Waiting for a Miracle Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Waiting for a Miracle

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Six-year-old bodies were good at many things—bouncing, hugging, and racing. Rachel was thankful they were also good at hiding her surprise. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine her favorite student, and her student’s father, would be at her neighbor’s house the same night she was invited to celebrate Hanukkah.

  She met the hard gaze of Jessie’s father across the room. Eyes narrowed as if he suspected her reasons for being here. His broad shoulders were stiff. His jean-clad muscular legs were spread apart in a solid stance. Square hands fisted at his sides, and one of them held a menorah. Did he plan to throw it or club someone with it?

  Giving Jessie a last pat, she rose. With an arm around Jessie, she extended her other hand to her father. “Happy Hanukkah.”

  “Ms. Schaecter.”

  “Mr. Cohen.”

  “Oh, please,” Harriet said, “Such formality between you two. Rachel, this is my son Benny. I mean Benjamin.”

  Benny. Rachel filed the information away for later, along with his flushed skin at the nickname. Interesting.

  “And Benjamin, this is my neighbor, Rachel. We’re not at a school event. You can call each other by your first names.” Harriet pointed at Jessie, who gripped Rachel’s hand so hard, Rachel’s fingers lost their circulation. “Except for you,” Harriet added. “You have to call her Ms. Schaecter.”

  Jessie giggled. “Yes, Grandma.”

  Waiting

  for a

  Miracle

  by

  Jennifer Wilck

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Waiting for a Miracle

  COPYRIGHT © 2019 by Jennifer Wilck

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Sweetheart Rose Edition, 2019

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2957-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To Michael, my own miracle

  Chapter One

  “Ms. Schaecter! Ms. Schaecter! Look at my picture!”

  The six-year-old girl’s voice rose above the cries of the other elementary students who poured out of the school onto the paved, fenced grounds of the four-story, brick Manhattan public-school. It was the last day before the winter vacation, students burst with exhilaration over the prospect of Christmas, Hanukkah, or whatever holiday they celebrated. To use the last thirty minutes of class, Rachel instructed her hyper kindergarten students to draw a picture of what they looked forward to the most over vacation.

  Rachel plastered a smile on her weary face as she knelt by her favorite student. The child’s dark curls bounced with excitement. Her breath fogged in the cold air. “Jessie, it’s beautiful,” she said, admiring the girl’s holiday picture. “Tell me more about it.”

  Three stick figures surrounded a Hanukkah menorah. Each of the eight branches held a multi-colored, lighted candle. The man, woman, and child wore various shades of blue. Bright yellow stars twinkled in the sky.

  “This is my dad and me and you,” she said, her eyes shining.

  In September, the first time the little girl included her in a drawing, Rachel argued. She’d worried and mentioned it to Jessie’s father when he attended Back to School Night. He explained his wife died three years ago. Ever since, Rachel sympathized with the child. Jessie continued to include her, and Rachel let it go. Lots of students developed crushes on their teachers. If her father didn’t mind, she wouldn’t say anything.

  She hugged Jessie. “Have a wonderful vacation and a Happy Hanukkah, sweetheart.”

  “You too, Ms. Schaecter.”

  The little girl skipped to the bus waiting at the curb outside the school gate, her manic energy reminding Rachel of splattering oil in a pan of frying latkes. As the kids climbed aboard the bus, car horns, revved engines, and messenger bike bells on the busy New York City streets replaced the students’ noisy chatter. She stretched her shoulders as the line of yellow buses departed the school grounds. A cold breeze blew, and she drew her jacket closed against the biting December chill. She smelled snow as she inhaled, as well as exhaust fumes and aromas of roasting peanuts from the vendor on the corner, along with a faint tinge of evergreen from the tree salesman down the block. With another deep breath, she returned to her classroom to close up before vacation.

  Much later than Rachel had planned, the kindergarten teacher next door, and her best friend from work, popped into the classroom. “Any big plans for break,” Kate asked, shrugging into her coat.

  Rachel glanced around the room one last time to make sure all was in order. “Not at the moment. I want to relax.”

  The two women walked out of the building together. “You okay on your own this break? Because you’re welcome to join us for Christmas if you’d like.”

  Rachel nodded. “You’re sweet, but I’m fine. Really.” She and Mark had planned a ski vacation until Rachel broke up with him. For a fleeting moment, she pictured him skiing with his new girlfriend, the one she’d caught him cheating on her with, but she pushed the thought aside. It didn’t matter anymore what he did. He was out of her life. “I decided to play tourist here. There are so many things to see in New York over the holidays.”

  “What about Hanukkah? Will you celebrate it with someone?”

  Rachel shrugged. “I have my menorah and candles to light. I’ll be fine.” She held a wrapped paper plate. “And one of my students made me latkes today.”

  Kate stopped at the corner and hugged her. “Have a great break, and if you need anything, call me. Happy Hanukkah!”

  “Merry Christmas!”

