Like No Other (24 page)

“Hi, sorry,” I say, trying to collect myself, the disappointment like a knife in the ribs. “Where’s— I’m looking for Devorah.”

“You have to get out of here,” she whispers. “My parents are in the office.” She nods her head toward a door about ten feet from where we’re standing. I stand my ground.

“Not without Devorah,” I say.

“She’s not here!” Hanna whispers, and then raises her voice. “Hi, Mrs. Yenkin,” she says loudly, looking panicked. “How can I help you today?”

“Then where is she?” I press, leaning on a nearby shelf for balance, knocking a bag of multicolored dreidels onto the gray carpet. Heavy footsteps shuffle around behind the closed door.

“Hide behind that stack of boxes and I’ll tell you,” Hanna says. “If they see you, you’ll never get the chance—” Then the handle turns, and I drop to my knees, the four-foot shelf becoming my makeshift hiding place. Anyone who walks in off the street will see me. So will anyone who walks more than five steps out of the back room. I hold my breath.

“I thought I heard someone come in,” a male voice says. No footsteps; he’s still in the doorway. A good sign.

“Oh, um, Mrs. Yenkin came in, but she forgot her purse,” Hanna says, her voice high and nervous. “She’s coming back.”

“What did I tell you about regular customers?” Devorah’s dad sighs. “You can always offer a one-time credit. We reward loyalty with trust. It makes them feel good and want to give us their business.”

“Oh, right,” Hanna says. “Sorry.”

“Did you finish shelving those streamers?” a female voice calls.

“Almost done,” Hanna says cheerfully.

“Put some up in the windows, too, like you did last year. Those were nice.”

“Devorah always does the windows,” Hanna says, and there’s an awkward silence.

“All right,” her father says finally. “We’re just finishing some personal business, and then we’ll be out. Make sure to break down the shipping boxes.” The door hinges squeal, and I’m about to unpause my aching lungs when it stops abruptly. “Whose bag is that?” he asks slowly. I freeze. My army-green backpack is still slumped at the base of the fan by the entrance.

“Oh, someone must have left that,” Hanna stammers. “I’ll just stick it behind the counter.” The hinges squeal again, and then the door bangs shut. Hanna crouches down, visibly shaking. “You have to leave now,” she whispers.
“Please.”

“As soon as you tell me where she is.”

“She’s in Monsey,” Hanna says. “That’s upstate.”

“What’s she doing there?”

“
Go
,” she pleads.

“
Where
in Monsey?”

“Some rehab place,” she says quickly. “It has an acronym, CRT or something like that, I don’t know. I only overheard.”

The digital chime rings out, and Hanna shoots to her feet as a young woman in a long skirt enters with a toddler on her hip and another, barely much older, at her feet. Both boys have mini yarmulkes pinned in their hair. The woman stops abruptly when she sees me, and grabs her walking child’s hand.

“I’ll be with you in just a minute,” Hanna chirps, but the woman shakes her head and turns around, triggering the doorbell yet again as she makes a hasty exit.

“Hanna!” her father cries angrily through the door. “Could you hold
one
customer in the building, please?” I hear him get up from a chair, and know I’ve worn out my nonexistent welcome. My hamstrings snap painfully into action as I spring to my feet and make a dash for the door, grabbing my bag on the way.

“Thanks,” I pant over my shoulder as I leap past the strip on the carpeted floor that would announce my presence and seal my fate. I’m already on the sidewalk by the time Devorah’s parents make their way out of the office, but as I break into a run I could swear I hear Hanna call out after me, her voice wafting through the still afternoon air like a trade wind, steering me on my way:
Good luck
.

D
evorah

S
EPTEMBER
16, 3
PM

T
he Chabad Residential Treatment Center of Monsey (CRTCM for short, which really rolls off the tongue) is a ranch-style complex inset from the main road by about half a mile by way of a twisting gravel driveway and nestled almost invisibly inside a small clearing in a forest of trees. A series of low wood cabins are connected by quaint stone paths trimmed with round hedges, and there’s even a little square in the center with benches where you can read or gaze out at the birds. Ironically, it actually looks exactly like the type of secular college campus I’ve fantasized about attending.

Rose stayed with me through the intake process, which consisted of me filling out a series of highly personal and frankly presumptuous forms (sample question:
What made you decide to abandon your faith?
) and being shown to my room, an airy ten-foot cube with high, beamed ceilings, a big bed with a firm mattress and a down comforter, and a broad desk stocked with blank journals and felt-tip pens. I have my own bathroom—a luxury I’ve never experienced—but only because my bedroom door is locked from the outside. Normally, Chana the bubbly residential advisor told me, I would have a housemate in the adjoining room, but September is a sleepy month for CRTCM, as most families use the Jewish new year as an excuse to finally take action. “But we celebrate Rosh Hashanah,” she assured me. “We have a special service and everything. We get a ton of families from town who don’t even have relatives here come up just to hear Rabbi Perolman sound the shofar.” Rabbi Perolman is the CRTCM’s founder and head counselor, and I have my first meeting with him in ten minutes.

