Page 3 of Best Woman
“ Why did you let me drink so much Manischewitz?”
I’m on the floor of my grandparents’ guest bathroom, toilet full of regurgitated gefilte fish and wine mocking me. The gefilte fish does not look very different after its brief sojourn down my esophagus.
Aiden is looking at the photos on the wall and nervously folding hand towels. “You’re the one who said the ritual four glasses of wine were ‘merely a jumping-off point’ and you wanted to ‘imbibe the blood of our ancestors.’?”
“I hate Passover.”
“You love Passover. When we were kids you used to find the afikomen in like, five seconds, hide it again, and find it again just to gloat that you found it twice.”
“I can’t help having the nose of a bloodhound and the competitive drive of Tonya Harding!”
Even the mention of matzah turns my stomach and I hurl again, but I feel better for having expunged more sweet wine and pureed fish.
I haul myself up and clean out my mouth with the essentials my grandparents keep stocked for whenever one of their kids or grandkids is visiting.
If I’m lucky, there may be some old Valium rattling around in the drawer next to dental floss from the Bush era—the first one.
Aiden wrings the towel between his hands, clenching and unclenching. “Do you have a problem with Grandma’s design choices,” I ask, “or can I use that? I know she hasn’t redecorated since the late eighties, but I’m into the new romantic vibe she’s got going on in here.”
“I don’t think it’s appropriate for her to have all this African art,” my brother says, handing me the towel.
He’s followed me in here for a reason, but as always, I have to be the one to start the conversation. As I wipe chunks of fish from around my mouth, I find his eyes behind me in the mirror.
“Rachel seems nice,” I say, opening a toothbrush sealed in plastic. “I’m glad I could spend more time with her. We didn’t get to hang out for long when y’all were in New York last year.”
He smiles, grateful. He and Rachel have been dating for over a year, but this is the first big family event she’s joined.
Passover is taken seriously in our family.
My grandpa does the long version of the seder—long for Reform Jews at least, so still under two hours—and my grandma makes sure she gets the best brisket delivered from the deli and takes compliments on its tenderness as if she had not only cooked it herself but also butchered the cow. Possibly gave birth to it too.
“She is nice. She really likes you. It’s cool that y’all have so much in common.”
“Yeah, it’s great that we both love…music.” My head is ringing a bit too much to come up with anything better.
“And her family is great too. They wanted her to be home for Passover but were excited for her to meet my family.”
“That’s great.” A rumbling. There may be more gefilte fish in my system than previously estimated.
Or maybe it’s the charoset I hoovered up despite my lifelong raw apple allergy.
What was I supposed to do, not eat the delicious nutty treat that symbolized the backbreaking labor of my enslaved ancestors?
“You should stay with us the next time you’re here. We have an extra bedroom and I know it’s chaotic at Mom’s with the twins.”
“The new futon in my old room is very comfy.” Now that I’ve added a memory foam pad, at least. “And she always wakes me up for Pilates.” Something is rising inside me, using my esophagus as a ladder. Or a hose. “Whether I like it or not.”
“I’m gonna ask her to marry me.”
“How Oedipal of you,” I say, eyes watering.
Aiden shoots me an unimpressed look in the mirror.
“That’s amazing, Aiden. I’m so happy for you.
” I’m clenching my hands into fists, nails biting into my palms, hoping the pain will distract me enough to keep the food of my forefathers in my stomach, where it belongs.
“You’ll be best man at the wedding, right?”
Chunks of fish, matzah, apples, and hard-boiled eggs, all tinged the dark pink of kosher wine, spray my grandmother’s art deco mirror and culturally insensitive tchotchkes.
“Fuck!” Aiden runs out to get help, or at least escape my shame and pass the responsibility of handling me to someone more qualified.
I kneel at the porcelain altar, the warbling soprano notes of my grandma singing “Dayenu” wafting in through the open bathroom door.
I don’t know what makes me feel sicker: the smell of my puke, the snot dripping from my nose, or the thought of the unopened vial of injectable estrogen buried deep in the backpack currently sitting atop my mother’s pretty fucking uncomfortable futon.