Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (3 page)

She blinked behind her glasses a few times. “Treatment results were outside the scope of our research.”

I bit my pickle in half. It was crunchy. I took my time chewing, swallowed, and asked the obvious: “Isn’t patients’ survival the very purpose of post-op care? Or better yet, the whole reason for existence of the VA hospital system?”

Her face reddened. “We concentrated on measuring financial results—how much could be saved by shifting to home-based recovery.”

I should have left it at that, having exposed their research to be a farce. But all the chickens in the room looked to me for the deliverance of the
coup de grâce
. I pointed the remaining half of my pickle at her and asked, “Have you measured how much could be saved if the federal government stopped funding pointless research?”

My colleagues laughed, but our medical director, Larry Emanuel, shook his finger at me and said, “Rusty is fortunate that tonight is the Jewish Rosh Hashanah, so he can atone for a year’s worth of poor jokes.”

Jingle Bells

I made it home by 2 p.m. and found Rebecca in front of the computer in the study, biting her lower lip as she pressed the keys to sign in to Skype. I had no doubt that Debra would be on time for our video conference. Our daughter was a perfectionist, which also meant that she studied hard and had no time for cross-country trips home, even for Rosh Hashanah. We missed her, but thanks to the Internet, with a bit of preplanning we could chat face-to-face despite the thousands of miles separating us.

Placing a ten dollar bill on the table, I said, “Want to bet?”

Rebecca glanced at the money. “I think she’ll stay in New York.”

“Then I’ll bet against my wishes. My money’s on Tucson.”

“Mine’s on Columbia, but it’s a bet I’ll be happy to lose.”

“Me too.” I kissed her cheek, but Rebecca held my face and planted a kiss on my lips.

Debra’s face showed up first, then her voice. “Hi, Mom! Hi, Daddy!”

“Hi, sweetie,” we chorused. “How are you?”

Debra laughed, as if the question was rhetoric, which in a way it was. She looked great, her black, shoulder-length hair framing her clear face, and her dark, jewel-like eyes glinting with enthusiasm. From the neck up, Debra was a carbon copy of the young Rebecca I had met in college more than twenty-five years ago. But unlike Rebecca’s petite stature, our daughter had taken after my physique—tall and long-limbed.

And so, with Debra’s smile lighting up the screen, Rebecca and I settled in for the digital version of a family get-together

But before our empty-nesters’ chill had a chance to thaw under our daughter’s adorable glow, she said, “I’d like you to meet Mordechai,” and a young man joined in, his smooth cheek next to hers in front of the camera. He wished us “Happy New Year” with seriousness befitting an offer of condolences rather than a holiday greeting and promptly asked for Debra’s hand in marriage.

I chuckled, certain that he was a new boyfriend making an awkward attempt at humor. But the boy glanced at Debra, his cheeks apple-red, and she looked back at him with an expression that made me realize he wasn’t joking. He was really asking for Debra’s hand, and he was expecting an answer!

Rebecca yelled, “Oh, my God! I can’t believe it!”

Neither could I.

“
What a surprise!” Rebecca clapped her hands. “How long have you known each other? Tell us everything!”

Still in shock, I listened as Debra described their initial meeting at a Friday-night service at Hillel, which for Jewish students was like speed-dating with an extra shot. The following week, they had shared a bumpy ride in a yellow cab after a break-fast dinner on the night of Tisha B’Av, a day of mourning for the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem two millennia ago. They discovered mutual friends and common interests, went to the movies, and visited museums. I calculated in my head—the ninth of the month of Av under the Hebrew calendar was less than two months ago, which apparently was long enough for them to fall in love and commit to a life together—“According to the laws of the Torah,” Mordechai chimed in.

