Chapter Six
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The rest of the week passed without incident, although that was not to say I wasn't worried about it. The closer to Friday I got, the more anxious I was, and on the day itself I was terrified something was going to happen to me again.

But nothing did.

I went to bed safe and sound that night, a nice weekend ahead of me. The ceremony on Saturday morning, the football game on Sunday evening. I wasn't even particularly excited for that but I was glad to have something to do, somewhere to be, and not just hiding in my room all day.

The bat mitzvah service began in the morning, at the same time we usually went for Shabbat — only this time, I had a speech to practice and a much nicer-than-usual outfit to wear. A sleek blue dress with quarter-length sleeves, that went down to my knees. Aunt May had seen to it that I wore something brand new for the ceremony, and it kind of made me feel like I was about to go to a board meeting. But in a good way.

Then it was braiding my hair so it looked nice and neat, a bit of subtle make-up and of course, accessories. In this case, it was just my mother's necklace, the silver Magen David glittering against the dark blue fabric.

She was the only piece that was missing.

Peter also had to get dressed up, which he grumbled good-naturedly about. He had a part to play as well, which meant combing his hair and wearing a starched shirt and his "grandpa" shoes. Oh, and spent fifteen minutes finding his kippah in his mess of a room.

Then a quick breakfast before Aunt May was hauling us out the door. In the car, I still had my sheets with me, mouthing the words of my speech to myself.

Next to me, Peter joked, "You don't have to memorize it, you know. It's kind of an open-book test. Literally."

"Please don't call it a test," I muttered, not needing the added stress of the word. It wasn't a test, I knew that, but that still didn't alleviate the tremendous pressure I felt in not fucking up. I'd been looking forward to this day since I turned thirteen years ago. I may or may not have gotten any sleep last night.

"Well then, maybe think of this for good luck," Peter said, and held out his tallit — the one he inherited from his own father, and wore to his won bar mitzvah. I hadn't laid eyes on it in years; tucked neatly away in its case, up on a shelf away from his disaster of a room.

I smiled, and reminded myself I couldn't cry, I just finished my make-up. "Oh, Peter—"

"Don't say no!" Peter insisted, putting the soft fabric into my hands. "I think they'd want this, you know."

They, being our parents. Mom, Richard, Uncle Ben. Thinking about them had my heart squeezing, and I tried not to let it overwhelm me as I drew the tallit over my shoulders. Its weight felt comforting, the arms of a warm hug. Then, feeling self-conscious, I pulled it off again. Not yet.

But the previous anxiety only ramped up when we arrived at the temple, where there was already quite a crowd. Not any bigger than usual, I already knew the congregants and knew what faces I'd see. Rabbi Appel greeted everyone at the door, smiling when he saw me, giving me a brief hug as I approached.

"It'll go off without a hitch," He assured me in a conspiratorial whisper, added a wink, and ushered us inside.

Inside, a few faces in particular were waiting for me.

The next hug caught me off guard — this time Pietro, grinning ear to ear. "Look at you, all grown up! But don't worry, you will always be our little sister."

I scoffed, hiding a laugh, as Wanda added, "There is nothing to worry about, I am sure you'll do wonderful."

"Hey, no fair peeking," I replied, shaking my head. But Wanda only shrugged and smiled; she probably didn't even need to look into my head to tell how I was feeling.

Among the other guests were Claire, who had promised to take time off work for this. She greeted me warmly, a tight squeeze of a hug. "You look so grown up, abejita. Your mom would be so proud." Then when she pulled back, she cut a glance over her shoulder and asked me in an undertone. "Did you invite that weird guy? The one with the beehive thing, from years ago?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes?" I asked, perking up. I had sent an invitation to him and Ms. Watson as well, though I hadn't thought they'd actually show up. But there they were, giving me a small wave in the back corner of the room. Probably to avoid Claire's wrath. "Yeah, I asked if he might be here."

I had also contacted them recently regarding my lapses in memory, the apparent fact that I've been… sleepwalking… disappearing without consciousness. Mr. Holmes had promised he'd follow the trail I'd left; he and Watson didn't believe, as the police and doctors did, that I was just some stupid runaway kid looking for attention. That I wasn't secretly addicted to drugs, which the police still suspected despite all my tests coming back completely clean (not that any drugs would have an affect on me to begin with) or living a second life on the streets.

It was nice, not to feel crazy all the time. That other people believed me.

She threw me a look. "Why?"

"Because…" I shrugged, unable to find the words. "They're my friends, too."

"Well, as long as he behaves himself…" Claire replied, looking unconvinced. She reserved her stink-eye for another man entirely. "Guess he has more right to be here than someone I could mention."

