And the people saw that Moses lagged in coming down from the mountain, and they assembled against Aaron and said to him, “Rise up, make us gods that will go before us, for this man Moses who brought us up from the land of Egypt, we do not know what has happened to him.”

Ki Tisa Exodus 30:11

Looking down at my unconscious father in his hospital bed, it is a challenge to see him as the unpredictable and tempestuous man I’ve known all my life. He could become enraged just because he believed we were ignoring what he said. Once, when our mother spent too much money on clothing, he smashed a glass of water he was holding against the kitchen counter tile, stormed out for a drive to nowhere, and left me and my brother Aaron to clean up the mess. But he took his role as our father very seriously. His pay as a judge in Teaneck was a fraction of what most lawyers make, but he saved and spent enough so that Aaron could study finance in New York, and I could study civil engineering at CalTech. He even flew out to California with me to help get me settled in, and that’s how he got into this trouble.

We had been shopping for bedding when he suddenly became disoriented. I kick myself now for shrugging it off when he insisted that he felt better. Then his speech became just a bit slurred but he wouldn’t let us stop, until he collapsed and I was forced to call 911.

That was three months ago, and he’s still unconscious. I spoke with mom and Aaron back on the east coast when it all happened and we agreed that there was no sense in bringing him to New Jersey as long as we were both here in California. We’d see if he’d recover, or if he’d finally just pass away here, and then we’d worry about what to do next. I just got through final exams last week. I can finally visit my father a little without all the pressure of classes and tests.

Now I’m the only one who visits him. You might think it’s cold that neither his wife or other son even come out to California to see him. Maybe. Maybe they just want to take a breather. They’ve never lived in that house without fearing that any second, dad would find some reason to go into one of his angry fits.

Even with classes over, there’s another fear that follows me around now. The money put aside for me and Aaron isn’t enough to get us to the end of our degrees. Dad’s disability money just barely supports mom with nothing to spare. If our father would die, there would be a chunk of money from his insurance. Every day I have to shake myself when I find myself wishing that he’d just give up and let us be.

I talk to him a little more at the hospital. I tell him that I love him and can’t wait for him to wake up and join us. I kiss him on the forehead and start walking back to my dorm.

I’m halfway down California Boulevard, when to my shock, I see it’s my mother calling.

The first thing she asks me is whether the doctors think he’s going to ever wake up. They never give me a clue. They know nothing. They just keep him going like a damned vegetable, but always insist that he’s not at the point where “pulling the plug” is even an option. All they say is that the longer he’s like this, the more unlikely it is that he’ll ever recover. Then they say that they promise they’ll let me know if he’s ever “past that point.” 

After I share all this, she gets to the real reason she’s calling.

“Marty, I’d like you to come home for Chanukah in two weeks. We have things to talk about.”

It’s expensive to fly. Every dime counts. But I get it. We have to talk about dad, and it’s not something that the three of us can do over the phone.

I always carry my cell phone, and even sleep with it on, in case I get “the call” from the hospital. I want these next two weeks to just disappear. I can hardly get any work done. I’m preoccupied with the talk we’ll have when I get home. In one class on road building, the professor talked about “off ramps” and my mind gets pulled away. I picture my father on a hospital gurney, spinning down an off ramp, like a giant downward whirlpool, gaining speed, until he reaches the end and spins away.

I’m flying home today. No one has called these past weeks, just as they hadn’t called the prior three months. All I’ve received are a couple of texts confirming the flight I’ll be taking in. The distance between us has allowed my mother and brother to live a life they apparently don’t want intruded on. I visit my father one last time at the hospital and, as always, he is distant and expressionless. In a way, he’s just like my family back in New Jersey. Even the nurse on duty, who has gotten to know me and sometimes expresses some sympathy, shrugs it all off and tells me that my father has gotten neither better nor worse.

