Not Exactly As Planned

by Linda Rosenbaum

  We talked with the rabbi before entering the sanctuary for one last note of guidance. I gently reminded him to please use Michael’s full last name when referring to him. I might have been mistaken, but in our last meeting I thought he referred to Michael using only one of the two names in the double-barreled moniker. And it wasn’t Christmas.

  I could understand if there had been such an omission. Beth Tikvah synagogue was Conservative, meaning it followed Judaic practices and doctrine closer to the traditional Orthodox observance-spectrum than to the more relaxed and progressive Reform. It required a few compromises on our part. Because Robin was not Jewish, the rabbi told us he could not be given the honour of reading from the Torah or opening the ark, which would typically be given to Jewish friends and family members. However, Robin would be allowed on the bimah with Michael, me and Sarah to receive the traditional blessing of the family.

  My sister Barbara was appalled. She felt Robin deserved more. He’d shlepped Michael to Sunday school for years. He’d practised Michael’s bar mitzvah lines with him each night. He had been an equal partner in making this bar mitzvah happen. He had supported me in my dream, every difficult step along the way.

  I could understand my sister’s position. Like me, she knew the statistics. Not about shlepping kids to Sunday school, though. Rather, about the enormously high rate of divorce among families with special needs children. Many lesser mortals, usually fathers, give up on their marriages because the hardships of raising their children created unbearable (to them) stress on the marital relationship. Therefore, how could Robin, who had given his loyal all, be denied full honours during the service?

  I was less appalled. Over the years, I had learned to pick my battles regarding Michael. I had had my share, with schools, hospitals, social services, government bureaucracies, funding agencies. Everything I’d fought for came with a price, some higher than others. The compromises required for the bar mitzvah weren’t unacceptably high to me. Beth Tikvah had allowed Dr. Greenberg to start a special needs Sunday school at the synagogue. Members of the synagogue’s brotherhood stewarded the program. They honoured the students at the end of every academic year with a special ceremony, offering each child a present, recognition and respect. Parents, including Robin, were given opportunity to bathe in their child’s accomplishment.

  My blond, blue-eyed son with fetal alcohol syndrome and the last name of Christmas was becoming a bar mitzvah in their synagogue and they treated him with dignity. They had recognized the desperate need in the community for someplace for children like Michael to go, and they had served our family generously. So what if they mumbled the last part of Michael’s name? So what if they wouldn’t allow Robin to read from the Torah? Robin didn’t want to read from the Torah. He didn’t know how to read from the Torah. He didn’t care about opening the ark. It had no resonance or history for him. If it did matter to him, it would matter to me, too. But Robin had told me repeatedly he didn’t care and I believed him.

  And what were my options, anyway? No hip, progressive, egalitarian shule had given us what Dr. Greenberg and this synagogue had.

  We entered the synagogue’s beautiful wood-panelled chapel where the service would be held. It was a special place, evocative of older European Jewish sanctuaries, warmed by its golden illumination, carved ornamentation and stained-glass windows. The bimah was decorated with wrought-iron railings, wooden pews and an ornate, hand-carved ark, the Aron Hakodesh.

  The ark is the centre of any Jewish place of worship. It is set against the eastern wall of the synagogue to hold the congregation’s Torahs and sacred texts. Beth Tikvah’s Aron Hakodesh had been trucked down from the small northern Ontario town of Kirkland Lake in 1980 when the Jewish population decreased and the synagogue there was forced to close its doors. Before finding its home in Kirkland Lake in 1927, the ark was part of a Romanian synagogue in Montreal that also had to close its doors.

  Robin, Sarah and I stood at the back of the chapel to greet guests and help them get comfortable. A lot of help in that department was still required even though I’d sent out a “Bar Mitzvah 101” primer along with the invitation, intended to help guests, particularly non-Jewish ones, feel more at home in what, for many, would be their first time in a synagogue.

