Adina Polatsek
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Dirt
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            A couple hours after her son’s death, Fraidy Adler found herself in the bathroom,
standing before the mirror and remarking at how normal her expression was. Then she
raised her fist and hit her stomach as hard as she could. She was pregnant. Almost three
months—not yet showing all that much, but with a distinct roundness and a belly button
that showed through her shirt. With the aching of the blow, she bent over and vomited in
the toilet, clutching herself around the middle, thinking of the not-yet baby living inside
her, and feeling the most intense disgust she had ever felt. She wanted to rip herself out.
But by the time she flushed and stood up, washing out her mouth in the sink, the disgust
dissipated, and all she could feel was pity and love, rubbing her stomach as gently as she
could, whispering sorry to the fetus she had just tried to kill.
            Had I tried to kill it? she thought, extraordinarily calm and reasonable in the
moments walking out into the living room, where her daughters were waiting. She
supposed she did, at least a little, in that moment—but now, the idea of death made her feel
as though she’d turned into a sheet of metal. Do I want this baby dead? Each of her
pregnancies—this was her fourth—had been difficult, yes, but there was something
incredible about the feeling of life growing inside of her, as if she were some kind of minor
god. Now, her stomach just felt like a stomach, the fetus like any organ in her body, and her
mouth was sour with nausea.
            He drowned—her son. His name was Akiva, and he was six years old, and had
drowned after a seizure in the bath. He was six; she started letting him bathe on his own a
few months back. He had a seizure, lost consciousness, and slipped underwater. Fraidy
hadn’t realized anything was wrong until an hour later. He always took long baths. He’d
refuse to get out until the water went cold. He liked to pretend he was a fish, or a mermaid,
and sometimes she would come in to find him with his head lying back on the rim, his eyes
closed, his hands waving slowly through the water.
            She lost patience at 8:30, wanting to bathe Rivky and put her to bed. The bathroom
was locked, which wasn’t unusual: he was six and liked his privacy. She knocked. And
knocked, and then kicked the door because her knuckles started to hurt. She said, “If you
don’t answer me right now, I’ll make you shower with the door open.” She said, “Akiva, I’m
serious, answer me.” At some point Shoshana came running. At some point Fraidy started
throwing her shoulder against the door. When the wood splintered and the knob gave way,
she felt silly, thinking of how they’d have to pay to get it fixed, call up a repairman. And then
she saw something underwater.
            The paramedics had come and gone, and the bath was empty now. The girls were
waiting in the living room. Rivky was four, Shoshana eight. They were sitting on the floor, a
fifty-piece puzzle spread out in front of them. Someone had already thrown a towel over
the closest mirror. “You can put that piece here,” Shoshana said calmly, guiding Rivky’s
hand. She glanced at the wall, and Fraidy knew instantly that Shoshana had understood
everything that transpired, while Rivky had no idea that anything had gone wrong.
            ​“I’m hungry, Mommy,” said Rivky as soon as she saw her mother.
            ​“I...” Fraidy’s voice trailed away. The window shade was open and it was starting to
rain. She could feel water in her throat.
            “I’ll make you food,” Shoshana said. “Mommy’s busy, okay?”
            “I want Mommy to make me food,” said Rivky.
            “Well, she can’t,” Shoshana repeated, a slight note of frustration creeping into her
voice. She was only eight, Fraidy realized. “If you come to the kitchen, I’ll make you waffles,
and I’ll even give you extra whipped cream.” She looked at her mother. “That’s fine, right?
For her to have extra whipped cream?”
            “She can have extra whipped cream,” said Fraidy. As soon as they left the room, she
started laughing. She couldn’t help it. Whipped cream? Who the hell cared about whipped
cream? Her child was dead. She fell, laughing, into the sofa.

She was morning sick at the funeral. She was sat in the front row, so she had to stand up in
front of everyone and half-run, half-walk to the bushes so that she could throw up. When
she stood and wiped her mouth, she found Shoshana, holding to her elbow. She had Rivky’s
sippy cup (grape juice and water) in her hand and handed it to her mother, who drank.
