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“Good,” my mom agrees.
“Good!” Sophie says emphatically, but I’m the only one who laughs at this. If we got together more than once a year, maybe our families would be able to do more than small-talk.
By the time my mom serves the chocolate lava cake, the conversation has turned to the favorite topic of three-fourths of our parents: being Jewish.
“Do you have plans for Rosh Hashanah?” my dad asks Sophie’s parents.
“We’ll go to Temple De Hirsch Sinai for services,” Becki says. “Probably a small get-together at our house afterward.” After a brief hesitation, she adds: “You’re welcome to come, of course!”
Sophie groans, mashing a palm into her forehead. “With Rabbi Edelstein? Mom, he mumbles! There’s almost no point in even going.”
“Soph, it’s the one time a year we actually go to temple. I think you can handle it. We’re High Holidays Jews,” her mom explains to mine, who’s nodding like she understands, which she would if my family ever discussed religion. “We only come out for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, but we’re terrible the rest of the year.”
My mom pokes her cake with a fork. “Right.”
We celebrate both Hanukkah and Christmas, but neither has much religious significance for me, and I didn’t have a bar mitzvah. My mom hasn’t attended church in my lifetime, and my dad wanted me to “find my own way,” which I . . . haven’t. Yet. Sometimes I wonder if I’m drawn more to Judaism because of Sophie. I’ve always liked my Jewish side because it made me feel more unique in somewhat homogeneous Seattle, which is strange because it’s not like I had any control over it. But there it is.
Part of the truth is this: I thought I’d die before I ever got a new kidney, so I didn’t want to waste what I thought was precious time discovering religion. I’ve never told that to anyone except the therapist I used to see—that shorter, shittier life was simply the hand I’d been dealt, and I’d accepted that. Everyone else acted like if they dared lapse into pessimism, it might kill me. But in therapy, I yelled, and I cursed, and I cried. I worried aloud about all the things I thought I’d never do, and having a bar mitzvah didn’t make the list.
Tonight, as our families talk about Judaism, I’m struck with curiosity.
“You met in Israel, right?” I say to Sophie’s parents.
They exchange grins. “We did. On Birthright.” Sophie’s dad dabs at his mouth with a napkin. “Has Sophie never told you the story?”
I shake my head, and Sophie and Tabby roll their eyes.
“Believe it or not,
Peter and I don’t usually discuss your love life,” Sophie says.
Sophie’s mom gently swats her arm from across the table. “He went with a group of friends from his synagogue, and I went with a group from Hillel. He was so shy!”
“And you were scarily outgoing,” Phil puts in, and then lets Becki continue the story.
“We sort of flirted on and off the entire trip—as much as I could get from him, at least—but it wasn’t until the last night, when we got separated from the group and spent hours wandering through Tel Aviv together, that we really connected. We stayed out all night.”
“Oy vey,” Tabby jokes. “Scandalous.”
It’s Becki’s turn to roll her eyes . . . but she also doesn’t deny Tabby’s insinuation, which makes Sophie gasp and cover her ears. “That trip . . . It was incredible,” Becki says. “Aside from meeting Sophie’s dad, it made me proud to be Jewish.”
That tugs at something inside me. Sophie doesn’t seem to care, and Tabby and Josh are preoccupied with Luna. But I wonder what it’s like to feel that. That sense of pride.
“Anyone want more cake?” my mom asks. A little too loudly.
“Yes, please,” Tabby says.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” Phil says.
My mom waves a hand. Glittery gold nails. “It was no trouble at all. It had been so long, and we wanted to do something special for your family.”
Suddenly Becki claps her hands. “Oh! You know what else we haven’t had in a while?”
“What’s that?” my mom asks.
“A concert from the Terrible Twosome.”
Sophie and I lock eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “We haven’t played together all summer.”
