Here I Am
Page 50
“You’re home.”
“I am. I didn’t go.”
He smiled. His eyes closed too slowly for it to be voluntary, and he said, “Tell me.”
“Tell you what?”
He opened his eyes, saw that I was still there, smiled once again, and said, “I don’t know. Just tell me.”
“I came home.”
He closed his eyes and asked, “Did you win the war?”
“You’re asleep.”
He opened his eyes and said, “I’m only thinking about how you were in a war.”
“I didn’t go.”
“Oh. That’s good.” He closed his eyes and said, “I know what it is.”
“What what is?”
“The n-word.”
“You do?”
“I googled it.”
“Ah. OK.”
He opened his eyes. And though he didn’t smile this time, I could hear, in his full exhalation, that he was again relieved by my permanence.
“I’ll never use it,” he said. “Never.”
“Good night, love.”
“I’m not asleep.”
“You’re falling asleep.”
His eyes closed. I kissed him. He smiled.
“Is it a g like gun?” he asked. “Or like ginger?”
“What’s that?”
“The n-word. I don’t know how you say it.”
“But you’re never going to say it.”
“But I still want to know how.”
“Why?”
“You aren’t going to go away again, are you?”
“No,” I said, because I didn’t know what to say—to my child, or to myself.
HOW TO PLAY LOVE
Love is not a positive emotion. It is not a blessing, and it is not a curse. It is a blessing that is a curse, and it is also not that. LOVE OF ONE’S CHILDREN is not LOVE OF CHILDREN, is not LOVE OF ONE’S SPOUSE, is not LOVE OF ONE’S PARENTS, is not LOVE OF ONE’S EXTENDED FAMILY, is not LOVE OF THE IDEA OF FAMILY. LOVE OF JUDAISM is not LOVE OF JEWISHNESS, is not LOVE OF ISRAEL, is not LOVE OF GOD. LOVE OF WORK is not LOVE OF SELF. Not even LOVE OF SELF is LOVE OF SELF. The place where LOVE OF NATION, LOVE OF HOMELAND, and LOVE OF HOME meet is nowhere. LOVE OF DOGS is to LOVE OF ONE’S CHILD’S SLEEPING BODY as LOVE OF DOGS is to LOVE OF ONE’S DOG. LOVE OF THE PAST has as much in common with LOVE OF THE FUTURE as LOVE OF LOVE has with LOVE OF SADNESS—which is to say, everything. But then, LOVE OF SAYING EVERYTHING makes one untrustworthy.
Without love, you die. With love, you also die. Not all deaths are equal.
HOW TO PLAY ANGER
“You are my enemy!”
HOW TO PLAY FEAR OF DEATH
“Unfair! Unfair! Unfair!”
HOW TO PLAY THE INTERSECTION OF LOVE, ANGER, AND FEAR OF DEATH
At my annual cleaning, the dentist spent an unusual amount of time looking in my mouth—not at my teeth, but deeper—his instruments of pain slowly tarnishing, untouched, on the tray. He asked if I’d been having a hard time swallowing.
“Why do you ask?”
“Just curious.”
“I suppose a bit.”
“For how long?”
“A couple of months?”
“Did you ever mention it to your doctor?”
He referred me to an oncologist at Johns Hopkins.
I was surprised by my instinct to call Julia. We hardly ever spoke anymore: she had long since remarried; the kids were masters of their own logistics, being adults; and as one gets older, there is less and less news to share, until the final piece, which is delivered by someone else. The dialogue in the show is virtually identical to what actually transpired, with one significant exception: in life, I didn’t cry. I screamed: “Unfair! Unfair! Unfair!”
JACOB
It’s me.
JULIA
I recognize your voice.
JACOB
It’s been a long time.
JULIA
And your number comes up on my phone.
JACOB
As Jacob?
JULIA
As opposed to what?
JACOB
Listen—
JULIA
Is everything OK?
JACOB
I was at the dentist this morning—
JULIA
But I didn’t make an appointment for you.
JACOB
I’ve become remarkably capable.
JULIA
Necessity is the ex-wife of capability.
JACOB
He saw a lump in my throat.
Julia starts crying. Each is surprised by her reaction to nothing (yet), and it goes on for longer than either would have imagined or thought bearable.
JULIA
You’re dying?
JACOB
The dentist, Julia.
JULIA
You’re telling me he saw a lump, and you’re calling me.
JACOB
Both a lump and a phone call can be benign, you know.
JULIA
So now what?
JACOB
I have an appointment with an oncologist at Hopkins.
JULIA
Tell me everything.
JACOB
You know everything I know.
JULIA
Have you had any other symptoms? Stiffness in your neck? Difficulty swallowing?
JACOB
Did you go to med school since we last spoke?
JULIA
I’m googling while we talk.
JACOB
Yes, I’ve had stiffness in my neck. And yes, I’ve had difficulty swallowing. Now will you please give me your undivided attention?
JULIA
Is Lauren being supportive?
JACOB
You’d have to ask the man she’s presently dating.
JULIA
I’m sorry to hear that.
