“He just wants to ruin it—is that it? What the hell is wrong with him? Poor Brooke . . .” Elizabeth trailed off. Her arms were moving wildly, out of control. “Is he going to prevent us from having it there?” she demanded.
“Of course not. Why say such a thing? If Jake’s brother sponsors you, Richard won’t get in your way.”
“Will I need a policeman to protect us?” she asked, her voice rising.
This took me by surprise and seemed uncalled for. “Richard’s not going to hurt you, Elizabeth. Don’t make the situation worse—”
“He hates us,” Elizabeth said, clipping the end of my sentence. “Jake’s going to have a fit! He told me to have his brother sponsor us in the first place. I didn’t want to hurt your feelings by asking him. No good deed goes unpunished.”
The wind picked up. My sister had just confirmed that her invitation for me to host Brooke’s bat mitzvah had been an honor. Now, just as quickly, she was insulting me. I began to feel betrayed, a little like Richard must have felt.
“Forget the barbecue. You’re not invited under these circumstances,” Elizabeth said, as we were about to drive off.
From that point, our family injuries festered into deep, infected wounds. Things between my sister and Richard became even worse. Elizabeth’s cancer diagnosis two years later was the fatal blow.
Between my lie and Richard’s snub, the tear between Richard, Jake, and Elizabeth was complete.
Chapter Ten
After an exhausting first round of doctor’s appointments, and Richard’s so-called misfire with the flowers, my sister, parents, and I gather days later at Elizabeth’s kitchen table, trying to cope. My sister rakes her fingers through her shiny, chestnut-highlighted hair. Now that she knows it will soon be gone, she can’t keep her hands out of it. “How’s this for a goal?” she asks. “See my kids graduate high school. Let’s shoot for that.”
After we’ve turned over all the options, after we’ve read and reread all the literature from doctors and whatever we can find on the Internet, my parents turn to religion. My father begins to unbutton his shirt. On his speckled chest, a golden chai gleams on a thin chain. He ducks his head and pulls off the necklace, dangling it before us.
Chai is a Hebrew word and symbol meaning life. Wearing a chai is supposed to bring you luck; I have no memory of my father without his. His grandfather gave it to him as a gift for his bar mitzvah. As a kid, when I skinned my knee or if I was scared during a movie, burying my head in my father’s chest, I felt the áhai’s cool metal on my cheek. My father shines it once a year, on Rosh Hashanah, before attending temple services for the High Holy Days.
“Life,” my father says now, his lips quivering. He pushes out of his chair and shuffles around the table to lean over Elizabeth, kissing her forehead and fastening the talisman around her neck. At that moment, it doesn’t matter what our religious beliefs are—we all believe in my father’s humble, homemade Jewish magic.
“Thank you, Daddy. I’ll never take it off,” Elizabeth says, and holds the chai over her heart, squeezing the metal in her fist as if summoning God to pay attention.
Unlike in the early days of our marriage, when I pined for Richard to belong to such moments as these, I find myself relieved now that he isn’t here to disrupt our intimacy.
“You’ll get better, I know it,” my father says to Elizabeth, and nods.
The possibility of divine intervention flashes in my mind. My family is Jewish, but not religious in the traditional sense. And although I have always attended services on Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, now that Elizabeth is sick, I need more. We all do. My family and I grasp for something bigger to make meaning of our suffering and rescue us. We dust off an old faith, pleading with God for Elizabeth to be healed.
Later that week, I make an appointment with my rabbi, hoping he’ll have some answers. I meet him at his office in Brookline on the first floor of the synagogue.
“Shalom. Come in,” he says. “Sit.” He motions to a leather couch against the wall. His bookshelves are stuffed with scriptures. Rabbi Bromberg is a pious and learned man with the build of a tennis player, all ankles and wrists. He wears a yarmulke on his short brown hair. Bromberg has been our rabbi for a long time. He officiated my marriage to Richard and our grandparents’ funeral services.
“I heard the news about your beloved sister,” the rabbi says. “I’m very sorry.”
