Jessica Hecht

I leaned out the window in my T-shirt and sweatpants and waved.

They thanked me so profusely when I came down the steps, my baby wide awake and ready to rock, and fussed over her so satisfyingly that I practically swooned from all the attention.

For so long, only Maggie had admired her.

They had Shabbos dinner at their relatives that very night and stayed out late talking.

We picked this place because it was walking distance from my cousins, the mother said.

We didn't even think about the door code.

And then she stifled a

Pretty yawn.

My cue, so I push the wooden door aside, and we enter this stairwell, ladies first.

At the ground floor landing, when I took a first magic step, a dim little light switched on automatically, illuminating just the next stretch of staircase, and instead of cursing the darkness, I was suddenly grateful for the short-sightedness.

Who cared about the long term?

I could see enough of where I was going, not really wanting to know more.

As I climbed those steep stairs, I thought that perhaps the move to France, however temporary, had been a smart one.

I was helping Maggie.

I was assisting this nice family.

I was doing good.

The following Thursday, the caretaker at the synagogue fell ill with appendicitis, and the rabbi stopped by the store.

I was deep in the stacks in the basement, boxing up the anthologies.

The rabbi came down the steep steps carefully to ask me how it had all gone.

They were so lovely, those grin bombs, I said.