Like No Other

by Una LaMarche

  I am not allowed to leave my room—or go anywhere—without a chaperone, and so I’m waiting for Chana to return and take me over to the rabbi’s offices, which she says patients call “P-House.” This is supposed to make me feel like I’m in on some familial joke, I’m sure, but despite the cozy surroundings I can’t forget why I’m here: to get fixed, reprimanded, and realigned. To forget who I want to be and remember who I’m supposed to be. To that end, there is a stack of books on my bedside table that includes The Blessings of Jewish Marriage and Finding Hope and Joy: Timeless Wisdom from a Hasidic Master. I crack open the latter to find cheerful snippets of advice like “Never despair!” and “Get into the habit of dancing.”

  I toss the book onto the nubby maroon area rug in the center of my room and walk to the window, which looks out on a path leading into the trees, where Chana has informed me there is a brook, and a few meters beyond that, a high chain-link fence to prevent anyone from getting any ideas (she didn’t actually say the last part, but I could tell that’s what she meant). I watch the trees sway gently in the mid-afternoon breeze and feel a sense of calm wash over me. If I’m going to be trapped anyway, it might as well be someplace beautiful, far away from my family and the mess I left behind.

  • • •

  I’m expecting an old, creaky, rheumy-eyed rabbi like the ones I’m used to at home, so when a slight, energetic man with a toothy grin, wireless glasses, and all his natural hair greets Chana and me at the door of “P-House,” I’m momentarily taken aback.

  “You must be Devorah,” he says, smiling warmly. “I’m Rabbi Perolman, but you can call me Perry.”

  “Your name is Perry Perolman?” I ask incredulously, not sure whether to be more shocked at the prospect of calling a holy man by his first name or at the injustice clearly committed by his parents.

  “No,” he says with a laugh, gesturing for me to come in. “It’s just a nickname. If it feels more comfortable for you, call me Rabbi.”

  The rabbi’s office has the same exposed-beam ceilings as my room, but it’s about twice as big, with a picture window that looks out on the square at the center of the grounds. It’s lived-in and quirky, with overstuffed couches, a low coffee table littered with markers and construction paper, and big, colorful paintings of smiley-faced flowers lining the walls. “My daughter did those,” he says proudly. “I think they’re very joyful, don’t you?

  “Please excuse the mess,” he adds, gesturing to the table as he guides me to the couch facing the window. (The door to the office is, as usual, left wide open, and Chana busies herself at a desk outside; even rabbis aren’t exempt from the laws of yichud.) “In the mornings I often do outpatient counseling with children, and drawing helps them to relax.” All I can do is nod. Rabbi Perolman is unlike any rabbi I’ve ever seen. In fact, he strikes me as more of a touchy-feely art teacher than a religious scholar. I must be making a face, because he stops and asks, “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I say, mortified that I’m starting off on the wrong foot by being disrespectful. “I’ve just . . . never met a rabbi like you before.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. He sits on the couch across from me and places his hands on his knees. “So, I’d like to start by listening to you, Devorah. Tell me why you’re here.”

  Why I’m here. As if there’s a simple answer to that downright existential question. “You don’t know already?” I ask, and he smiles patiently.

  “I know the basic circumstances, yes. But I want to hear it in your words.”

  “Oh.” I stare at my hands, interlacing my fingers. Where do I begin? I’m here because the night of the hurricane, my parents were just three miles from here, sitting around my aunt Varda’s kitchen table having instant coffee instead of sitting in the waiting room of Interfaith Medical Center. I’m here because I got thirsty, and the stairs seemed like too much work. I’m here because I let myself talk to a stranger, whose kind eyes managed to light a flame in a heart I had always just assumed was fireproof. I’m here because once I questioned why I wasn’t allowed to be with Jaxon, I started to question everything. But maybe I should start with something more concrete. “I tried to run away,” I say finally. “With a boy.”