I am not allowed to leave my room—or go anywhere—without a chaperone, and so I’m waiting for Chana to return and take me over to the rabbi’s offices, which she says patients call “P-House.” This is supposed to make me feel like I’m in on some familial joke, I’m sure, but despite the cozy surroundings I can’t forget why I’m here: to get fixed, reprimanded, and realigned. To forget who I want to be and remember who I’m supposed to be. To that end, there is a stack of books on my bedside table that includes
The Blessings of Jewish Marriage
and
Finding Hope and Joy: Timeless Wisdom from a Hasidic Master
. I crack open the latter to find cheerful snippets of advice like “Never despair!” and “Get into the habit of dancing.”

I toss the book onto the nubby maroon area rug in the center of my room and walk to the window, which looks out on a path leading into the trees, where Chana has informed me there is a brook, and a few meters beyond that, a high chain-link fence to prevent anyone from getting any ideas (she didn’t actually say the last part, but I could tell that’s what she meant). I watch the trees sway gently in the mid-afternoon breeze and feel a sense of calm wash over me. If I’m going to be trapped anyway, it might as well be someplace beautiful, far away from my family and the mess I left behind.

• • •

I’m expecting an old, creaky, rheumy-eyed rabbi like the ones I’m used to at home, so when a slight, energetic man with a toothy grin, wireless glasses, and all his natural hair greets Chana and me at the door of “P-House,” I’m momentarily taken aback.

“You must be Devorah,” he says, smiling warmly. “I’m Rabbi Perolman, but you can call me Perry.”

“Your name is Perry Perolman?” I ask incredulously, not sure whether to be more shocked at the prospect of calling a holy man by his first name or at the injustice clearly committed by his parents.

“No,” he says with a laugh, gesturing for me to come in. “It’s just a nickname. If it feels more comfortable for you, call me Rabbi.”

The rabbi’s office has the same exposed-beam ceilings as my room, but it’s about twice as big, with a picture window that looks out on the square at the center of the grounds. It’s lived-in and quirky, with overstuffed couches, a low coffee table littered with markers and construction paper, and big, colorful paintings of smiley-faced flowers lining the walls. “My daughter did those,” he says proudly. “I think they’re very joyful, don’t you?

“Please excuse the mess,” he adds, gesturing to the table as he guides me to the couch facing the window. (The door to the office is, as usual, left wide open, and Chana busies herself at a desk outside; even rabbis aren’t exempt from the laws of
yichud
.) “In the mornings I often do outpatient counseling with children, and drawing helps them to relax.” All I can do is nod. Rabbi Perolman is unlike any rabbi I’ve ever seen. In fact, he strikes me as more of a touchy-feely art teacher than a religious scholar. I must be making a face, because he stops and asks, “Is something wrong?”

“No,” I say, mortified that I’m starting off on the wrong foot by being disrespectful. “I’ve just . . . never met a rabbi like you before.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” he says. He sits on the couch across from me and places his hands on his knees. “So, I’d like to start by listening to you, Devorah. Tell me why you’re here.”

Why I’m here. As if there’s a simple answer to that downright existential question. “You don’t know already?” I ask, and he smiles patiently.

“I know the basic circumstances, yes. But I want to hear it in your words.”

“Oh.” I stare at my hands, interlacing my fingers. Where do I begin? I’m here because the night of the hurricane, my parents were just three miles from here, sitting around my aunt Varda’s kitchen table having instant coffee instead of sitting in the waiting room of Interfaith Medical Center. I’m here because I got thirsty, and the stairs seemed like too much work. I’m here because I let myself talk to a stranger, whose kind eyes managed to light a flame in a heart I had always just assumed was fireproof. I’m here because once I questioned why I wasn’t allowed to be with Jaxon, I started to question everything. But maybe I should start with something more concrete. “I tried to run away,” I say finally. “With a boy.”

“What made you want to do that?” the rabbi asks, his voice devoid of judgment.

“I knew my parents would never approve, and he had a place at the beach where we could go.” As I say the words out loud, they sound increasingly ridiculous.

“You’re shaking your head right now, Devorah. Why is that?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t?” He leans forward and smiles encouragingly. In spite of myself, I’m kind of starting to like him.

“Well . . . I guess I just realize it wouldn’t have worked.”

“What aspect?”

“Using a night away as some sort of statement to let our families know we were in love,” I say. “As if the act of rebellion itself would somehow make them understand.” I should have just talked to my parents, I chide myself. Maybe if I had been honest with them, and not let things get so out of hand, I wouldn’t be here.

“You’re right; that does sound far-fetched,” the rabbi says, and chuckles. “So why did you agree to go?”

“I didn’t want to stop seeing him.”

“Why is that?”

“Because . . .” I can feel my face getting red. “I . . . love him.”

Rabbi Perolman sits back against his couch and takes a deep breath. “Did your parents ever discuss love with you, Devorah? Do you know the definition?”

I frown and try not to look as offended as I am. No, I was never taught the
definition
of love—Hasidic kids are told only that one day they’ll be married, and even that subject isn’t dwelled upon until the mid-teens—but I know what love
feels
like. “It’s when you have . . . a strong affection for someone,” I mumble.

