The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (23 page)

P
romises,
P
romises

T
HE LETTERS HAVE NOT BEEN RETURNED
. Unless he has burned them, I assume that they’ve been read.

In the beginning, it was just to apologize. Just. That alone could fill volumes. But while writing a letter is certainly one-sided, it opened a channel to communicate. So I continued to write, then wrote some more. And the more I wrote, the more it became apparent. The extent to which I had been unfair.

Ironically, in regard to Jewish tradition, I made allowances for Josh I did not for Peter. But, ultimately, I’d have been hard-pressed to accept that Josh would reject it. It’s hard to say, now, where he’ll go from here. But his rejection of what’s Jewish, aka me, opened my eyes to how I reject what’s Not. And now I must see how that rejection affected Peter and me.

Every two people create something new. Every twosome can’t work, but you have to know when you have one that can. One worth working on. Every person offers something different. Different might not be better, but it might be just as good.

Sam was a fit that came ready-made, one that did not need adjustments. I tried to find another like that, but I couldn’t. In time, I understood that I wouldn’t. That’s when I stopped looking and, instead, I found me.

Each day I’m grateful when envelopes marked
RETURN TO SENDER
do not flood my mailbox. But in the two weeks I’ve written, I’ve yet to receive a reply.

Still, I keep writing. Once, sometimes twice, a day I write. I ask questions, share stories. I might cut out a cartoon from the
New Yorker
or send along the sports pages from the
Daily News.
Finally unencumbered, I write from my heart. And while my heart has long been punctured, it is only now I feel it’s truly beginning to heal.

Krista shows me, by example. KISS’s corporate office so close to Saks, after the meeting we stop in the dress department. Waiting to pick up hers, she fills me in on the details for the wedding this weekend. My friend is honored to be one of two witnesses to sign the
ketubah
along with the groom.

“What an awesome religion to have the man put his marriage responsibilities to the woman in a contract,” she exclaims. “Leah says the
ketubah
protects the woman’s rights during the marriage, or if something happens and it doesn’t work out. She’s been great,” Krista speaks warmly of Matt’s sister.

“It’s so nice she asked you. You know, Peter was once a witness.” I laugh as I recall the shotgun wedding for an interfaith couple held at the club. “He joked he reviewed every clause, and his only request was that they don’t remove Santa.”

Krista laughs too. Always a good audience for Peter.

“So have you seen his John Hancock?”

I shake my head.

“I guess that’s that. But at least I got to say my peace,” my response in line with the wedding-themed talk.

“Did you tell your mom about the letters?”

“No, but in the letters I did tell Peter how I got his address.”

When I picked up that food at my mom’s after the brunch at Barney Greengrass, I couldn’t help but notice the bag was strategically placed on the entry table alongside a postcard of the Hollywood sign. Well, of course it caught my eye. Of course I picked it up. And, of course, after I read it I copied Peter’s address in California onto the shopping bag.

“If I know your mother, your mother already knows,” says Krista.

“I think so too,” I say, pretty certain my mother probably cooked the night before to have the leftover stuffed cabbage to put in a shopping bag to place next to that postcard just so I would see.

“How’d Peter sound?” Krista fishes. “In the postcard?”

“He didn’t say anything about me, if that’s what you’re asking. Likes work, said he likes driving around. Oh, speaking of—listen to this. Remember that whole thing with Josh and . . . the road test?”

Krista nods.

“Well, he sent me an e-mail this morning. We’re definitely still history, nothing changed there, but apparently he made an appointment for me a while back to take the test. Turns out it’s for three o’clock today.” Josh. He was a real
mensch
to follow through. “Anyway, he wanted me to know. Like I’m really going to take it.” I look to Krista to concur that this is a certifiably crazy idea.

“Why not?” she asks, pointing to her watch to show there’s time. “That was kind of him, and it would be good for you to—”

The saleswoman interrupts when she unzips the plastic covering to show Krista the finished alterations.

