05 Apr Chapter 20
Sometime between watching Parent Trap 20 and 50 times, Lindsay Lohan, the actress who had so successfully starred as two separate people in the movie, was in the New York Post for another trip to rehab, sleeping with another man, another accident, on the cover for having violated her court agreement, and I sighed and said to myself—thank God I have the Torah to keep me from all that. Things fell into a rhythm that shrunk our world to a spinning axle of only my husband and me and our little future baby. The nightly conference calls to The Shviger ended. The walks to my mother were limited to Shabbes afternoon with my husband, from where he continued on to the synagogue. I showed up in outfits I had no recollection of pulling on, zippers I could not remember deciding I didn’t need to close, turbans I hadn’t changed to headgear either because I didn’t think I should or because I didn’t bother. My sisters and sisters-in-law were walking with their husbands too, and they showed up with children in step-in shoes and designed tights and brand name little dresses with matching outfits for the boys. My mother said gently as she put smoked salmon on the table that I better get some maternity clothes, and Golda, wheeling a carriage beside her while brushing bangs out of her eyes, said I looked like a yunchy-puprikash, pathetic, really. I felt myself blush, I felt the shock of how hurtful it was to feel so clumsy around the kitchen table of matzoh and vegetable salad, and all I could think of was that I want to return home already. I couldn’t care enough to stop falling in the social ladder to a new place of unstylish, unrespected, shmegegi. Because as soon as I was home, there was that eclipse.