"Please don't start a fight with my dad," I said, wincing a little. Claire had carried the flag of my mother's resentment after her passing, unwilling to forget what Mom had gone through at the time. "He's just doing his best."

"If you say so," Claire cut me a look. "His best better be pretty damn good."

And last but not least, there was Steve, and Dad. They both looked a rather identical in button-up shirts and chinos and ties, and only Steve looked anywhere near comfortable in them. I didn't even notice what Dad was wearing until now. Not particularly expensive, the shirt was too tight around his shoulders and the pants looked awfully stuffy on him, and he seemed self-conscious about his long hair, pulled back now. But it was the nicest I'd ever seen Dad. The only slightly odd thing about him was the gloves on his hands, which I supposed might be noticeable if everyone else wasn't so focused on how tall he was. I heard more than one giggle in the background from some of the other girls present.

I had both worried they'd be late or something, Steve in particular, who could be called away at a moment's notice. "I'm glad you came!"

"Hey, wouldn't miss this for the world," Steve grinned.

Dad's hug was much more subdued, but no less meaningful. This was his first time at temple, and I could feel how tense he was to be in an unfamiliar place he didn't get to scope out first. But still, he was here. "Knock 'em dead, kid."

Then everyone started shuffling into the sanctuary. I took a seat as I usually did, but my whole body was tense, waiting for when I'd be called up. Rabbi Appel gave the opening words, and prayer, as he usually did, much of which I didn't hear because of the blood rushing in my ears and trying not to crunch on my speech papers too loudly.

And then, too soon: "Miriam bat Naomi."

Daughter of Naomi. It had been a long time since I heard my mother's name like that. The very ghost of her seemed to follow me like a shadow. Haunting me, comforting me. Not weighing me down so much as it used to, but still there. I had to pull my eyes off the floor, make myself look ahead as I got to my feet and headed to the bimah. Standing up there, feeling everyone's eyes on me, my heart skipped a beat — that age-old terror coming through, being seen, being known — before the Rabbi gently tucked the tallit around my shoulders, and grounded me back into the moment.

It wasn't stage fright. Not exactly, anyways. But being stared at, by all those eyes, feeling like I was in constant judgement, had me feeling a little off-kilter. This was the part I dreaded, most of all.

But I quickly realized I wasn't alone, of course not. Rabbi Appel was there to take some of the heat off myself, and then there was Peter and Matt, passing the Torah and opening it. Peter gave me an encouraging smile, while Matt looked a little red in the face. He was roughly the same height as Peter, but heavier, and certainly looked stronger (even I knew that wasn't true); I didn't think the flush could be from carrying anything, though, especially not with Peter helping.

Then my attention was drawn to the words before me. The letters swam in front of my eyes in endless lines, before my eyes focused, everything settled. And then I began to speak.

I knew the opening blessing by heart. It was quiet at first, and Rabbi Appel gestured with my hand to raise my voice. My breath was a little shaky as I inhaled and continued, louder, and surprised myself that it made speaking a little easier. Made me sound more confident, even if I didn't really feel that way.

It grew a little easier after that, at least with my eyes on the scroll before me I didn't have to be constantly aware of the audience. And Rabbi Appel was there, gently guiding me through it, patient whenever I stumbled or stuttered in my anxiety. Hebrew wasn't so unfamiliar as it used to be, but under pressure any mistake felt grievous. But no one laughed, no one snickered. I started to relax a little more.

Months and months of preparation. When it had been Peter's turn, four years ago, he had completed a mitzvah project beforehand; something I had discussed with Rabbi Appel, which he thought I had already completed, much to my surprise. But he had pointed out that my acts of service during the Age of Ultron (as it were), in helping to make food for refugees and helping organize those food and supply runs with my friends — and not including that one time where I attacked some drones to defend a poor bystander — were to him the sign I had the perfect understanding of what it meant to perform a mitzvah, one of hundreds that existed. In this case, he had referenced chessed, a tradition of kindness, and left me to reflect on that for a while.

So much had led up to this; in a year, I'd be a legal adult, but now I'd be responsible for my own actions, good and bad. Before, it had been my mom, and it had always felt odd, to be the only one of my peers here to be the one kid who wasn't b'nai mitzvah. To be seen as a child, not responsible for her own actions, her own choices, even though that's what I had been holding to myself for years now.

Because Mom was gone now. And Dad had enough on his plate to worry about.

