The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel Read Online Free PDF

remains intent on saying this prayer for her dad. He lived with my parents the last five years. When I sleep in my old room, I still occasionally come across a hankie, a comb, or some little knickknack that belonged to him. I put them in a box labeled Grandpa Jack—Keepsakes to Remember. The same purpose as these stones, I think, and remember when I place them on the graves.
    “How’s my little
rebbetzin
?” my grandfather always asked when I was a girl and we’d visit my grandparents’ in the Bronx on Shabbat. Selectively religious, Grandpa Jack would avoid riding on the Sabbath whenever he could.
    “Yech! Stop,” I’d scream.
    I know he only said it because he was proud I went to Hebrew school. At ten or eleven, the idea of marrying a rabbi was horrific. A rabbi’s ancient, isn’t he? However, calmed down by the assurance I could marry anyone I like—so long as he was Jewish—I’d sit with my grandfather on the couch and read to him in Hebrew. He would
cvell.
Then he’d give me a dollar.
    I was his pride and joy. My mom’s an only child, and, in her day, women were not sent to Hebrew school. Daphne quit after a year for ballet and Girl Scouts. And Jon, well, I think he quit at his bar mitzvah ceremony the second he sang the last note on his haftarah.
    From afar, I watch my mother place stones on her parents’ graves. She has my father and her children. Grandchildren. But her parents. To lose your parents and no longer be somebody’s daughter. My mother turns to look at me. I do my best to smile.
    “I’m finished,” she says, walking toward me. “Come on. Grandpa Jack would want us to go eat. And you can use it.”
    It is apparent that since Christmas I dropped down a size, the Depression Diet. My mother walks to the car. The Honda is parked on the road nearby. I walk behind her but stop before getting in.
    “Give me a few minutes, okay?” I ask. Already in the driver’s seat, my mother presses the button for the window on the passenger’s side. It slides down, and she can hear. “You know where to meet me, all right?”
    Maddie’s look changes. “Aimee, sweetheart, please. Let go. And just get in the car.”
    “No.” I quickly turn and run in the all-too-familiar direction. I run as fast as my high-heeled boots will allow.
    I hear the ignition turn on. My mother follows with the car. She catches up and slowly drives alongside me.
    “You’re not helping yourself, you know,” Maddie shouts through the open window. “This always upsets you, and it serves no purpose.”
    As fast as I can run, I know my mother can outdrive me. But I pick up speed to show I’m not changing my mind.
    “Aimee.”
    “Leave me alone!”
    I run down the paved road until I reach the place where I can cut across the grass. I run past Joe Fleischman, Loving Son, Husband, Father, and Grandfather (1898–1981), make a right two down from Lily Moskowitz, Loving Daughter, Sister, and Wife (1912–1995), and reach my left turn at the tragic and untimely Eve Blumenthal, Beautiful Daughter and Sister (1955–1971). Fifteen seconds more. I stop short, hold my breath. I always expect to see him. Except, of course, I don’t.

    SAM FEINSTEIN
A Special Son, Brother, Uncle, and Friend
October 22, 1965–September 11, 2001

    “Aimee, you’re not at your desk. Wanted to hear your voice. Hey, good thing we woke up so early. Got into work, and that new service didn’t pick up the documents for the financial company’s nine o’clock, so guess who’s down at the Trade Center playing messenger? Anyway, just waiting for the elevator. Before I head back, think I’ll pop over to Chinatown and pick up a salmon to cook for dinner. Cool? Call me. Love ya.”
    Message received Tuesday, September 11, 8:42 AM .
    Those first months were atrocious. I was at my parents’ almost every day. The following year I moved. It helped, though memories tend to follow. I always worked. I started going out. People said I seemed much better. No matter