  I hoped my self-written guidebook, Coles Notes to Michael’s Bar Mitzvah, would help unlock a few of the mysteries of traditional ways. Like should a non-Jewish man wear a yarmulke? Should women cover their heads, too? Can they wear pantsuits? Do we clap? Can we take pictures? Who wears a tallit, and why? How come my prayer book opens back to front? And, most importantly, what are Michael and the rabbi saying up there, anyway?

  Our guests were stunned upon entering the chapel. Good stunned. They remained standing at the entry, looking around, taking in the ark, eternal light, Lions of Judah and the warm, beautiful glow. I was overjoyed seeing how moved they were by the sanctuary’s powerful, transcendent other-worldliness.

  The arrival of guests provided an excellent distraction from gnawing worry about Michael’s intentions for the day. We were still wondering whether he would bail out at the last minute and go into hiding. It was a scenario we had become agonizingly familiar with. There had been precedents. Graduation ceremonies, birthday parties, Passover seders, presentations at school. Michael willingly agreed to participate at those events. He went. He acted reasonably okay for a while. Then, at the magic moment, time for him to sit down at the seder table, recite a line or blow out the candles, he cleverly disappeared without a trace, leaving us all agog and confused. Hey, fooled once again! Really, why should his bar mitzvah day be any different?

  But Dr. Greenberg told us he was sure Michael would follow through. He had no doubts. He loved our kid. We loved Dr. Greenberg.

  Magic hour was approaching. Michael went off with Dr. Greenberg to get ready for their entrance directly onto the bimah. Robin, Sarah and I walked to the front pew and took our seats. My oldest sister Barbara, nieces and nephews from Detroit and my sister Sharon and her daughter Tori from Virginia were seated around us. The pews were filling up. I turned around in my seat to see everyone. I inhaled their reassuring glances and two thumbs-up gestures.

  Robin and I held hands and reaffirmed both our pride and fears to one another. Within minutes, we’d know one way or other if Michael would become a bar mitzvah. I was acutely aware of my parents’ absence amongst us in the pews and began to shed a tear. Their absence did not detract from the beauty of the moment. Rather, it added a grace note of sadness to it. It was a reminder to me that even the good things in life seldom come completely untarnished.

  The rabbi and cantor walked onto the bimah. The cantor took his seat while the rabbi walked across the floor. He bent down and picked up a little footstool, which he then placed in front of the table where the Torah would be read. Robin and I smiled at one another. We realized the stool was to make Michael tall enough to see the top of the table to read from the Torah.

  Then Michael walked onto the bimah with Dr. Greenberg. Though he looked so handsome in his navy blue suit and with his beautiful blond hair, he appeared nervous, small and vulnerable, as ever. He looked out at the congregation until he saw us. He smiled. I gave an appropriate, quiet little wave to him rather than the inappropriate gung-ho arm-waving one I would have preferred.

  Several male congregation elders began assembling on the bimah around the rabbi, signalling the service was about to begin. Michael still had plenty of time to bail.

  The rabbi walked up to the lectern at the front of the bimah and looked out at the filled chapel. He welcomed everyone to the Shabbat service, then announced that today, Michael Asher Rosenbaum-Christmas would become a bar mitzvah. The rabbi told us what page to turn to in the prayer book and began the service by leading the congregation in responsive prayer.

  I kept staring at Michael to see if I could tell what he was thinking. I couldn’t. Dr. Greenberg had assured us he would remain next to him throughout the course of the service. Yet I kept mys
elf busy, staring, squeezing Robin’s hand, thinking of my father. I kept turning around in my seat to find reassurance in familiar faces. In between, I prayed and sang joyously like one of the regular congregants.

  Sooner than we expected, the rabbi explained that the Torah would be brought out from the ark. Michael would be asked to read his portion along with other verses he studied. Robin and I looked to each other, knowing the hour of reckoning was nigh. The Torah was laid down on the table. The handwritten parchment scroll was rolled open to the week’s parsha (passage), and the spot where Michael’s passage began. The rabbi smiled at Michael and signalled for him to come forward.

