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“Aaron!”
“Miriam?” Aaron’s hair flops into his eyes as he whips around, looking for his sister; the hallway is empty.
“Over here!” she whispers. “In the closet!”
Glancing down towards the stairs, making sure their foster parents aren’t coming, Aaron hesitates, but the door to the closet flies open and he’s dragged in by the collar of his t-shirt. He manages to get out half a yelp before Miriam slaps a hand over his mouth.
“Shhh!” she warns, eyes reflecting the light that spills in from underneath the door. “We have to be quiet!”
“What are we doing?” he asks.
The closet is dark and cramped, and even though the two of them are short and scrawny it’s a tight fit, sitting cross-legged underneath the bottom shelf. It’s not very nice, but Aaron can still hear the Christmas music from downstairs, and that’s less nice. Besides, some of Miriam’s ideas are really good. Sometimes.
“Do you know what today is?” she asks in return.
“Uh…” Aaron scratches his head. “Monday?”
Miriam shakes her head. “It’s the first day of Hanukkah!” she whispers excitedly.
Aaron’s stomach falls. “I didn’t know we were gonna celebrate it this year,” he says, and Miriam’s smile starts to fade.
She reaches out, resting a soft hand against his cheek, and says “I know. But Mom wants us to celebrate. She told us so, remember?”
Aaron turns away. “I know,” he replies, crossing his arms. He remembers that day at the hospital as well as anyone, even though he was still little, and crying. “Mom told us to celebrate so we wouldn’t forget. But I don’t want to.”
“We can’t forget, Aaron,” Miriam replies. “Mom told us to remember the history of our people, and we can’t be Jews if we don’t do Hanukkah!”
Aaron sniffs. “Yeah, we can,” he retorts, folding up his legs and hugging them tightly. “I don’t wanna light the candles without Mom.”
“Oh, Aaron…”
“I don’t wanna!”
Miriam sighs. “We have to have hope, Aaron.”
He rests his head on his knees.
“Mom is in Olam Ha-Ba, and we will see her again. But we have to trust God; that what she said to do. You remember the story of Hanukkah?”
“Yeah,” Aaron snaps. “I’m not dumb.”
“I never said that,” Miriam replies. “If HaShem can keep the candles burning for eight days, even without oil, then can’t He let us see Mom and Moses again?”
Aaron doesn’t answer, hugging himself even more tightly. He doesn’t want to think about his Mom and his little brother; he doesn’t want to do Hanukkah. Why can’t they just… not?
After a moment, he hears Miriam moving around on her side of the closet.
“What’re you doing?” he mumbles, refusing to look up.
“Getting the candle ready,” she replies.
He tilts his head, just enough to see the pink and white striped little birthday candle his sister is holding against the floor.
“I only got to take one,” she says. “I didn’t want anyone to notice.”
“We can’t just burn it all in one day,” he mutters, watching as she pulls out a little box of matches.
She stops, the match in her hand hovering above the box. “I know,” she says, and she sounds sad. “We’ll have to blow it out after the prayers. But it’s okay! We can just pretend it’s still burning, and that way, we’ll make it last the whole time.”
Aaron sniffles again. “…okay.” It won’t be like real Hanukkah, he knows, but Mom did tell them to celebrate, and they already missed Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. And Hanukkah is at least better than Christmas.
So Miriam lights the candle, stumbling her way through the three traditional prayers as fast as she can to keep the wax from melting into the carpet. She forgets a part, and Aaron tries to correct her, but they get through it, and they blow out the candle before it melts too much.
“There,” Miriam says, proud of herself. “Now, just imagine that it’s still going, and we’ll come back and do it again tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Aaron replies, wiping his nose with his hand. “That wasn’t so bad.”
His sister smiles, just enough for him to see in the dim light from the crack under the door, and when she speaks, her voice is soft, making her sound more like Mom than a little girl.
“God will provide, Aaron,” she says, and he nods quickly in return. He doesn’t like to think about it.
“Hey,” she continues, “I’ve got a surprise for you.” And, out of nowhere, she presses a coin into his hand. No, a chocolate coin!
“How’d you find one ‘a these?” he asks, breathless with delight. “Chocolate coins are the best?”
She grins. “That’s my secret. You’re welcome.”
“Thank you!” he whispers, and throws himself at her in a warm hug. “Thank you, Miriam!”
She sighs, but when he sits back to look at her, she’s still smiling. “Happy Hanukkah, little brother,” she says.
“Happy Hanukkah,” he replies.
Maybe things won’t be so bad after all.
