Chapter Thirty-Four
“Tell me why you’re here.”
Bruce sent me, that’s why. I gaze at the fresh-faced woman who barely looks old enough to be out of high school.
When I first made an appointment to see a therapist a few weeks ago, I assumed she’d be a dowdy, older grandmother type person who knitted sweaters for children in underdeveloped communities, or a man in a tweed jacket with leather pouches, with an unlit pipe dangling between his lips.
I did not expect to find a young woman who introduced herself as a number—Seven—to call me back into her office.
Plus, where is the couch? There’s always a couch in the movies. I wore these easy to remove boots specifically for this purpose.
“Ashira?” she prompts.
Crap. What was it she asked? Oh yeah. Why I’m here.
“I’m a matchmaker with commitment issues.
Romantically speaking. There’s this man that I’m in love with, and I literally told him to date and marry someone else.
How crazy is that?” I giggle because it sounds so ridiculous even to my own ears.
Seven however, doesn’t even crack a smile. I think I might be nervous.
“Why do you think you did that?”
I inhale deeply, then release it. “Because I’m a coward. I’m scared of what might happen if I allow myself to get close to him.”
“Why do you assume something might happen?”
“It’s the pattern of my life. My father abandoned our family when I was seven, and my mother died five years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. That’s rough.”
“Yeah.” I gaze down at my hands. “I guess I have this fear that people leave. Especially the ones I’m closest to.”
“That’s understandable given everything you’ve gone through.”
I reach for the cup of water she gave me and take a sip.
Her quiet watchfulness makes me slightly nervous and before long, I’m babbling to fill the silence.
“I don’t know why my dad left.” I focus on the plant sitting on the windowsill.
For some reason, it’s easier than looking into the therapist’s eyes.
“But the thing is, he was a great father. And a loving husband. And then he just left.” I shake my head and frown.
“It’s bizarre. Unsettling. No one saw it coming.
I think that’s what also made it so traumatic.
It was like a train hitting you out of nowhere. ”
“How do you feel towards him now?”
“My dad?” I ask, and she nods. “Angry. Sad. But you know,” I add suddenly, “I kind of pity him too because he missed out on being part of our family. And we were an awesome family.”
“You used the past tense.” She tilts her head. “Aren’t you still an awesome family?”
“Yeah, we are. Definitely. It’s just different now than before, I guess.” I shrug. “My mom isn’t around, and my siblings have their own families, so sometimes it feels like it’s just me third-wheeling.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“It can be, yeah.” I’m embarrassed to realize that my eyes are wet, and I mumble “sorry” as I accept the box of tissues she holds out to me.
“No, it’s good to cry. It’s the body’s way of releasing stress in order to heal. I’m guessing you probably didn’t do enough of it as a child.”
I nod, dabbing the corners of my eyes. “I tried not to think about my father. It hurt too much.”
“You know,” Seven says, crossing her legs, “they say children are resilient, but that’s only because they instinctively turn off their emotions in order to survive. And it sounds like that’s what you did.”
I nod. Looking back, that’s exactly what I did.
“Do you know much about neural pathways and neuroplasticity?” she asks and I shake my head. “Well, it’s amazing how the brain is capable of healing itself.”
I listen as she explains the physiology behind anxiety and find myself fascinated by it.
According to Seven, just because my brain feeds me information doesn’t necessarily mean I should believe it.
She talks about cognitive behavioral therapy which is the process of challenging your thoughts instead of automatically assuming they’re true.
“Except for the good thoughts,” she adds with a smile. “Those we don’t challenge.”
I schedule more appointments at the front desk before I leave.
I hope Seven is right and that with enough practice, I can retrain my brain so I don’t panic at the thought of being with Caleb.
But at the same time, I don’t know if I truly believe her either.
She looks like the type who smokes a lot of weed and reads dark poetry by candlelight, and who knows what kind of neuropathways that creates?
* * *
A month later, and the day of the marathon is finally here.
The city is buzzing with excitement. Live music is playing and people are dancing, holding signs, and cheering.
Runners perform last-minute stretches. I scan the crowd, searching for the man who tricked me into being a health nut.
Not that I’m complaining. Only someone like Caleb could take a carcinogen-loving, sloth-like creature such as myself and transform me into a running queen with the body of a goddess.
Overkill, I know.
The announcer gives us a five-minute warning.
I stretch my leg and glance around. There are thousands of people with numbers taped to their backs.
If Caleb and I weren’t in a cold war, we’d have driven here together.
Maybe even had breakfast first, and made a gameplan.
But it’s been weeks since The Kiss as everyone in my inner circle has come to refer to it.
The good news is that I’ve become an expert in the art of cognitive behavioral therapy.
I’m like an objective journalist when it comes to my thought patterns.
Instead of automatically believing them, I question them, and search for evidence to both corroborate the theory and challenge it.
The airhorn blows and the race officially begins. I pace myself as my thoughts continue to churn.
The bad news is that Zevi told me something earlier this week that makes me want to kill myself. Okay, not actually. But it’s my worst nightmare come to life, and sadly, I only have myself to blame.
Just as I was getting up the courage to call Caleb and tell him that I’ve been going to therapy and feel ready to date, Zevi told me he started seeing someone.
Her name is Bailey Smilevitch, and she happens to be the great-great-granddaughter of a renowned rabbi from Lithuania.
As far as good yichus goes, it doesn’t get much better than that.
And interestingly enough, her mother is a Desi Jew, a small minority of Jews whose communities are some of the oldest in world, with more than 2000 years of continuity in the Indian subcontinent.
According to her Wikipedia page, Bailey felt a calling to help other Jews of Color connect which is why she created the JOCIE organization, which stands for Jews of Color Inclusivity, and Equity.
She also models for a Jewish modest clothing line as well as being the face for a Shabbos makeup brand.
The woman is literally everything Caleb could ever ask for and then some.
But I was still stunned when Zevi told me that Caleb started looking at rings. Although many Orthodox Jews get engaged after a two- or three-week time frame, I always assumed Caleb wouldn’t rush into anything. After all, he waited ten years for me.
I’m glad that Zevi gave me the heads up to prepare myself.
And I have, by crying myself to sleep every night.
Then waking up in the middle of the night and reading our old phone messages, the memes we sent, and the funny cat videos he kept begging me to stop sending.
After that, I go through old pictures and videos that my iPhone curated into its own memory album designed to cause ultimate emotional damage.
But as I settled in bed the other night and pulled up my Spotify heartbreak playlist, I got a text from Dr. Kahn, inviting me to spend Shabbos at their house in two weeks. She wants Caleb’s closest friends there to celebrate his thirty-fourth birthday.
I immediately did an emergency FaceTime conference call with Miri, Sissel, Zevi, and Jack.
All four of them insisted I should go, that I couldn’t avoid him for the rest of my life.
I replied that it was possible. I even looked up the cost of a one-way ticket to Timbuktu but Zevi said I’d never be able to withstand the heat.
I take a break to drink water and use the porta-potty. Eight miles done.
And so, I have no choice but to go. Even if Bailey might be in attendance, and even if they are going to announce their engagement.
I run and run and run. My mind and body take turns torturing me. My shins throb, my head aches, and I think about quitting for the next seventeen miles.
But five hours, twenty-nine minutes, and three seconds later, I’ve done it. I ran my first marathon.
I sink to the ground as tears stream down my cheeks. I gaze up at the sky and whisper, I did it, Mom. I did it.
Overhead, a little blue jay lands on a nearby tree. And as it tilts its head and stares into my eyes, I’m filled with a sense of peace.