Between Gods: A Memoir Read Online Free PDF Page B

upbringing. His girlfriend telephones him again and again. Again and again he ignores her calls.
    He sounds like an asshole, I think. But he is also undeniably compelling.
    Eli and I agree to meet up at a restaurant called Utopia on College Street. It’s a Tuesday evening in the full blush of autumn, the maple trees showing off their prettiest dresses. I lock my bike and see him right away on the busy sidewalk, a head taller than anyone else, moving toward the intersection. His bright orange sweater matches the fall leaves. He hasn’t spotted me, and I walk for a minute beside him in the crowd, bump my shoulder lightly against his. He pulls away instinctively, and then sees it’s me who has nudged him. “Oh!” He laughs, “You scared me!”
    We go inside, joking, already comfortable.
    The restaurant is almost as noisy as the street, and packed with young hipsters sporting plaid shirts and tattoos. I go downstairs to the bathroom; on my way back to the table, I see Eli surreptitiously mussing his hair.
    I order a lamb burger, sweet potato fries and a beer.
    “I’ll have the same,” Eli tells the waitress. “But no beer.”
    I raise my eyebrows.
    “Allergic.”
    I realize I know nothing whatsoever about this person.
    Soon, though, we find we have many things in common. We skip the small talk and launch into a heated conversation about the writing life, about the loneliness at the heart of the true creative enterprise. We talk about the relentless desire to write something good, something perfect , and the inevitable accompanyingdisappointment. There are so many books in the world. Why add another unless it’s special?
    I gesture at the spine of a novel poking out of his bag. “For example,” I say, “that one.”
    “You didn’t like it?”
    “Not really.”
    “Why not?”
    I squint. “Well, for one thing, the women weren’t complex enough.”
    He eyes me thoughtfully. “Are you married?” he asks finally.
    He’s the kind of man, I see, who isn’t afraid to take what he wants. Our emails have flirted around this subject, but now that he’s got me in person he can address it head-on.
    “No, not married.” I stop with a french fry halfway to my mouth. I haven’t told Degan where I am tonight, who I’m meeting. I wait to hear myself say, “Engaged,” but no sound comes out of my mouth. I find myself twisting my ring around my finger so the diamond doesn’t show.
    Eli wears a ring, too. I don’t inquire.
    “So,” I say, instead. “I really did like your book. I wasn’t just being nice.”
    “Thanks,” he says. “Are you Jewish?”
    “Why?”
    He shrugs. “Jews react to it differently.”
    “Half,” I say. “But I grew up thinking I was Christian.” I explain, and tell him about my recent discovery, that I’ve been making Shabbat for several years without knowing it.
    “What do you mean?”
    “I mean a day of rest. Turning off the phones and computers. Everything.”
    “Are you serious?”
    “Yeah.”
    “That’s amazing.”
    “Isn’t it?”
    His eyes are wide. I continue, emboldened. “Until a month ago I knew nothing about Judaism at all. But everything I learn feels so comfortable, so familiar.”
    He nods. “You’re recognizing who you are. Realizing what you’ve always been. You just didn’t know it until now.”
    “Yes.”
    “It’s a big thing you’re going through,” Eli says. “It’s huge.”
    It’s a simple, even obvious statement, but Eli is the first person to reflect this back to me. Something lights up in my chest: I’ve been seen. Later I will understand the power in this, the psyche’s desperate lunge toward an acknowledgement that has been withheld for so long in my family. But for now I’m just grateful.
    “That’s it,” I say. “You’re right.” I take a big swallow of beer and force myself to look at his ring. “And your girlfriend? The one in the book. Are you still together?” I think of how she called him and he refused to pick up, and