The Year My Mother Came Back Read Online Free PDF Page A

our yard and surveyed the neighborhood to look for clues about the garbage incident. I liked it up in the tree, where I could see everyone but no one could see me. From the tree, I heard Mrs. DiNapoli tell her husband that she was going to poison our cat if it went in their yard again. I warned Amanda to stay on our side of the fence. She was a smart cat, and she steered clear.
    Three days later, when we woke up, we found our bicycles with slashed tires, and graffiti covering our driveway. Enormous black letters, painted in a child’s handwriting, spelled J-E-W, big enough to reach all the way across the driveway. I had a feeling the Donahue boys at the other end of the block were responsible, because sometimes they whispered “Jew” at me and Jennifer, as if it was a bad word, when we walked past their house.
    Mom and Dad had whispered conversations.
    I didn’t exactly know what it meant that we were Jewish, since we didn’t go to synagogue or Hebrew school. I just knew we were the only Jews in the neighborhood, and now it seemed like it was the only thing about us that mattered.
    Mom hired one of the teenage boys on the block to mow the lawn. “But please leave the buttercups and dandelions.”
    He stared at her with his mouth open for a moment. “How do you mow a lawn but leave the buttercups and dandelions?”
    â€œJust do your best.”
    â€œOkay, Mrs. Cohen,” he said, rolling his eyes. He pushed the heavy lawn mower in circles, leaving haphazard islands of tall grass and wildflowers scattered through the yard.
    A week after the bicycle incident, Jennifer and I were outside eating popsicles in the front yard. The Ramirez kids, Miguel and Rosalia, were riding bikes up and down the block, and Rosalia called out, “Jennifer, Miguel loves you even though you are Jewish.”
    Sally from across the street came over to play. She was two years older than me, and she wasn’t very nice, but not as mean as her little brother Kevin, who was my age. Kevin threw rocks at me and kicked me in the shins. But Kevin’s mother and my mother were friends, and they thought we kids should play together.
    Sally and I were in my room, building blocks.
    â€œYou’ll never go to Heaven,” Sally said, out of the blue.
    â€œWhy not?” I asked her, having no idea what Heaven was.
    â€œBecause you’re Jewish.”
    â€œSo what?”
    â€œBecause the Jews killed Christ.”
    â€œWhy did they kill Christ?” I asked, having no idea who Christ was.
    â€œHow should I know? But that’s why you can’t get into Heaven.”
    â€œWhat’s Heaven, anyway?”
    â€œYou don’t know what Heaven is? You must be retarded.”
    â€œI am not retarded!” I said, having no idea what
retarded
meant.
    â€œAnd your mother is crazy!”
    â€œNo, she’s not.”
    â€œYes she is. She’s old and she’s crazy.”
    â€œNo, she’s not.”
    â€œYes, she is.”
    â€œIs not.”
    â€œIs too. Your mother is crazy.”
    I threw a block at Sally. It chipped her tooth, and she ran home, crying.

    Eliana climbs out of the camp bus after the nine-hour ride, looking healthy and beautiful, although her long hair seems not to have been brushed for weeks. When we get home, she drops her bags in the middle of the floor and runs to her room for a reunion with Harry Potter the Hamster. Harry eagerly climbs into her hand from his cage—a large plastic globe with winding tubes and other hamster-friendly amenities. He displays his affection by sitting in her palm and exuberantly grooming himself, until he makes it clear that he’s had enough socializing.
    I sit Eliana down to comb her hair, gently as I can, except when the tangles require more force. She wiggles a loose tooth and tells me about her cabinmates and counselors, llamas, tie-dyeing, and marshmallow roasts. Her euphoric monologue about camp lasts all day and