            ​When she was back in her seat, she looked over the service, the crowd, the grave.
The body was on a board and clothed with a kittel. She imagined the Chevra Kadisha wiping
the last of the shampoo out of Akiva’s hair, combing it out, and dressing him, tucking the
white linen gently under his back, pulling his arms through the sleeves. There was to be no
casket. He would go directly into the ground. The rabbi she had known all her life was
leading the tefilos. In the rows were everyone she saw around the Monsey community,
pushing their kids in strollers, walking back from shul, waiting in the carpool line. Next to
her was her friend, Chanalah, patting her every so often on the thigh. Not her husband.
Yochanan refused to sit. He stood, wavering, between his mother and the rabbi, his face
screwed up and badly covered with one hand. He had rent his shirt at the collar. He hadn’t
stopped crying since the morning, when he told her he was moving back to his parents’
house for the time being. “I just can’t,” he said, and started sobbing. “I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.”
She hadn’t responded; all she did was look at the wall, waiting for him to calm down.
            Since the funeral started, he had his mother clutching to his arm. Every so often he
would turn back, crumple into her. Fraidy watched her mother-in-law pat his head gently.
Yochanan wiped his eyes with a dirty tissue. The whole thing disgusted Fraidy. Not once
had he touched her since he pulled her away from the bath, the front of her shirt soaked
through with shampoo bubbles and water. And here he was blubbing away, hanging to his
mom. He couldn’t control himself at all. She was revolted by him. By the contortion of his
face, the weakness, the way he took up all the space with his insistence on acting like a
child.
            A hand squeezed her arm. “Let me take you home once this is over,” Chanalah said,
following her eyes.
            “He’s leaving me,” said Fraidy. She looked at Chanalah. “It’s about time.”
            “Oy, mameleh,” said Chanalah, stroking her hand. “Let’s just get through today.”
            The men took the board on their shoulders and carried the body, singing, to the
grave. Yochanan was the first to shovel in soil, and then everyone was helping, covering
and covering. Fraidy knelt. She lifted a handful of earth and, turning her head away from
the crowd, stuffed it in her mouth. She gagged, spat it out, and washed her mouth clean
with Rivky’s diluted grape juice. When she looked up, Chanalah was watching her, standing
still next to the grave. Watching her. She didn’t turn when Fraidy caught her eyes, and she
didn’t smile. Fraidy stood and took her place at Chanalah’s side. It was then that Chanalah
resumed her consolations, cooing and rubbing Fraidy’s arms. Fraidy blinked hard and came
back. But when the service ended and the grave was filled, she could still feel the dirt
between her teeth.

“It’s okay to cry,” said Chanalah to Shoshana, who stared at her blankly. “You know, when I
was your age, my father passed away. It was very hard, and very sad, and it’s okay to cry.”
            “Okay,” said Shoshana.
            “Death isn’t easy for kids to understand,” she continued in that high-pitched voice.
Fraidy winced.
            “I need the bathroom,” said Shoshana, looking at her mother, as if she needed
permission. Of all things, Fraidy thought she looked bewildered—not at the prospect of
death, but at Chanalah.
            “What happened to your brother was tragic,” said Chanalah, “so, so tragic, but he’s
with Hashem now.”
            Shoshana looked down at the floor they were all sitting on. “I’m going to the
bathroom,” she said quietly, and slipped out of the room.
            “How are you doing, Fraidy?” said Chanalah, her voice now heavy, hard to swallow.
            ​“What do you think?” She ran a hand over her face.
            “Your girls are strong,” said Chanalah. “I don’t know if that’s any comfort right now,
but they are. They’ll get through this.”
            “Yeah,” said Fraidy, but she was distracted. She thought of Shoshana handing her the
water. Rivky whining for food. They’d be fine. It was tough, but they’d be fine. They hadn’t
lost a child.
            ​She saw the years come—a fast winding of time, jumping through the scenes.
Shoshana and Rivky growing up. The baby in her stomach getting old. She was tired. She
couldn’t do it. She was tired. “Do you want them?” she asked Chanalah.
            “Want what?”