*****
“Aaron…”
Aaron shifts in his seat, crossing his legs then uncrossing them restlessly. “What is it, Miriam?”
“He’s late,” she says, checking her phone for the third time in as many minutes. “What if he doesn’t-”
“He will,” he interrupts sharply. “You’re the one who always said to have hope, weren’t you?”
Slowly, she nods, an unruly curl slipping out from behind her ear. Bags under her eyes notwithstanding, his sister is beautiful today, wearing a deep red dress and a gold necklace of their mother’s, with her hair tied up in a loose ponytail. Aaron feels gangly and awkward next to her, but, then again, he always had. He is the younger brother, the odd one, while Miriam is collected, authoritative, and gracefully beautiful. Her face is full and smooth, while his is sunken, angular, and riddled with acne scars. He huffs at himself; what is doing, comparing himself when Moses is coming?
He hardly remembers anything about his little brother; Moses was an infant when a social worker took him away, and Aaron was barely eight. It’s been a long, long time, and it took more than a few late nights to track down his location, but Aaron was finally able to give he and his sister what they’d always wanted: the remnants of their family together again.
Miriam checks her phone again. Her work bag is slung over the back of her chair; her mint green scrubs peek out from within. She wasn’t supposed to work today, but the clinic where she works called, asking if she could make it for a shift later. She told them she’d do her best.
If only Moses would actually show up.
Aaron shifts again, watching the door to the cafe. It’s been almost fifteen minutes since he was supposed to arrive, and both Aaron and Miriam arrived early.
“Do you think he-” he starts, but then a man walks into the cafe, his stride easy but purposeful. He looks around, eyes sharp, and when his gaze alights on their table, he smiles and starts heading their way. He doesn’t look like the picture Aaron found; he is older, and he’s got the beginnings of a small beard, but the resemblance between him and Miriam is striking. The same chestnut hair, the same large, dark, wide-set eyes, the same soft ever-present smile on his wide lips. It is their brother, Moses, and he raises a hand in greeting.
Miriam stands, a hand raised to her mouth, and Aaron follows suit.
“Hello,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Um… your hair looks different.”
“Oh, yeah,” Moses replies, running one hand through it. “I decided to grow it out.”
Aaron nods.
“Moses…” Miriam whispers, and his cheerful grin softens.
“Hi,” he says, and she runs around the table to take him in her arms.
His own arms hover for a moment around her, like he doesn’t quite know how to respond, but then Aaron catches his eye, and the older brother nods in confirmation.
Moses relaxes into the embrace, holding her close, and he whispers “It’s good to meet you,” in her ear.
She pulls back, beaming and tearful, and says “It’s good to see you.”
There is a moment where they just stand there, clutching at each other, Miriam like she’s seen the sun and Moses like he’s found a home, and Aaron feels distinctly left out.
He clears his throat, shuffling a bit closer. “We missed you,” he says, and Moses releases Miriam to go to him.
“My brother,” he says, hugging him even more fiercely than he had Miriam. “I always wanted- No, it doesn’t matter. I can’t believe I finally get to see you.”
Aaron looks over Moses’ shoulder at Miriam; she nods at him, as if to say “Look, we have our brother back! Tell him everything you ever wanted to say.”
Aaron pats his brother on the back, maybe more roughly than he should, and says “Miriam never gave up on you.” It’s true, but he wishes he wouldn’t sound so choked up. Moses is still his baby brother; he’s supposed to keep himself together.
“What about you?” Moses asks, pulling back. His eyes search Aaron’s face, and for a blinding moment Aaron feels eight years old again, watching as a woman in a hospital bed with those eyes looks at him like he is the thing that will save her life and says ‘Remember, Aaron; remember I love you,’ until Moses’ grasp on his shoulder grows too firm to be anything but present, and real.
“I…” Aaron has to clear his throat again. “I tried, but Miriam’s the one who’s good with that sort of stuff.”
The lines around Moses’ mouth (because even little brothers start to age) soften, and he asks “What are you good with, then?”
Aaron has to look away.
“Aaron protected me,” Miriam says, coming to join them and resting a hand on either man’s shoulder. “And he kept me from acting like an idiot, most of the time.”
Moses chuckles, and soon all three of them are laughing for absolutely no reason other than being alive, being together again.
“Should we sit down?” Miriam asks, turning to her seat.
Moses nods and starts to follow, but Aaron takes hold of his arm.
His little brother turns to him, eyes wide and open, and for a moment Aaron doesn’t know if he’ll be able to speak. But then he does, and for once he thinks he says the right thing.
“Welcome home, Moses.”