“Dad was promised?” Apparently, Jon’s incredulous question of who did that kind of shit had been answered. His own family had. “What happened?”
“He walked away from his family and from the girl he had been expected to marry. My parents supported him through college. We got married. He went on to medical school, and my parents paid for that too. They took him in like their own son.”
“And his parents? His family?”
“He broke off with them completely. He never spoke to them again, although his mother has tried, several times, to reach out to him. Your father and I raised you in the faith, and I’d hoped that you would become a rabbi, that perhaps you’d be a way for your father to reconnect with his family. No luck there.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You didn’t ask. You have a curious mind, Jon, but one that’s focused on the future, not the past. It was easy to divert you from questions about your father’s family simply by saying we weren’t close to them. I suspect Anjali diverted you in the same way about her past. She didn’t bring it up, and you didn’t bother to dig.”
“If it was important, she should have told me.”
“Sometimes, important things are too difficult or painful to talk about.”
“And dad’s family?”
“They came to his funeral. His parents are still alive, although very old.”
“Wait, I saw them at the funeral two years ago—the old Orthodox couple. They were my grandparents? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
“Watch your language, Jon. I raised you better than that.” She sighed. “I offered to introduce you, but they didn’t want to drag it out. It was a painful moment for them—to know that their hoped-for reconciliation would never come to pass. They came to bury their son; no parent wants to do that, not even a son who broke with their faith and traditions.”
“Did Dad ever talk about his family after he…left?”
“Sometimes, when he was tired and extremely drunk. He missed them, although he would never admit it when sober. He lost a lot of himself when he left them for me, and although he never blamed me, I never doubted that his life would have been far richer and more meaningful if he had found a way to hold on to both.”
Jon reached over to pull pen and paper from the glove compartment. “Do you have their address?”
“Your grandparents’ address?”
Was that a note of hope in his mother’s voice? If so, she had Anjali to thank for it. Anjali had forced him to a crossroads. He scribbled down an address in Brooklyn and glanced at his watch. He could be there in four hours.
The townhouse where his grandparents lived was next door to a synagogue. Jon would not have been surprised if it was the same one his grandfather had once led as rabbi. The Hasidic community was close-knit and the curious, even concerned, glances he received from passersby as he rang the doorbell were far more than he would have expected, given New York in general.
A young man of about Jonathan’s age came to the door. He did not smile, although he did not sound unfriendly. “Yes? What can I do for you?”
Jon surveyed the man’s stiff white shirt and black pants. The man also wore a wool vest-like clothing with fringes at its four corners. Jon felt immediately out of place in his T-shirt and denim jeans. “I’m Jonathan Seifer, and I’m looking for Reuben and Devorah Seifer.”
The man stepped aside. “Come in. I’m Eli Seifer. I’m your cousin.”
“You were expecting me?”
“Your mother called.” Eli led the way through a narrow corridor into a well-lit room where an elderly couple sat in a couch by the window. He said something in a language that Jon assumed was Yiddish. Neither the man nor the woman moved from their seat as they scrutinized Jon.
The old man broke the silence with a harsh laugh. “You look like your father.” He gestured to a chair, and Jon sat.
Eli excused himself and left the room.
Jon searched for something to say, but his mind delivered nothing. Was he supposed to apologize for what his father had done, or chat as if he were the next-door neighbor popping over for a visit?
Devorah spoke quietly. “Tell us about yourself.”
The tightness around his throat eased. The facts came quietly, but stuttered when they reached the present-day. “I’ve been dating an…” He inhaled and rushed on. “—Indian woman for the past six years.”
His grandparents exchanged glances. They said nothing. They didn’t have to.
Jon lowered his gaze. Any children he had with Anjali would, technically, not be Jewish. He had never considered it a problem before but guilt was a sour coating on his tongue, as if he were letting down his grandparents.
But that’s crazy. I hadn’t even bothered to think about them before and now I’m worried about letting them down?
Family ties. Familial guilt. The conflict, not between his head and his heart, but within his head and within his heart.
He finally understood Anjali.
“Will you come back again to visit?” Eli asked an hour later when he showed Jon to the door.
“Do they want me to?”
“They appreciated hearing stories of your father. Seeing you is like seeing him again.”
“And hearing about my Indian girlfriend probably brought back memories of why he broke with them.”
Eli shrugged. “The world changes, and the biggest challenge I face is how to take my congregation into the future, to hold on to the parts of our culture and traditions we value without trying to force it on others, especially the ones we love.”
“Your congregation? You’re the rabbi.”
“Someday, I will be. After your father left, my father—the second son—took over the rabbinate. I’m studying at the seminary, and I will take my father’s place when the time is right.”
“Did you ever think of breaking away?”
A frown lined Eli’s brow. “You make traditions sound like a trap. They’re not.”
“What are they, then?”
“Is the Thanksgiving dinner tradition a trap?”
“No one’s getting hurt by it.”
“Except the turkey.”
Jon laughed. “All right, but there are good traditions and bad traditions.”
“Who gets to decide?”