            ​“The kids.” She watched Chanalah flinch, something awful crossing her face. “Wait a
minute. Hear me out. I don’t know if I can do it, and you and Moshe have been trying for a
baby for years—”
            “What are you talking about, Fraidy?” said Chanalah.
            “I always wanted to be a mother,” she said. “I used to imagine growing old with a
million kids running around the house, happy and loud and making the most annoying
messes, and I saw the years pass, not smoothly of course, but relatively well. And now I
keep looking for that picture but instead I see—something else, and it’s not good. It’s not
going to work out for me, Chanalah. It’s not going to be good for me to keep them.”
            “You need to rest, Fraidy. You’ve been through a trauma—”
            “I know,” she said. She was frustrated; Chanalah wasn’t understanding her at all.
            “That’s what I’m telling you. Now that there’s been this—this trauma, I can’t have them
anymore. I know it. I know if I keep them, it’ll go bad, for all of us, and they’re still young,
and don’t you want them?”
            At the last sentence, she started crying, breathing panickily, but she didn’t feel
caught in it. She was somewhere deep inside her head, remarking at how strange it was
that she was not breathing, wondering when she had lost control.
            “You need to shower and sleep,” said Chanalah gently. She no longer looked afraid,
just absolutely sick with pity. “You’ll feel better once you shower and sleep. Let me help
you.”
            Chanalah walked Fraidy to her bathroom and turned on the bath. “I don’t want to,”
mumbled Fraidy, but Chanalah soothed her, whispering shh, shh. She helped her undress
and guided her into the water. Fraidy barely noticed she was naked. She sat in the warmth
as Chanalah washed her hair, wiped her eyes with a towel. The only thing strange was the
protrusion of her belly. That she was still a mother, and there was another on the way.
            “You have to give a little bit of it away,” said Chanalah as the shampoo dripped down
Fraidy’s shoulders. “That’s what I learned after my father passed. You don’t need to hold it
all. You just have to give a bit of the pain and the grief to someone and you’ll feel better. I’d
go to the grocery store by myself, and the cashier would ask, ‘Where are your parents,
sweetheart?’ when I went up to pay, and I’d say, ‘My father’s dead.’ It meant nothing to
them, of course. I was a stranger. They winced, and said sorry, and forgot about it the next
day, but I’d given a bit of the grief over, and suddenly, I had a little less.”

When her water broke, two weeks early, she called Chanalah. Yochanan had been gone for
months. As far as she knew, he was in Lakewood with his parents. They didn’t talk
anymore. She didn’t think about it much. It was the morning—the girls were off to school
before Fraidy even woke up. Her contractions started quickly after, and she was soon in the
hospital, lying in bed, her friend holding tight to her hand. “Just breathe,” said Chanalah.
“Just breathe.” And although she was screaming, she was thankful for the pain. It left no
room for anything else, any understanding of the process happening to her. All she could
feel was the stretching of her vagina, the aching of her stomach, detached from the idea that
there was a baby coming out of her. When the doctors placed her wet, crying child in her
arms, she was confused. Dazed that it had happened at all, and baffled that it was a girl. She
had been so certain it was going to be a boy. Certain that she was owed one now.
            She uncovered her breast and nursed it, Chanalah cooing at her side: “Oh, how
adorable,” “What a sweet baby,” “Baruch Hashem she’s a healthy, beautiful girl.” Fraidy
watched the child suck and thought it must be retarded. She knew it was her fault: she had
hit her stomach, surely messed up its brain. She told herself that she’d love this baby no
matter what, but she wasn’t sure that was true.
            The baby fell asleep. Fraidy handed her over to the nurse, and let her head drop
back against the bed. “You did so well,” said Chanalah.
            “I’m tired,” she whimpered.
            “I know,” said Chanalah soothingly. “I know.”
            “I thought it would be a boy.”
            “What will you name her?”
            “I don’t know.”
            “I’d kill for a baby,” said Chanalah.
            Fraidy looked away. She wanted to throw up. Chanalah’s face was tight, watching
hers.
            ​“Tova,” she said. Her voice was hoarse. “I’ll name her Tova.”