“Ooooh, this is so beautiful,” I say, checking my hands are clean before fingering the soft panels of pale peach chiffon. “You’ll look stunning.”

“Believe it or not, it’s my first Jewish wedding.”

“But hardly your last,” I say, and wink at my friend.

“Halevai,”
says Krista, surprising me first with the Yiddish word that means “if only,” and again when she spits twice between her two forefingers. “I want it so much, I don’t want to give myself some cane-hurrah.”

“A
kaynahorah
,” I say, spitting, too, between my fingers to ward away the evil eye. “Don’t worry. God’s sure to protect anyone who can learn that much Yiddish so fast.”

But our mood quickly changes when Krista checks her BlackBerry and finds a message from Jay ordering us back to the office for an emergency meeting regarding the newest development on the launch.

“What could have happened?” I ask Krista. “We just left there.” And we left KISS happily backed up with an impersonator, and foolish enough to think we could sneak in an early lunch.

“Whatever it is should be showing up on
your
Black-Berry,” Krista says, back at work, marching down the corridor to Jay.

“But I don’t have a BlackBerry,” I say, my stomach in knots having just read the e-mail sent to us all.

“Exactly,” she says as we sit down at the small round table in Jay’s big corner office.

“Decisions need to be made,” says Jay. “Now.”

Both bewildered, we note there are no boys and no candy; just the facts, Jay, Krista, and me. Breaking news. Bound by a contract, my best bud Glenn from Celebrity Access worked with Cattrall’s people and came up with a new solution. He did promise. And since KISS loves it, so will we.

She can’t do it here. Kim Cattrall is being flown out for the reshoot and will not be available for the launch Monday in New York. However, the production company has made it possible for the whole thing to happen on Sunday. In Los Angeles.

“What?”
Today’s Friday. Is everyone out of their minds?

To film the exterior shot, a New York City street is being built on a Hollywood lot. The KISS launch will take place on the
More Sex and the City
set, on a street that will look just like a street in New York. Just like our original concept.

“Ramy is ready to overnight all the product; no problem there. The L.A. office is pitching the alert as we speak.” Jay looks at me. “So sure of media, KISS has their advertising people pushing some last-minute ads.” A fact I already think I shall keep from my dad. “Attendance for the contest will be huge. Listen to this.” Jay practically hugs his heart. “Patrick Dempsey is the TV star, and since his schedule contributed to the change, he’s offered to
stop by on Sunday
. . .” Jay pauses for a very McDreamy moment, and as much as I’d like to, I’m too panicked to join.

“So . . . looks like this launch will be a winner. Your stalling worked,” Jay says to me. Pleased. “Pay off the impersonator, have the team pull everything in New York. Then pack your bags for at least a week, because tomorrow, Ms. A., you’re headed for L.A.”

Krista jumps up and down, thrilled to hear she’s not going. She was never supposed to attend the launch on Monday anyway, hard at work on a new business account. Grabbing her BlackBerry and her Saks bag, she heads toward the door.

“Have fun, you guys. Since I’m not needed, I’m out of here,” she says. “Thank God,” I hear her murmur under her breath as she brushes past.

“Thanks, Kris,” calls Jay before he turns to me. “Aimee, I’m proud you did it. And see how important it was? This came up unexpectedly, but now you’re prepared. You got your license.”

Jay claps his hands together. The sound and the words bring Krista, who is almost out the door, to a complete stop. She turns and looks at me, her face gone white. But the red of embarrassment shines on me.

“Don’t tell me,” says Jay, observing the interaction and sinking into his chair. “Oh no, that’s impossible. We made an agreement.” Shaking his head back and forth, he waves his hand to beckon Krista back into the room.

“I know, Jay. I was on track. I thought, for sure, I’d have it but . . .” I stop talking. What can I tell him? I forgot because I was too busy pretending to be a shiksa to remember? Not to mention too scared.

Krista slowly walks back into the office and places her Saks bag on top of the table. The three of us stand around it. No one makes the next move. Krista and I defer to Jay.

