BACK AT THE APARTMENT, a letter waits for me on the hall table. It’s from Women’s College Hospital. I rip it open. It announces unceremoniously that I have tested negative for the BRCA breast cancer gene.
That’s that. A wave of relief.
That evening Degan and I get ready for the Griffin poetry gala, the place where I first met Rabbi Klein two years ago. I try on a series of identical black maternity dresses to see which makes me look less enormous. Degan stands in front of the bathroom mirror, tying and re-tying his tie. At the last minute, he walks up to St. Clair to get me takeout. I can’t wait the two hours until dinner.
The party this year is Mexican-themed; the warehouse is decorated with sombreros and piñatas and colourful crepe paper streamers. We sit with fellow writers and poets, one of whom has a four-month-old baby girl sleeping beside her in a basinet. I look, look away, then look back again. The only thing able to distract me is the piece of rare steak a waiter sets down in front of me, my appetite for red meat verging on ferocious. Mark Blume, who first introduced me to Sol Jalon, who introduced me to his wife, Rachel, is on the jury this year. The prizes are awarded; the band strikes up and the music begins. Everyone who is now part of my Toronto world is here. Throughout the evening people want to touch my stomach. They ask me when I’m due and if they can get me a glass of … water. They tell me that pregnancy suits me, and although I know they are lying, it is good to be in my element, with my people.
Including Rachel, who is here again with Sol. At the end of the night, after champagne and dancing, I notice her packing up to go home. There’s a kind of reassurance in seeing her out of context, or rather, in her role as a person, not a rabbi.
I cross the glitter-speckled dance floor toward her.
“I heard it went well today!” she says.
I grin. “It was fast.”
“I primed them. They knew you were a good candidate.”
“They had to get through lots of people.”
“Maybe,” she says. “But also, I told them you were good.”
“I realized it’s been two years since I met you. To the day.”
She smiles.
“Bashert,” I say. “Fate.” And then: “I guess you don’t need me to translate.”
The rabbi reaches out and gives my shoulder a squeeze. She picks a piece of pink confetti from my hair, and I smile at the intimacy. “So you’re happy? About the beit din?” she asks.
“I’m happy,” I say.
She nods. “The only thing left is to get in the bath.”