I explain the particulars of the diagnosis, ten days now since the ground gave way, very much still trying to find my footing. “I’m devastated,” I say.
“I understand,” Rabbi Bromberg says. “My heart goes out to you and Richard. And to your sister, her family, and your parents.”
“Do you believe in curses?” I ask bluntly. “Like, if someone is envious of my sister, could it eventually cause her harm? Or if someone is under constant negative energy and stress, do you think it’s possible for them to get cancer?” I am a bit wary of confiding in the rabbi about this kind of thinking, because Richard has been on the board of his congregation, but today I have no choice.
Around my wrist I am wearing one of those red strings that are supposed to keep away the evil eye. Elizabeth does these days, too. I bought one for each of us last week at the Kabbalah store in Newton Centre. I wear the red string all the time now, even in the shower. I can’t stop fiddling with it.
Rabbi Bromberg leans back in his chair, crossing his ankles in front of him. “I don’t believe in things like that,” he says calmly. “Nobody knows God’s plan.”
“Well, what does the Torah say about why young people get sick?” I ask, frustrated with his elusiveness.
“There is no definitive answer. I’m sorry.”
I try to hold back my emotion, but tears dribble down my face. I’m actually a bit relieved. I had been half-worried that Rabbi Bromberg might cite lines from the Torah proving how negative energy impacts people’s health, to terrible ends. Although I don’t believe in curses, I understand that Elizabeth is searching for someone or something to blame for her disease, and so am I.
Rabbi hands me a tissue. “People depend on prayer, of course, to commune with God. Some feel comforted by charms and talismans, like that bracelet you’re wearing. For thousands of years, Jewish people have fastened mezuzahs to their doorposts to ward off evil, and more recently they’ve begun wearing the chai symbol for luck. Ritual objects are a way of drawing on God’s power even when God doesn’t want to talk to us. However,” Rabbi Bromberg says, raising a finger, “there is something I deem helpful.” He explains the prayer Mi Sheberach, chanted during Saturday-morning services. “At this time, any congregant can say aloud the name of a loved one who is ill, and the community as a whole says a prayer on the sick person’s behalf.” The rabbi nods his head, as if agreeing with himself. “It’s a powerful moment.”
“I remember that prayer,” I say, comforted, if only slightly. I love the community aspect of Judaism. Saying Elizabeth’s name to the entire congregation and having them pray for her healing is encouraging.
“Samantha, I will say Elizabeth’s name every Shabbat morning, even if you aren’t in the synagogue,” he says, and places his palms together.
I know he is trying to be helpful, but I want to believe that prayer is capable of changing more than just people’s thoughts. I want to believe that it can cure cancer. “Thank you,” I say. Then, because one sorrow begets another, I tell Rabbi Bromberg how troubling it is that I cannot bring together the people I love most. There is a rift between Richard and Jake, Richard and Elizabeth, and even Richard and me.
“My husband really doesn’t like my sister, her husband, or her kids. He won’t admit it but I feel that he’s jealous of my closeness to them. And to top it off, years ago, Richard and Jake became enemies over a business misunderstanding. I can appreciate why my husband doesn’t want to be best friends with my sister and my brother-in-law, but I can’t comprehend his extreme dislike.” I confide in the rabbi because I’m wondering if he c
an speak to Richard and present our family issues differently, more persuasively, than I have. As with Elizabeth’s illness, it feels like I need help from a higher source if I plan to stay married.
“Have you seen a marriage counselor?” he asks.
“A few,” I say, and laugh.
“Is there any good in your marriage?”
I think about what I like about my marriage, if there’s something worth saving. We have a home, a daughter, and mutual friends. Our similar interests bond us. When we travel, our relationship is easy. Neither of us could spend more than a couple of hours at the Louvre. And both of us work the room at a cocktail party like pros.
I admire Richard and his business acumen. I admire his resilience and fortitude, another kind of stubbornness. He has qualities I still aspire to, like always having a plan B. He leads his life the way he navigates from the driver’s seat: fast lane, no one slowing him down. If the car in front doesn’t move over, or if there’s traffic, he negotiates the obstacle to reach his destination.
