Chutzpah & High Heels

by Jessica Fishman

  When we walked in and I put the check into the lock box, Meydan leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Do you think that they will consummate their marriage tonight or count their checks?” and then chuckled from deep in his stomach.

  Oh, how I love his laugh. It is contagious.

  I look over at him and smile when I think about our future.

  Predictions

  All the girls are sitting around in white bathrobes. None of us are sober. We all just had massages. We are all celebrating Lital’s bachelorette party. She is the second one of the group getting married. It feels weird that Orli isn’t here. She is in the hospital. Her appendix just burst. I feel out of place with her friends without her.

  “So, who wants to go next?”

  “Jessica! Go! It’s your turn,” the girl next to me says as she pushes me forward.

  I sit down in front of the numerologist. I tell her my name and my birth date.

  She writes it down and begins translating the letters in my name into numbers. She looks up at me.

  “Your destiny number is 4. This means you are sensible, hard-working and you live with integrity. Your feet are on the ground 24 hours a day.”

  She looks back down and does some more calculations.

  “Your personality number is also a 4. Your friends see you as loyal and honest. You are also extremely patriotic. You love this country. You are very Zionistic.”

  Gee, I wonder if she figured that out from my accent. This is such bullshit. I can’t believe people actually believe this stuff.

  “Your emotional plane is 2 and it looks like you will be married within a year.”

  My head snaps up. What? Really? I smile and think about Meydan. I wonder if he has texted me.

  “Okay, who’s next?”

  * * *

  “How are you feeling?” I ask Orli.

  “Ugghhhhh,” she groans.

  “We missed you last night,” I say. I turn to Tova, Orli’s mom, and ask, “How long have you been here?”

  “I slept here.”

  “Do you want me to get you anything? Have you eaten?” I ask, but she waves her hand and makes a tsking noise, that means, “don’t be silly, don’t worry about me.”

  She looks me up and down and says, “You have lost 5.3 pounds since I saw you last.” Whenever she sees me, she lets me know my weight. I’ll never need a scale as long as she is in my life.

  “Well, I’m sorry that the first time you are meeting Meydan is in the hospital, but I’m glad you are finally meeting him,” I say, hoping that she will like him. Meydan extends his hand and says hello to Orli’s mom.

  Earlier that morning Meydan came over to surprise me with breakfast in bed. I had given him a key a few weeks ago.

  “Well, we will let Orli rest. We just wanted to see if you needed anything,” I say. I wonder if the doctors said when she would be released. I’m so lonely in the house without her.

  After saying goodbye, Meydan and I go for a long bicycle ride in the park. While we are riding, Meydan gets a phone call.

  “You’ll never guess who that was.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  “It’s Jeremy!”

  “Really, what is he doing here? Why didn’t he tell us earlier?” I think about how much I owe Jeremy for setting us up together.

  “He came in last minute for work. He wants to have dinner. I told him we can meet him on the Tel Aviv tayelet, boardwalk, in fifteen minutes.”

  When we reach Jeremy’s hotel, we are thirsty and hungry. The three of us go sit down at a restaurant overlooking the beach.

  “So, you guys look great!” Jeremy says. He seems proud that he has done such a good job playing Cupid.

  “Yeah, we are,” Meydan says as he pulls me in with one arm.

  “Jessica, I’ve never seen you happier,” Jeremy says.

  “Yeah, I’m really happy,” I say as I look over at Meydan and realize that this is really the first time I’ve been so happy in Israel.

  Bonne Année

  “Baaaaarrrrrr,” I cry into the phone.

  “What happened?”

  I sniffle. “He broke up with me . . . and on Rosh Hashanah. This was going to be the first Rosh Hashanah that I didn’t have to worry about where I was going to celebrate. I finally felt like I had a family. I thought that Meydan and I were going to be together forever. How am I going to get through this holiday on my own?” I weep and blubber into the phone. It has been exactly a year since Meydan and I met each other under the street light and it has been nine months since we started dating.