“Well, if it hurts someone—”
“No one’s getting hurt if I become rabbi. It’s something I want to do, and I’ll try not to screw it up for the people counting on me. Your father may have seen it as a trap, but my father didn’t, and I don’t.”
“I…see.”
“Do you?” Eli cocked his head to the side. “I guess I’ll find out if you come back. You are welcome here, Jon, and bring your girlfriend.”
Jon gritted his teeth. “If she’s still my girlfriend.”
Chapter 11
The return trip to Baltimore seemed to take longer than the drive up to Brooklyn, but four hours was not enough to sort through the tangle of his thoughts. The sun was setting when he pulled into the parking lot. A glance confirmed Anjali’s car was in its usual slot. He drummed his fingertips on the steering wheel. Each scarcely finished thought in his head died out before he could mentally complete the sentence. How could he put to words what he did not fully know in his head?
The door of the apartment complex opened, and Anjali stepped out. The emerald green dress she wore accentuated the dark gloss of her hair and her wine-colored lipstick. Her scent, he knew, would be of jasmine and ylang ylang.
She walked toward her car but stopped when he stepped out of his car. She came over to him, her eyes wide and her expression vulnerable. “You came back.”
“Yeah.” He stuck his hands into his pockets. “I went to visit my grandparents.”
“In San Diego?”
He chuckled. “Not my mom’s parents. My dad’s.”
“Oh.” The surprise leeched out of her face.
“My mom told you.”
She nodded. “About four ye
ars ago. We talked during Thanksgiving at your house.”
Jon shook his head. “I’m starting to feel like persona non grata. You and my mom have been telling each other things you haven’t told me. What are you? Best buddies?”
“Your mom has a way of drawing stories out of people. I’m not sure how she got me started, but once she did, I couldn’t stop.”
“I was on my way back to Westchester. I pulled over and called her.” Jon shook his head. “I’m not sure what I was expecting. Sympathy, perhaps?”
“Did you get it?”
“Mom read me the riot act. Quietly, you know, in the sweetest possible way. I accused her of taking your side, and that’s when she told me about my father’s family.”
“She understood me.”
Jon nodded. “She saw what breaking away from his family, from his culture and traditions did to him.”
“I don’t think he was unhappy.”
“No, but she said his life wasn’t as rich as it could have been, and I think she was right.” Jon shrugged. “Anyway, I decided to visit my grandparents. I also met my cousin, Eli. He’s in seminary, training to be a rabbi, doing the family tradition thing.”
Anjali nodded, listening.
“I probably offended him when I asked if he’d ever thought of breaking away, and then he said something that made me stop and think. My father may have seen his family traditions as a trap, but his father didn’t, and he doesn’t.” Jon grimaced. “I realized then I owe you an apology.”
“What?”
“This weekend, I saw myself as some kind of hero, stepping in to free you from a world you were trying to break away from.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t stop to ask you if you wanted to break away completely, just a tiny bit, or not at all.”
Anjali’s lips parted as her eyes widened.
“And then, of course, I got to know Bharat a bit better and realized he’s not a chauvinistic asshole. So, I’m not sure where that leaves me.” He braced himself. “I am not ready to marry.”
Anguish ripped across her features, and she turned away.
“Wait, I’m not done.” He caught her arm. “I want to propose, but I don’t know how much of it is because I love you and want to spend the rest of my life with you, or how much of it is just pressure. You know, male ego and the fear of losing you to someone else who’s got a better-than-fair chance of keeping you once he’s got you.”
“I am not ‘gotten and kept.’ What century are you living in?”
“To heck with centuries. Men devolve when their territory is threatened. Right now, I’m feeling really threatened, and I’m trying to figure out what’s real and what’s just ego.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not going to ask you to marry me just because I’m feeling like a little boy whose toy is about to be snatched away. I want to marry you for the right reasons. I need time to figure it out. And maybe you need time too to figure Bharat out.”
“You’re breaking up with me?”
“I’m asking for a three-month break, and I’m asking you not to make any final decisions until the three months are over.”
“I can’t wait that long. I have to choose my residency within a week!”
“But what does your residency have to do with—Oh…” Jon cursed under his breath. “Westchester Medical Center or Mayo Clinic.”
“Or I can make the non-choice by picking Johns Hopkins.” Sarcasm dribbled from her tone.
He shook his head. “Marriage is forever, or as close to forever as I hope to get. I’m not going to be pressured into it because your promised fiancé comes sniffing around.”
“I’m not asking for an engagement ring now. I’m just asking if you’re thinking of me as someone you’d probably like to marry in the future.”
“Yes.” Jon hurled out a single word. “Possibly. Probably. But I can’t promise it the way Bharat can. I’m not…there yet.”
Anjali turned her face away. “I see.” She released her breath in a shuddering sound. “I have to go. I’m late for dinner.”
Jon nodded and stepped back. He did not have any right to stop her, not when he had sent her away.
Anjali pulled up at the hotel where a man was already waiting at the curb. She smiled at her father as he slid into the passenger seat. “Where would you like to go for dinner?”
