AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“What is this about?”
My father suddenly appeared in the doorway.
Like before, I had heard the garage door opening, announcing my father’s arrival after having finished his clinic day. Also like before, he was carrying a bag from Boston Market. With his left hand, he located the remote control, flicking on the nightly news in the background at top volume.
“Did you call me here to talk or to have theCBS Evening Newsdestroy my eardrums? Have you gone deaf, Dad? Can you please lower that thing?”
“Don’t be fresh, Rory. Milton, did you bring me the pulled pork sandwich I asked you for? And she’s right, lower that thing.”
“Yes, Simone.” The news anchor became a silent movie star. “I don’t know how you can eat this chazerai.”
“What do you think you’re doing?” my mother screamed, as my father opened the glass cupboard above the granite countertop to get a plate.
“Fine.” Milton grabbed the chintzy plates, that faux-china shit with the painted-on imitation-gold-leaf rimming that was actually made of plastic, from the pantry.
“Now, do you mind if I speak with my daughter, or do I have to be banished to the basement for that?”
The hostility was mounting. Was I somehow contributing to this tension?
“Rory,” he said, stern-faced. “Your mother and I need to discuss something with you.”
“What is it, Dad?”
“Rory, we thought we were clear about this boy you’re seeing. It’s not acceptable, not approved, not allowed, period. But you defied us and continue to see him anyways.”
My heart sank, my breathing now labored. “Who told you that?” Esther Silverblatt flashed in front of my eyes.
“It doesn’t matter,” my mother interjected. “All that matters is that we know, and we want it stopped immediately!”
My parents had been programming the dial for as long as I could remember. On the day of my first college interview, my mom had selected my outfit: a knee-length plaid skort over white stockings, black patent-leather flats with toe bows, a white shirt with a buttoned-up collar, and a hair bow that matched the atrocities on my feet.
“This outfit will project the right image for a school like this.” I nearly died from fashion toxicity. It was no surprise that the minute I left home for college, I traded in the plaid for short shorts, heels, and midriff-baring T-shirts.
I was an adult now, and I wasn’t about to place those childish patent-leather shoes back on my feet.
“I love him! You can’t DO this to me! Ilovehim, and helovesme! You two don’t understand—you could NEVER understand! I am not a child!!” But there I was, stripped of my adulthood, my power, my surgical prowess. I was an infant in diapers, a silly eighteen-year-old dressed by her mother in patent bowtie shoes.
I got up to leave.
“Rory!” my mom yelled, taking a mammoth bite of her pulled pork sandwich. Seriously?
I was in full-on tears now, heaving to the point of breathlessness. I had watchedFiddler on the Roofseveral times as a child. When Tevye’s third daughter Chava finds love in the arms of a Russian gentile, Fyedka, it was Yente who ratted them out, compelling Tevye to disown his cherished daughter, sitting shiva for her as if she had actually died.
I stood up, pounding my fist on the kitchen table, pulled pork landing all over my mother’s spotless floor.
“This is so ridiculously unfair and intolerant. Since when are we living in Anatevka in 1905? I won’t accept THIS, even if it means you both disown me.”
“Young lady. Sit. Down. Stop this foolishness THIS instant!”
“Mother. I will not sit down. I have been sitting down for you long enough. I am not a trained circus monkey. I am a full-grown woman, and I don’t have to listen to this horseshit!” Which earned me a slap square across my face—my mother was steaming.
The rebellious words had been out of my mouth like a runaway train that had left the station, but my parents’ tentacles had long ago penetrated my skin. Their ancient message wasinme. My four grandparents stood like four pillars in my mind, the cornerstone of my faith, my existence, my Judaism. And Amir—he had his own five pillars. What the hell was I going to do?
I ran out of the house and got into my car. I drove erratically through emotional tears, down winding streets, busy intersections, through stop signs and traffic lights, ending up at a Styrofoam-white building covered by a dome. The building was my old yeshiva.
I stepped out of the car to walk the hallowed grounds, imploring them to offer me guidance. The cold yeshiva wind struck my cheeks, turning them rosy. My past world was seeping into my present. I longed for the superficial simplicity of the masquerade ball in the OR, a faceless charade accepting anyone who had could master standardized testing—Black, White, Asian, it didn’t matter. But there on my yeshiva grounds, the site of my formative years, those distinctions—religious distinctions—did matter. What was more important? My past? My present? My future? How could I experience one without the other?
The building was locked, so I sat down on the hill next to where the kids took their recess. I needed to think...