I’m about to leave the hospital when I remember that the day dad and I had gone shopping, we stopped off at the college bookstore, and dad found a book he wanted to give mom. The CalTech bookstore is not a place you normally go shopping for literature, but not all the classes are about math and science. While I went off looking for textbooks, dad went looking for a souvenir to bring home. He found something that he seemed so proud of, he cradled it the whole day: “The History of Love: A Novel”. On one of my hospital visits, I brought the book back with me and left it on his table so that he’d see it if he woke up. Maybe it could bring back memories of our family and the day we spent together. I rush back to find it, and it’s there, in the little CalTech bookstore bag. I have to shove it back in the bag and rush out of the hospital before I become incapacitated with tears. He took his role as a father seriously, and now maybe for the first time it dawns on me that he also took his role as a husband seriously. I’ve never heard of this book, and probably neither had dad. I bet he just liked the title.

I arrive at the airport early, and when I make a detour in the bathroom, I become mesmerized at my own image in the mirror. Blue denim shirt; blue denim pants; a lightweight plain black suitcase. All basic issue from the same big-box store. I’m a generic man. I have nothing to give up. No way to trade down to save money. It’s an early morning flight. I’ll arrive at Newark just in time to grab a bus up to Teaneck and join mom and Aaron for a big Chanukah dinner they’re preparing. Potato latkes and brisket. I wonder if the comfort food will make me feel comfortable again.

When I arrive at the gate in the Newark airport, I get a strange text from Aaron: “Look for the man in a red shirt and the colorful New York Giants cap. He’ll take care of you.”  I stumble around but it’s not hard to find him – apart from the bright clothing, he’s holding up a cardboard sign with my name on it: “Marty Schein.”

“You’re here for me?” I ask him.

“You’re Marty?  What’s your brother’s name?”

“Aaron”.

“Come with me. I’m your driver.”

Newark airport is not generally a surreal place. It’s a place where reality smacks you in the jaw, but I am now feeling even more disembodied than I was in the bathroom at LAX. I can’t imagine why Aaron would spend the money on something so frivolous, but I’m just so relieved to not have to deal with public transportation. The man walks briskly, daring me to keep up.

“Step lively, Marty. I gotta get you to dinner on time or I don’t get a bonus.”

“What time are we supposed to be in Teaneck?”

“Teaneck?  I’m takin’ you to Manhattan. Throw your bag in the trunk and get inna back seat.”

I figure I’m not getting kidnapped, so I follow orders and buckle myself in. The guy pulls out, well, like a professional driver. He’s fast, efficient, and loves taking turns sharply. He weaves through traffic and in a little while we’re going through the Holland Tunnel and into the West Village. The driver calls ahead, and then finally drops me in front of a luxury apartment building where my brother Aaron is waiting for me.

He’s got a huge grin on his face. “Not what you were expecting, huh?  Happy Chanukah, bro. Let me take your bags. Mom is waiting.”

“What the fuck is going on Aaron?”

He just gives me that big grin again. “Mom is going to be so happy to see you. I am too.”

He insists on taking my bag. We walk past the doorman who calls the elevator for us, and presses the button for the top floor. We get out. Aaron leads me to an apartment. He’s acting like some sort of tour guide. “Wait here.” He stands me in front of the door, puts my bag down, gives the door a few short knocks and then steps out of the way.

My mother opens the door and I barely recognize her. I hate to say that it’s because I’ve never seen her look beautiful before, but that is the reason. She’s wearing a sleek black dress with a low-cut top. Any time I’ve pictured her, she’s dressed like me – in whatever the middle-aged female version of standard issue big-box store clothing is. Maybe a baggy green jumpsuit or an oversized sweater and jeans. I realize that she’s wearing makeup and bright red lipstick and her eyebrows seem unnaturally dark. She hugs me with a warmth that’s uncommon for her. She kisses me on the cheek.

“Marty, I’m so glad you could join us tonight. It means the world to me.”

As she puts her hand on her chest, I notice the enormous gold chain and pendant that she is obviously framing in the web between her thumb and forefinger.

“I’m sure you’re a little disoriented, Marty, but I assure you, you’re in the right place. Come in. I’d like you to meet my friend, Christian.”

Christian looks like the guy at a roulette table in a James Bond movie who greets Bond warmly and then ten minutes later tries to throw him off a balcony. He’s trim and erect, and he has a rich head of styled wavy grey hair, and a tight gray beard. He reaches out to shake my hand and I see that he’s wearing a Rolex with a gold band.

