Match Me If You Can, page 26
I carry my plate to a standing table. There’s something so terrifying yet romantic about making a lifetime commitment that this is your forever person; the one you’ll have children with and wake up beside every day. The one you’ll share your body with and your bathroom too. What if this person ends up clogging the toilet on a regular basis? What if their aim is poor? What if they not only squeeze the toothpaste from the wrong part of the tube, but they don’t even put the cap back on afterwards? Why isn’t it written in the ketubah that a husband must provide a wife with her own separate bathroom if he can’t follow the rules she lays out for him?
Soon enough, a parade of men file into the women’s room, loudly singing and clapping. The groom’s face lights up like a menorah as he sees his beautiful bride for the first time in all her bridal splendor. The groom approaches her, both of them blushing and grinning, following the Jewish tradition of ensuring that this is in fact, the correct woman before putting the veil over her head—a direct result of our forefather Jacob’s PTSD after accidentally marrying the wrong sister. This is the stuff of deep generational trauma.
I catch Caleb’s eye. No matter how crowded a room is, my body always seems to find him, and he seems just as trained to find me. I don’t see Alex anywhere, but I’m sure he’s fine.
Hopefully.
The men file back out, singing and cheering on the groom as everyone except the bridal procession heads toward the large open room for the ceremony. I take a seat toward the back, figuring the family and closer friends deserve a better view than me. Even though it appears to be mixed seating, I’m surprised when Alex takes the empty seat next to mine. I’m starting to realize he’s quite the bold type.
“Hello again,” he says. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“I am. What about you?”
“Eh. I give it a seven out of ten,” he says.
I laugh. “Do you rate every wedding you go to?”
“Not usually, no.” He sticks a shoe onto the rung of the chair in front of him and cross his arms over his chest. “Can I ask you something?”
I nod.
“Are you single?”
“Uh, yes . . .?”
“You don’t sound too sure about that.”
“No, it’s . . .” I laugh. “I’m just surprised by the question.”
“I’m surprised by your answer.” He leans a little closer and says, “How is it possible that someone hasn’t snapped you up yet?”
“To be honest, I’ve never been interested in marriage,” I say lightly.
“So you’re a player, then?” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Living the life of a bachelorette with no strings?”
“Hardly.” I laugh. “More like the life of a boring old maid who watches too much YouTube.”
He laughs and puts his arm around the back of my chair.
“Hey,” rumbles a familiar masculine voice.
“Uh, hi.” I glance up at Caleb. I steel myself in case they’re about to have a second round of a testosterone tournament.
“I saved a seat for you up front,” Caleb says, nodding his head.
“Really?” I say surprised. “Isn’t that just for family?”
“You are family,” he says firmly.
Funny how three little words have such a strong effect on my heart, how something so small can unfurl such warmth and fill every inch of my body. “Sorry,” I say to Alex as I stand up. “I’m family.”
“No problem,” he replies easily. “We’ll talk later.”
Caleb mutters under his breath, “Don’t count on it.”
“He’s kidding,” I tell Alex. But Alex doesn’t look convinced and neither am I. It’s just as well that I’ve decided to become a single mom because Caleb will undoubtedly scare off any guy I’d be interested in.
I follow Caleb to the second row where the canopy is a tallis held in place by four men holding poles.
“That’s the same tallis that my great-grandparents married under,” Caleb murmurs, pointing to the chuppah. “It’s used for every wedding in the family and has the couples named embroidered on it.”
“That’s so beautiful,” I sigh. Again, I get that tug in my heart, that feeling of wanting. How incredible to marry under a canopy that connects you to your ancestors; to stand under the exact same tallis and perform the exact same rituals that they did on their wedding days.
I wish I knew more about my mother’s side of the family. As with most Orthodox couples, the wife takes on the husband’s minhagim—traditions—so everything from the prayer book we use, to the foods we eat on Shabbos and holidays, to the shul we attend, have always reflected my father’s family. Nothing to sneeze at since the Wernicks descend from a long line of impressive rabbis. Until my father came along, that is.
“It is,” he says softly, but he’s looking at me. His face is close and my eyes drop to the shape of his lips, the cupid’s bow so perfectly well formed it might have been created by Michelangelo himself.
I swallow and look down at my hands. It will be okay. I’m sure one day I’ll be able to look at Caleb and not want to climb him like a tree.
A few minutes later, Esty enters the room, flanked by her parents, and all the guests rise from their seats. The singer’s voice rings clear as he begins the opening notes of ‘Boi Kallah’, a song that celebrates the bride as the crown of her husband.
I don’t know if it’s the music or all the built-up emotion of the last few days, but my eyes prickle with tears. It feels like just yesterday that Esty and I were kids, screaming with terror and jumping out of canoes after seeing a big spider, or sneaking into the kitchen at midnight and spraying whipped cream into our mouths, or waking up at sunrise to be able to take showers before the hot water ran out.
And now, here she is dressed like an Orthodox Jewish medieval princess, and moving on to the next stage in her life.
“What’s wrong?” Caleb whispers to me, concern in his face.
“Nothing,” I say, dabbing the corners of my eyes. “It’s just making me emotional to see her as a bride.”
