Like No Other by Una LaMarche

7:15. I snuck in a shower just under the wire and have my limp, wet hair tucked behind my ears, dripping onto the back of my shirt. In my house we’ve always sat men on one side, women on the other, so Jacob, Isaac, Niv, Amos, Zeidy, and my dad sit across from Rose, Hanna, Rivka, me, Aunt Varda, and Miri. My mother takes the head of the table, which evens things out and also makes sense since she has to lead the blessings anyway.
    It has already been decided that instead of the usual nine candles, we will light ten tonight, one for the baby in addition to the seven for each of us kids and the two requisite Shabbos candles. My mother lights the first two, then Rose lights two, and then me, Hanna, and Miri, in age order. Once the tiny wicks are flickering in the otherwise dark house, casting us all in an amber glow, my mother stands and holds her palms out over the candles, drawing her hands in toward her face three times, as if beckoning the light. She covers her eyes and recites the blessing:
    “Baruch a-ta A-do-nay Elo-hei-nu me-lech ha-o-lam a-sher ki-dee-sha-nu bi-mitz-vo-tav vi-tzi-va-noo li-had-leek ner shel Sha-bbat ko-desh.”
    We have to stay silent until my mother removes her hands from her eyes, which we’ve learned over the years is entirely dependent on her mood. If she’s happy, she’ll drop them almost immediately, but if she’s upset she can hold out for a good two minutes. The idea is that she’s using the quiet time to pray, so I guess the more she has to pray about, the longer she takes. Tonight is a two-minute night, and I wait it out trying in vain to pray for Liya instead of thinking about Jaxon.
    When I was three I had to have surgery—nothing major, to have my tonsils removed—and as a reward for being brave, my mother took me to see
Annie
on Broadway. This was a big deal; hearing a woman sing in public is usually avoided as part of
tz’ni’ut
, but since Annie was played by a ten-year-old I guess my mom was able to rationalize it. According to her, I was very, very good during the whole show, but I
hated
it whenever Annie left the stage for any reason. “Where’s Annie?” I would demand, holding my mother’s face in my tiny hand. “Where. Is. Annie???” That’s what my brain is doing right now, only with Jaxon.
Where is he? What’s he thinking? Does he wonder about me, too?
I stare down at my plate as though the answers will appear, swimming up to the porcelain surface like letters in alphabet soup.
    Finally, my mother drops her hands and we all shout, “Shabbat Shalom!” and turn to hug anyone within arm’s reach. I leave a wet splotch on Aunt Varda’s sweater.
    After kiddush, the blessing over the wine, and the ritual hand-washing and the ceremonial breaking of my lopsided challah braid, it’s finally time to eat, and my nerves must be burning extra calories, because I’m starving. I demolish three pieces of challah, slurp down a bowl of chicken soup, and eat two servings of potato kugel before most of my family members have even filled their plates.
    “Are we being timed?” Niv jokes.
    “I like a girl with a healthy appetite,” Zeidy says, laughing and refilling his wine. “Go on,
zeeskyte
,
ess
.”
    “More like
fress
,” Isaac chimes in, and my brothers snort.
Fress
means to eat like an animal.
    “Enough,” my father says, and everyone quiets. There are rules for dinner conversation on Shabbos that include no fighting.
    “Devorah,” my mother says gently, giving me a pointed look. “Leave some for Rose, please. She needs her strength.”
    “No, Mama, I can’t.” Rose grimaces. “I’ve lost my appetite. I just want to be with her.” She looks around the table, her eyes wet. “I’m sorry, this was a mistake.”
    “There is nothing we can do,” Jacob says stoically. “Visiting hours have almost ended. And I don’t think it will do you any good to spend the night on a waiting-room chair.” He tears off a chunk of challah and hands it to my father, who