A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life (19 page)

EPILOGUE

Rivka died at the end of April, just after I turned seventeen. She died at home, in her beloved house in Wellfleet, with her friends and even some family around her. I was there. So was her sister Devorah. Even though we were all prepared for that day, even though we knew it was coming, in the end nothing could have prepared me for it. I’m still trying to make sense of it, of watching the life go out of someone so full of life. Forgive me, but this is all I can say about that day.

She was buried the next morning down the road from her house. A small group of us gathered to say goodbye. With the help of Zack and Rabbi Klein, I was able to recite the Kaddish at her grave site, the Jewish prayer for the dead. This isn’t something that would have been appreciated by Mordechai had he been present. Traditionally, the Kaddish is recited by a man, and many consider it a disadvantage if you bear no sons because you won’t have a child who can recite the Kaddish for you when you die. But Mordechai was not there. And Rivka had me, her daughter. I was able to stand at her grave and recite the Kaddish and say, “
Aleha hashalom
.” Peace be upon her.

Mordechai marked Rivka’s death in the way he knew how. He sat shiva for a week in his home, in the company of his surviving children, receiving a steady stream of visitors from within his community. And on the third day of the shiva I appeared.

This wasn’t the shocker you might imagine. It wasn’t one of those moments of loud gasps or dropping jaws. I walked in, properly attired in a long skirt, and walked right up to Mordechai. He was sitting in a chair, his hands folded in his lap. He looked just like the pictures I have of him, although his beard was finally starting to show some gray. I pulled up a chair and sat down facing him.

“I want to introduce myself,” I said.

“There is no need. I know who you are.”

This caught me off guard. I didn’t know what to say.

“You look just like her,” he said.

I let this sink in. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“And I am sorry for yours.”

And that was it. What else did I have to say to this man, who also happens to be my grandfather? That I’m sorry for my loss too? That I’m sorry that I lost Rivka after knowing her for such a brief time? That I’m sorry that I lost out on the chance to have known her from the very beginning?

I took a quick look around the house. I even snuck upstairs and found the room I imagine Rivka slept in with her sisters. I looked at the neatly made bed (only one in the room, although back then there must have been three) and thought of Rivka as a sixteen-year-old girl lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, broken from the callousness of a boy named Joe and terrified by the strange and mysterious changes happening inside of her.

I went back downstairs and talked briefly with Devorah. I watched as all of the other Levin children and their families either ignored me because they had no idea who I was or ignored me because they knew precisely who I was.

As I was getting ready to leave I went to find Mordechai again. He was alone in the kitchen, staring out the back window. I wasn’t finished with him yet.

“How long have you known about me?”

“I knew,” he said.

“You knew then? You knew when she was pregnant?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t you do anything? Why didn’t you say anything to her?”

“Because I loved her more than anything.”

“That isn’t how she saw it. She felt abandoned by you.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“Yes. It is.”

“I had no choice.”

“You always have a choice. Life is nothing but what happens as a result of all your choices.”

“If that is so, then I think I’ve made the right ones.”

I looked at his hands. They were big and thick and perfectly still at his sides. Mine, I noticed, were trembling.

“With all due respect, Rabbi, I disagree.”

“That is your choice.”

And now we were really through. I turned around, walked away and out of the Rebbe’s house, and drove back home. I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that there was a small part of me that imagined I might have some tearful reunion with this man. That we would see something in common between us, and carve out some kind of grandfather/granddaughter relationship. But I know now what a fantasy this was. A childish fantasy. I’ve learned enough this year to know that life may surprise you, but not usually in the ways you imagine.

I managed to get through the end of the school year with respectable grades. All that studying of my vocabulary words paid off. I aced the SAT. I should get to go to the college of my choice. At least that’s what Mr. McAdams tells me.

Zack worked at the Organic Oasis all summer and also interned for Rabbi Klein at Temple Isaiah. I worked at the city day camp in Boston. We still had weekends and some nights to be together, and we took advantage of every opportunity we had. Cleo and Darius broke up. She found out about another party and another girl, and this time his tears did nothing for her. Even though I saw this coming from day one, I took no pleasure in being proved right. I ached for Cleo. It was a really rough summer for her, but she’s finally back to herself now.

School starts again in two weeks, and I’m looking forward to my senior year. To having more time with Zack. To watching Jake play varsity soccer. To seeing what happens next with Cleo. To my new position as features editor on the
Gazette
. But not to my role in the Atheist Student Alliance. I plan to resign as soon as school starts. It’s not like I’ve found God or religion, but here’s what I’ve come to realize: I’m not a real atheist. I don’t think I ever was. That’s who Mom and Dad are, and I love them for it. But there’s too much that I don’t understand or can’t explain, and I don’t have an unshakable belief in the absence of a higher power. For me, there are still too many questions, and I am just beginning a long search for the answers.

And tonight I’m with my family. We’re spending the weekend in Wellfleet in the little pink house with the crushed-stone driveway and the porch with the view of the water that now belongs to me.

The summer heat is just starting to fade. This evening the yard is filled with the sounds of birds darting in and out of the pine trees. It’s Friday night. And because this house was so much a part of Rivka, tonight, before we sit down to Dad’s elaborate dinner at the old wooden table, we light candles and drink wine and eat challah. We stumble our way through the blessings, surrounded by all of her things.

Rivka replaced the photograph above the fireplace with a new one from her final series. I think it’s the same beach. The same spot with the sea and the sand and the grass. But this picture is taken at the end of a day, and instead of being filled with movement, this picture is still. Quiet. Peaceful.

I step outside after dinner and take in a deep breath of the salty sea air. I look up at the sky that is just turning dark and just revealing its stars. I think of Rivka. I picture her sitting in her kitchen. I imagine her standing on her front porch. I think of Rivka. I picture Rivka. I imagine Rivka.

I remember her.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thank you

To my dear friend and agent, Douglas Stewart, for more than there is room to say on this page.

To Wendy Lamb for believing in me and this book and for never losing enthusiasm for this story even after reading it again and again and again.

To my family for their support and encouragement, particularly Mary Lelewer and Ann Sokatch, who read these pages almost as quickly as they were written.

To Brendan Halpin for his invaluable insights and for keeping me entertained with his e-mails and the latest installments from his wonderful novels.

To Noa Stolzenberg-Myers, my first young reader, for spending her summer vacation with an early draft of this book.

And finally to my loving husband and avid reader, Daniel Sokatch, who did nothing but cheer me on and was kind enough not to pester me about getting a real job while I was busy writing this story.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Dana Reinhardt lives in Los Angeles with her husband and their two children. This is her first book.

Published by
Wendy Lamb Books
an imprint of
Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.

New York

Copyright © 2006 by Dana Reinhardt

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eISBN: 978-0-375-89088-8

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