JACOB
And you’re the first person I’ve told.
JULIA
Do the boys know?
JACOB
I told you, you’re the first—
JULIA
Right.
JACOB
I’m sorry to have laid this on you. I know I haven’t been your responsibility for a long time.
JULIA
You were never my responsibility.
(beat)
And you still are my responsibility.
JACOB
I won’t tell the kids anything until there’s something real to tell them.
JULIA
Good. That’s good.
(beat)
How are you holding up?
JACOB
I’m fine. He’s just a dentist.
JULIA
It’s OK to be scared.
JACOB
If he were so smart, he’d be a dermatologist.
JULIA
Have you cried?
JACOB
On November 18, 1985, when Lawrence Taylor ended Joe Theismann’s career.
JULIA
Enough, Jacob.
JACOB
He’s just a dentist.
JULIA
You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. Other than tears of happiness when the boys were born. Is that possible?
JACOB
At my grandfather’s funeral.
JULIA
That’s true. You wailed.
JACOB
I wept.
JULIA
But remembering it as the exception proves—
JACOB
Nothing.
JULIA
All those repressed tears metastasized.
JACOB
Yes, that’s exactly what the dentist thought the oncologist will think.
JULIA
Throat cancer.
JACOB
Who said anything about cancer?
JULIA
Throat malignancy.
JACOB
Thank you.
JULIA
Is it too soon to observe how poetic that is?
JACOB
Way too soon. I haven’t even been diagnosed, much less gone through super-fun chemo and recovery only to learn that they didn’t get it all.
JULIA
You’ll finally have your baldness.
JACOB
I already do.
JULIA
Right.
JACOB
No, really. I went off Propecia. I look like Mr. Clean. Ask Benjy.
JULIA
You saw him recently?
JACOB
He came by on Christmas Eve with Chinese food.
JULIA
That’s sweet. How did he look?
JACOB
Enormous. And old.
JULIA
I didn’t even know you were on Propecia. But I guess I wouldn’t know what pills you take anymore.
JACOB
I’ve actually been on it for a long time.
JULIA
How long?
JACOB
Around when Max was born?
JULIA
Our Max?
JACOB
I was embarrassed. I kept them with my cummerbund.
JULIA
That makes me so sad.
JACOB
Me, too.
JULIA
Why don’t you just cry, Jacob?
JACOB
Sure thing.
JULIA
I’m serious.
JACOB
This isn’t Days of Our Lives. This is life.
JULIA
You’re afraid that letting anything out will leave you open to letting things in. I know you. But it’s just the two of us. Just you and me on the phone.
JACOB
And God. And the NSA.
JULIA
Is this the person you want to be? Always just joking? Always concealing, distracting, hiding? Never fully yourself?
JACOB
You know, I was hunting for sympathy when I called.
JULIA
And you killed it without having to fire a shot. This is what real sympathy is.
JACOB
(after a long beat)
No.
JULIA
No what?
JACOB
No, I’m not the person I want to be.
JULIA
Well, you’re in good company.
JACOB
Before I called, I found myself asking—literally asking aloud, over and over—“Who’s a gentle soul? Who’s a gentle soul?”
JULIA
Why?
JACOB
I guess I wanted proof.
JULIA
Of the existence of gentleness?
JACOB
Gentleness for me.
JULIA
Jacob.
JACOB
I mean it. You have Daniel. The boys have their lives. I’m the kind of person whose neighbors will have to notice the smell for anyone to realize he’s dead.
JULIA
Remember that poem? “Proof of Your existence? There is nothing but”?
JACOB
God…I do. We bought that book at Shakespeare and Company. Read it on the bank of the Seine with a baguette and cheese and no knife. That was so happy. So long ago.
JULIA
Look around, Jacob. There is nothing but proof of how loved you are. The boys idolize you. Your friends flock to you. I bet women—
JACOB
You? What about you?
JULIA
I’m the gentle soul you called, remember?
JACOB
I’m sorry.
JULIA
For what?
JACOB
We’re in the Days of Awe right now.
JULIA
I know I know what that means, but I can’t remember.
JACOB
The days between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. The world is uniquely open. God’s ears are, His eyes, His heart. People, too.
JULIA
You’ve become some Jew.
JACOB
I don’t believe any of it, but I believe in it.
(beat)
Anyway, it’s during these ten days that we’re supposed to ask our loved ones to forgive us for all of the wrongs we committed—“knowingly and unknowingly.”
(beat)
Julia—
JULIA
He’s just a dentist.
JACOB
I am so sincerely sorry for any times that I knowingly or unknowingly wronged you.
JULIA
You didn’t wrong me.
JACOB
I did.
JULIA
We made mistakes, both of us.
JACOB
The Hebrew word for sin translates to “missing the mark.” I am sorry for the times that I sinned against you by small degrees, and I am sorry for the times that I sinned against you by running directly away from what I should have been running toward.
JULIA
There was another line in that book: “And everything that once was infinitely far and unsayable is now unsayable and right here in the room.”
The silence is so complete, neither is sure if the connection has been lost.