  “Jessica, I can’t understand you when you cry. Calm down and speak clearly,” Bar says.

  “And I bet it is even harder to hear me since you left me! I can’t believe you moved back to France and left me here all by myself!”

  “I’m sorry. Why did he break up with you?”

  “I don’t know. He just did. He has been stressed with work. We were going through a tough time. What am I going to do? I thought he was the one. I need you.” I feel so weak and alone without Bar.

  Ever since Jeremy left a few weeks ago, Meydan has been distant and irritable. It has taken a toll on our relationship, but I thought we would get past it. I never imagined that we were heading towards a breakup.

  “Do you want to come to Paris for Rosh Hashanah?” he asks.

  It would be nice to see him. I miss him so much.

  “Umm, okay,” I agree without fully thinking it through. I don’t care how much the ticket is. I have to get out of here. I can’t spend another holiday here alone. I doubt it is going to be easy for me to try to get over a breakup in the most romantic city in the world, but at least I’ll be with Bar.

  “Really?” Bar asks, surprised that I agreed so quickly.

  I start making arrangements to fly.

  “Hi, Nachama. It’s Jessica,” I say, trying not to let my banker hear my tears.

  “Hi darling, how are you?”

  I burst into tears. “My boyfriend just broke up with me,” I whimper into the phone.

  “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Do you have anywhere to go for Rosh Hashanah? Do you want to come over to dinner with my family?” Nachama asks.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you so much,” I smile, thinking how much I love this country. Only in Israel would my banker invite me to a holiday dinner with her family. “I actually need to buy some Euros. I’m going to Paris for the holidays.”

  * * *

  “Oh, good. I’m glad you called. I’m just at the grocery store. I’m trying to figure out what to make for you for Rosh Hashanah lunch. I was thinking that I could make—” Mira, Meydan’s mom, says without pausing for a breath.

  I can’t believe him! It is the day before Rosh Hashanah. Meydan and I broke up three days ago. I can’t believe he still hasn’t told his mom that we broke up. Does he think that people won’t notice that I’m not sitting at the table? I was just going to politely say chag sameach, happy holiday, but it looks like I’m going to have to tell her that Meydan and I broke up.

  His younger sister called me earlier today while I was at work to wish me chag sameach, and to make sure I was still coming to lunch on Saturday. When I told her that Meydan and I had broken up, she started crying and told me that if I ever needed anything, their door was always open. I thought I had cried all my tears, but she made me weep all over again. I had to hide in the bathroom because I was crying so hard.

  Now in Orli’s room for emotional support, I’m listening to Mira on the phone, listing the different foods that she can make for me.

  “Mira, wait. I have to tell you something. I’m sorry that it has to be me to tell you this, but I’m not going to be coming to the holiday meal. I’m flying to Paris tonight. Meydan and I aren’t together anymore.” I’m holding Orli’s hand. We rehearsed exactly what I was going to say to Mira. I squeeze Orli’s hand even harder so that I won’t start crying.

  “Oh, no. I see. Okay. Tell me, who broke up with whom?”

  “I
think you should ask your son,” I say.

  “I see. Well, don’t you worry. He is just stressed. I know my son. He gets this way. I will talk to him. If you don’t hear from him by the time you get back, you call me at work. I’ll work this all out for you,” she declares with the utmost confidence. “And don’t forget to get international medical insurance!”

  * * *

  The taxi window keeps fogging up. I have to wipe it every few seconds so that I can see outside into the dark. I have no idea where I am. I’m looking for Bar. He is supposed to be waiting outside his apartment for me.

  Five hours ago, while the entire country was surrounded by laughter, love, food, and family, I was on my way to the airport . . . alone.

  “C’est votre destination,” the taxi driver says.

  I look up and see Bar. I jump out of the car and run into his arms.

  “I’m glad you are here. Now, the rule is that there is no crying from here on out. We are going to have fun!”