“I see,” the rabbi says. “Then what makes your love for Jaxon different than your love for, let’s say, your sister Rose?”

“Well, because . . . I’m not attracted to my sister.” I close my eyes, both out of shame and so that I don’t give in to the strong temptation to roll them at the rabbi. He’s starting to treat me like a small child, and it’s making me squirm.

“So affection plus attraction equals love, in your estimation,” he says.

“Yes,” I say hesitantly, wondering if he’s trying to trap me.

“What about lust, then?” the rabbi asks, not meeting my eyes. “What makes lust different?”

“It’s not lust,” I say quickly.

“Okay, but how do you know?”

“Because,” I sputter, “I just know. Because I was attracted to his soul more than his body.”

Rabbi Perolman cocks his head. “Really? You look unsure.”

“I’m not!” I shout, and then lower my voice. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just upset.”

The rabbi waves away my apology and sits silently for a moment. “You grew up in a Chabad household, so I know you understand the rules and have lived by them your whole life,” he finally says. “I’m not here to lecture you about something you already know. But having met you only a few minutes ago, I can already sense that you’re uneasy with your situation.”

“Of course I am,” I say with a sigh. “I was brought here against my will.”

“Fair enough,” he says with a faint smile. “But I’m talking about your relationship with the boy—”

“Jaxon,” I say. I can’t stand to hear one more person refer to him as
the boy
.

“Okay, with
Jaxon
,” the rabbi continues. “I can tell you’re struggling with your feelings for him. Can you tell me about that struggle?”

“I just . . .” I look out the picture window at the cobblestone paths, each winding its own way through the grass but all leading to the same central square. “When I’m with him I feel so happy—so much
love
”—(take that,
Perry
)—“but the knowledge that being with him hurts my family takes it away a little. And I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want to hurt Jaxon
or
my family. I want to love them
both
.”

“I can see that,” the rabbi says. “There are many beautiful things about love, but love takes deep commitment and often sacrifice. It’s not easy.” I feel tears spring to my eyes, and I blink them away. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that your parents don’t always have an easy relationship,” he says. “Neither do your sisters and brothers who are married. And that’s because marriage is hard work.

“I like to tell people to think of a marriage like a new job,” Rabbi Perolman continues, perching on the edge of his seat and beginning to talk with his hands. “And it’s a job we have zero experience for, from a practical standpoint, because we’ve never been on a date. Our ancestors were betrothed from birth, and dating was simply never something we did historically, right? So we’re coming into marriage knowing that we’ve got to learn the ropes on the job.” He pauses and smiles. “And our co-worker knows nothing about the job, either. So you can imagine the bumpy road ahead.”

I nod, but he’s starting to lose me. Why is he talking so much about marriage? Does he think I was going to run off and marry Jaxon? The whole point was to avoid getting forced into marriage before I was ready.

“The reason we don’t date before marriage in our faith is that any type of relationship between a man and a woman—or a girl and a boy—brings up a lot of confusing feelings in both the body and the mind, and even the soul, as you mentioned. And it’s only through the lens of a sanctified marriage that we gain the perspective to understand and process those feelings. To use the job metaphor again, dating before marriage would be like trying to get a job as a
sofer
without knowing Hebrew.”

“Of course I know I wasn’t supposed to date him,” I say softly. “That’s why I didn’t tell anyone.”

“And I believe it’s why you didn’t follow through with running away with him,” the rabbi says, smiling. (Does he know I fully intended to make the trip, and that I simply never got the
chance
to follow through? Or did my parents do a little lying of their own when they admitted me?) “You have strong values, Devorah, and you simply could not reject them to live in sin.” I dig my nails into the soft brushed cotton of the couch cushion. Suddenly I really don’t like where this conversation is going.

“I
do
have strong values,” I say. “But can’t I have values, and faith, and also question the fact that I’m supposed to marry someone I don’t even choose for myself?”

“Yes, you can,” he says. “In fact, you’ll be happy to learn that what you’re expressing is a common concern, especially for women. You wouldn’t believe how many girls just like you I’ve counseled who feel scared that they don’t have more control over what’s arguably the most important decision of their lives.” He casually picks up a notebook and a pen from the coffee table and scribbles something down. “Tell me,” he says, “is that your fear?”

I shake my head and stand up. I can’t play this game with him, not after the morning (or the week, or the month) I’ve had. “I appreciate your help, Rabbi,” I say, “I really do. But I don’t feel like having a therapy session right now. Maybe if I have a day or two to rest—”

“This isn’t therapy, Devorah,” the rabbi says, his smile replaced by a look of grim concern. “And this session is not optional. I can’t confidently recommend a union unless both parties complete at least two hours of premarital counseling.”

“I—I don’t understand,” I stammer, my unease growing by the second.

“Your parents met with a
shadchan
this morning,” Rabbi Perolman says. “And they’ve already found a match. Your family is meeting him tomorrow, and assuming all goes well, he’ll be coming this weekend to visit you.”

My legs buckle under me, and I sit down again. My whole body feels numb.

“Congratulations, Devorah,” the rabbi says, his grin returning. “You’re a very lucky girl.”