  The room became celestially quiet. For a brief moment, it felt as if I was not the only one who had stopped breathing. I saw Dr. Greenberg look at Michael. He signalled that they would walk together up to the Torah.

  Michael rose and walked forward. He picked up the yad — the long, heavy, solid silver Torah pointer with carved index finger at its end. It was used to help readers follow their Torah lines without touching the delicate parchment with their fingers. My friend Barbara’s family had inherited this German-made yad from her late uncle, and had lent it to Michael for the occasion. Michael paused, then looked up at Dr. Greenberg who gave the signal to begin.

  Months before the day of the bar mitzvah, Robin and I had agreed that it would not matter if Michael recited rather than sang his maftir in the melodic cantillation he studied. It wouldn’t matter if he lost his place, forgot his lines, mispronounced the Hebrew or needed Dr. Greenberg to accompany him. He had already shown dedication to study. He theoretically understood the responsibilities inherent in the rite of passage. He had accomplished more than anyone, including him, had dared to dream. The performance would be icing only. Ah, but what beautiful, rich, divine icing it would be, we thought.

  Dr. Greenberg placed Michael’s yad on the Hebrew word where he was to begin his recitation. Michael took a deep breath. The room fell into deeper silence. No movement, no sound. With the nod from Dr. Greenberg, Michael opened his mouth. He began to sing the melodic, ancient chant passed down to him. I heard audible sighs of relief in the congregation. Like me, my women friends were shuffling in their purses to dig out hankies. The room was again filled with sound. Michael, in a proud, solid voice, took his place as an adult member of the Jewish community.

  I looked behind me and saw a congregation filled with smiling, tear-stained faces, like mine. This kind of miracle does that to you.

  Michael continued to chant with ease and fluidity. He always looked to Dr. Greenberg for encouragement and support and always received it. Robin, Sarah and I were in Jewish nirvana. Not only did Michael perform, he performed beautifully. He looked so proud of himself.

  Before the service was finished, the rabbi asked Michael to come forward to stand beside him. He placed his hand on Michael’s shoulder and spoke to him about the life lessons to be learned from Moses’ years of wandering in the wilderness after the Jews’ exodus from Egypt. He then raised his hand and held it over my son’s head as he recited a blessing recited at my wedding:

  May the Lord bless you and protect you.

  May the Lord shine His face upon you and be gracious unto you.

  May the Lord lift up His countenance on you and grant you peace.

  Amen.

  I asked myself if there were words to express such joy that I was feeling, a joy I had never before known. The answer came quickly. There were, or I should say, was. It was one Yiddish word, most often used by Jewish parents in relation to an accomplishment of their child. It was called nachas.

  Michael’s party the next day was equally joyous, but in a different way. Robin and I hosted a glorified bagels, cream cheese and lox sit-down brunch for our guests in a former synagogue, now a community centre, in the neighbourhood I moved into when I first came to Toronto.

  We hoped Michael would stick around for the meal, festivities, speeches and dancing. We were clear though that he would most likely come and go as he needed. We let him know that the fenced-in outdoor patio attached to the social hall was the perfect place to hang out if he wanted. We would keep an eye on him, along with the smokers, through the large picture window. While he did indeed spend time out there bursting balloons with Andrew, he surprised us once again.

  Michael joined Dr. Greenberg and me at the head table set up in front of the room as we blessed the challahs he and Barbara had baked the night before. During the course of the party, he let people kiss him, hug him, touch him, shake his hand. He beamed every time he saw a present come his way. He appeared to listen to the speeches honouring him, including the delightful one Sarah delivered lovingly to her big brother.

  Michael even allowed guests to seat him on a chair that they boosted above their heads into the air, while dancing around the room to traditional Jewish music. During a candlelighting ceremony, Andrew, along with other guests, was invited to light a candle on the cake for Michael. As Andrew came forward to the head table, we played the song Michael requested, “He Ain’t Heavy, He’s My Brother.”