“Lovely to meet you, Martin. Or may I call you Marty. Your brother tells me that you’re even smarter than he is. That’s quite an achievement.”

I turn to Aaron. “How do you two know each other?” Aaron opens his mouth, but Christian answers.

“Two days a week, I’m his finance professor. Three days a week, I’m a commodities trading strategist for Goldman Sachs. And the other two days… well, you and Aaron have an extraordinary mother. A brilliant woman. A diamond who is emerging from a long time underground, into the sunlight.”

Aaron could finally speak. “As you’ve probably guessed, I introduced professor Calvin to mom.

Mom invites me in, to an apartment that isn’t hers, and Christian takes my coat and bag. That’s when I notice the Christmas tree in the living room. A really big one. “So, we’re having a Chanukah dinner?”  Christian sees me staring at the tree.

“Oh, don’t mind that thing. It just makes me feel like a child again. Yes, we are having a Chanukah dinner, as promised. Potato… lakkiz?… did I say that right?  And a slow cooked brisket.”

“Christian is a gourmet cook,” my mom tells me, as she walks me into the living room to sit down on the sofa. She gestures over to the thick comfy chair opposite her. By the Christmas tree. Christian excuses himself, wraps a bright red apron around his waist, and darts into the kitchen.

Aaron comes in to join us. He and mom are next to each other on the sofa, facing me. “I know this is not exactly the homecoming you were expecting,” Aaron explains, “but I think as you get to understand everything, you’ll come to see that this is the better way. Professor Calvin is a really, really good man. A mensch. And I don’t use that term lightly. Dad took care of us. He had his assets, and he had his deficits. And boy, did he have his deficits. But Christian is the real deal. I could tell what kind of a guy he was practically from the first day I took his class.”

“Marty, this isn’t something I just rushed into, or was even looking for.” My mother is balancing on the line between an apology, and something that is not supposed to sound apologetic. “I’m not some teenager looking for a thrill. Maybe that’s what you think of me, but if you do, it’s because your father never let me be who I truly am. Well, I am discovering who I am, and I like her. I love her. I hope you can learn to love her too, because she’s still your mother.”

Mom and Aaron continued their sales talk until I was relieved to hear Christian smacking a wine glass with the side of a fork.

“Dinner is ready!” We all filed in – not to the kitchen, where we’d eat at home, but to a formally laid out dining room, with upholstered, hand-crafted wooden chairs, what seemed to be a mahogany dining table, and a crystal chandelier.

Christian was still wearing his apron when he joked “It’s Downton Abbey, except I’m both the aristocracy and the hired help!”

He brought a huge platter of what did seem to be latkes onto the table, then a brisket which he had already sliced, and then he poured each of us wine from a decanter.

“A blessing over the wine,” I said as I watched for his reaction. “Baruch atah Adonai eloheinu Melech ha’olam, borei pre hagofen.”

“Ameyn”, said my family.

“Cheers” said Professor Calvin. He’s the first to drink. “Try the lakkiz. These are not your everyday lakkiz.”

I try the “lakkiz.”  They are indeed not my everyday latkes. I’m not sure quite what they are.

“Aren’t these delicious, Marty?” my mother asks. “Nothing like I would have ever made in a million years.”

“These are Mediterranean lakkiz. Instead of potatoes, we use chick peas. Instead of onion, we season with mint, rosemary and…” he reaches over to grab a glass cruet. “May I?” Then without waiting for an answer, he drizzles a crimson zig zag on my pancakes. “Pomegranate syrup!  This recipe came from Wolfgang Puck!”

“A nice Jewish boy,” I assure him, hoping that I don’t sound too sarcastic. I look at the dark red swirl on my pancakes and think that perhaps he’s confused this with Passover, and believes that the meal should be served with Christian blood. It is very difficult for me to not say so out loud.

The brisket comfort food is similarly discomfiting, a strange exotically spiced “Moroccan” variation with dried apricots, prunes, olives, and a dried lemon.

It’s another forty-five minutes of eating and several wine bottles being opened. I have no interest in the small talk around the table; I take out my phone and check my email and see what my friends have been posting on social media.