Rabbi Appel had asked Bucky if he'd want to speak in my honor for the ceremony, as a parent expressing joy/relief of no longer bearing the burden of their child's actions — but Bucky had declined. I hadn't held it against him, even before he explained his reasoning; that he hadn't known me long enough, hadn't been there for me, and that there were a lot of actions the two of us knew that felt too hard to face publicly, even just in implication. That period under protocol. Because even if Bucky didn't admit it, I knew he'd always feel responsible for what I had done as the Soldatka, or how it would affect me in the future, and that probably would never change.

When the prayer services had ended, it was a weight off my shoulders. But that wasn't the end of it. Peter deftly handed me my notes as he and Matt carefully put the Torah back within the Arc.

And now it was my own words. And that was significantly harder to recite.

"I wanted to thank everyone for coming today," I began, easy words of courtesy that felt a little robotic, but I felt it got the point across well enough. This time I had to look up, make eye contact, seek those I had wanted to invite today. "As you know, I've been waiting for this day for several years now. On the day I turned thirteen, I had already been in the hospital for several days, and the following week after that, missing Shabbat. And a lot more"

"But my mom had always been there for me. She was the one who gave me my name: Miriam. And for a long time, I felt terrible that I never had a strong connection to that name. It has a lot of meanings: from beloved, to bitter, to rebellion. Or wished-for child, something I had thought ironic when I was younger, because I had felt like a burden to her and everyone I knew. Maybe she chose it for Moses' older sister, the prophetess Miriam, who helped lead the Israelites out of Egypt. But I think she chose that name because she loved me. Because she loved me even when it hurt, even when she knew I'd never have a whole life, a long life. She never made me feel unwanted. She always wanted me to belong. I wished it hadn't taken me this long to realize I did."

"She gave me my name, and she gave me the will to live, even when it had been too hard sometimes. When it felt easier to give up," I continued, taking a breath to measure myself. Feeling my throat start to close, choking up, not wanting emotion to seep into my voice. "And I wish she were here now, to see me become bat mitzvah. If anyone knew how much I wanted it, it was her. I hope she'd be proud of me, of who I've become."

"Of the friends I have and the life I've made for myself. And to know that I understand now, that my age isn't what's important. But that it's the understanding of my actions, and how they affect those around me. That there's going to be a time where I can't rely on her, or anyone else, to defend me, to shield me. That I'm responsible for myself, and I have to keep taking responsibility. To face my flaws, and my regrets, and own them. My biggest regret w—" I choked a little "— were the last words I ever said to her. They were made in anger, and I never got to apologize for that."

A tear slipped down my cheek. "I never got to say good-bye."

A long pause where I struggled to recompose myself. Rabbi Appel placed a gentle hand on my back, murmuring for me to take my time.

At last, I managed to regain my voice, face hot with embarrassment but forging onwards. I still had a little more to go. My voice shook, but it carried across the room. "I think about her every day. Everything she's given me. My name, my life. I wouldn't be the same person if she hadn't been there for me. If my family hadn't done everything they could for me, and so much more. I don't think I could ever pay them back. But I hope she sees that I'm happy. That I'm still here."

I took a deep breath, and sighed. "Thank you."

The applause that followed startled me, I'd almost forgot that I was talking to the congregants, that I was making this speech. In my mind, I had completely slipped out of the sanctuary and felt like I was trying to talk to Mom directly. And now, as Rabbi Appel congratulated me, as I stepped off the bimah and everyone stood, a rush of faces and hugs and words of comfort and praise and reassurance — I could only smile in relief, and the tears that followed were more sweet than bitter.

Getting emotional in front of an audience was not my idea of fun, and certainly not something I'd do otherwise, even with a gun to my head. But this was different, even as nervous and embarrassed as I was, I felt safe to open my heart like this. It felt good to share, it felt right. Like I wouldn't be judged.

And then:

"Mazel tov!"

The party began.

This may or may not have been the part I was looking forward to the most. The hard part now over, everyone filed into the adjacent dining hall, in which I was thrilled by the decorations kept hidden from me until now. It was bee-themed, just as I had requested — yellow, white, and black balloons twisted into a bee's bulbous shape; cakes shaped like flowers and beehives; an array of seventeen hexagonal candles (plus one for luck) in a honeycomb formation. So much honey-themed food that it would be a challenge to have a taste of them all.

I loved it.

There were presents, too, of course, but that wasn't so important as the eating and the dancing. So much dancing, of course one had to keep eating to maintain their energy, in order to keep dancing. Peter was playing DJ, playing the songs he knew I liked, and also a few just to embarrass me, such as a certain few songs from Disney movie soundtracks.

Peter was also one of the few people I trusted to lift me in a chair, and even then, I knew he'd fake losing his balance just to scare the shit out of me. Dad helped, of course, as well as Steve and a few others, so no one would question how zipper-thin Peter Parker could lift a chair plus me into the air all by himself.