  The final surprise of the day came when our friend Annie asked Michael to sit near her and several other Islanders at the front of the room by the piano. They had worked up a Yiddish musical tribute, including early-twentieth-century chestnuts like Bei Mir Bist du Schoen and Oyfen Pripichik. In the tradition of Yiddish theatricality, they hoped to gesticulate dramatically towards Michael as they sang, if possible. And possible, it was. Michael sat grinning through the whole performance, beaming from beginning to end.

  Who says miracles don’t happen anymore? Michael allowed people to celebrate him, teach him, fete him, honour him and raise him high, closer to heaven.

  At party’s end, I looked around the room, past the few remaining friends, flowers and leftover food. I was finally able to absorb the meaning of the words so beautifully handwritten in calligraphy by Robin onto the two banners he had hung around the room for his son that morning:

  Henai ma tov uma naim,

  shevat achim gam yachad.

  How good and sweet it is when brother and sister dwell together in peace.

  The other banner quoted the nineteenth-century Rabbi Nachman of Breslav:

  We all have a song, and how beautiful it is when sung together.

  14.

  Adapting to More Realities

  Toronto Island, 2002

  TO OUR RELIEF, Michael stopped asking to meet Kira for a long stretch after the bar mitzvah. Kira hadn’t requested a meeting either, so we managed to sashay around the whole issue rather than into it. But when Michael hit fifteen, the ranks were closing in. Both Andrew and Michael were insistent that Michael meet Kira. The time had come. As before, we needed help figuring out how to minimize possible, more likely probable, damage.

  Sometimes, but by no means always, social service professionals are worth their weight in gold. The adoption counsellor we saw to develop a reunion strategy was one of the good ones. Robin and I first met with her alone to provide the necessary background for a meeting we’d have later with her and Michael. We also took the opportunity to express our fears and concerns about Kira.

  Michael was willing to get together with the counsellor. It signalled to him that the time was getting closer for his meeting with Kira. He couldn’t really understand why we had to go through what seemed to him unnecessary rigmarole, but he didn’t have any choice. The adoption counsellor thought it essential he come to a session so she could gently probe his feelings and expectations about meeting his birth mother. Like us, she was afraid Michael would be vulnerable to Kira’s whims and was likely expecting nothing less than a Fairy (God)mother who would whisk him into The Sublime, away from the cruelty of everyday life, and us, his same-old, same-old family. Who knew what fantasies he and Andrew had concocted?

  The counsellor greeted Robin, Michael and me warmly, making a particular effort to reach out to Michael. She immediately asked Michael questions.

  “Michael, how are you feelin
g about meeting your birth mother?”

  “Good.”

  “Do you have any questions or worries that we can help you with?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think it will be like to meet her?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She told Michael that she had met with dozens of other adopted children before they were introduced to their birth parents. She explained that it’s a very emotional time for everyone, and sometimes the birth parent and child don’t “click.” “But,” she added, “that doesn’t mean it will be like that for you and Kira. I want you to understand that if this happens, it doesn’t mean you’ve done anything wrong, or that Kira doesn’t care about you. It’s just that these meetings are hard for some people.”

  Since it was clear Michael wasn’t going to share any thoughts, she added more sobering ones of her own.

  “Michael, it’s important you understand that Kira made the decision to put you up for adoption at birth. She didn’t feel she could raise you. She wanted you to have a loving home with parents who could take care of you. So your mom and dad are your parents. The parents you live with are your real family.”

  When she could sense how that had sank in with Michael, she added, “Andrew has a different relationship with Kira. She decided to keep him when he was born and raise him. That’s why he lives with her sometimes. But that can’t be the same for you. Kira’s not your mother. She is your birth mother.”

  On the surface, it appeared Michael understood. He didn’t seem upset by what the counsellor said, but we were never really sure what was actually going on inside Michael’s head. Even if he couldn’t follow everything, it felt like the cards had been set out on the table. We also made sure that Michael understood that Kira was now living with her boyfriend Kenny, and Kenny and Andrew spent a lot of time together.