“Put your phone away, Marty, you’re being rude to our host, and you’re being rude to me,” my mother scolds. I flip it over and leave it on the table.

Finally, the evening with the professor of finance gets down to business. Aaron askes the professor if he may bring up “what they discussed earlier” and the professor agrees.

“Not to make this about the wrong thing,” Aaron says, “but if mom and Professor Calvin get married, my tuition is free, and yours will be taken care of. I know it’s not the way you wanted things, but, well, you have to agree that it’s life changing. Thank you, Dr. Calvin. You’re a really good guy.”

“I know this may seem abrupt, Marty,” Dr. Calvin says.  But at the stage of life that I’m at, and your mother is at, when you see something is really right, you don’t waste time. 

I put down my knife and fork and push my plate away from me. “There’s one problem. Dad is not dead.”

I have been matter-of-fact all evening, but I could no longer be polite. I know that my tone is cutting, and the room remains silent until my mother steps up.

“You are right Marty. Seymour is technically alive. But you also have to face reality. He has effectively left the earth for a quarter of a year, from the day you arrived at college. We have not heard from him through no fault of his own. We miss him, and we will always miss him. But it is time to get on with our lives. It is only a matter of time, but he is gone.”

That’s when I remembered what I needed to share. I push my chair away from the table sharply, and I can see everyone wince as it scrapes on the wooden floor. “To think I had almost forgotten this.”  I go to my bag in the living room and soon return to the dining room. I plant myself under the door frame before my family, Professor Calvin, and the chandelier. “Dad’s nearly last act on earth was to buy you a gift.” I hold it up. “It’s a book. ‘The History of Love: A Novel’. It was his last act, but it was a stupid, wasted gesture.”

I hold two halves of the book in my hands, and with all the strength I can summon from my natural rage, I break its spine and rip it in half. From one of the two parts I tear out a handful of pages and hold them up. “I have wanted to go to the bathroom for the past half hour, but now it’s time. Fortunately, I brought my own toilet paper,” I tell them as I leave and walk down the hall.

By the time I return, dessert is on the table. It’s silent, and I go back to my phone.

“Please put that away,” my mother tells me. But as I’m about to, a call comes in for me.

“Tell whoever it is that we are having a family dinner, and it can wait.”  But I excuse myself and walk out into the living room to take the call. When I return, my mom is pressing at me. “What was so important that you had to ruin our dinner even more than you already have?”

“That was the hospital. Dad woke up.”

Everyone is looking at each other, searching for what happens next. Finally, Aaron looks at me.

“Why didn’t you speak with him?  Why didn’t you let us?” he asks.

“He’s not communicating, but his eyes are open, and he can reach for things.” I wonder now if my father had tried reaching for the book that I just destroyed. “He hasn’t eaten. They’re going to see tomorrow if he eats, and they’ll call me if he speaks. I’m going back to Los Angeles on the first flight that will take me. I’ve been there for the past three months. Now he’s finally woken up, and he’s alone.”

I reflected for a moment and realized just how alone he was.

It was stupid to leave so impetuously. By the time I arrived at the airport there wasn’t another flight until six the next morning. I had six hours to think of nothing but what to tell dad about how our world had changed in the time he was absent and I had no answer. With the time change I was able to arrive at the hospital around noon. I made myself comfortable in the usual chair after I was told that he was sleeping “normally.” 

When he finally awoke and saw me, he gave me a puzzling grin and his first words were “So, who’s been kissing you?”  It took a minute to realize that he was staring at my cheek where mom had evidently left her lipstick mark.

“Oh, that’s mom. I’ve just come back from New York where I was supposed to be having a Chanukah dinner with mom and Aaron. But I flew back as soon as I heard you recovered. I wanted to be here. It’s been three months, you know.”

“You didn’t have to rush back. To me, it’s been three minutes. How much can happen in three minutes?”

“I thought I lost my family,” I said.

