Hanukkah Wands

“Cut!” shouted the director, “That’s a wrap.” 

I jumped out of my seat, running towards my trailer. As I rushed through the set, crew members wished me a merry christmas, to which I replied hastily. 

The director of this film was an uptight bugger, so obsessed with timetables that he scheduled a shooting for the morning of Christmas eve. So this morning I was on set at 4AM along with the rest of the crew, praying we don’t go overtime. 

I grabbed my sunglasses and car keys from the trailer, running into my personal assistant Ninet on my way to the car. 

 “Robby!”, she called, and walked towards me.

 “What are you still doing here?”, I asked her. “Go home to your family.”

She smiled, lengthening her steps to keep up with mine. “I just wanted to let you know that Viktor, the prop guy, called and said everything is in place.”

 “Amazing, great, thank you so much!”, I said as I entered my car. “Merry Christmas!”

I hoped there would be no fans waiting for me today. I was in a real rush, and I never could resist them. They were, after all, the reason for my success. 

Growing up it was just me and my mom, and Christmas was always our greatest celebration. We didn’t have much, and mom was working around the clock to keep us afloat, but she never took a shift at Christmas, no matter how much it paid. 

I never knew my dad, and the way mom talked about him, she didn’t really know him either. But she did know he was Jewish. So every Christmas, alongside the Christmas tree, we would light a Menorah - the entire nine candles in one night. It was only when I got older that I realized you didn’t light them all at once and that the two holidays hardly ever overlap. But during my childhood that didn’t matter. 

Mom’s birthday was December 24th, but we never celebrated it. She grew up in the system so she was accustomed to having it overlooked. She always said that it wasn’t important enough, and that family and our time together was all she really wanted anyway. 

Living in a rough neighborhood, it always felt like we were on the edge of things: almost getting by, almost safe.  

I was ten the year things started going bad. Mom had a rare case of early age arthritis, the chronic type, and moving around became a daily challenge. It pained her to walk, and she was struggling to keep a job. We spent most of our money on medication, and Christmas that year was slim. 

Mom was sitting in her armchair, petting my head as I sat beside her. We were singing Christmas carols when I remembered. “Ma, what about the Menorah?” 

 “Yes!” her face lit up with recollection. “Go fetch it, in the left hand cupboard.” 

I hurried to the kitchen of our tiny apartment and took out the candle box. I brought it back to my mother, but as we opened it we realized there were only two candles left. My mom saw the disappointment on my face, lighting the Menorah was my favorite part of the evening. 

She smiled at me, gave me one candle and raised the other in her hand. 

 “Wooosh!” she said, motioning her hand in a circular motion. She pointed the tip of the candle at the wall and cried “Beware of the dragon, o great knight!”

I smiled back at her, holding my candle at the ready. I ducked to evade the dragon’s fiery breath, and stood back up to slay him with my candle-sword. 

After the dragon came the sea monster, rising behind the kitchen counter. The sofa cushions became a bridge over the mystic river, the cookie jar a nest of magical fairies. Mom sat on her chair the entire time, but I didn’t even notice - the world was lighting up around us, embracing us in magic. 

“Viktor,” I answered my car speaker as my phone flashed his name. “How’s it going, man? Ninet told me we’re all set.”

 “Yes,” Viktor said with his thick Russian accent, “everything is in place, and the staff is ready to go.”

 “No one that celebrates Christmas on staff, right? I don’t want anyone missing family time on my account.”

 “Yes, I made sure of it.”

 “Great,” I said, making a turn towards Beverly Hills. “Merry Christmas, Viktor.”

 “S novim godom.” 

Things got really bad after that Christmas. We couldn’t afford the meds, so mom’s condition was getting worse. I worked as much as I could, but mom wouldn’t let me quit school. Things got rough, and it was getting harder to put food on the table. But every Christmas, we’d put all that aside - mom would sit in her armchair and we would fight dragons and seek for treasures using Hanukkah candles. 

By the time I was sixteen mom was living in the streets. I was sleeping on the couch at a friend's house, his mom was working a lot too so I cleaned, cooked and fixed what needed fixing around the house. It was a good setup, but I missed my mom every day. 

On Christmas eve I came to see her at the homeless shelter. She was so happy to see me, but I could tell she was in great pain. We sat across from each other at the plastic table at the edge of the hall, eating our soups and talking softly, when I noticed a side table with decorations of “Happy Hanukkah” standing against the wall. Hanukkah was over two weeks ago, so there was no Menorah on top of the table, but there was a box.

I walked over and opened the box, there were a few dreidels and a matchbox - and two candles! I rushed back to my mother, handing her her wand. Her face lit up with a wide smile. 

Oh, the fun we had that night. Everyone pitched in: one homeless man we pointed at pretended to be a dragon, another old lady declared she was a unicorn. The shelter staff held the plastic cups in the air as we counted the flying pixies. I remember people starting to dance although there was no music. 

Mom’s hug that night before I left lasted for half an hour. She kept telling me how much she loves me and how proud she was of me. 

I left for Hollywood as soon as I finished high school. I worked odd jobs alongside modeling and stand-in jobs, looking for my big break. Sometimes I could afford to pay rent, sometimes I didn’t, but I always had a roof over my head thanks to my friends. I was just barely scraping by, sleeping on friends’ couches, but never gave up my acting lessons. I’d go to those lessons rain or shine, always trying to improve. I kept going, telling myself the stories of George Clooney, Peter Dinklage and many others that had to work so hard and wait so long for stardom. 