“In other words, Aimee, you still don’t have a license to drive a car.”

“Correct. But I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“There’s
nothing
extra now.” Jay rubs his fingers together to indicate money. “Not after the location change. Plus hotel and per diem for you. We can have someone pick you up at the airport tomorrow, but after that it’s a rental car.”

“Who needs car service? I’ll just pay for my own cabs.”

“You think you’re in New York? We even rent cars here for events. With all the setup and transporting product and signage and who knows what else, you think we can depend on taxis? And in Los Angeles?” Jay glares. “Krista, you’re going to have to sub for Aimee. You go tomorrow.”

Jay shoots me a look of profound disappointment before he walks away from the table and back to his desk. Krista spins around and goes after him.

“I can’t. It’s my boyfriend’s sister’s wedding this Sunday. Rehearsal dinner’s tomorrow night. I can’t go, I can’t. Aimee”—she turns to me—“fix this.”

I think I know what she means, but it’s so daunting I try another way.

“What about what’s her name? From our office in L.A.? You said yourself she’s great. I’ll brief her, and she’ll take over, you know . . .” My eyes appeal to Krista to show her I’m trying. “Gina Jones-Shapiro?”

“ Jones-Levine,” snaps Jay. “She’ll be there as support, but it’s a New York–generated launch and the New York office must be present.”

Krista and I name everyone on the consumer team, but anyone who has the expertise to work the event is already spoken for.

“I’m sorry, honey,” Jay tells Krista. “We’ll make it up to you. Now if you ladies will excuse me . . .”

“No,” says Krista. “Aimee
can
do it, right, Aimee? Tell Jay.”

“Are you holding out on me? You have a license?”

“I’m not holding out on any—”

“Yes you are, Aimee,” announces Krista. “You are. You can get it today.”

Jay’s brown eyes bulge. “Is this true?”

Is it? Ohmygod, I never thought about it like that but . . .

“Aimee, we have no time to waste. Regarding L.A., are you in or out?”

Krista waits, breathing hard, clutching the Saks bag to her body that shakes behind it. Jay taps his middle finger on the desk. Next door a Mozart Sonatina ring tone plays over and over as someone does not answer their cell.

“I’m out.” No sooner do I say the words than Krista and I are both out in the hall.

The SAKS bag held close to her chest, Krista runs down the corridor. She cries so hard, I fear her tears will drop down through the tissue paper and damage the dress. But damage has already been done. Damage, I fear, that’s irreparable. I chase Krista, wanting, begging her forgiveness.

“Krista, wait! Don’t you see? It’s not my fault.”

Stopping outside her office, Krista turns to face me. While she does not speak, her heaving body and tear-struck face would hardly agree. But how can I unravel my fear? What horrible thing will happen now if I do take this test?

“I . . .” Are there even words to explain? “I would go . . . if I could . . . but . . .” Are there words to give this weekend back to my friend? Hyperventilating, I can barely get out the only ones that might matter. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, Kris, but . . . I just”—it comes out in a whisper—“can’t.”

“Aimee, you
can.
” Krista’s words are measured along with the weight of a look I don’t want to remember but will never forget.

It’s so haunting, I only sob and sob when, back at my desk, I stare at my screen reading Josh’s e-mail again and again.

C
ut to the
C
hase

I
LOOK UP
, and instead of skyscrapers I see mountains. It seems as strange to me to see a mountain in this city as it probably strikes others to see a lake in Central Park at home. But I am not home. I am here. In Los Angeles.

“Where do you want this?”

Summer interns who have just begun working at PR With A Point in L.A. serve as the support staff, eager to help. On schedule, we still feel like we’re running behind, praying the last-minute details won’t turn into potential pitfalls. Murphy must have been in PR when he created his law.

“How about the two of you run this banner from lamppost to lamppost.” I point to the fake New York street on the
More Sex and the City
set that appears more authentic than the real New York street we would have used tomorrow.