Richard can be especially generous when he feels loved and admired. “You know, when we first got married,” I say tearfully to Rabbi Bromberg, “I was so proud to be his wife. He was romantic and made me smile, took care of me, always kissed me hello and goodbye.”
“Were Richard and your family ever on good terms?” the rabbi asks. He’s sitting on a frayed cloth seat and listening patiently while I pour out the whole story.
“Yes,” I say, and explain the rest: how, a few years after we married, Richard began excusing himself from time with my family. He wanted us to have our own life as spouses, compartmentalized from the rest of my relatives, when my idea of the border between marriage and family of origin was a spillover. Richard didn’t understand this about me, and I had trouble understanding him, too. We tried to change each other, instead of appreciate and value our differences. Now, I ask myself, is it possible that Richard’s behavior, which seemed callous at the time, was motivated by something other than selfishness or ill will, as I interpreted it? Was he merely, understandably, protecting his own heart, guarding it with a vigilance he learned as a child?
“My family has always given me enormous love,” I say. “So when things got difficult with Richard, even though my family was half of the conflict, that’s still where I turned. That only isolated Richard further.”
Because the rabbi nods sympathetically, I tell him more. How I obsess about the idea that Richard, Elizabeth, and Jake should become friends. How I want our children to be closer. How I push for Richard to be in the relationships that come so naturally to me, how he pulls back under pressure, standoffish to everyone. I want closeness, and Richard wants distance. Even if he doesn’t fully enjoy the time he spends with my relatives, I can’t figure out why he won’t sacrifice his own comfort occasionally for my sake. It’s as if he fears that any compromise now puts his independence at stake. I don’t know what to do to change the situation.
“Rabbi, for years, this problem has taken up most of my head. Right before Elizabeth got sick, I was afraid even to mention her name in my house.” All these invisible threads connect me to my parents and my sister, and them to me. Over many years, we have woven the threads together to form a multilayered, shimmering tapestry. I could offer Richard a role as the centerpiece of the design, but I can’t have him obliterate the whole thing with his attitude.
The rabbi raises his gaze and considers me with warmth and compassion. “What is it that you would like me to do?” He’s fifty-five reputed to be wise and skilled in untangling complex Talmudic arguments. Surely he can help untangle the mess I’m in.
“It’s not just me,” I rant. “Until my sister’s cancer took over, Elizabeth was obsessed with the problem, too. She didn’t understand why Richard disliked her. She’s tried for years to have a relationship with him, but he’s standoffish and uninterested. He’s an expert at pushing her away, so she gave up. He refused to sponsor my niece’s bat mitzvah at Rose Wood. And now my sister has lung cancer. I know it seems crazy, but part of me feels like the animosity between my sister and my husband may have something to do with it. The cancer, that is.”
“Samantha,” Rabbi Bromberg says, leaning forward and placing a calming hand on my knee, “your sister’s illness is a lot for you to digest right now. Be there for her. Your husband will have to understand. And you must know that Richard doesn’t have the power to cause your sister’s cancer.”
“I know, but it’s creepy,” I say.
He’s right, though. If Richard had the power to cause her cancer, he could use that same power to cure her cancer. Being supportive of Elizabeth is all I can manage now.
THE NEXT MORNING, Richard and I sit on opposite ends of the couch in our sunroom, with its exposed-brick fireplace— our favorite room in the house. Richard is immersed in one of his crime novels. I’m reading the newspaper with the dogs curled at my feet. They don’t leave my side. Animals sense anxiety.
Richard closes his book and looks up. “You know what our problem is?”
Here we go again.
“Guess what? I don’t care anymore,” I say.
“Our problem,” Richard continues, uncrossing his legs. His shoes smack the floor. “Our problem is that you want your sister and her family in the back seat of our car, and I want them five cars back.”
He’s right. I never want that much space between my sister and me.
