The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (3 page)

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not sleepy.”

I cross the dance floor to search for Krista. The ball is over, and I’m ready to go home. On my right, I notice a small group of men are gathered. All good looking, they catch my eye. When I get nearer, I see Krista, dead center, poised on the arm of a big, wide, white chair.

“Hey,” she yells, and leaps up to greet me. “Guys, meet my friend Aimee. She’s why I’m here.”

Two men on the outer limits of the Krista circle zero in on me. One is supercute, a
GQ
banker type, and the other looks like a nice, normal guy. I compare this to my recent encounters.

“Any friend of Krista’s is a friend of mine,” says GQ.

This is more like it. I give Krista an okay sign with my eyes, but she doesn’t notice. Her dance card full, she divides her attention among three men I wish would pay attention to me. Normal walks away, but GQ remains. About to talk, I look straight at him, but something else catches my eye. A few feet behind GQ I see Someone. And he looks like someone I want to meet.

I walk past GQ, whose head does a nod I’m sure says
Come back when you’re done.
It gives me confidence. So I inch forward, but only far enough to note that Someone is finishing a conversation. Believe it or not, I can actually hear.

“Here’s my card if you want to call me,” says a pretty-average-looking girl to Someone’s handsome stranger.

He takes it. I know he won’t call. He didn’t ask for her card. Besides, his eyes connect with mine. I smile.

“Talk soon, Josh,” the girl finishes with Someone. Then, yes, the girl walks away.

Josh. Nice name. Nice eyes. Nice smile.

I take a big breath before my next big step. Josh’s eyes are on me, but then a female hand is on his shoulder and . . . he turns. He turns?
What?
I see their banter begin.

A shark only at work, I cannot stand here and wait to go in for the kill. I’m not good at this. If it’s
bashert
, we’ll catch up later. That thought extreme, I feel disappointed Josh doesn’t break away to approach me. Forget it. I head back to Krista’s clique. Fortunately, GQ is still there. When I grow close, he makes a space to invite me in. Not wanting the night to be a total bust, I regroup.

“So did you go away for the holidays?” I ask him.

“Four days in Jamaica, nothing big,” he says. “What did Krista do?”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s totally my type, but I can’t get near her. I’ve been hanging out waiting for you. Can you put in a good word for me?” GQ hands over his business card. Too mortified to look up, I look down. Merrill Lynch. Investment Banker.

Eyes glued to the floor, my head does not move. As if an egg’s been cracked on top of it, I feel it slowly drip and cover me in gunk. Coming down here tonight, I was concerned Krista might feel awkward. However, I feel like the interloper.

Once certain GQ is gone, I force my eyes up. They see Krista. She looks like an actress in a film. Her hair cascades over her bare shoulders. Her head falls back as she laughs. Are any of those guys even that funny? I watch her hand a card over to one admirer while she catches the eye of another. Krista can take care of herself just fine.

I wave my hand to get her attention. This time I do. Like a performer in a silent movie, I mime to show I am suffering from a headache. I stretch my hand so my forefinger points into my ear, my pinky down toward my mouth. Then I point my thumb back to show I’m soon gone. The moment Krista winks, I am.

S
tonewalled

Y
IT-GA-DAL
ve-yit-kadash she-mei ra-ba.”

Maddie holds a card with the Mourner’s Kaddish printed on it and reads the transliteration aloud. I bring my own siddur to read in Hebrew. She sounds the words out slowly, stopping whenever she has trouble. It is often. I step to the side of my mother so I can honor my grandpa Jack my own way.

“ Ye-hei she-mei ra-ba me-va-rach, le-a-lam u-le-al-mei-al-ma-ya,”
I recite. I read Hebrew well. It rolls off my tongue, and I like the feel of the words.

Today marks ten years my grandpa is gone. Still alive, he’d be a hundred. He died the day after my twenty-ninth birthday, if it’s not bad enough having a birthday on Groundhog Day. For the longest time, it cast a dark shadow on my day. I got past it. But not this year. I don’t want to come out of hibernation.

It’s been weeks, but I’m still far from up after going to DOWN. Krista, however, is having the time of her life. She gets at least one great date out of every awful event. I’m not sure if there’s a front-runner yet. It’s hard to keep track. Tonight’s a Jewish singles wine tasting, and she wants me to go. I don’t think so. Krista can’t wait. For Krista, a kosher wine tasting can become cooler than one of those beer commercials where all the beautiful people cavort on the beach.

My parents took me out last night, a birthday dinner and a show. I slept at their apartment with the plan to come to New Montefiore today. Way out on Long Island, the cemetery’s a big ride from Manhattan. One my mother never wants to do alone.

“O-seh sha-lom bim-ro-mav, hu ya-a-seh sha-lom alei-nu, Ve-al kol Yis-ra-eil, ve-i-me-ru: a-mein.”

Finished, I search the lawn for a nice stone to put on his grave. I get one for my grandma Frieda’s too. I wish I’d had her longer.

“ YE-HEI . . . SHA-SHI-SHE-LA . . . M . . . MA-RA-BA.”