Mom got into a care center, after years on the waitlist. It was a state funded center, and poorly funded at that, but the staff was kind and did the best with what they had. I visited her there only once during her stay, but now that she had a regular phone line I could reach her at, we talked every week.

I would tell her about my efforts, embellishing the outcomes sometimes, so she wouldn’t worry. She would always tell me how proud she was of me, and always reminded me to stay away from drugs. I would promise, but could not always keep my word, not in Hollywood. I did my best though, and I never got addicted. 

Mom got treated for her arthritis infections at the center but their medical service did not cover the meds she needed for her chronic state, so the infections kept coming back. She told me over the phone that she is doing her best not to take the antibiotics, because she knows they might eventually stop their influence, so she was still in pain most of the time and couldn’t work.

The care center was temporary, you got in for two years and after that they evaluated if you could stay for another two, but once your four years were up you had to leave. That was my finish line, that was my goal - I couldn’t let her get back on the streets. I wore myself out, going to every audition, pulling every string for a chance to get in front of every casting director I could find. And I prayed. 

The day my mother packed her bags at the center I landed a role in my first sitcom. 

I drove down the boulevard, each mansion bigger than the last. I still couldn’t believe I was living here. I pulled up the long driveway and was jumped by three teenage girls, jumping excitedly up and down. I pulled over.

 “Oh my god! Robert Goodwill!!”

 “OMG!!!”

 “I love you, Robby!” 

I smiled, although I was short of time, and signed and posed for their selfies. 

Achmed, the temp security guard was coming at a run. “I’m sorry Mr. Goodwill, I told them to go away.” he said, panting. 

 “That’s ok Achmed,” I said to him, returning to my seat “and please, call me Robby.”

I drove to the front of the large house, parked the car and rushed inside.

Bella, the event operator, was there to greet me, writing pad at hand. “Good evening Mr. Goodwill. Everything and everyone is in position.”

 “Great, thank you Bella.” I already gave up on trying to get her to address me by my first name, she was far too formal for that. 

 “I’m just missing one detail,” she said, walking briskly beside me, “how many will be accompanying you this evening?” 

 “Just one.” I smiled.

That literally stopped her in her pace, a look of puzzlement and surprise on her face.

I left her behind and walked over to the poolside guest house. I knocked twice.

 “Come in.” said a cheerful voice behind the door.

I stepped inside. 

Mom came in from the bedroom, she was now walking effortlessly with the aid of her meds. She was wearing a beautiful golden gown, with matching shoes. Her hair styled and a dazzling necklace around her neck. She looked old, far older than sixty, the years of hardship visible on her complexion. But she was beautiful.

 “You look gorgeous.” I said to her.

 “Thank you Robby.” She kissed my cheek. “Well, go on, tell me: what is the big surprise? the one for which you’ve been keeping me cooped up in here all day.”

 “Well I definitely won’t spoil it for you now, would I? Besides, it wasn’t that bad, was it?” I motioned towards the big screen tv and the comfortable furniture. 

She eyed me from the corner of her eye as she smiled. “Of course not.”

 “Where’s the outfit you picked up for me?”

 “There, by the table.”

I had a quick shower and got dressed. As I was looking at myself in the mirror and realized I was nervous. I moved my fingers through my hair, straightening it one last time, and walked out to the guesthouse living room.

 “Ready?” I asked my mom.

 “Ready!” She said grinning, placing her arm in mine. 

We walked through the garden to the house. At the door facing the garden was a man dressed as a butler holding a pillow. Mom gasped when she saw what it held: it was two candles, only I had them specially made to look like wizard wands. We each took one and walked inside.

We were greeted by a gigantic mechanical Cyclop, hands waving above our heads. Around him ran a herd of centaurs, firing arrows at his huge torso. Mom, not losing her calm, raised her wand in a circular motion and cried “Woosh!” pointing at the giant’s centered eye. There was a moan from the speakers around us, the enormous puppet went limp, and the centaurs began to cheer. A bright, adventurous music started playing all around us, as our quest continued. 

We walked through the rooms of the house, each room holding a magnificent showcase of magical creatures. Huge dragon puppets, mechanical winged horses, fairy holograms. The staff operated them all perfectly, and the outcome was astounding. The experience was magical, we waved our wands, we battled monsters, we found hidden treasures and petted unicorns. Mom couldn’t stop laughing with joy and neither could I.

When we finally arrived at the last room I told her to place down her wand on the table outside the door next to mine. I held her hand, my heart was beating restlessly in my chest, as I opened the last door.

The room was small, much smaller than the others in the house, and held no staff. It was beautifully lit by fairy lights, small lanterns, and a warm glow that came from the fireplace. In the corner stood a Christmas tree, decorated and proud, on top of the fireplace sat an antique Menorah, all candles shining. At the center of the room stood a round table, with a white tablecloth and the most wonderful of all birthday cakes. It was big and round, with pink flourishes on the sides and in the middle in pink writing it read: “Happy 60th birthday Mom”.

My mother was motionless. I looked down at her face, and there were tears running down her cheeks. She held my hand, but was too emotional to speak.

When she finally gained her speech she looked up at my tearing eyes and said “Thank you Robby, this is actually the first birthday cake I ever had.” 

My heart was expanding in my chest, and I felt we were finally home.