“Why are we still discussing this?” I jump up angrily, rousing our poodles, Bella and Bentley. I leave for the kitchen, deciding I need a glass of water. In all of our married life, even the early years, I have never left an argument feeling satisfied— because I usually chicken out.
Just as I turn off the water at the sink, Richard appears.
“I’m taking the dogs for a walk,” I announce. The trees still sport their autumn foliage. I could use the air.
I leash the dogs and lead them out the front door.
“I’m coming with you,” Richard says, grabbing his keys. He locks the door behind us.
We plod halfway around the block in silence, until a squirrel runs across the street and activates Bentley’s prey drive. She begins pursuing the squirrel with a sudden force that pulls me and her sister, Bella, along. Bella joins the pursuit, and both dogs halt, barking, at the trunk where the fat autumn squirrel has managed to scurry up and out of sight.
“Did your sister get the flowers?” Richard finally asks. His tone is soft, conciliatory.
“Yes, thank you,” I say matter-of-factly. “That was nice.
What made you send them?” I’ve prepared for this moment.
“I suggested it to Catherine, and she said it would be a good idea.” Catherine is our therapist, which means that Richard is trying to work things out, in his own way.
We continue walking, the dogs trotting alongside, and I draw into myself. We reach the bulb of our street’s cul-de-sac and circle back to our house.
“Do you need any help getting a good doctor?” Richard asks. “Someone on the board at the temple has a connection to Beth Israel.”
“Thanks,” I say. “She’s all set. We met some great doctors.”
“Things could turn out better than you think, you know,” Richard says, straightening into the posture he uses for a sell. “The way I look at it, if the odds are against me—only a slim, ten or five percent chance that things will go my way—that’s still hope.”
Richard has experienced so much adversity in his life, and he’s still an optimist. Just hearing him say this with such conviction does makes me feel a tiny bit better.
But as our dogs bound across the threshold and we collect our reading in the sunroom, I realize that Richard’s sliver of hope equally describes both the outside odds of Elizabeth’s surviving her cancer and those of our remaining married.
Chapter Eleven
In the years following Richard’s ultimatum about Brooke’s bat mitzvah, I initiated several conversations with my therapist, Catherine, about the conflic
ts in my marriage. When Richard hurt Elizabeth, I felt like he was hurting me. Catherine and I explored the possibility of divorce.
Soon after Elizabeth disinvited us from the Labor Day barbecue, I made an appointment with one of the best divorce lawyers in Boston, Jonathan Mann; I wanted to retain him before Richard did.
Mann’s office was on the thirtieth floor of a prestigious office building on Berkeley Street, with views of the Charles River and the Back Bay. I entered the high-ceilinged marble lobby, showed my license to the young security guard, and took the elevator.
I checked in with a middle-aged receptionist. She wore a simple, elegant navy dress with three gold bangles that tinkled when she hung up the phone.
“Jonathan will be right with you,” she said. “Please have a seat.” She motioned to a pair of tufted gray club chairs with silver studs.
I tried to make myself comfortable. The discipline and selfcontrol I displayed on the outside matched my inner anxiety and insecurity. No one in my family had ever been divorced. I was beginning to feel like a failure.
A distinguished-looking man in a tailored suit and starched white shirt entered the waiting area. “Good morning,” he said, with a solid handshake. “I’m Jon Mann.” He was wearing the monogrammed cuff links to prove it.
I followed Mr. Mann into his office. My eyes widened at the beauty of the view and the cloudless sky. What a place to house such disaster, to negotiate all the problems between husbands and wives.
Jonathan sat comfortably at a stately walnut desk, his walls lined with law-school diplomas, honorary degrees, and framed photos of a wife, son, and daughter. The lawyer listened intently as I detailed my grievances. I told him of my early years with Richard, filled joyfully with travel: London, France, Italy, Hong Kong, Thailand, and China. How we had strong roots in the community, our synagogue, and our daughter’s school. How we maintained an extensive social network with friends across Wellesley, Mount Snow, and Nantucket. We were charitable; we complemented each other socially. “As long as my family isn’t around, we actually get along very well,” I said.
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