Overall, the effect was greatly cathartic, the flood of stress and high emotion giving way to celebration and fun. The overwhelming sense of relief that it was it was over, that I had done it, that I was among the b'nai mitzvah. I was my own person now, even if only in the spiritual, cultural sense. That everything that had happened before now, it was behind me, and my life ahead was my own to take.

No longer feeling like an outsider. No longer feeling less-than, insufficient, incapable.

It was the happiest I've felt in a long time.

~o~

There was a package waiting at the doorstep when we got home.

It was mid-afternoon by then, festivities over and my feet sore from all the dancing, carrying the gifts I'd received. Among them, a candlestick that resembled the ones Mom had so much that it made me cry; several individual bundles of eighteen dollars (totaling seventy-two); and a challah board, so I could finally perfect that recipe. But this package, as Aunt May picked it up off the hallway floor, was not belated gift. But from the FBI.

My cell phone.

As soon as we were inside, I practically dumped everything just to get my hands on it, to see what was on there. Dad helped Aunt May put the leftovers away, although I had the distinct feeling he was listening in as Peter and I hovered over the box in the living room.

It was nice to be back in the house again, quiet and secluded. Steve ended up taking a work call after all, during the party, and Wanda and Pietro had to leave afterwards, to return home for training. Apparently, Colonel Rhodes had them on a strict military schedule, and wanted them used to routine. For whatever good that would do when one of your students is a speedster that could run from New York to California in under an hour.

Inside the box was a folded plastic bag, within the cell phone and a sheet of paper. An evidence log with details explaining that the digital contents had been stored away, and the chain of hands it had gone through. And now it was mine again.

Thankfully, it still had some battery left, so the cell turned on instantly. Peter, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar and tie cast aside, studies the screen with me. "Holy shit, did I really leave 103 texts?"

"Damn," I muttered, as I scrolled through my inbox. "And sixteen voicemails, and fifty missed calls. Half of them after my phone died, it looks like."

"What can I say? I'm a dogged guy."

I went through the voice mails one by one, just in case. I already knew what most of them would be about, winced as they got more and more urgent and frightened. Not just from Peter, but from May and Dad and Steve and MJ and Ned and half a dozen more. My voicemail was actually full, and I felt a little bad deleting them as I went through, like I was ignoring this week-old concern.

But none of the voicemails were from any strangers, holding any secret or threatening messages. I wasn't too surprised.

The texts took even longer to wade through.

"What are you hoping to find?" Peter asked, as the sound of my clicking thumb filled the room with an increasingly annoying sound. "You think this mystery person who took you left a message?"

"I don't know," I said, because I didn't want to admit how dumb that would be to assume. I had no texts or from unknown numbers, no private IDs except for the ones accounting for Steve and Natasha. "I was wondering if I might have replied back to anyone, or…"

I probably would've known if I had already, someone would've said something. The notes left with the cell didn't reveal anything, not what the FBI had concluded from whatever information they gathered from the device.

But there was something else. I noticed the clock looked weird, that it had been changed to the twenty-four-hour setting. And the weather app had a new location on it. Italy.

"Italy?" Peter repeated when he saw it. He raised an eyebrow at me. "Were you planning a vacation or was it for Howie?"

"You think Howie has the patience for me to look up anything on this dinosaur?" I asked wryly. "I think not. No, I don't remember doing this, either."

"Huh," Peter frowned, leaning back and scratching his head. "I wonder what's so special about Italy. Dream vacation?"

I threw Peter a look, trying not to bristle at the implication that I was trying to run away again. But he just looked back, shrugging innocently, and I decided he meant no harm by it. At last, I heaved a sigh, setting the phone down. "I don't know. I don't think it's Howie-related. He would have said something by now."

"Oh yeah," Peter agreed, nodding sagely. "He cried when I called and told him what happened."

"Peter!"

"What?" He threw up his hands. "I wasn't trying to make him cry! He was just scared for you, that's all!"

"Why didn't you say anything before?"

"What, that he cried?"

"Yeah!"

"Why the hell would I?" Peter was trying very hard not to laugh at my indignation now. He recoiled when I smacked him with a pillow. "Hey! I'm serious! He felt bad enough he wasn't able to help, I didn't want to rub it in. Just, you know, don't tell him you know that. Or that you heard it from me."

I couldn't stop myself from rolling my eyes. "I wasn't planning to. But next time I upset him, you let me know, okay? I can't have that on my conscience."

"You got it, Goose." Peter grinned.