The Immigrant

This story is by Judy Boxer and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

Celia walked into Mama’s room. She shut the door behind her, blocking out the pungent hospital smells. She tried not to notice the depressing grey paint and focus on the pretty white snowdrops embroidered on Mama’s coverlet. Mama had spent hours teaching Celia how to do that embroidery, but she could see that the lopsided flowers were hers and the perfect ones were Mama’s.

Mama lay on fluffy pillows, wearing a quilted bed jacket and a smile, and she’d pulled her dark hair with streaks of grey up into a neat bun. Celia smiled back, and crossed the room to take Mama’s hand. Celia also had dark hair in a neat bun, but there the similarity ended. Mama was slim and pretty, while at sixteen Celia was called smart rather than beautiful. Celia pretended that this was her normal daily visit, and Mama played along. They were clever actors and an onlooker would not have known that this was their final goodbye before Celia began her journey to America.

“Do you think this dreary weather will ever end?” Celia kept her voice steady so Mama wouldn’t know she’d been crying.

“The nurses are complaining about this heat, warm even for July.” Mama sounded strained also.

Photos from the five siblings in America were pinned beside the bed where Mama could touch them. Celia tried to create real people from the unsmiling faces in the photographs. She had been young when they left. She often played this game, turning these likenesses into real people. But the photo people didn’t seem like her siblings from modern-day 1914. Her breath caught as she remembered that she would soon leave Russia and meet them in America. One of the photos was crooked, and she wondered who would straighten them after she left.

Leaving her mother would be the hardest thing Celia had done. Harder than the years of caring for Mama after her stroke, years of hunger and hard work. Mama was almost helpless, and no one would be left to give her a daughter’s care. The nurses would be there, and she could remain at the hospital indefinitely. Mama had lost a part of her heart as each of her five older children left for America. How could Celia leave and take the last bit of Mama’s heart?

Celia remembered the day that Mama had looked up from the newspaper and said war was inevitable and Celia must leave for America. Celia had argued, she had cried, she had stormed out. The arguments had continued for weeks. It was unthinkable to leave Mama, but also unthinkable to be a young woman alone in a city full of soldiers. Celia had finally agreed.

Mama was talking about how Celia would soon see the others, and Celia tried to feel her excitement. First she would see the oldest, Rivtche – she called herself Rebecca now, what a funny name — and after a few days she would see Shmuel.

Funny to think of Shmuel as a grown man. He had been eleven when he left, he had been everything to her. Ten years had gone by, but she could still feel his strong hand holding hers. She had often dreamed that he had come and fixed everything, imagined what he would do as each new catastrophe befell them. Shmuel had been magic to young Celia, and in her imagination he would be magic again. She wasn’t sure she could go through with this goodbye if he wasn’t at the other other end.

Next she would see Morris, Shayna and Eva. Morris had left when she was two, just before Papa died. She had been older when Shayna and Eva left, but she barely remembered them. She was eager to meet Eva, her letters with dollars tucked inside had sometimes kept them from starvation. Every letter contained a few extra cents, “for Celia to buy herself something.” Eva never knew that the something was often bread. Celia never understood why Mama wouldn’t tell the family of their desperation.

Mama always said that busy hands stopped a worried mind, and she needed to keep her hands busy today. She grinned at the thought of Mama’s little sayings. Some of the sayings were from the bible, but many were Mama’s original thoughts. Celia wondered if there was a saying for crossing the ocean to America or leaving your crippled mother and traveling to where everyone spoke a language you didn’t know and there were siblings you didn’t remember. She knew this was a final goodbye, unlikely that she would travel back to Russia.

“Are you finished packing? Were you able to fit the velvet photo album in?” Mama’s words cut into Celia’s musings.

“Yes Mama, and the lace doilies from your trousseau. My dresses are wrapped so they won’t be wrinkled when I get to the ship. Your letters to the family are tucked away, and the candlesticks.”

Mama clutched Celia’s hand, and looked her squarely in the eye. She was very still.

“Celia, whenever you’re unsure, you’ll have my voice in your head. Like when you used to pretend Shmuel was next to you telling you what to do. Use my voice as your moral compass.”

“I know, Mama.” The tears began to leak, and she turned her head away. She didn’t want a voice in her head, she wanted the real voice. But she wasn’t six years old as when Shmuel left, she couldn’t kick up her heels and refuse to accept reality. She would keep up a brave front, for Mama’s sake and her own. She walked over and straightened the crooked photo. She forced a smile and turned to face Mama.

Celia thought about her grandfather, Mama’s father, who had been awarded a medal for his work in the cholera epidemic in 1870. Celia’s father and uncle had trained under him. Grandfather was gone, but his reputation had been enough to get Mama this private room where she would stay for the rest of her life. Celia remembered the day that Mama had instructed her to leave town. Mama knew that left alone in her state of paralysis, the hospital would admit her.

Celia busied herself. She huffed in exasperation – the bell sat on the left side of the bed when Mama could only see it on the right. How would Mama ring for help? She half listened to Mama, who was again telling her how everyone was related.

Suddenly she stopped. She had heard these stories many times, but she would never hear them again. She wondered if Mama had told the stories to her brothers and sisters. Celia might be the only one who knew the stories, about the uncle in Scotland, the cousins in Palestine. Celia would tell them to her nieces and nephews in America. Her favorite was how Mama and Papa had met, when grandfather had invited the young doctors in training to dinner. It had been love at first sight, and Mama joked that it was the home cooking he fell in love with.

The nurse entered with Mama’s breakfast, and smiled as Mama complimented her. Mama always had a kind word, and Celia wanted to emulate her sunny disposition. Again Celia wondered if she was making the right decision. She had always done what Mama said, but occasionally she had taken a different path. Perhaps this was one of those moments. How could she leave Mama? Well, the decision was made, it was too late to reconsider.

As they hugged for the final time, Celia had a flashback to years ago when she had said goodbye to Shmuel. She was standing beside the train and clutching her big brother’s hand, begging him not to go. But he was eager for what lay ahead and had disengaged from her and climbed the steps, looking ahead instead of back. She wished she could be like Shmuel, always looking ahead. He had been independent and strong at only eleven years old. She was much older now, and she was the one going. Still, she felt just like that bereft little girl. Celia’s head and heart were numb.

Mama gave Celia a kiss. They clung together for a moment, and Celia felt the soft wool of Mama’s bed jacket. She kissed Mama’s wrinkled cheek, and smelled her soft perfume. Then Mama straightened up.

“Give each of my children a kiss. Tell them not to worry about me, my brother will see to it that I receive the best care.” Mama smoothed the coverlet.

“I know Mama. I love you, Mama!”

Celia took a deep breath and walked out the door, shutting it quietly behind her. She paused for a moment and pushed back a sob. She forced a smile at the nurse, who gave her a reassuring wave. Everything had been discussed, it was too late to change her mind. Mama would be well cared for at the hospital, and Celia would send money as soon as she could.