How appropriate – the guy who blew up her life as a teen was now blown up twenty feet tall, in digital LED glory, for all of Ohio to see.
She tried not to let those memories darken her mood, even though his thousand-watt eyes lingered in her rearview mirror like someone’s obnoxious high beams all the way to the parking lot of Bramblewood’s Beth El campus.
Similar to the University-Based Retirement Communities that were springing up on college campuses across the country, the senior apartment complex where her father lived was a TBRC – a temple-based retirement community. Built years ago on land owned by their synagogue, with the thought that its aging members could transition to its amenities for independent living and continued care. Even skilled nursing. All within walking distance toshul, so they named it Beth El Campus. Funny, as if the residents were back in the dorm rooms of their youth, throwing keg parties.
Leah made a beeline to the social hall, pausing to glance at the Bramblewood Bucket List in the lobby. It was growing by the day.
What had started as an innocent “What’s New” post on the hallway whiteboard had taken on a life of its own. A month ago, Leah had shared: “I’m going to New York City in December.”
She had quickly become the talk of the complex. People offering her advice on things to see and do. Which was fine, she enjoyed hearing the stories their many years afforded them. “Make sure you try a black and white cookie” turned into “Can you maybe bring me back one?” and soon, residents were leaving their wishes in a flutter of Post-It notes on the board.
Leah Gellman, the caretaker of everyone’s bucket list but her own.
“Where have you been?” Lizbet traded Leah a gooseneck kettle for the latkes. “You’ve got pour-over requests.” Her sister, in town from San Fran for the holidays, probably hadn’t expected to be put to work. She signaled with her elbow toward the coffee klatch, waiting in anticipation.
Mrs. Ackerman presided over the Mahjong table, a gaudy plastic menorah front and center.
“Someone must’ve stolen my nice one…swapped it with thisdreck.”
“Didn’t you tell me you sent the silver one to your grandson last month?” Mrs. Felder said gently, winking at Leah. “The young man you’re setting up with Letty.”
Leah winked back. Inside joke – she wasn’t dating another doctor, let alone one in a city as big as Manhattan.
She had lasted three months with Jason, a charming third-year resident of Obstetrics. His foreplay turned out to be more clinical than fun. A lot oflight touch here, andlight touch there. Tolerable. But once he’d started asking her about her cycles, she was done.
Mrs. Ackerman brightened. “My Hershel! And that’s right. No open flames here at Bramblewood. Smoking, propane, and matches prohibited.” She couldn’t remember last month, but she could recite the building fire code of 1998 just fine. “Oh, you’ll love my Hersh, the doctor.”
Leah never minded when Mrs. Ackerman talked about her grandbaby, the Manhattan pediatrician. Compassionate, generous, athletic, a philanthropist…the qualities went on and on. Leah listened politely…just as she did when Mrs. Blum raved about her cat, or Mrs. Felder about her latest book. That’s what came with being a fourth player at the Mahjong table.
And ever since the trio had lost Mrs. Horowitz last year, Leah had stepped in so their weekly streak remained unbroken.
The social hall was filling up, but no sign of her dad. Darlene, the aide from the third floor, parked Mrs. Felder’s empty wheelchair along the wall. “Hooo, concert traffic was awful! Hope you weren’t caught in it, Letty.”
Leah’s stomach flipped like a latke in a hot bubbling pan at the thought of being caught up – once again – in anything having to do with Avigdor Wolfson.
She hadn’t thought of the boy who’d sabotaged her bat mitzvah celebration in ages. Many sessions of therapy had seen to that. Because if she let herself, it always spiraled down a path she didn’t care to retrace.
She poured concentric circles with the kettle, saturating the coffee grounds in each waiting dripper Lizbet had lined up. “That’s just the bloom, Mrs. Blum,” she advised, stilling one woman’s impatient hand as the rest of the table laughed. “Four more minutes.”
“My niece camped out for tickets,” Darlene continued, doling out silverware down the length of the communal dining table. “She’s obsessed with Painted Doors.”
“Shut up!” Lizbet plopped containers of sour cream and applesauce down on the table in Darlene’s wake. “We grew up in the same town as the lead singer.”
Leah continued spiraling water with a steady hand, starting at the center of each and moving out to the edge, then back. Never spilling a drop. The women oohed and ahhed.
“The steady hands of an artist,” Mrs. Felder praised. Kind of her, Leah mused. Years of slinging espresso drinks as a barista probably hadn’t hurt.
“That’s a nice sweater, dear.” Mrs. Ackerman patted the chunky knit created by her own fingers that hung on Leah’s slim frame. It had a high-necked yoke that could be folded down and buttoned on the diagonal. “I like the fasteners; they remind me of…bam, dot, crack!”
The old woman had said the same thing about the tiny rectangular enamel buttons she had sewn on when she gifted Leah the early Hanukkah present that week. The swirling dots and reedy sticks embossed on the fasteners were reminiscent of two types of tiles used in Mahjong.
“For luck,” she added now, looking up with watery blue eyes and smiling her signature Elizabeth Arden red smile.
Lizbet leaned in. “Ugh,Avi Wolfson. “Remember how healwayswon the shofar-blowing contesteveryyear at the Apples & Honey Fest?”
Darlene hooted. “Your hometown sounds like it’s out of a Hallmark movie…if Hallmark made Rosh Hashanah movies.”
Jacobsdale, New York,hadbeen all that and more. Not just a suburb of a larger city but a vibrant, close-knit and caring community. True, not all that diverse. Her dad always told a joke about a Jew who, if stranded on a desert island, would build two temples. One to attend and one to complain about.