My mom struggles but remains intent on saying this prayer for her dad. He lived with my parents the last five years. When I sleep in my old room, I still occasionally come across a hankie, a comb, or some little knickknack that belonged to him. I put them in a box labeled
Grandpa Jack—Keepsakes to Remember.
The same purpose as these stones, I think, and remember when I place them on the graves.

“How’s my little
rebbetzin
?” my grandfather always asked when I was a girl and we’d visit my grandparents’ in the Bronx on Shabbat. Selectively religious, Grandpa Jack would avoid riding on the Sabbath whenever he could.

“Yech! Stop,” I’d scream.

I know he only said it because he was proud I went to Hebrew school. At ten or eleven, the idea of marrying a rabbi was horrific. A rabbi’s ancient, isn’t he? However, calmed down by the assurance I could marry anyone I like—so long as he was Jewish—I’d sit with my grandfather on the couch and read to him in Hebrew. He would
cvell.
Then he’d give me a dollar.

I was his pride and joy. My mom’s an only child, and, in her day, women were not sent to Hebrew school. Daphne quit after a year for ballet and Girl Scouts. And Jon, well, I think he quit at his bar mitzvah ceremony the second he sang the last note on his haftarah.

From afar, I watch my mother place stones on her parents’ graves. She has my father and her children. Grandchildren. But her parents. To lose your parents and no longer be somebody’s daughter. My mother turns to look at me. I do my best to smile.

“I’m finished,” she says, walking toward me. “Come on. Grandpa Jack would want us to go eat. And you can use it.”

It is apparent that since Christmas I dropped down a size, the Depression Diet. My mother walks to the car. The Honda is parked on the road nearby. I walk behind her but stop before getting in.

“Give me a few minutes, okay?” I ask. Already in the driver’s seat, my mother presses the button for the window on the passenger’s side. It slides down, and she can hear. “You know where to meet me, all right?”

Maddie’s look changes. “Aimee, sweetheart, please. Let go. And just get in the car.”

“No.” I quickly turn and run in the all-too-familiar direction. I run as fast as my high-heeled boots will allow.

I hear the ignition turn on. My mother follows with the car. She catches up and slowly drives alongside me.

“You’re not helping yourself, you know,” Maddie shouts through the open window. “This always upsets you, and it serves no purpose.”

As fast as I can run, I know my mother can outdrive me. But I pick up speed to show I’m not changing my mind.

“Aimee.”

“Leave me alone!”

I run down the paved road until I reach the place where I can cut across the grass. I run past Joe Fleischman, Loving Son, Husband, Father, and Grandfather (1898–1981), make a right two down from Lily Moskowitz, Loving Daughter, Sister, and Wife (1912–1995), and reach my left turn at the tragic and untimely Eve Blumenthal, Beautiful Daughter and Sister (1955–1971). Fifteen seconds more. I stop short, hold my breath. I always expect to see him. Except, of course, I don’t.

SAM FEINSTEIN
A Special Son, Brother, Uncle, and Friend
October 22, 1965–September 11, 2001

“Aimee, you’re not at your desk. Wanted to hear your voice. Hey, good thing we woke up so early. Got into work, and that new service didn’t pick up the documents for the financial company’s nine o’clock, so guess who’s down at the Trade Center playing messenger? Anyway, just waiting for the elevator. Before I head back, think I’ll pop over to Chinatown and pick up a salmon to cook for dinner. Cool? Call me. Love ya.”

Message received Tuesday, September 11, 8:42
AM
.

Those first months were atrocious. I was at my parents’ almost every day. The following year I moved. It helped, though memories tend to follow. I always worked. I started going out. People said I seemed much better. No matter what the perception, there are always scars. But the heart must be our most resilient organ for, over time, though it never forgets, it heals.

The whole time I dated Peter, I didn’t visit Sam.

“I had a boyfriend, but we broke up,” I tell him now. “He’s not ready.” The loss of both men feels overwhelming. “He’s not steadily employed. He’s not Jewish. And . . . and . . .” No longer able to stop the tears, I don’t even try.

It feels good to let it all out. It takes up so much space, and there’s really no place to put it. I feel I’m a groundhog who sees its shadow and wants to retreat to her burrow. I look out. My mother’s caught up, and parks a safe distance from the gravesite.

I say the Kaddish, then place three stones on Sam’s headstone. One for his past. Another for the present we had. And the last for the future; one we did not share, and one I am left to discover on my own. I kiss two of my fingers and place them on his name. Sam.

Honk! Honk!

“I’m hungry, Aimee,” Maddie screams from the car. “Come on, already.”

Sentimental indulgence not my mother’s strong suit, it makes her nervous to indulge mine. I walk to the car and think of Grandpa Jack and Sam. They missed meeting each other here by six months. I wonder if they have Starbucks in heaven. I hope they meet for coffee. And I hope the refills are free.

“I see you’ve been crying. So what do you accomplish by visiting him?” Maddie, I see, has been crying too. I can’t protect her tears, what makes her think she can protect mine?

“Ma, you’re so warm and fuzzy, I just don’t know how to contain myself.”

This gives us both a chuckle.