JACOB
You opened the door, unknowingly. I closed it, unknowingly.
JULIA
What door?
JACOB
Sam’s hand.
Julia starts to cry, quietly.
JULIA
I forgive you, Jacob. I do. For everything. All that we hid from each other, and all that we allowed between us. The pettiness. The holding in and holding on. The measuring. None of it matters anymore.
JACOB
None of it ever mattered.
JULIA
It did. But not as much as we thought it did.
(beat)
And I hope that you will forgive me.
JACOB
I do.
(after a long beat)
I’m sure you’re right. It would be good if I could let my sadness out.
JULIA
Your anger.
JACOB
I’m not angry.
JULIA
But you are.
JACOB
I’m really not.
JULIA
What are you so angry about?
JACOB
Julia, I’m—
JULIA
What happened to you?
They are silent. But it’s a different silence than the kind they’d known. Not the silence of just joking, concealing, distracting. Not the silence of walls, but the silence of creating a space to fill.
With each passing second—and the seconds are passing, two by two—more space is created. It takes the shape of the home they might have moved to had they decided to give it one more shot, to go deeply and unconditionally into the work of re-finding their happiness together. Jacob can feel the pull of the unoccupied space, the aching longing to be allowed into what is wide open to him.
He cries.
When was the last time he cried? When he put down Argus? When he awoke Max to tell him he hadn’t gone to Israel, and Max said, “I knew you wouldn’t go”? When he tried to encourage Benjy’s budding interest in astronomy, and took him all the way to Marfa, where they got a tour of the observatory and held galaxies in their eyes like oceans in shells, and when that night they lay on their backs on the roof of the Airbnb cabin and Benjy asked, “Why are we whispering?” and Jacob said, “I hadn’t even noticed that we were,” and Benjy said, “When people look at stars, they tend to whisper. I wonder why”?
HOW TO PLAY LATE MEMORIES
My earliest memory is of my father handling a dead squirrel.
My last memory of the old house is leaving the key in the mailbox in an envelope with a stamp and no destination or return address.
My last memory of my mother is spoon-feeding her yogurt. I reflexively made the airplane sound, though I hadn’t done that for
fifteen years. I was too embarrassed to acknowledge it with an apology. She winked, I was sure.
My last memory of Argus is hearing his breathing deepen, and feeling his pulse slow, and then watching myself reflected in his eyes as they rolled back.
Despite the texts and e-mails that we have continued to send back and forth, my last memory of Tamir is from Islip. I told him, “Stay.” He asked, “Then who would go?” And I said, “No one.” And he asked, “Then what would save it?” And I said, “Nothing.” “Just let it go?” he asked.
My last memory of my family before the earthquake is by the front door, my parents about to take Benjy for the night, Sam and Julia about to leave for Model UN. Benjy asked, “What if I don’t miss you?” Of course he didn’t know what was about to happen, but how could I remember it any way other than as prophetic?
My last memory of my father is dropping him and his girlfriend at Dulles for his bucket-list trip to the Warsaw Ghetto—his Cooperstown—and my saying, “Who’d have thought it? Taking a shiksa to the Reverse Diaspora Prom?” I always felt that he withheld his laughter from me, but that got a good one. He patted my cheek and said, “Life amazes.” Of course he didn’t know he wouldn’t make it onto the plane, but how could I remember it any way other than as ironic?
My last memory of being married to Julia: the burnished handle of the snack drawer; the seam where the slabs of soapstone met; the Special Award for Bravery sticker on the underside of the island’s overhang, given to Max for what no one knew was his last pulled tooth, a sticker Argus saw many times every day, and only Argus ever saw. Julia said: “It’s way too late in the conversation for that.”
HOW TO PLAY “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”
Max asked to have a bar mitzvah. Even if it was the expression of something subterranean, even if it was some kind of hypersophisticated act of aggression, it still pleased Julia and me. The year of study went off without a hitch or complaint, the service was beautiful (Julia and I stood together at the ark, which felt good and right), the party was themeless and genuinely fun, and he banked enough savings bonds to buy something pretty great just as soon as they matured to their face value in twenty years, at which point twice as much would seem like half as much.
Max’s portion was Vayishlach, in which Jacob—the last of the patriarchs—is assaulted by an unknown assailant in the middle of the night. Jacob wrestles him down and refuses to let go, demanding a blessing of him. The assailant—an angel, or God himself—asks, “What is your name?” As Jacob holds on to the man with all his strength, he answers, “Jacob.” (Jacob means “heel-grabber”—he grabbed the heel of his older brother, Esau, as he was being born, wanting to be the first out.) Then the angel says, “Your name shall no longer be Jacob, but Israel—which means ‘wrestles God.’ ”
From the bimah, with a poise far beyond his years or mine, Max said, “Jacob wrestled with God for the blessing. He wrestled with Esau for the blessing. He wrestled with Isaac for the blessing, with Laban for the blessing, and in each case he eventually prevailed. He wrestled because he recognized that the blessings were worth the struggle. He knew that you only get to keep what you refuse to let go of.