“The platform and the copier should be delivered any minute, and they’ll be setting up a little stage . . .” I glance down at my clipboard and catch a look at the stellar production schedule Krista whipped up. “Starting in about fifteen minutes.”

A car service picked me up yesterday at the airport and brought me to a Hyatt on Sunset Boulevard. It is in walking distance of many shops and eateries, and through the concierge I discovered it is also on a bus route. Although slow and unreliable, the bus is definitely an option. If I wake up superearly and bring along a good pair of walking shoes, I can take it back and forth to the PR With A Point office starting tomorrow. Meanwhile, there is this rental car . . .

Per Jay’s instructions, I got the car. Parked on the lot, a shiny red Dodge Neon sits in a VIP spot. Enterprise drove it over. I took a cab and asked the rental company to meet me here. One of the interns can drive it back to the Hyatt later; the car will stay parked in the hotel’s garage for the duration of this trip.

But we did all the paperwork, and upon showing my corporate AMEX card, I also produced my learner’s permit
and
my temporary license. I passed! This license is good until the real one arrives in the mail.

I wasn’t going to go. I had no intention, whatsoever, of going. But when Krista said “you
can
,” I heard her telling me I was able. A fact I could not dispute. I did not know if I’d pass, but I was able to find out.

Asking one of my family members to accompany me felt as scary as playing Russian roulette with their lives. Daphne, probably out carpooling, didn’t pick up her phone. Jon, up in Nyack on a shoot, said it was impossible for him to walk out. Maddie was free, and delighted by the way, but didn’t have the car. Sid took it to work because of a business lunch with a client in Yonkers. I caught him on his cell right in the middle.

“We’re not nearly finished,” said my dad, afraid with traffic he might not even make it back in time. “Can you schedule something for another date in the city, and I promise I’ll take you?”

“They don’t give road tests in Manhattan,” I told him, my eyes suddenly welled up with tears. To help make the decision, I prayed to God for a sign, and staring me in the face was one so big you’d have to have been blind not to see it.

“You need to take the test in the boroughs. Josh picked Queens.” I was shaken. I knew I had to go through with it, but was terrified to do so.

When I looked up the location of Twentieth Avenue in Queens, it turned out to be only a stone’s throw from the Silver-cup Studios in Long Island City. The primary shooting location for
More Sex and the City
, starring none other than . . . Kim Cattrall.

“Oh. I thought you’d be relieved to postpone,” said my dad, only to hear me bawl when I finally explained all that was riding on this. And before I finished, Sid excused himself from the lunch, explaining he’d take the FDR Drive to the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge and to meet him in Queens. My heart in my mouth, I ran out of the office and leaped into a cab, taking my biggest ever leap of faith.

My father held me as I cried the fear away. Then with a strength I did not know I possessed, I composed myself, climbed into his car with the instructor, turned on the ignition, and drove away.

And hey. So far so good. I got my license, flew out here, and no one has died. Though driving home, after the test, we heard on the radio that Jack Kevorkian had been released from prison. Sid was quick to assure that if anything were to happen that day, it would not be traced to me.

“Are you Aimee?” Of course, I recognize the voice. It belongs to none other than Kim Cattrall, who is standing right beside me. In a blue silk wrap dress. Her blonde hair shimmers in the California light; her smile is sunny.

“Hello, there.” I shake her hand. Media savvy, I don’t go gaga over celebs as a rule. But my heart pumps a few extra beats upon meeting this star. In person she’s even more of a knockout. “Thanks so much for helping to make this happen,” I say, and gesture to everything going on around us.

“Honey, it was no problem,” says Kim. “Well, actually it was, but it was fun to solve. You know, I may not be a publicist, but I played one on TV.”

“Ohmygod, that’s right,” I remember, amazed how it all comes together.