“You’re a good navigator, so get me out of here, okay?” Maddie hands over a map of the cemetery grounds. I direct her to make a left when we reach the first juncture. For someone who doesn’t drive, I have a pretty good sense of direction.

We find a good diner off the Southern State Parkway. Two orders of pancakes with Canadian bacon and eggs later, we drive on three more parkways until we reach the Triborough Bridge. My parents always have a car in the city. It’s something Sid will never be without. But when it comes to parking, don’t ask.

My mother was the one who got stuck spending
hours
all those mornings sitting in the car. Waiting for the time she could move it and park across the street. They were counting on me for some relief, but that never happened.

A good driver’s ed student in high school, I was confident behind the wheel and scheduled for my road test. But just as my mom and I were headed out the door, the phone rang. Grandma Frieda had had a heart attack. First I thought it was a joke, for whatever reason she was afraid for me to drive. But when she passed away, I became incredibly spooked and let it go for years.

Back up to speed—new learner’s permit, driving course, the works—I made an appointment, again, to take the test the week of my birthday, right after I turned twenty-nine. Yes. And Grandpa Jack died. I couldn’t have possibly passed the test then. Sam finally got me back on track. But believe it or not, it was on my calendar to call and schedule a road test on September 11.

The alternate-side-of-the-street parking hell paled in comparison to that one. Even now, as my mother talks, I quietly turn to the open window and spit into my forefingers. Pooh-poohing away the fear the memories stir. But all the drama did get Sid to agree to a garage. Back in the city, it’s always heaven to pull right in.

My mom’s cell rings when we are out on the street. The weather not too cold, I interrupt to say, “I’m walking home through the park,” and give her a kiss before I go.

“Wait a sec.” She closes the phone. “Come up for a bit.” Maddie’s eyes shine. “We have a surprise.”

I love the word
surprise.
So even if it’s just to show me she learned how to work that
farkakte
printer, I’m game. But turns out it’s much bigger than a bread box.

Jon greets us at the door. I jump up to give him a hug. We may spar, but I love him dearly. My brother’s been away since Christmas.

“So you’re the surprise. Look at you.” He’s got a little windburn from skiing and, as always, looks great. Jon is tall, dark, and handsome. Not quite
GQ,
more like urban cool. Chocolate brown eyes, a great haircut, and clothes always the epitome of casual perfection. “How was it?”

“The shots are awesome. Definite cover. And no complaints about working in Italy!” He pats his stomach.
WORK HARD, PLAY HARD
is the motto Jon lives by.

“You never gain an ounce.” I wish I took after the Rosen side instead of the Alberts. Unzipping my jacket, I take a hanger from the front closet in the small foyer and put my coat away.

“Well, look at
you.
Turn around.” I don’t, so he spins me. “Whoa! Isn’t this like the thinnest you’ve ever been?” You can count on Jon, a fashion photographer, to notice these things. “New diet?”

“Of sorts,” I say. “You must have heard.”

“Exactly!” Jon waves his hand to follow. Excited, I realize somewhere in the apartment is yet another surprise. Maddie trails behind as we go down the hall to my old room. I shared this room with Daphne. Jon slept off the kitchen in what was once the maid’s quarters. Way before Sid Albert’s time as head of house.

My father, in the middle of the room, leans against the bureau talking up a storm to a hip, dark-haired woman with a ring on every finger, plus another in her nose. A snack table is set with makeup, a scissors, hairbrush, blow dryer, and an assortment of beauty products. A full-length mirror is propped against a wall, and in front of it sits a small wooden folding chair.

“Hi, Aimee,” she says, and breaks away from Sid, forcing Sid to take a break. “I’m Jackie. Happy birthday!”

If she popped out of a cake, I couldn’t be more confused. I look at my brother.

“Jackie’s a top hair and makeup artist in the city. I use her on a ton of shoots. So for your birthday I thought I’d surprise you with a little makeover.”

“Jonathan.”
The word
makeover
plugs me in. “Why? What’s the matter with me?” But the second the words are out, I know they are the wrong ones. Honesty not always the best policy, in a surprise situation it has the tendency to be the gut reaction.

“Nothing!”
Jon and Jackie confirm at the same time.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” says my brother. He sits down on one of the twin beds. It’s covered in a mauve quilt my mother bought in the eighties. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want. I just thought it would be fun for you to be pampered.”

I instantly feel horrible. Not to mention I can probably use it. “It would be. Don’t mind me,” I say. “
I’m
sorry.” My cell phone rings. “Excuse me.”

I walk over to the closet to better hear. This gives everyone in the room the golden opportunity to talk about my outburst. And conveniently behind my back. I chat, then turn my head quickly. As if playing Red Light, Green Light, I catch the group in the act and make them freeze.

“Okay, you’re on,” I say when I finish my conversation. Closing my phone, I stick it in my pocket and face them. “That was Krista begging me to go out with her tonight. I said yes. So you know what, Jackie? Knock yourself out. Reinvent me.”

Jackie gets busy, and Sid gets displaced. But I get to be in someone else’s hands. For the moment I think that’s just fine.