“I know what you mean.” Caleb’s lips quirk. “A part of me will forever see her as the little cousin that ruined all our games.”
I snort. “That’s very on brand for you,” I whisper, and he chuckles in response. I watch Esty hand her scepter to her sister before joining her groom under the wedding canopy. “But also,” I hear myself add, “I think it makes me feel like I’m being left behind.”
“Because you’re single?”
I nod, then shake my head. “Because of why I’m single.”
“Shh,” someone says from behind us.
We watch the ceremony begin. I stare straight ahead and swallow against the lump in my throat.
“Let’s talk after the ceremony,” he whispers.
I glance at him alarmed. I didn’t mean to spark a discussion about why I’m single. “What for?”
“You’ll see.”
“Shh!” the person behind us hisses. Caleb smiles and puts a finger against his lips. I blow out an exaggerated breath. The ceremony is bound to take twice as long now that I’m anxious for it to end.
Chapter Thirty-One
The groom steps on the glass, commemorating the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem some 2,000 years ago, and the band starts to play. Guests clap and cheer as Esty and her new husband head down the aisle together, off to the yichud room where they will touch each other for the first time.
“This way,” Caleb says, gesturing for me to follow him.
“Where are we going?” I say, trying to keep up with his long strides. My heels echo along the tile floor as I rush after him.
“Here.” He opens a restroom door labeled for family usage and ushers me inside. The light clicks on and the first thing I see are dried droplets of urine on the floor surrounding the toilet.
“Here?” I say, gazing at a tampon wrapper lying beside the garbage. “Really?”
“Tell me why you’re single.” He crosses his arms and gazes at me. “Tell me what you’re so scared of.”
I instantly think of my mother. How she woke up one day to realize that her husband checked out without so much as a goodbye or an explanation. How she didn’t even have time to grieve because she had three young children relying on her to put food on the table. How she went from being a stay-at-home mom in a happy relationship, to losing the love of her life and becoming impoverished in the blink of an eye. How she relied on the older kids to raise the younger ones so she could go back to school, while working as many jobs as possible in between.
“Caleb,” I sigh. “My mother died of a broken heart.”
He looks confused. “What?”
“You think she died because of her lifestyle, but it’s not true.”
“What?” He blinks, looking confused by my response. “No, I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
“Well then, this is me un-implying it,” he says, shaking his head. “All I meant is that it couldn’t hurt for you to adapt healthier habits.”
“They call it Broken Heart Syndrome,” I continue as if he hadn’t spoken. I fold my arms against my chest, suddenly cold. “Genetically, there was nothing wrong with her. And yeah, she ate chemicals and didn’t exercise as much as she should’ve, but she was far from being overweight or unhealthy. The truth is,” I say, speaking the words out loud for the first time, “my mother started dying years before her death. She started dying the day my father walked out on us. And I think what eventually killed her is the fact that he never came back. I think she held out hope for the longest time, but every day that passed without him walking through that door was another stab to her heart. Ironic, isn’t it?” I glance up and see Caleb’s stricken face. “She was the ultimate romantic and believer of happily-ever-afters. Yet it was her own unrequited love that killed her.”
“Tinsel—” He breaks off. Shakes his head. “There’s no way to know what caused it.”
“One of the doctors agreed with me,” I say defensively.
“Doctors don’t know everything.”
“It was your dad.”
Caleb pauses, then shrugs. “He also told me that babies come from storks.”
“You were probably like, five when he said it.”
“I was fifteen.”
“Well . . .” I lift my palms. “Reproduction is an uncomfortable topic.” His lips twist with a small smirk and I find myself entranced by them. They’re the most perfect lips I’ve ever seen. I glance down and add, “It’s safer to be single. I know that makes me a coward, but . . .” I shrug.
“Do you remember when you showed up at Johnnie’s and asked me about the frog tattoo?”
It takes me a moment to recall our conversation, but then I nod. “I didn’t think you heard me.”
“I pretended not to. It’s not an easy thing for me to talk about.” He pauses for a long moment, and I don’t try to rush him. “It’s called a Bone Frog. It commemorates all the fallen soldiers.” He glances down. “I got it after a friend was killed.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur. He nods in acknowledgement.
“The truth is that I’ve had more than one friend return to their family in a casket.”
My stomach drops. I’m so naïve—of course, he’s had his share of grief. Zevi used to say that twenty-five percent of SEALs won’t see their thirtieth birthday which was why he never stopped trying to convince Caleb to leave.
“Garcia’s death, though—” He breaks off and stares into space. “That’s the one that keeps me up at night. The one I relive when I close my eyes.” His voice is controlled and casual, but the tic in his jaw gives away how tense he is.
“I’m so sorry,” I say uselessly. I wish I had words to bring him comfort, but I know such words don’t exist. “I had no idea. You always seem so . . . so . . .” I make circling motions with my hands as I search for the right word. “Strong. Like you’ve got everything under control.”
“I’m not. I don’t.” He swallows. “I’m a lot better now thanks to the support group. And my therapist.”
