Closer to Fine by Jodi S. Rosenfeld

Author:Jodi S. Rosenfeld
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: She Writes Press
Published: 2021-09-14T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

“You’re not going to believe this, but my zayde said to invite you to Shabbat dinner this Friday.”

Liz’s eyebrows seem to pull her eyes wide like little marionettes. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“You’ve got me, but he’s been in a pretty good mood for the past few weeks. Must have something to do with the rabbi being away in Israel for the summer.”

That Friday, I cook chicken in a crockpot and make roasted potatoes. Liz brings the challah and the wine. After dinner, we stay at the kitchen table and play two rounds of Rummikub, Zayde on one side of the table, bent over his tiles with his knit yarmulke that he only wears at home, and Liz and I across from him, stealing secret moments of pressing our legs together under the table.

“Elizabeth, you are quite good at this game. I didn’t think many young people knew how to play it.”

“Ah, Rummikub was always my parents’ Christmas Eve tradition. They taught me very young, and I don’t think a December 24th went by during my childhood when the three of us didn’t play for several hours.”

Liz keeps winning, but having them both at the table with me makes me feel like I’ve won.

A few days later, Zayde looks up from reading his paper in his recliner and asks, “Shayna meydeleh, have you met any nice boychiks in your classes?”

“Oh Zayde, I’ve met so many, I don’t know how to fend them off!”

He shakes his head with a chuckle and goes back to his paper. I don’t feel guilty about the lie. I am everything Zayde needs me to be—his aide, his cook, his companion. I am caring and patient and, in return, I receive my zayde’s love and respect.

One Friday morning in July, Kevin wants to know more about my relationship with Zayde.

“I’ve always been close to my grandfather. I guess I put him on a pedestal when I was a kid. Maybe I still do.”

“How so?”

“I don’t know—it’s like I feel protective of him. Like, I look up to him but also think of him as sort of fragile. I mean, he’s old. He doesn’t deserve pain at his age. That’s why I can’t come out to him—I don’t want to cause him any pain.”

“And what does that have to do with your mother?”

I look at the floor. “You therapists—you’re always bringing it back to the mother!”

“You’re good at that, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Good at what?”

“At using humor when you are uncomfortable.”

“I guess not,” I say. “If I was good at it, I might have successfully thrown you off my trail.”

He thinks about this. “No,” he says. “That would have just made me a bad therapist.”

We smile, then I start to cry.

“What was your question again?” I say between sniffles.

“What does all of this loyalty, this protection of your grandfather have to do with your mother?”

I sit thinking for what feels like a long time. “I want to say nothing. I want to say that

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