  Rachel trudged three blocks to the subway and shoved her way onto the crowded downtown D train to the 23rd Street station. A street performer on the platform sang Christmas carols while strumming a guitar. Outside, the sun had begun its descent, and the tall buildings threw long shadows onto the pavement as she walked west until she arrived at her apartment building, halfway down the block. The early 1900’s brownstone building was majestic and sturdy. Wide stone steps with intricate wrought iron railings led to the large oak front door. She walked the two flights of stairs to her apartment and as she unlocked her door, her neighbor opened hers. A blue and white dreidel decorated its front.

  “Rachel, I thought I heard you come in.”

  Harriet Cohen was a sweet lady in her seventies with a sharp mind, even sharper hearing, and a penchant for reality shows. Monday nights, Rachel spent the evening with Harriet, watching The Bachelor. The remainder of the week, Harriet gave Rachel dating advice, based on what they had watched on TV. She ignored most of it.

  “Hello, Harriet.” She loved this lady, but she was exhausted after a day of kindergartners high on
sugar and holiday excitement, followed by an afternoon of cleaning her classroom and closing up for the break. All she wanted was a bath, some alone time with a good book, and bed.

  “Tomorrow night’s the first night of Hanukkah. You’ll come over.” Harriet didn’t ask questions. She made declarations.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Try?” Harriet marched over and stood in Rachel’s open doorway. “Hanukkah celebrates the miracle of the small Maccabean rebels beating the huge Greek army, and the oil in the temple burning eight nights when it was only supposed to last one. We all need miracles in our lives, big and small. There is no “try.” I’ll see you tomorrow at sundown with your menorah and candles.”

  Rachel blinked, speechless, but not surprised at her neighbor’s declaration. Harriet marched to her apartment and slammed the door. The dreidel decoration flapped at the sudden movement.

  Well then. She hated demands. Mark had spent their entire relationship telling her what to do when and how, and she hadn’t been strong enough to stand up to him. Other than her students, who needed instruction, because thirty, six-year-olds without direction was the equivalent of a herd of goats let loose in a grocery store, Rachel liked the freedom to be spontaneous, now that she didn’t have to listen to Mark.

  She flicked on the lights in her apartment, threw her coat over the back of her dining room chair, kicked her snow boots into her closet, and padded into the kitchen. She put the plate of latkes in the refrigerator and deposited the bag of holiday gifts onto the counter. Undressing as she walked toward her bedroom, she found sweatpants and a sweatshirt hanging on the chair next to her bedroom window. Once she was in comfortable clothes, she sat at her computer and placed her hand on top of the stack of foster parent brochures.

  Mark hadn’t wanted kids, and at first, his distaste for them worked—she couldn’t have children of her own due to a medical procedure in her childhood and thinking of the students she taught as “hers,” Rachel made herself satisfied with his plans for their life together. But now, she was free to consider her desires. She’d always assumed having a baby of her own was an unattainable miracle, but now? Just because she couldn’t give birth, didn’t mean she couldn’t give another kid love. More than anything, she wanted to foster a child. There were plenty of children in the system, but could she handle it on her own?

  Harriet had talked of the miracle of Hanukkah. Rachel needed something, all right, to get through the mounds of paperwork and connect with a little one in need. But she doubted the miracle she looked for was of the Maccabees and eight-nights-of-oil variety.

  ****

  “Daddy, hurry!” Jessie called. “We can’t be late!”

  Benjamin laughed to himself. If the Maccabees had had Jessie with her energy and excitement, they needn’t have worried about oil to light the menorah in the Temple. She could have powered it herself. Thank goodness she was his only offspring.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming. We don’t want to forget the cookies,” he said, packing Hanukkah cookies they’d made earlier that afternoon, as well as the candles and menorah into a bag to take to his mother’s apartment. “Are you ready?”

  Jessie stopped mid-jump, raised her eyebrows, and put her hands on her hips. “I’ve been ready for hours.”

  His heart squeezed. She was a mirror image of her mom when she used that expression. Sounded like her, too. He clenched his teeth. Holidays were the hardest without his wife, although every day was hard. But his mother invited them over, and as much as she drove him nuts, it made holidays festive. He owed Jessie a memorable Hanukkah, filled with warmth, love, and light.

  “Off we go!”

  The doorman, dressed in a warm winter coat, hat, and gloves, hailed a taxi for them outside their midtown Manhattan modern high rise and held the door open while they climbed in.

  “Thanks, John.” He fastened Jessie’s seatbelt and gave directions to their destination, forty blocks south, to the driver. This year, the first night of Hanukkah coincided with Christmas Day. Both holiday celebrants crowded the streets, rushing to temple, church, and family dinners. Twenty minutes later, they arrived at his mother’s.

  The scent of frying latkes hit him the second he opened the front door of the brownstone. The aroma of oil, potato, and onions carried him back to his childhood—large gatherings with cousins, uncles, aunts, and grandparents crowded around their menorahs, chanting the prayers, spinning dreidels, and opening presents. Now it was the three of them, since most of the family had moved away. He and Lauren had only wanted one child. It never bothered him before. But now, with just the two of them… Jessie raced up the stairs. Her mahogany curls bounced against her bony back, and he wondered what memories she’d have. He hoped good ones. This was why they’d come.