  “What made you want to do that?” the rabbi asks, his voice devoid of judgment.

  “I knew my parents would never approve, and he had a place at the beach where we could go.” As I say the words out loud, they sound increasingly ridiculous.

  “You’re shaking your head right now, Devorah. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t?” He leans forward and smiles encouragingly. In spite of myself, I’m kind of starting to like him.

  “Well . . . I guess I just realize it wouldn’t have worked.”

  “What aspect?”

  “Using a night away as some sort of statement to let our families know we were in love,” I say. “As if the act of rebellion itself would somehow make them understand.” I should have just talked to my parents, I chide myself. Maybe if I had been honest with them, and not let things get so out of hand, I wouldn’t be here.

  “You’re right; that does sound far-fetched,” the rabbi says, and chuckles. “So why did you agree to go?”

  “I didn’t want to stop seeing him.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because . . .” I can feel my face getting red. “I . . . love him.”

  Rabbi Perolman sits back against his couch and takes a deep breath. “Did your parents ever discuss love with you, Devorah? Do you know the definition?”

  I frown and try not to look as offended as I am. No, I was never taught the definition of love—Hasidic kids are told only that one day they’ll be married, and even that subject isn’t dwelled upon until the mid-teens—but I know what love feels like. “It’s when you have . . . a strong affection for someone,” I mumble.

  “I see,” the rabbi says. “Then what makes your love for Jaxon different than your love for, let’s say, your sister Rose?”

  “Well, because . . . I’m not attracted to my sister.” I close my eyes, both out of shame and so that I don’t give in to the strong temptation to roll them at the rabbi. He’s starting to treat me like a small child, and it’s making me squirm.

  “So affection plus attraction equals love, in your estimation,” he says.

  “Yes,” I say hesitantly, wondering if he’s trying to trap me.

  “What about lust, then?” the rabbi asks, not meeting my eyes. “What makes lust different?”

  “It’s not lust,” I say quickly.

  “Okay, but how do you know?”

  “Because,” I sputter, “I just know. Because I was attracted to his soul more than his body.”

  Rabbi Perolman cocks his head. “Really? You look unsure.”

  “I’m not!” I shout, and then lower my voice. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just upset.”

  The rabbi waves away my apology and sits silently for a moment. “You grew up in a Chabad household, so I know you understand the rules and have lived by them your whole life,” he finally says. “I’m not here to lecture you about something you already know. But having met you only a few minutes ago, I can already sense that you’re uneasy with your situation.”

  “Of course I am,” I say with a sigh. “I was brought here against my will.”

  “Fair enough,” he says with a faint smile. “But I’m talking about your relationship with the boy—”

  “Jaxon,” I say. I can’t stand to hear one more person refer to him as the boy.

  “Okay, with Jaxon,” the rabbi continues. “I can tell you’re struggling with your feelings for him. Can you tell me about that struggle?”

  “I just . . .” I look out the picture window at the cobblestone paths, each winding its own way through the grass but all leading to the same central square. “When
I’m with him I feel so happy—so much love”—(take that, Perry)—“but the knowledge that being with him hurts my family takes it away a little. And I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt Jaxon or my family. I want to love them both.”

  “I can see that,” the rabbi says. “There are many beautiful things about love, but love takes deep commitment and often sacrifice. It’s not easy.” I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them away. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that your parents don’t always have an easy relationship,” he says. “Neither do your sisters and brothers who are married. And that’s because marriage is hard work.

  “I like to tell people to think of a marriage like a new job,” Rabbi Perolman continues, perching on the edge of his seat and beginning to talk with his hands. “And it’s a job we have zero experience for, from a practical standpoint, because we’ve never been on a date. Our ancestors were betrothed from birth, and dating was simply never something we did historically, right? So we’re coming into marriage knowing that we’ve got to learn the ropes on the job.” He pauses and smiles. “And our co-worker knows nothing about the job, either. So you can imagine the bumpy road ahead.”