            “Tova is a beautiful name.”
            Fraidy slept and woke. The night passed between nursing and drifting off with her
head tucked into her shoulder. When the sun came through the window, Chanalah was
ready with a wheelchair. “The doctors are discharging you,” she told her. “It’s time to go
home.”
            ​The nurse helped her into the wheelchair and placed Tova in her arms. Her body
was heavy and tired. Once they got in the car, Tova started crying, and didn’t stop. Fraidy
sang to her, rocked her, fed her. It made no difference. And it was irritating. Her ears hurt
from the noise.
            ​“Something’s wrong with her,” she said, as Chanalah pulled up to the house.
            ​“Don’t worry,” said her friend, raising her voice so that Fraidy could hear her. “The
doctors said she was a healthy baby.”
            ​“She won’t stop.”
            ​“Babies cry, Fraidy.”
            ​“No.” She shook her head. “Something’s wrong with her.”
            ​“You’re just anxious. You need to sleep.”
            ​She relented.
            ​“Mommy!” Rivky rushed at her as soon as she opened the door. “Me and Shoshie
cleaned the house!”
            ​“It was supposed to be a surprise,” said Shoshana. “How are you feeling, Ma?”
            ​“Baruch Hashem,” Fraidy said.
            ​“Do you guys want to meet your new sister?” asked Chanalah.
            ​They walked together to the sofa, where Fraidy sat, the baby still crying.
            ​“Hello,” said Shoshana, putting her face close to Tova’s and giving her a kiss. “I’m
your sister.”
            ​“I don’t want a sister,” burst out Rivky.
            ​“She’s jealous that she won’t be the baby anymore,” whispered Chanalah in a loud
voice.
            ​“I want Akiva back.” Rivky crossed her arms and threw herself down onto the floor.
“I don’t want him to be with Hashem. And I don’t want another sister! I want Akiva to come
back.”
            ​Fraidy blinked hard.
            ​“Oh, sheyfele,” said Chanalah. “I don’t know what to say.”
            ​“It’s okay, Rivky,” said Shoshana. She made no move to touch her but instead sat
directly across from her and looked her in the eyes. “I get sad, too.”
            ​Fraidy’s arms ached. Her stomach was saggy and sore. Her head pounded. Her boobs
hurt so much she thought they might explode. Her fingers wound into her palms, digging in.
She held Tova as though she didn’t want her too close. She regretted not hitting her
stomach harder that day in the bathroom, bleeding out on the floor, being found the same
way she found her son.You have to give a little bit of it away, she heard Chanalah say, but
she wanted all of it gone.
            ​“Mommy,” said Shoshana. Rivky’s anger had dissipated, and she was now examining
Tova’s feet. Shoshana stood before Fraidy, looking at her with her childish, open face. There
was something of understanding there. Children can be old, thought Fraidy. And mothers
can be young. It was the only thing she could hold to.
            ​“Let me have her,” said Shoshana. She sat on the couch, smoothed out her skirt, and
opened her arms.
            ​Fraidy lifted her and placed her in Shoshana’s hands. Shoshana’s entire body
seemed to wrap around her. She was reminded of a kangaroo and a joey. Her hair brushed
against Tova’s scalp. She leaned her chin on Tova’s forehead. She kissed her nose, and then
looked up at her mother and nodded. She had it. She’d asked for it, and now she had it. Now
Fraidy’s teeth were clean.
            ​Tova stopped crying. Fraidy let go, closed her eyes, and sank back, away.

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Adina Polatsek is a writer from Houston, Texas. She is currently studying at the University of Texas at Austin and was the runner-up for the 2023 James F. Parker Prize in Fiction. She has poetry and fiction published or forthcoming with Apricity Magazine, Verklempt!, Soundings East Magazine, Welter, Barzakh Magazine, Hothouse, The Oakland Review, Ligeia Magazine, The Orchards Poetry Journal, Figure 1, The Talon Review, MSU Roadrunner Review, Wayne Literary Review, Avalon Literary Review, Last Leaves Magazine, and Moot Point Magazine.    
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