Good Harbor

Kathleen struggled with the rabbi’s words. Why didn’t I argue with God about my cancer? She had been frightened and worried, but she’d borne her cross (hah!) without complaint, like a martyr.

But she knew why she didn’t argue. She believed her cancer was a punishment. The doctor had cut a hole into her breast as retribution. She had survived Danny’s death. What kind of mother reads stories to other people’s children after throwing dirt on her own son’s coffin?

It should have made a louder sound, but the box had been so little. She had wanted to climb down into the too small hole, cut into the warm soil. The world had smelled so good that day. The damp earth, the cut grass. She had wanted to die.

She had gotten cancer because it was her turn to suffer, as Pat had. Though Patty hadn’t deserved it.

Kathleen realized that everyone else was standing and scrambled to her feet. Rabbi Hertz asked that anyone who had come to honor the anniversary of a loved one’s death now speak that person’s name. Voices came from different corners of the sanctuary, some barely audible.

“My father, Moshe, who died twenty-five years ago this week.”

“Lena Swartz, my sister.”

A woman in the back said, “My father, Charlie, the atheist, who would have been mystified to see me here.”

The rabbi didn’t have to do nearly as much coaxing to get the congregation to sing a final song, and the melody caromed off the thirty-foot-high dome, doubling the sound. “Now that was some really joyful noise,” Rabbi Hertz said, beaming. “Please do stay for our Oneg Shabbat coffee hour, which is provided by our wonderful sisterhood. The only requirement is that you say hello to at least two people you’ve never met before — and that includes me.”

Kathleen was the first to greet the rabbi. “I enjoyed your service so much,” Kathleen said, watching the rabbi fold the prayer shawl and tuck it into a red velvet bag. “It was exactly what I needed tonight.”

“And what was it you needed?” the rabbi asked, taking Kathleen’s hand and not letting go.

“A place to be grateful, I guess. I had good news this week.”

The rabbi, still holding on, raised her eyebrows quizzically.

“It seems that I’m not going to die from breast cancer.”

“I’m so glad. My mother had breast cancer, too.”

Kathleen started to laugh and, mortified, clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, no. Sorry, I, oh . . . it’s just that it seems every time I tell anyone, they tell me about their mother or friend. I’m sorry. I must be at the end of my rope.” Kathleen lowered her voice. “How long ago did she die?”

The rabbi laughed at that. “My mom is alive and well. In fact, she’s off in India on an elder hostel.”

Kathleen didn’t know how to respond.

“You must be going through a lot,” the rabbi said. “Is it okay if I say a Mi Sheberach for you tomorrow morning?”

Kathleen, embarrassed, admitted she didn’t know what that was.

“It’s a traditional prayer for spiritual and physical healing for members of the congregation and their families.”

“That sounds awfully, um, Catholic,” Kathleen said. “I mean, when I was a child, we prayed to all kinds of saints for healing.”

“Did it work?”

Kathleen didn’t know how to respond. How could the rabbi be so cavalier about a question of faith? “I don’t think it works that way,” she finally said.

“Neither do I,” said Rabbi Hertz, putting a hand on Kathleen’s shoulder. “But I know that public prayer can work like an embrace for people in pain, and there’s no such thing as too many hugs when you’re hurting.”

Kathleen, almost stammering, said she wouldn’t be there the next day.

“That’s okay. You’ll be in our thoughts. Thanks for coming up and saying hi, Kathleen. Let’s get together, soon,” the rabbi added, and turned to greet the young couple waiting behind her.

Kathleen walked toward the coffeepot at the far end of the sanctuary. “Genevas are my favorites, too,” she told a dark-haired woman who had just picked up the last one. Joyce smiled, snapped the oval neatly in half, held out one piece to Kathleen and said, “It tastes better if you share it. Or at least, that’s what I used to tell my daughter when she was little.”

Kathleen accepted the half-Geneva. “Are you a regular?” she asked. “I haven’t been here for ages. The last time I was at services, the rabbi was an older gentleman who looked like Ichabod Crane.”

“This is my first time here, ever.” As Joyce spoke, Kathleen realized she was talking to the woman who had described her father as an atheist. “My dad died fifteen years ago tomorrow. I never go to services for kaddish, but I couldn’t find any of those memorial candles in the supermarket. And I wanted to do something real, something physical, to remember him.”