  I nod, but he’s starting to lose me. Why is he talking so much about marriage? Does he think I was going to run off and marry Jaxon? The whole point was to avoid getting forced into marriage before I was ready.

  “The reason we don’t date before marriage in our faith is that any type of relationship between a man and a woman—or a girl and a boy—brings up a lot of confusing feelings in both the body and the mind, and even the soul, as you mentioned. And it’s only through the lens of a sanctified marriage that we gain the perspective to understand and process those feelings. To use the job metaphor again, dating before marriage would be like trying to get a job as a sofer without knowing Hebrew.”

  “Of course I know I wasn’t supposed to date him,” I say softly. “That’s why I didn’t tell anyone.”

  “And I believe it’s why you didn’t follow through with running away with him,” the rabbi says, smiling. (Does he know I fully intended to make the trip, and that I simply never got the chance to follow through? Or did my parents do a little lying of their own when they admitted me?) “You have strong values, Devorah, and you simply could not reject them to live in sin.” I dig my nails into the soft brushed cotton of the couch cushion. Suddenly I really don’t like where this conversation is going.

  “I do have strong values,” I say. “But can’t I have values, and faith, and also question the fact that I’m supposed to marry someone I don’t even choose for myself?”

  “Yes, you can,” he says. “In fact, you’ll be happy to learn that what you’re expressing is a common concern, especially for women. You wouldn’t believe how many girls just like you I’ve counseled who feel scared that they don’t have more control over what’s arguably the most important decision of their lives.” He casually picks up a notebook and a pen from the coffee table and scribbles something down. “Tell me,” he says, “is that your fear?”

  I shake my head and stand up. I can’t play this game with him, not after the morning (or the week, or the month) I’ve had. “I appreciate your help, Rabbi,” I say, “I really do. But I don’t feel like having a therapy session right now. Maybe if I have a day or two to rest—”

  “This isn’t therapy, Devorah,” the rabbi says, his smile replaced by a look of grim concern. “And this session is not optional. I can’t confidently recommend a union unless both parties complete at least two hours of premarital counseling.”

  “I—I don’t understand,” I stammer, my unease growing by the second.

  “Your parents met with a shadchan this morning,” Rabbi Perolman says. “And they’ve already found a match. Your family is meeting him tomorrow, and assuming all goes well, he’ll be coming this weekend to visit you.”

  My legs buckle under me, and I sit down again. My whole body feels numb.

  “Congratulations, Devorah,” the rabbi says, his grin returning. “You’re a very lucky girl.”

  Chapter 28

  Jaxon

  SEPTEMBER 21, 1 PM

  Fun fact: Here is what you need to buy a gun in Brooklyn (I’m not talking about a New York State licensed firearm, mind you; I’m talking about an unregistered, probably-stolen-and-used-for-a-crime-that-will-one-day-get-traced-back-to-your-stupid-ass street gun): $100 cash or a very large bag of weed. At least, that’s what I gather from the Law & Order: SVU reruns I sometimes watch with the twins. Yet here is what you need to rent a car: a valid driver’s license proving that you are over age twenty-five AND a major credit card in your name. With actual credit on it. For the record, a debit card with access to funds in the amount of $107 does not qualify as a major credit card. And a learner’s permit issued in May of this year does not qualify as a driver’s license. So here I am on the bus to Monsey, yet again a lone black man in a sea of Jews.