My jaw drops to the floor and I might have let out a gasp. For some reason, Caleb in a shrink’s office seems as likely as my rabbi at a biker convention. “You went to therapy?”
He nods. “I did a twelve-week CPT. My therapist was also a veteran so she got what’s it’s like—the combat related-PTSD.”
Mind. Blown.
“Wow,” is the only word that comes to mind.
“It started about nine years ago, but it got really bad the year after that. The nightmares and flashbacks. If a car so much as backfired, I’d hit the ground without thinking twice. Certain smells still take me back. Cigarettes or burning plastic. Gasoline. Wet soil.”
“I never knew,” I say quietly.
He nods. “My therapist is the only one I’ve talked to about it. And the people in support groups. But no one in my regular life.” He turns his head and adds, “Until you.”
My heart skips a beat and I swallow. “You’re telling me that your parents don’t know? Or Zevi?”
“I never said anything.” He gazes back up at the ceiling. “I felt as if admitting it aloud made me less of a man. The only reason I went to therapy at all was because the military forced me to.”
“Why?”
“I started making mistakes. Small ones, but even the smallest mistakes can endanger your teammates’ lives. And I had gotten paranoid.” He swallows. “So, I took time off, got the help I needed, and then went back for a couple more years.”
“And you’re okay now?”
“I’m better,” he allows. “But everything I’ve experienced is still, and always will be here,” he says, tapping the side of his head. “We all carry our experiences. It explains the why of who we are.”
“Thank you for sharing that. I know that isn’t easy.” He nods in silent acknowledgement. “Can I ask you something else?” I say, since we seem to be laying it all out there.
“As if I could stop you,” he murmurs fondly.
“Good point.” I smile, then take a deep breath and go for it. “Why did you decide to return to Orthodoxy?”
“A few reasons.” He smiles, a bit ruefully. “I missed a lot of it—the community, the connection, following the traditions of my people. Being in shul and keeping Shabbos and the holidays reminds me that there’s a bigger purpose in this world than whatever is going on in my life. And even if I don’t fit the mold of the average Jew, looks or otherwise, I’m not going to let that stop me from being the best Jew I can be. Which is,” he adds, after a beat, his eyes glinting with humor, “in and of itself, very Jewish.”
“Yeah?” I find myself grinning. “How so?”
“After 3,350 years of slavery, forced conversions, persecutions, exiles, pogroms, and genocide, we’re still here. Still keeping our traditions alive, still proud of our heritage. It’s the chutzpah in us.”
I laugh. “Definitely.”
“And then there was you.”
“Me?” I glance up at him, startled.
He nods. “Seeing you at that restaurant and then my parents’ anniversary party after all those years was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I felt this pull toward you unlike anything I’d experienced before. But at the same time,” he sighs, “I could tell it wasn’t right. I didn’t think you were interested, and besides, I wasn’t in the right place mentally with everything that was going on. In a weird way,” he adds, “part of me hoped you’d get married so I wouldn’t be tempted to pursue you. I didn’t think I could ever be the type of husband you deserved.”
“But you didn’t even know me,” I protest. “At least not the adult version of me. I could’ve been a terrible person.”
He shakes his head. “You’ve always worn your heart and your soul on your sleeve. That’s another reason why you’d make a terrible spy.” He smiles. “You’re too easy to read.”
I huff a laugh.
“About three years after retiring from the teams, I started thinking more and more about returning to the fold. I found myself wanting a wife and starting a family. And,” he adds, holding my gaze, “I kept wondering why you hadn’t gotten married.”
“Because I’m messed up,” I say, providing the answer for him.
“Nah.” He shakes his head and chuckles. “You’re just scared.”
Why could Caleb overcome his challenges while I’m still stuck in the past? I’m still allowing the pain of being rejected by my father and the grief of losing my mother to stop me from living the kind of future I deserve. Caleb has come full circle, whereas I’m on permanent pause.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?”
I shrug. “Just comparing us.”
“How so?”
“You’ve fought your demons and won, whereas I’m . . .” I frown, staring into the distance. As much as I tell myself that I’m happy being single, deep inside, I know I want more. I want to fall in love and have children. I want to have passionate nights with my husband, legs entangled and our skin slick with sweat. I want to feel a human life grow inside of me, knowing it was the product of two basherts coming together as one. And I also want the hard stuff too—the sleepless nights, the occasional fighting followed by hot make-up sex, the baby vomit and diaper leakage—
I blink, surprised to realize that my cheeks are wet.
“Hey,” Caleb says softly, and hesitantly wraps me in a gentle hug. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“Hey.” He releases my hand to wipe the tears off my cheeks. “Don’t apologize.”
“It’s just that . . . A part of me wants the diaper leakage,” I whisper, lifting my eyes to meet Caleb’s. “You know?”
Caleb nods, then seems to register my words and shakes his head. “Sorry— What?”
“You’re right about what you said, how our past shapes our present, and how my dad leaving is why I am the way I am—” I break off. “And the fear of getting hurt again—it’s paralyzing, Caleb.”
He squeezes my shoulder. “I know.”
“And I’m so j-jealous of you,” I sniff.
“Me?” he laughs. “Why?”
