We both laugh, me slipping a onesie onto Ezra and Janetta digging out a fresh T-shirt from her diaper bag for Kimba.

“My mother and Bubbe and—”

“Bubbe?”

“That’s what I call my grandmother. They played mah-jongg with their friends when I was growing up. I called it an old Jewish woman game. Even though it’s originally from China, we adopted it as our own. It’s like bridge or gin rummy, I guess, but with these tiles. Anyway, I started playing with my mom’s group one summer, and I got hooked.”

For a moment, I can almost hear the clack of tiles and their calls of ‘five crack,’ ‘six dot’ and ‘two bam’ as close as the laughter in my living room. I can still see the tables laden with dark chocolate jelly rings, Bridge mix, pineapple and maraschino cherries pierced with toothpicks. Smell the pungent mix of their various perfumes, the scents socializing on a summer afternoon.

“You miss it, huh?” Janetta asks, resting a drowsy-eyed Kimba on her shoulder.

I’ve spent so much time hiding it from myself, and if I’m honest, from Al so he wouldn’t think I regret marrying him, moving here, leaving home – that it’s hard to admit. After a brief hesitation, I nod.

“Tell you what,” Janetta says. “I’ll teach you spades, and you teach me this Mao Tse Tung.”

I chuckle at her deliberate mangling of the game’s name. “It’s mah-jongg, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“Good.” She turns to leave the bathroom, but pauses in the doorway to look at me over one shoulder. “And Ruth?”

“Yeah?”

Her smile is the kindest thing I’ve seen since we crossed the state line. “Call your mama.”

Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Kimba

10 Years Old, Atlanta, GA

I pull back the curtain at our living room window again, like I’ve done a dozen times in the last hour.

“Get away from there.” My mother taps my head when she walks past on her way to the kitchen. “They’ll be over soon enough. Come set the table.”

“Mrs. Stern holds Ezra hostage all weekend,” I whine. “Going to synagogue and not getting to do stuff ’til Saturday evening.”

“He’s no more hostage on the Sabbath than you are on Sunday morning at Pine Grove Baptist for hours.”

I follow Mama into the kitchen, already dreading sitting on hard pews in a stiff dress with bobby socks and ponytails tomorrow. From Friday sundown to Saturday evening, the Sterns observe the Sabbath. Well, Mrs. Stern does. Mr. Stern plays golf with my father, but Ezra and his mother go to synagogue on Fridays and Saturdays. Our two families always eat together Saturday nights, alternating houses. Sundays my family always eats with my grandparents.

“Here you go.” Mama hands me a stack of plates. “I need to press your hair tonight after dinner.”

“Do I have to?”