  I had to campaign hard to get permission to go, but I decided that after the heart-to-heart I had with Mom after the fight, I couldn’t just run off again with no warning and risk losing the little trust my parents had left in me. So we had another talk (in which I selectively omitted the fact that I had just willfully defied her and gone to the other side of Eastern Parkway to visit Hanna), and my mom begrudgingly agreed that if I hit the books hard and got back on track at school, I could go to Monsey for a few hours over the weekend to visit—with a chaperone. Initially, I balked at this deal—four days without Devorah seemed like forever, and having one of my parents with me when we got reunited would totally screw up my game. But Mom told it to me straight:

  “You’re not old enough to understand women yet,” she said, chuckling to herself. “Trust me that the girl needs a few days to clear her head and figure out where she stands with you. If you go running up there like a lovesick bat out of hell, preening and crying and begging, it is going to freak. Her. Out. If you give her some space, she’ll be much more receptive. And besides, from where I’m standing, you’re out of options, unless you want to disobey me and get shipped off to military school.”

  So I listened. I brought my books back home on Wednesday and caught up on my homework, which was actually a welcome distraction from missing Devorah, although every few hours I’d get overcome and have to stop what I was doing to write out a page or two of angsty sonnets just to get it out of my system. On Thursday I went to Mr. Misery’s office hours and asked him for the opportunity to boost my grade, and to my surprise he agreed to give me an extra-credit assignment, a paper on—wait for it—the philosophical treatment of love. It must be true that God protects fools, because amazingly I didn’t miss or fail any tests in the few days that I completely checked out. So by Friday, I was back on my way to a B average, with plenty of time to get it back up over the rest of the semester. Which was good, because by the end of the week I was also a complete mess.

  My heart physically hurt from not seeing her. I got in the habit of sitting on a bench on Eastern Parkway for fifteen minutes every day after I climbed out of the subway from school, just watching the other side, looking for Hanna, Jacob, hell, even Moley, anyone who might be able to tell me where she was and how she was doing. I spent $25.88 of my cash reserves on another dinky prepaid bodega cell phone just so I could spend my nights cold-calling every business in Monsey with “rehab” or “center” in the name. Most of them told me flat out that they had no one by the name of Devorah Blum, but the receptionist at this one place called the Chabad Residential Treatment Center paused and then said, “We don’t share information about patients with anyone whose phone number isn’t listed on the intake form,” and I knew, right then, that I’d found her. The only hurdle left was to convince my parents I didn’t need a chaperone. And while I didn’t completely win that battle, we reached what I hope is a compromise I won’t regret.

  “Shark gummy?” Ryan asks from the bus seat next to mine, holding out a
brightly colored bag of candy. We’re stuck in traffic on the Palisades Parkway, inside a huge cabin that smells like gasoline and stale pretzels, and I’m tapping my foot against the floor so nervously that the man in front of me, a short guy with curly blond sidelocks, has turned around twice to glare.

  “Still not hungry,” I say impatiently. Ryan has consumed a truly disgusting smorgasbord of neon-colored snacks since we left the bus stop in front of the main library at Forty-second Street and Fifth Avenue—the one upside being that when his mouth is full, he can’t talk as much.

  “Swhashu gundo wenseah?” he slurs through a mouthful of gummies.

  “What’s that, Chewbacca?”

  “Sorry,” he says, swallowing. “I said, so what are you going to do when you see her?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer with a sigh. “I think I just need to see her to know what I need to do. Like a catch-22.”

  “You gonna break her out?” Ryan asks, smiling. “I just need to know the legal ramifications of this trip, for me.”

  “If she’ll come with me, willingly,” I say, “yes, I’d like to take her home.” He must be able to see my Officer and a Gentleman–style fantasy sequence in which I carry Devorah out of the compound while everyone around us slow-claps, because Ryan snorts and rolls his eyes, popping another shark into his mouth. “What?” I ask defensively. “I think my folks would like her. And the couch folds out.”

  “Jax,” Ryan says, “that’s crazy. You know that’s crazy, right? You can’t keep her at your house. That’s a really good way to get your parents arrested for kidnapping.” He’s right, of course. I drop my head and close my eyes, trying to drown out the noise of the crying baby a few seats back so that I can think, calculate a plan.

  “Whatever; I’ll figure something out,” I say. “They can’t stop her from seeing me forever.”