On the final Sunday, as soon as our work was done, Jordana and her electronic label maker returned to the city while Becca and I ordered kosher Chinese takeout for dinner.
“So, I’ve been meaning to tell you,” she started, as we sat at my kitchen table and spooned fried rice onto our plates, “I’ve been looking at rental apartments. I checked out a few open houses and wanted to show you the listings. We can pull them up online. Wanna look?” She held up her cell phone.
My heart sank. She’d occasionally alluded to tension in her marriage, but I truly didn’t think it was separation-worthy.
“Hold on. Rewind.” I put down my fork. “You’re moving out?”
“What? Me? I’m talking about you! I’ve been looking at apartments for you and Ezra. I thought maybe you’d want to consider moving closer. To me. And Jord.”
She was right. It completely made sense. They were my support, my family. I needed them nearby, and Manhattan was certainly commutable to the bakery.
“In fact, there’s actually one that just came up in my parents’ high-rise. Similar layout, two floors away. They could help you in a pinch, and I’d be a couple blocks away.”
“That would be amazing. I can use all the hands I can get.”
“I know . . . and that brings me to the other thing I want to discuss. You need to take care of yourself, not just for your own health and sanity, but for Ezra.” She took a swig of water. “I’m not really sure how to say this . . .”
“What? Just say it. It’s me.”
“Do you have a will? Have you named guardians?”
“Guardians?” I asked, as if I’d never heard of such a thing.
“Yeah, like backup parents in case, God forbid, something happens to you.”
Of course I knew what guardians were. I remembered when Becca and Nolan transferred the embryo that would ultimately become Emma into their surrogate. They called up their lawyer, even before Elizabeth had a positive pregnancy test, to draw up a will and name Becca’s parents as the guardians in case something were to happen to Becca and Nolan before the birth. The lawyer, a trusts-and-estates hotshot at Nolan’s firm, admitted it was his first time ever assigning guardians to an unborn child.
“No, I haven’t really thought about it,” I lied. “I guess I should.”
“Maybe it’s time. And, for the record”—she put her hand on mine and began to tear up—“I love you, and I love your son. I’m here for you and for him. Always.”
I felt punched in the gut. The truth was, I had given it a lot of thought. Before Ezra was born, I would lie awake at night, dreaming about life as a parent. Since Adam died, those same wee hours had been consumed by fear about what life would be like for my child without parents.
Who would love Ezra the way I do? I’d ask myself. Who would give him a solid family he could rely on and consider his own? Who would know Adam and me well enough to be able to say things like, “Oh, you got your sweet tooth from your mommy!” or, “Your dad loved the North American Mammals exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, too!” Whom could I trust to pass on our cherished Jewish traditions, to honor our choice of a yeshiva education, to explain to my son that, in spite of this devastating loss, my faith in God remained steadfast? And who could thoughtfully articulate that the religious decisions Adam and I made were not intended to be Ezra’s life sentences—that one day, should our son find himself somewhere else on, or even off, the wide spectrum of Jewish observance, it’s okay? He’s allowed to question. He’s permitted to challenge. He can think for himself. All we ask is that he be a mensch. Our love for him would be unconditional, eternally.
The answer to each question was abundantly clear. It wasn’t a relative. It wasn’t any of my Orthodox friends from Brooklyn. And it wasn’t anyone at the bakery. It was Becca.
Just do it! I’d tell myself. Call the stupid lawyer already and put her name in the will! But each time I’d pick up the phone, I’d hang up. I felt like absolute shit for thinking it, but the facts were the facts: she was a two-time cancer survivor. How could I leave my baby in the care of someone with that track record? Yes, she’d beaten the odds twice, but what if, God forbid, there was a third time? Would she be as lucky? My son had already lost one parent. If he got passed off to a guardian, it would mean he’d lost both. Did I really want to set him up to lose his guardian, too?
And then there was the issue of Nolan. The guy loved my kid and was a wonderful dad. The trouble was, I didn’t know where their marriage was headed. My money was on everything working out, but I couldn’t predict the future. Knowingly putting my son in the hands of a rocky couple just didn’t seem right. The thought of Ezra’s becoming both an orphan and the child of divorced guardians broke me.