  On Rosh Hashanah, I visit Notre Dame—a church, of all places. It is like my Jewish identity is already slipping away.

  I walk around the city, visiting the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, and other tourist sites. All I can think about is how cold it is here and how warm it is in Israel right now. I eat buttery croissants every morning. I take selfies in front of all the landmarks, planning to put them up on Facebook to show Meydan how much fun I am having without him. The whole visit is a blur. All my energy is focused on trying to forget Meydan.

  On my last night, Bar and I go out to a special dinner.

  “No more crying, Jessica. Do you hear me? It is going to be hard to go back and face reality, but you have to be strong.”

  “I will. Why don’t you come back with me?” I ask.

  “I’ve had enough of the country,” he says, looking down at his food. I understand why he left. Israel is a hard country to live in. Everything there is a struggle and a challenge.

  Bar’s support recharges and strengthens me.

  The flight back is almost as depressing as the arrival. Hoards of families are waiting at the arrivals for their loved ones. Not one of them is here to greet me.

  I want to cry, but I promised Bar that I wouldn’t.

  Back at my apartment, I take a shower. I have to get ready to go back to work and school. I can’t show up with my eyes bloodshot. I can’t cry another day at work. I have to be strong. I have to be tough, I think to myself in the shower. I try to be Israeli and convince myself, Yihyeh b’seder! Everything will be okay!

  The steaming hot water is pounding down on my back.

  “Jessica! Your phone is ringing!” Orli yells at me.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “It is Meydan!” she yells back.

  I haven’t even been home for an hour and he is already calling. This is a good sign.

  “Tell him I’m busy,” I say. He can wait. He ruined my Rosh Hashanah.

  * * *

  “So, here is the thing. I missed you. I can’t stop thinking about you,” Meydan says as he stares into my eyes and holds my hands.

  I feel the sand underneath my feet. I hear the waves crashing in front of us. It is dark outside. People are chattering, laughing, and smoking hookah all around us.

  “I love you,” he says and steals a passionate kiss.

  “I love you too,” I say. “Don’t ever do that to me again!”

  “I won’t,” he promises.

  He kisses me again, but I don’t kiss him back. I’m scared. What if he does this to me again? What if his love isn’t strong enough? I don’t know if I can handle this emotional roller coaster.

  He pulls me into his arms.

  I kiss him back. I’m ready for a relationship. Even though I’m scared, I’m going to have to face my fears.

  Family Matters

  “You put da powderrr in bowl wid waderrr and flowerrr. Stir . . . harrrd,” Mira, Meydan’s mom, makes a stirring motion with her hand to show what she means. I have never heard her speak English before, but she is trying to show my mom how she made the bread that she is serving for lunch.

  My mom is smiling sweetly and quietly, trying to understand Mira’s broken English, but I know she has no intention of ever making the bread. Meydan is playing with his nieces and nephew. Looking at him, I feel almost as if we never broke up. I smile, thinking about what a good father he will make.

  Nearly thirty of us are sitting in the Macabbi’s cluttered dining room, which has become a backdrop for the smiling faces, open arms, and laughing children who all hold a place in my heart and my life. Moti, Meydan’s dad, insisted that they use the nice plates for this meal with my parents. As punishment for this request, he is now in the kitchen, cleaning those dishes.

  My parents always visit me in Israel during Sukkot. But this is the first time my parents have come to Israel and I haven’t had to take them to a restaurant during the holidays. This is the first time they are experiencing a real Israeli Sukkot, with lots of love, noise, and food.

  Sitting at the table are four different generations. There is a mixture of languages and cultures. It reminds me how much I enjoyed the Jewish holidays with my family growing up. When I was a child we would make and decorate a sukkah together; when I got older I would help my mom make potato latkes for Hanukkah, and during Passover we would always have a large meal with lots of food and guests.

  “Who from the Passover story is not mentioned in the Haggadah4?” my father asked our twenty-odd guests of family and friends at our seder table when I was in high school. That year, he had decided to play a trivia game as part of the retelling of the Passover story.

