathroom and fills a paper cup with water. When she returns, Eva
     is still sitting up in the bed. She drinks the water, then crumples the cup between
     her hands.
    “I promise it will not happen again.”
    On Eva’s face is what Myra thinks of as the lovesick-puppy look. When the children
     were little, she would see it on occasion with a playmate: a child who would respond
     to cookies and milk and a hand on her shoulder by reaching out her arms and calling Mama . On occasion, the look will appear in the eyes of a patient whose hunger for love
     is so profound that the patient’s awareness that Myra is a therapist—listening with
     genuine care and interest, with what she has come to recognize is a kind of love on
     her part but remains at heart a job, a job she puts down at night and on weekends
     and during August so she can care for her own family and herself—is eclipsed by a
     voracious demand for more.
    “Go back to sleep. We can talk in the morning.” Myra holds out her hand to take the
     crumpled cup.
    “My father, when he hear me scream, he slap me. My sister, she put a sock in my mouth
     so he does not hear me.”
    Eva studies Myra’s face. “You are worrying it will happen after Omar arrives? Don’t
     worry. It is only because I