Ezra’s best interest had to be my priority. But what constituted best interest? Living with a fantastic family that came with red flags, or someone with a lower statistical risk of illness and divorce but not nearly as dear to me? If I could be guaranteed Becca would never get sick and she and Nolan would remain happily married for the next fifty years, the papers would be signed. But that wasn’t reality. Shit happens, as I knew all too well. The question became: Could I trust Becca’s health and marriage to remain strong?
Though I lacked clarity on that issue, I did have a clear vision about our living situation. I put the house up for sale—it sold within days—and rented that two-bedroom on the Upper West Side near Becca’s parents. Ezra and I moved in just as the trees in Central Park were beginning to bloom.
On our first Friday night, I decided to host dinner for all three families—Becca’s, Jordana’s, and mine. I needed to feel settled and knew that for me, there was no better way to create a sense of warmth and belonging than to cook, bake, and welcome the Sabbath with loved ones. Becca’s mom graciously offered to take Ezra to the building’s playroom while I prepared. When everyone arrived that evening, we lit the silver Sabbath candlesticks beside a framed photograph of Adam and then took turns squeezing onto my tiny balcony to watch the sun dip down over the Hudson. As the kids created spaceships out of empty cardboard moving boxes and the adults sipped wine around my table, I felt, for the first time in months, hopeful and alive. I was home.
At the end of the night, Jordana was the last to leave. Becca, Nolan, and Emma stopped by her parents’ place to say hi, and Sal wanted to tucker out the twins before bedtime, so he made them run a relay race down the building’s stairwell. As Jordana waited for the elevator to arrive, we stood in my doorway, where she asked me, for the quadrillionth time, if there was anything I needed.
“Actually, I think I’m doing okay,” I said. It was the first occasion since the accident that I’d uttered those words aloud and meant them. “Thanks for supporting me, Jord. You’ve gone above and beyond. I don’t think I’d be standing up without you.”
Jordana’s face fell, and her porcelain skin flushed so brightly that it matched her fuchsia skirt.
“You know,” she said, her eyes fixed intensely on the marble saddle between my apartment and the hallway, “I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” She fidgeted with the purse strap across her denim jacket. “Adam . . . He . . . um . . .” She pressed her fingers to her lips, forcing them shut like a dam. They lingered for several seconds, as if she were forcing herself to swallow a bitter pill. “He really loved you and Ezra,” she finally said. “I feel like he’s watching over you and would want you to know that.”
I felt my eyes mist. “Thanks. I still can’t believe this is my reality.”
“Our reality,” she corrected. And then her elevator arrived.
Part Three
Chapter 23: Becca
After a delightful Sunday morning touring the grounds of the Chicago Botanic Garden, Jordana and I walked a few blocks east into Highland Park and helped transform a suburban backyard into something resembling a Pier 1 window display. We hung colorful paper lanterns from tree branches, set out folding chairs, secured tiki torches in the ground, and turned a cloth-covered card t
able into a snack bar. It was a far cry from the last celebration we had attended in the Windy City—Lex and Jack’s three-hundred-person, ten-piece band, black-tie wedding at a hotel on the Magnificent Mile—and the contrast with the way in which Lex chose to usher in this new chapter of her life was not lost on us.
“Think of it as a housewarming-slash-kickoff party,” she’d said when pitching the idea of a celebration following Seth’s June 30 move-in date. “Surprising him in his new backyard with you guys as the guests would be really fun. Don’t you think?”
Though his online résumé submission had been the whimsical product of late-night tipsiness, Seth had received a job offer from a prominent physical therapy group in Chicago. He and Lex took it as a sign of fate, and one week later, he broke the lease on his New York apartment and rented a split-level ranch in Highland Park, Illinois, with three bedrooms and a playground on the corner. It was way more space than he needed, but only a ten-minute drive from Lex, and if his dream of being a cool step-dad one day were going to come to fruition, he’d do whatever was necessary to win their approval. Unfortunately, despite Seth’s best efforts, her kids wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. From their perspective, their perfectly happy mother had gone away on a weekend vacation with her childhood friends and returned no longer in love with their father. To them, it was all Seth’s fault. But Lex and Seth remained optimistic. They believed the kids would gradually come around and realize their mom was much happier.