Debra nodded, smiling, full of hope, resembling Rebecca at her age. We had also been students at Columbia when I asked for Rebecca Greenbaum’s hand—only Skype hadn’t existed back then to facilitate proposing from a safe distance. We rode the subway to her parents’ Bronx apartment where, upon hearing my tremulous offer of matrimony, my future in-laws burst out crying as if the worst of their fears had come true. Which, in a way, it had. They had each lost a spouse and children in the Nazi concentration camps and met after the war at the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society’s center in New York, where both had been coming daily to browse lists of survivors. Neither of them had found any lost relatives on the HIAS lists, but the camaraderie of grief brought them together.

Despite physical ailments and mental scars, they managed to bring Rebecca into the world—a strike back at their former Nazi tormentors, a pitch for Jewish continuity. Rebecca had prepared me for their negative reaction to her bringing home a gentile boy who was nothing like the Jewish son-in-law they had dreamt of. She expected disappointment, disapproval, and a few tears, but knew they would accept me because our future children would be Jewish based on the maternal hereditary laws of Judaism.

Yet Rebecca had clearly underestimated her parents’ feelings about the matter. Standing in their small living room among the second-hand furniture, shelves of religious books, and charcoal portraits of dead relatives (drawn from memory as no family photos had survived the war), I was stunned by her mother’s heart-wrenching sobs and her father’s repeated murmurs, “
A shaygetz! A shaygetz!
”

What had I done but expressed my love for their daughter in the most honorable way—a commitment to share the rest of our lives? And even if they found a non-Jewish boy, a shaygetz like me, to be unacceptable, did it justify such an extravagant expression of misery? And to throw it in my face like that? Didn’t they know Christians had feelings too? I almost burst out with a borrowed Shakespearean protest:
If you prick us, do we not bleed?
But I held my tongue, as my good Christian mother had taught me to do, and watched them cry while Rebecca grasped my arm in brave-yet-tearful insistence until they calmed down, wiped their eyes, and shook my hand with moist, slack palms.

Later on, as I learned about the painful history of my young bride’s people and discovered the pivotal role my Christian church had played in inflicting torture and death on the Jews for two thousand years, I understood better my in-laws’ reaction. For them, and for their fellow Holocaust survivors, every flaxen gentile was a dormant Nazi. And who could blame them? For Jews who had experienced the German people’s regressive transformation from a cultured, emancipated society to the brown-shirts’ nightmare of burning books, reeking cattle trains, and ash-spitting chimneys, even the friendliest shaygetz was a hyena in sheep’s clothing, ready to snap back into his beastly self.

And now, long after Rebecca’s parents had departed to a better world, free from worries about docile gentiles transforming into Nazis or a shaygetz stealing their daughter’s heart, the sting of their early rejection occasionally pestered me like a pang of pain from a long-healed injury. Which was why, when my wife and daughter calmed down, I saw the anxiety in Mordechai’s face and said, “Yes, of course, you have our blessing!”

“
Thank you, Dr. Dinwall,” he said. “I’ll take good care of her.”

“
You better!”

We all laughed, and Debra said, “Mordechai’s dad is also a physician.”

“
Really?” I leaned closer. “What’s his specialty?”

“
Urology,” Mordechai said. “He’s at Mount Sinai in Manhattan.”

“
Please give him my best regards—from one plumber to another.” I assumed Debra had told Mordechai that I was a heart surgeon.

“A perfect match,” Rebecca declared and launched into a barrage of questions about their brief courting and plans for the wedding, which Debra answered while sending frequent, loving glances at Mordechai. They planned to marry in New York, where his large family resided. I suggested that our rabbi, Rachel Sher, fly to New York to officiate, but Debra explained that they wanted an Orthodox ceremony. She made Mordechai lean his head forward so we could see his yarmulke—a black skullcap that gave me an ominous premonition. Or was I merely experiencing a normal father’s apprehension at a young man’s claim to his daughter’s heart?

“
I’ll ask Rabbi Rachel,” I said, “if she would conduct an Orthodox ceremony.”

Mordechai turned to Debra, who said as if on cue, “A woman can’t officiate at a wedding. It’s against
Halacha
.”