Soon the media circus will begin. We have pre-event interviews scheduled, and expect several camera crews to drop by throughout the day. Photographers will be on-site for the photo-op with the winners, and we will e-mail pictures to every publication—online and off—before we leave the venue. Our list of confirmed media includes
Extra
,
Access Hollywood
,
Entertainment Tonight
, all the local television affiliates, local TV, the
Los Angeles Times
,
People
(yes), and more. You never know who’ll be a no-show, and some certainly will, but I think our hits will be pretty high.

“Do I look okay?” asks Kim, grabbing a bottled water out of the cooler and fluffing up her hair. “Maybe a little lipstick?”

“We’ve got plenty of that,” I say, and lead her over to the Ramy booth that’s all set with the colors that will be used for the kissing contest.

There is something so exciting to me about seeing anything in bulk. An office supply store once created a window display using several thousand unsharpened pencils that blew me away. Now, in front of us, are rows and rows of Ramy lipsticks. And I suddenly can’t wait to try them on.

Behind the table sits Tara, the Ramy rep, and another woman who, by the looks of it, has just slipped in.

“Sorry to be a bit late. You know this all came up so quickly, and this morning was my nephew’s bris. I’m from the agency and supervising the contest with Tara,” says the woman, who introduces herself as Gina Jones-Levine. Her dark hair is swept up into a ponytail, and her confidence is tucked into her charm. She is tall, black, and beautiful. Talk about shiksa syndrome.

“I’m so glad to meet you,” I tell Gina. “Everyone in the New York office sings your praises.”

“Let’s hope that’s still the case after today,” she says.

“I know what you mean,” I agree. “We’ll see how it shakes out tomorrow.”

“We’ve got a desk all ready for you in the office next to mine.”

“Ladies, I don’t mean to interrupt,” says Kim, “but get a load of these lipsticks.”

We pick up the different lipsticks, to try the different colors. The colors are too cool. And the names are too much. So descriptive, each one tells another story.

“How does this look?” asks Kim, pulling off the top of
Too Good For Him Berry.
She puts a coat on her bottom lip and picks up a hand mirror.

“I think you should try this one,” says Tara, handing her
All His Fault.

“I like you in that one,” I say.

“Which do you think for me?” Gina shows us
Smile! Laugh!
and
Happy!

“Happy!
becomes you,” I tell her, and it does. I certainly don’t know the ins and outs of Gina and Mr. Levine, only to guess that there had to have been obstacles to overcome. By the looks of things, they did. Though my mother makes sure to always remind me you never know what goes on behind closed doors.

We are all so impressed by presentation. Josh loved how he looked with eMay; my mother loved how Aimee looked with Josh. I loved how I looked with Josh . . . on paper. If I had to write a shopping list of what I was looking for in a mate, Josh would match my list. But the reality of me and Josh was not a fit. Whereas I would say the opposite of me and Peter.

“Hey, this looks like a good color for you,” says Gina, handing over a pale pink I like so much I try it. Except when I look in the mirror I look all washed out, and it doesn’t suit me at all.

“Let me see,” says Kim, wiping her mouth with a tissue before applying the lipstick to look pretty in pink.

“Excellent,” says Tara. “That is so your color.”

Kim flips it over to see the name on the bottom.
“Shiksa Goddess!”
she reads. “Well, if the shoe fits.”

I laugh along with the women. Yep, it sure fits Kim, but it sure doesn’t fit me. I look for a color named for a non-Jewish man. If there’s one called
My Shagetz!
I will take it as a sign. But there isn’t, and Peter is clearly finished with me. Just here for business, I do not plan to call him. Sadly, I must leave well enough alone.

“What else you got here that would work for me?” I ask about the lipsticks, hoping for a color that will brighten in more ways than one.

The crew from
Extra
arrives early for their appointment with Kim. They need set-up time, allowing us to review the talking points for the product.

“I’m very good at this, and I will find you the perfect color,” says Kim, rummaging through lipsticks while I put the product fact sheets out on the table with the makeup.