Around noon on Sunday, after she managed to convince Seth that he was in dire need of a trip to Crate & Barrel for housewares, I received an “all clear” text from Lex. Jordana and I left the Botanic Garden and walked over to his new house on Pleasant Avenue.
By midafternoon, the ice buckets were filled, the music cued, and the citronella candles lit. Jordana and I made iced tea and walked around to peruse the framed photographs Lex had organized for us to display on scattered tray tables throughout the yard.
“Oh my God, did you see this one?” Jordana said, waving me over to a class picture of all of us from second grade. We were sitting cross-legged on the floor of our elementary-school library. Jordana and her perfect Cindy Brady braids were smack in the middle, holding the sign with the year and our teacher’s name.
As I moved in for a closer look, my phone rang with a Face-Time request.
“Hey, Hol,” Jordana and I said in unison when the connection came through. She was attempting to feed Ezra on her lap, but he kept grabbing the loose strands of her ponytail. “You’re the first guest to arrive!”
“Give me a tour! Maybe if this little guy sees you on the iPad screen, he’ll calm down and I’ll get some of this sweet potato into him.”
Jordana sighed. “Oh, Hol, don’t get him hooked on using screens for self-control, especially at the table. They’re ruining kids’ social skills and ability to—”
“Hey, Miss Manners,” Holly interrupted with a laugh, “I love you and I hear you, but right now I’m desperate.”
Before Jordana could say any more, I channeled my best radio-announcer voice and began panning across Seth’s backyard. “And here, ladies and gentleman, you’ll find a single detached garage with a basketball hoop and slightly rusted chaise lounges stacked inside. To the left of the garage, you’ll see a charcoal grill with gen-u-ine briquettes for all your barbecuing needs and a lovely garden of blue and white hydrangea . . .”
“It’s working. He’s eating. You’ve got the touch!” Holly smiled. “Sorry I can’t be there in person, but I know you guys understand.”
Ever since Adam had died, Holly had become highly risk-averse, particularly when it came to travel. Though she had named Jordana and me as Ezra’s guardians in her will, she took every precaution to avoid leaving him in our permanent care. She refused to fly, ride the subway, or even cross a bridge without him by her side, which made overseeing her bakery’s franchise locations a logistical nightmare. In fact, she’d started bouncing around the idea of selling Holly’s Challahs altogether and opening a kosher café in Adam’s name on the Upper West Side.
“Of course we understand,” Jordana said, and blew a kiss.
“You know what,” Holly said, attempting to transfer a whimpering, squirmy Ezra into his high chair. “I think I need to go. I’ll call you later, when he’s napping.”
“Sounds good,” I said, and noticed Seth’s mom sauntering into the backyard in a sequined beige tank, white slacks, and a blinding amount of cubic zirconium. “The guests are starting to arrive anyway. I’m gonna go play hostess.”
Walking behind Mrs. Gottlieb was Mr. Gottlieb, who looked just as cherubic and stout as he had when we were kids. His physique was, without question, exactly what Seth would look like if he forfeited daily exercise.
“Well, hellooo, ladies!” Mr. Gottlieb said, leaning in for a kiss. I smelled his generous application of Old Spice aftershave.
“Jaw-dy! Becca! Can you believe? The day has arrived!” Mrs. Gottlieb was positively exuberant. Other than Seth’s birth and bar mitzvah, this was quite possibly the greatest moment of her life. His interstate relocation for a girlfriend had heightened the possibility that one day her son might actually get married.
“I still can’t believe it! Lex and my Sethie! Who knew? I guess betta late than nevah, right?” she chuckled, before her smoker’s cough acted up.
“Can I get you a drink?” Jordana asked.