I recognized the Hebrew term for the extensive body of strict Jewish law, which my in-laws had observed. We, on the other hand, belonged to a Reform congregation. The King Solomon Synagogue was like an extended family that practiced progressive Judaism, which respected the ancient letter of Halacha as belonging in ancient times, a wonderful part of our people’s history, while current Judaism required adaptation to modern times. In fact, Debra’s Bat Mitzvah speech had won applause for contending that the advancement of women among Jewish clergy should be supported as a form of affirmative action. And her valedictorian speech at her high-school graduation was titled
The Prophet Debra – a Role Model for Female Leadership in the Twenty-First Century.
So why was my daughter opting for a wedding ceremony that would exclude a woman rabbi?

Before I had a chance to inquire, Mordechai explained that Rabbi Yakov Mintzberg, the spiritual leader of their Brooklyn community, had officiated at his parents’ wedding and at his older siblings’ weddings—a tradition they wished to continue.

“
And he’s old,” Debra added, “so we decided to do it soon. December twentieth!”

Mordechai grinned, exposing a set of big, white teeth.

“
That’s in three months!” In my mind I envisioned the schedule on my office wall. Open-heart surgeries were complex, orchestrated events with lots of moving parts and anxious patients. My vacations usually required long-term advanced planning. “What’s the hurry?”

“
Winter break.” Debra lifted a calendar to show us. “We’ll have two weeks off for a honeymoon!”

“
But you could have two months,” I said, “if you wait until the summer.”

Rebecca knuckled my thigh under the desk. “We’re delighted,” she declared. “It’s your wedding, so it’s up to you to fix the date and select the rabbi. We’re so happy!”

“
I agree,” I said, “as long as you love each other and feel certain in your choice.”

They nodded, and Debra showed the back of her left hand to the camera.

“
Look at this!” Rebecca fingered the screen. “It’s gorgeous!”

“
A ring.” I swallowed hard. Why had Debra accepted this symbol of commitment before discussing it with us?

Rebecca must have sensed my impending protest. She turned to me and asked, “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“
Ah.” I exhaled. “Yes. Pretty.”

On the screen, Debra and Mordechai looked at each other, and I was grateful to my wife for stopping me before I said something objectionable that could poison the new relationship with my daughter’s husband. I gulped at the thought:
My daughter’s husband!

“
If your grandma and grandpa could only see it.” Rebecca’s voice broke. “Our baby’s getting married!”

I felt my eyes water and blinked to hide it. “We love New York,” I said, “even in December. And you could spend your honeymoon in Arizona, all expenses on us. We’ll throw a party, and Rabbi Rachel will bless your marriage—”

“
It’s settled then!” Rebecca leaned forward until her nose almost touched the computer screen. “Show me the ring again!”

The two women delved into details of invitation lists, color themes, and kosher caterers. I listened, making sure to keep smiling at the tiny camera lens atop the computer screen. With tuition and board at Columbia University approaching the cost of a nice house, I wasn’t keen on feeding hundreds of Orthodox guests a menu of kosher gourmet at New York prices. But Debra was getting married, and even if it was a few years earlier than expected, we would do the right thing.

In the end, we wished them “Happy Rosh Hashanah!” and waved as their faces disappeared, replaced by the Skype logo.

I picked up the ten dollar bill and gave it to Rebecca. “I think you won this one.”

She laughed and stuffed it in her purse. “I’ll use it toward the wedding.”

Rebecca phoned several friends to share the news. I typed an e-mail to Rabbi Rachel on my Blackberry:

I sent it and sighed. This wouldn’t sit well with the rabbi. She had never married, and the congregation was everything to her—career, family, life’s purpose. And as a woman in a traditionally male profession, she was even more sensitive when it came to issues of respect or recognition. Having served as volunteer trustee and board president for over a decade, I had earned her trust with my sincere devotion to the wellbeing of the synagogue as well as my loyalty to her as its spiritual leader. Debra’s decision to
de facto
exclude Rabbi Rachel from the wedding ceremony would sting badly, and it was up to me to explain the situation and smooth things out. But how could I do that when my own feelings about the marriage were still so raw?