“Anything’s fine by me. Your mother is the picky one.”
Tension locked around her jaw. “How is she?”
“Resting. She says she has a headache.”
“She has a headache every time someone disagrees with her.”
Paresh laughed. “You’ve noticed it too.”
“I didn’t mean to argue with her.”
“You had something to say. Why shouldn’t you say it?”
“Because it makes her angry, and when she gets angry, it’s just…” The muscles in Anjali’s shoulders knotted. “So horrid. The things she says and does. I get this…pressure in my chest that feels like it has to exploded, but it can’t. And then my headaches start.”
“Ignore her.”
“I don’t know how you do it. She gets to me.”
“She used to get to me, too,” Paresh said quietly. “Sometimes, I wish she still did.”
Anjali glanced at her father. “Do you love her?”
He did not answer for a long time. The car passed through several traffic lights and multiple left and right turns before he answered. “I thought I did once.”
“What happened?”
“We were too different.”
“Because you were from different castes.”
“Maybe. She was from the Kshatriya caste—the warriors and rulers—just one step down from the Brahmins, the priests. We were taught to believe that it was enough to be in the same caste to find happiness together.”
“And yet you looked for happiness outside of it.”
“And we didn’t find it—not because we were from different castes, but because we did not know what we truly wanted or needed,” Paresh said. “At eighteen, your mother didn’t. At twenty-four, I didn’t either. She was pretty, with a flashing smile. I had a good job and great prospects. It seemed enough for a marriage. It should have been. Many marriages started out with less and survived. Well, our marriage has survived too, but there should be more to life than merely surviving.
“Your mother wanted you get married to Bharat after you graduated from secondary school. I said no. She insisted on Cambridge University, but I sent you off to America instead. You needed space to grow without her hovering over you. She tried to get you married off again after you finished college. I said no, again, and now she blames me for your relationship with Jon.”
“What?”
“She says if we had married you off earlier, this would never have happened.” He shrugged. “I didn’t tell her it was exactly what I hoped would happen. That you would find someone else and experience love with someone else. If you still chose Bharat—with as little of her interference as possible—I hoped it would be without regrets, without wondering ‘what if.’”
“I didn’t realize you were against arranged marriages.”
“It’s what we do, but it doesn’t make it right or smart. You and Bharat may not have gravitated together naturally—you’re nine years apart—but on paper, you’re an eminently compatible couple. Whether the paper is worth the sacrifice of the pulped tree is much harder to say.”
“Bharat wants to date me before we make any decisions.”
Paresh nodded. “He always had good sense. He’s a good man, Anjali, but so is Jon.”
“Jon’s not ready for marriage. Bharat is.”
“And are you ready for marriage now?”
“Well…” Anjali frowned. “Not right this instant, but I know I want to get married, and sooner rather than later. I know I want a family, so shouldn’t I date someone who’s thinking the same way?”
“Because people change, Anjali. Don’t forg
et that.”
Jon strolled through the Johns Hopkins University campus. The heat of the summer day had conceded to a cool evening, and the campus was sparsely populated. Most of the students had dispersed for the vacation, and summer classes would not begin for another week. Uninterrupted, he made his way across the length of the campus, across the lower and upper quads. From Shriver Hall to Mudd Hall.
He had made that trek often as an undergraduate and the familiarity of it anchored him. Hopkins was almost like home. It was prettiest in spring with pink cherry blossoms lining the lower quad, but in summer, it looked wholesome—the sprawl of green lawns in front of the massive yet graceful red-bricked, white-columned buildings.
Mudd Hall, however, was—Jon squinted at it—squat and not pretty. It was practical and modern, with well-designed, spacious laboratories and large lecture halls to accommodate the hordes of pre-med students.
Practical and modern. Nothing wrong with it, even though it’s not as charming and attractive as the more traditional buildings.
He pushed open the glass doors and walked into the cool interior, automatically heading to the pillar on the far side of the hall. With a sigh, he sank down and leaned his head against the pillar. Six years earlier, when he had seen Anjali sitting by the pillar, staring at her notebooks with wide-eyed panic, stopping to talk to her had seemed the most natural thing in the world.
He closed his eyes, his mind drifting over the memories of their relationship. To his surprise, it was not the highlights that popped to mind, but the mundane. Their occasional weekend excursions to explore Washington, D.C., scarcely registered, but he thought of the many quiet evenings seated on opposite ends of the couch, their toes overlapping in the middle as she studied biology and he studied psychology. His mind glossed over their rare date nights at Michelin-rated restaurants, in favor of dwelling on the hodge-podge dinners they would conjure up from leftovers in the refrigerator. She mixed sauces with precise measurements like a chemistry experiment. He dashed them together with the wild flourish of a conjurer’s trick, and poured orange juice into the pan almost as an afterthought. Their meals were usually delicious and utterly non-replicable. The one-week trip they had taken to hike through the Poconos faded in comparison to their half-hour escapes from the urban campus to the Stony Run nature trails.
Jilted: A Love Letters Novel Page 8