  I was used to my dad trying to make Judaism interesting and fun, but sitting next to me was Chris, my high-school boyfriend, who clearly felt out of place. Even though my parents weren’t happy that he wasn’t Jewish, they still invited him so he could learn about the Jewish tradition. He was just like all the other boys at my high school—he drove a pick-up truck while blaring country music, he wore a large belt buckle that was big enough to be a trash can, and often wore a wife-beater tank top, which he had fortunately left at home that night.

  My dad received blank stares to his question. Breaking the silence, thinking that he was either courageous, funny, or a combination of both, Chris proclaimed “Jesus!”

  Everyone stared at him. The room was completely still, except for me kicking him under the table.

  My dad finally broke the silence, “That is . . . accurate, but it’s not the answer we’re looking for.”

  That was the first year that we put oranges5 on our seder table. I wonder if Meydan’s family would be willing to do that too.

  I look over at Meydan, who is wearing his kippah, and smile. Everyone seems to be getting along and like each other despite the language barriers.

  “What do I do? There are no serving spoons,” my mom leans over and whispers to my dad during the meal.

  “Just take a piece with your fork,” my dad says.

  “Oh.” My mom grimaces. “That is not sanitary.” She manipulates her fork to try to not touch it to any other pieces of chicken. Meydan’s family is simply grabbing food with their hands. The cultural differences do make for a funny backdrop.

  I walk into the kitchen and ask Mira what I can take out to the table.

  “No, you just go sit down. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  I sit down in between my parents and Meydan. I feel at home.

  Mira walks out with a huge chocolate cake that she made. On the cake is written, “Mazal Tov Jessica.”

  “Yom huledet sameach!” Everyone starts singing happy birthday to me in Hebrew.

  I look around and am so grateful that on this holiday, which celebrates the abundance of life, I am surrounded by so many people whom I love. My life is exactly where I want it to be.

  “You know, at this age, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter, Maya,” says Libbi, Meydan’s older brother’s wife.

  “Thanks!” I say sarcasti
cally.

  “You don’t look a day past twenty-three,” her husband, Mati, says.

  “That is what I like to hear!” I thank him.

  “Wait, wait! I’ll take a picture,” yells Mikah, Meydan’s younger sister. “Ready, 3, 2, 1.”

  We all smile.

  “Oh, it turned out great! Come see!” she says.

  I look at the picture. I can see the rest of my life in that picture. I see my future. I see our future. I see our wedding. I see the birth of our children. I see anniversaries and holidays to come. I see my home.

  I think back to when Meydan and I first started dating and he told me that he couldn’t wait to have kids. Then it scared me. Now, I can’t wait to start a family with him.

  For the first time, I know that I will be in Israel forever and will fulfill the dream I’ve been struggling to achieve. I’m no longer worrying about failing. My Jewish identity is finally mine.

  * * *

  1 . Small leather cases containing texts from the Hebrew scriptures traditionally worn on the forehead and the left arm by Jewish men during morning prayer. In Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox communities, only men wear them, but in Conservative and Reform communities, both men and women can wear them.

  2 . A synagogue official who leads the congregation in musical prayer. A cantor is male in Orthodox and ultra-Orthodox communities, but in Conservative and Reform movements, a cantor can be either male or female.

  3 . A canopy under which a Jewish couple stand during their wedding ceremony.

  4 . The Passover prayer book

  5 . Years ago, Dr. Susannah Heschel came across a student-written haggadah in which a fictional girl asks a fictional Orthodox rabbi what a lesbian’s place is in Judaism. He answers that a lesbian belongs in Judaism the way bread belongs on a seder plate. Since bread is clearly forbidden, Dr. Heschel chose an orange to represent the “fruitfulness” of women’s contributions. Many Reform and Conservative Jews put an orange on their seder plates to represent women’s equality in Judaism.