  “Bubbelah!” His mother cried out as soon as she opened the door. By the time he finished climbing the stairs, the two were locked in a tight embrace. His mother gazed at him from where she’d knelt on the floor. “Hello, Benny.”

  “Hey, Mom.” He helped her to her feet and followed her into the kitchen, where he unpacked their bag. His mother went all out for the celebration. Blue and white linens in the kitchen and dining area, electric dreidel lights festooning the windows, and Happy Hanukkah signs adorned every door.

  “Daddy, come look at Grandma’s menorahs! She has so many!”

  Ben straightened but didn’t turn around. “First we put things away. Then we explore.”

  “Oh, Benny, let her be,” his mother whispered. “She’s excited.”

  He stiffened. “Mom, there’s an order to everything. That’s how we make sure to get things done. It’s discipline. Didn’t you teach me that growing up?”

  Her sharp blue eyes stared at him from within her lined face. She opened her mouth but closed it before she said anything. The pause lengthened, and Ben waited her out.

  “Whatever you think is best.”

  Since Lauren died, he’d made it through life with order and discipline. No surprises, no sudden movements. It’s what he knew. His mother had been there through it all. But would Jessie remember the fun or the rules? And why did he now have doubts? Were too many rules getting in the way of spontaneous miracles?

  Jessie pulled at his elbow, preventing him from any further thoughts. “Where does our menorah go, Daddy?”

  With a smile, he gave it to her and pointed to the banquet beneath the dining room window. His mother lined it with foil so dripping wax wouldn’t ruin the wood finish. “Right there.”

  Jessie took the menorah and candles and placed it with care next to the big silver one already in place.

  He handed the plate of cookies to his mother.

  “I helped bake them, grandma.”

  “You did?” His mother sniffed them. “I can’t wait to eat them. They smell delicious.”

  Satisfied everything was taken care of, he turned to Jessie. “So, where are these menorahs you wanted to show me?”

  Jessie glowed. She took his hand and led him into the living room. The floor to ceiling bookcase, filled with the mysteries his mother loved, now also displayed every menorah they’d ever used. There were intricate silver ones from her childhood and hand-painted ceramic ones from his time in religious school. A brass one that was a wedding gift when his parents married. The Snoopy menorah he’d used as a child. Each one told a story, each one held a memory, each one filled him with warmth and light and reminded him of the miracle of the season.

  “This one’s my favorite,” Jessie said and pointed to his parents’ wedding menorah. “It’s shiny!”

  “That’s from Grandma and Pop-Pop’s wedding,” he said, lifting it and handing it to her.

  “It’s heavy,” she said.

  “Because it’s brass.” He took the weighty menorah back from her.

  “Do you and Mommy have one from your wedding?”

  His throat closed. When Lauren died, his belief in miracles dimmed. Unable to look at it, he’d put it away. Besides, Jessie had a menorah they lit.
But maybe he deprived her of…something? Before he could formulate an answer, the doorbell rang.

  “I’ve got it,” Harriet cried. “Rachel! Come in.”

  He turned away from the bookcase, grateful for the distraction. His mother walked into the living room, a strange gleam in her eye. “Benjamin, Jessie, I have a surprise for you.”

  His stomach clenched.

  “Ms. Schaecter!” Jessie screeched and ran toward the woman, who bent for a hug. Wavy red hair twined with his daughter’s brown curls. Supple arms with graceful hands wrapped around his daughter’s body.

  She met his gaze.

  Soft brown eyes, the same eyes that haunted his dreams since Back to School Night.

  His mother invited Jessie’s gorgeous teacher to Hanukkah.

  ****

  Six-year-old bodies were good at many things—bouncing, hugging, and racing. Rachel was thankful they were also good at hiding her surprise. Never in her wildest dreams did she imagine her favorite student, and her student’s father, would be at her neighbor’s house the same night she was invited to celebrate Hanukkah.

  She met the hard gaze of Jessie’s father across the room. Eyes narrowed as if he suspected her reasons for being here. His broad shoulders were stiff. His jean-clad muscular legs were spread apart in a solid stance. Square hands fisted at his sides, and one of them held a menorah. Did he plan to throw it or club someone with it?

  Giving Jessie a last pat, she rose. With an arm around Jessie, she extended her other hand to her father. “Happy Hanukkah.”

  “Ms. Schaecter.”

  “Mr. Cohen.”

  “Oh, please,” Harriet said, “Such formality between you two. Rachel, this is my son Benny. I mean Benjamin.”

  Benny. Rachel filed the information away for later, along with his flushed skin at the nickname. Interesting.

  “And Benjamin, this is my neighbor, Rachel. We’re not at a school event. You can call each other by your first names.” Harriet pointed at Jessie, who gripped Rachel’s hand so hard, Rachel’s fingers lost their circulation. “Except for you,” Harriet added. “You have to call her Ms. Schaecter.”