“No, I’m fine, sweetheart,” she said, clearing her throat. “Seventy ain’t for sissies!” She looked at Jordana. “You know, I see the way you visit your parents all the time. It’s a beautiful thing. They’re very lucky to have a daughter like you.”
“It really is my pleasure,” said Jordana, though at times I wondered how she did it all. Even with round-the-clock help at home, balancing a full-time job, twins, and being the only child of aging parents was a hefty load. Amazingly, she never complained. In fact, she viewed the multiple visits to her parents each week not as cumbersome but as cherished time spent together. I wondered if Nolan and I would ever be a burden to Emma. If she grew up to be half the mensch Jordana was, we’d be incredibly lucky.
“Maybe I’ll take that drink after all,” Seth’s mom said. “You think I could get a dirty martini around here? Those green olives are very tasty.”
“I’ll make one for you,” I said. “I was just heading inside.” As I walked past, she grabbed my arm and pulled me close.
“Honey, you look beautiful,” she whispered into my ear. “We were such a wreck when we heard about you last summer. I see your mother every once in a while at the beauty parlor. She gives me updates. Thank God you’re okay. We love you, darling. Only good health.” She kissed my cheek in the same spot where her husband had left his cologne.
I smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Gottlieb. I love you, too.”
As I surreptitiously wiped off her lipstick on my way into the house, someone tapped my shoulder from behind.
“So, what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Nolan asked, sidling up beside me and wrapping his arm around my waist. “Come here often?”
I leaned my head onto his shoulder. “Did you pick up the food?”
“Done. The sandwiches are packaged, and the picnic baskets are all set. I even stopped to get the lay of the land and picked out a prime spot for us at the concert tonight.”
As part of her surprise for Seth, Lex had purchased lawn tickets for our small party to attend Ravinia, the Midwest equivalent of Tanglewood, only a few short blocks from Seth’s new house. The plan was to greet him in the backyard, schmooze for a bit, and then walk over to picnic on the lawn and listen to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.
When Lex called to invite us, I wasn’t sure Nolan would want to go. He and Seth had moved past their tension in the Berkshires, but the parameters of their friendship had been redrawn. Seth no longer straddled the line; he was unequivocally on Team Becca. While it was flattering, the knowledge that Seth thought I could do better saddened me. I wanted m
y friends to be Nolan’s fans, for their love to affirm my love. If they could forgive him, maybe I could, too.
To his credit, Nolan was all in, not only for the Chicago trip but also in terms of working on our marriage. Adam’s death hit hard. Seeing Holly widowed and Ezra lose a father uncorked something inside him. He arranged for my parents to babysit every Thursday so that he and I could have a dinner date to reconnect. In addition, and completely on his own volition, he reached out to the Long-Term Survivorship department at the hospital where I was treated and asked to meet a counselor specializing in spousal support. He had no interest in group sessions or regular therapy but found the reading material helpful and continued to check in whenever he felt the need for a tune-up.
Back in Highland Park, Jordana was once again in charge. “Quiet, everybody—they’re coming!” she said, hushing the guests and corralling them to a corner of the yard.
“I really don’t understand why buying new dish towels had to happen this morning,” we could hear Seth remark to Lex as they made their way down the driveway. “I could have gone to the gym—”
“Surprise!” everyone yelled, as he reached the grass.
He dropped the shopping bag and looked at Lex, stunned. “Did you know about this?”
“I planned it,” she said tenderly. “Welcome home. Everyone wanted to make sure you felt comfortable and settled. Especially me.”
Seth greeted his parents, high-fived Sal and Nolan, enveloped me in a bear hug, and gave strong, prolonged handshakes to two Chicago couples who had come—the only people out of countless friends who’d sided with Lex, not Jack. Even then, the husbands looked as if they had been dragged into that backyard because their wives had told them they had no choice.
“Hors d’oeuvres, anyone?” Jordana asked, as she balanced a tray of pigs in a blanket on her palm like a waitress and descended the steps from the back door into the yard. Seth ran over, kissed her cheek, and popped a hot dog into his mouth.
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