We made arrangements for him to stay under observation at the hospital for a week, and then I stayed with him at an inexpensive hotel for the next week, before we flew back together to the east coast. Mom and Aaron knew to expect him. We had not discussed what they’d say, and I had no idea what had become of the professor and his relationship with mom. Nothing was unusual this time. We had to make our way back to Teaneck using public busses. Even though the trip was nearly two hours and involved three changes, I tried to luxuriate in the reality of the situation. It was not a surreal fantasy of strangers who take your bags and escort you to a luxury penthouse. This was my life.

I had texted to Aaron when he should expect us, so he picked us up at the bus stop. He was obviously uncomfortable on the drive back to the house. As we walked inside, I felt myself become pale and dizzy. Mom had prepared dinner for us all, the sort of meatloaf she might make any other day. But she was dressed almost as I had seen her when I arrived in New York. Her dress this time was a bright blue airy material that swirled around her body. You could tell that she enjoyed the way it moved on her when she walked by the way she’d swing her arms around to make her dress float. Her face was similarly made up, and her lipstick could have made an identical mark on my other cheek had she wanted to kiss me. She wore that same gold chain and gold pendant as she had the first night I came back.

“Welcome back Seymour. I made dinner.”

“From the looks of things, I think you have something to tell me. But from the looks of things, I don’t think you need to. So, I’ll just ask you this question. How many times did you have to fuck him to earn all that gold?”

“That’s the way you think, Seymour. Work done; money earned. You spend too much time in court. It’s all laws and contracts to you.”

Then I saw my father do something I had never seen him do. He raised his hand to my mother. But he didn’t hit her. He caught himself, spun ninety degrees to the left, and instead slammed his fist into the wall. His new weakness was instantly apparent. There was a time where, had he wanted to, he might have punched through it, or maybe left a dent. Instead, his arm crumpled, he yelped, and then fell first to his knees, and then he rolled over onto his backside.

Then I saw another thing for the first time ever. My mom went over to him, extended her hand, and helped him to his feet. Dad staggered into her, and I was afraid that however much my mom wanted to help him, maybe this one last time, she could not support his weight, and they’d both go crashing back together. I forced my arm between them and turned my father around so that I could hold him up. He pushed his cheek against my ear and spoke quietly to me.

“Take me out of here, Marty. This is no longer my home. This is no longer my family.”

I thought of telling him that we are always family. We could all turn his back on him, and it wouldn’t change that. He created us. He sustained us. His anger was just a part of who he was. But I knew that he would only argue back. He was crafty. He was a judge. He could see both sides of an argument at the same time and reject them both if he believed a higher law was at work.

Soon I had to return to school in California. After mom and Aaron moved out, he returned to the house from the motel he’d been staying at.  He kept at his work long enough to see me graduate. They all came out. Dad, mom, Aaron, and the professor. We all went out to lunch together at the Parkway Grill on the professor’s dime. It didn’t seem right. When we got outside and they were waiting for the valet to bring out the car, I pulled Aaron over.

“What’s the fucking professor doing here?  We should be here with our father. Just our family,” I told him.

“Who do you think has been paying for your education?  Don’t you know that dad had to quit after a year?  He couldn’t keep his mind on his work. The sons of bitches in Bergen County made him step down. Dr. Calvin has been supporting you, and he got me a job at Morgan Chase, and ever since I’ve been supporting dad. You’re not supposed to know that. Do not under any circumstances thank Dr. Calvin.”

“You walked out on dad. You don’t like him; I don’t blame you for that. So why are you taking care of him?”

“Look, I don’t have to like him. He raised us. He sustained us. If it’s time to sustain him, then I’ll do it, and I won’t think twice about it.”

The valet finally came and as he pulled over, I thanked Dr. Calvin for bringing my family out to California and for lunch.

“The pleasure was mine. If there’s anything you need, please stay in touch with your brother and mother, and reach out. I know people at some of the top engineering firms in New York. And I hope you’ll be able to join us at least for Christmas?”

“Not Chanukah?”

“After that disaster?  Who am I kidding?” Then the valet closed his car door and the three of them drove off.

I ended up returning to Teaneck and I stayed with my father for a few months. I moved out to Brooklyn once I could see that he was able to take care of himself well enough. I came back to visit him that Chanukah, and made my first batch of latkes for both of us.

Books about end of life

More on the biblical portion Ki Tisa