Yet I can’t stop thinking of P and wonder if I’m making the wrong decision. After all, I’m not a stalker. I am here for legitimate reasons. How would I feel if positions were reversed and he didn’t contact me? And what if he has a new California girl? But what if he hasn’t.

“Now,
this
is you,” Kim says, and hands me a lipstick just as my phone beeps and signals a text message. My mouth open as she applies the new color; it only opens wider when I look sideways at my cell and see . . . Peter’s number! And that he’s finally responding to the message I sent him that week.

I read it a few times to comprehend, but it comes together in a flash when Kim tells me
this
one’s my color. Once she announces the name, there is no doubt.
“Epiphany!”

“We’re ready for Ms. Cattrall,” a production assistant rushes by to relay.

“Come on,” says Kim, waving her hand in front of the hand mirror, alerting me it’s time to go. Because I don’t move. The media are arriving, the event is beginning, the contest is starting, and Peter is leaving. And all I know is I must get to him before he takes off.

“How far is . . .” From my wallet, I pull out the scrap torn from a piece of that shopping bag I’ve been carrying around. “North Hollywood?” I read off his address, as Gina leans over my shoulder to look.

“And Magnolia Boulevard,” she says, the street names Greek to me. “Twenty minutes from here, no traffic. Why?”

The story comes pouring out. “But how can I leave?”

“I’m here,” says Gina. “Just go.”

“Well,” I hedge. “How soon can I get a cab?”

“Not soon enough.” Gina laughs. “You’re not in Kansas anymore. Didn’t they rent you a car? The only way to catch him in time is to drive.”

“Oh no,” I wail, and tell them all the rest of my saga. I look up at the heavens to stick out my tongue at the guys playing the joke on me. I can’t believe this. So far from the New York City subway, this moment is now offered to me to face. Head-on. Though I confess I’m afraid of a collision. Still, I want to do it. Maybe I even can, but . . . but . . .

But . . .
I finally see the thing I could not face inside me.

Many things have come easy to me, but all fairly traditional and by-the-book, they’ve all fit in my box. However, for all my faith, perhaps it is lacking when it comes to trusting my own ability to do the harder work for something that appears to be out of it. Yet have I not learned that so much of the fit is illusion?

“You have to go,” says Kim.

“It sounds so romantic,” says Tara, while Gina writes directions on the back of the press release and Kim runs a comb through my hair.

“Ms. Cattrall, we’re ready for you now,” calls the production assistant.

“We have to go.” Gina indicates she and Kim are walking over.

“Do you all really think—?” I begin, and am interrupted by Kim.

“Honey, if Mr. Big can fly to Paris to claim Carrie, you can certainly drive to the Valley.”

I don’t know if that’s true, but there’s only one way to find out. Trying to leave the parking lot, I feel like a character doing a bit in a movie. I step so hard on the gas pedal I fly forward—until I fall backward, having stepped too hard on the brakes. Regrouping, at twenty-five miles per hour I exit the lot and turn onto Hollywood Boulevard. At a red light, a homeless man begs on the corner behind another who pees into a palm tree. So shocked to see this in the glamorous city of Hollywood, not to mention petrified behind the wheel, I don’t go when the light turns green. Crazy drivers curse me and drive past.

Finally, I just pull over. I can’t. I want to. I really, really want to, but I can’t do this. I’ll just call Peter, I think, as I rummage in my purse for my cell. No. His new horizons probably don’t include me anyway. Never mind. But instead of my cell, my hand touches something else. My prayer book. My siddur. I have it with me, my way of bringing Grandpa Jack along on this trip.

“Always stay true to yourself,”
I read his inscription. Yes. Yes, Grandpa. That would mean facing Peter. Driving there, proving I am ready for him. But if I can, please show me how.

I flip through the pages for inspiration and come across a bunch of prayers. There are prayers for everything. Eating bread and drinking wine. Upon seeing a rainbow, or the ocean, or a tree blossom in spring. A prayer for bad tidings, another for good, and then I see a prayer that’s said when embarking on a journey.