The Bone Weaver by Victoria Zackheim
Synopsis:
Mimi Zilber has lost her lifelong friend and is left alone, emotionally isolated. How did she succeed with such prestige as a university professor, yet fail so miserably in her personal life? And why can't she allow herself to let down her guard and share her life with the man who adores her? By paying attention to her past, she begins to recognize that life is a tapestry and that, in deconstructing this tapestry and reweaving it with the threads (bones) of her ancestors, she will find answers that have long evaded her.
Book Excerpt:
ONETopanga Canyon, Spring 1984 Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before settling on the blue wool gabardine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gentians that refused to bloom for her in the parched southern California climate. A bitter aftertaste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspiration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its underslip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insisted it was more a bleat. Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipulation, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house. Plowing through the traffic with tight-jawed determination, Mimi achieved the forty-minute drive between Topanga and her mother’s apartment in less than thirty, numbed by the realization that she had made this journey with no recollection of having driven here. But then, surviving on the Ventura Freeway in a state of mental paralysis was child’s play compared to what awaited her upstairs. Just keep calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, try to be nice. It was a mantra Mimi had been chanting to herself for years and it was no coincidence that she was most often parked in this very spot when chanting it. It took some energy to climb from the car, follow the line of junipers leading to the foyer, and then take the stairs to the second floor. Pausing on the landing, Mimi considered how much the building reminded her of an aging woman trying desperately to retain a semblance of youth. Not so unlike myself, she reflected. Stepping into the hallway, she was immediately hit with the odors of pollo con arroz and enchiladas. Once upon a time it had been blintzes, knishes, and mandel broite, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, when she had lived with her parents in their two-bedroom apartment on the third floor. It was a time when daughters lived at home until they were married, passing their time and learning those necessary household functions that, once mastered, identified them as a serious matrimonial prospect. By the age of twenty-six, however, Mimi figured she had waited long enough and one fine day, accompanied by two suitcases of clothing, fourteen cartons of books, and one leather-bound doctoral thesis, she moved to her own apartment in West Los Angeles. She had prayed mightily for a peaceful exodus, but Sarah’s analysis had proven correct: That as long as Rivka Zilber lived, her daughter might be allowed to fold her tent, but she would never be able to steal silently away. ONETopanga Canyon, Spring 1984 Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before settling on the blue wool gabardine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gentians that refused to bloom for her in the parched southern California climate. A bitter aftertaste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspiration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its underslip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insisted it was more a bleat. Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipulation, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house. Plowing through the traffic with tight-jawed determination, Mimi achieved the forty-minute drive between Topanga and her mother’s apartment in less than thirty, numbed by the realization that she had made this journey with no recollection of having driven here. But then, surviving on the Ventura Freeway in a state of mental paralysis was child’s play compared to what awaited her upstairs. Just keep calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, try to be nice. It was a mantra Mimi had been chanting to herself for years and it was no coincidence that she was most often parked in this very spot when chanting it. It took some energy to climb from the car, follow the line of junipers leading to the foyer, and then take the stairs to the second floor. Pausing on the landing, Mimi considered how much the building reminded her of an aging woman trying desperately to retain a semblance of youth. Not so unlike myself, she reflected. Stepping into the hallway, she was immediately hit with the odors of pollo con arroz and enchiladas. Once upon a time it had been blintzes, knishes, and mandel broite, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, when she had lived with her parents in their two-bedroom apartment on the third floor. It was a time when daughters lived at home until they were married, passing their time and learning those necessary household functions that, once mastered, identified them as a serious matrimonial prospect. By the age of twenty-six, however, Mimi figured she had waited long enough and one fine day, accompanied by two suitcases of clothing, fourteen cartons of books, and one leather-bound doctoral thesis, she moved to her own apartment in West Los Angeles. She had prayed mightily for a peaceful exodus, but Sarah’s analysis had proven correct: That as long as Rivka Zilber lived, her daughter might be allowed to fold her tent, but she would never be able to steal silently away. ONETopanga Canyon, Spring 1984 Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before settling on the blue wool gabardine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gentians that refused to bloom for her in the parched southern California climate. A bitter aftertaste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspiration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its underslip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insisted it was more a bleat. Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipulation, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house. Plowing through the traffic with tight-jawed determination, Mimi achieved the forty-minute drive between Topanga and her mother’s apartment in less than thirty, numbed by the realization that she had made this journey with no recollection of having driven here. But then, surviving on the Ventura Freeway in a state of mental paralysis was child’s play compared to what awaited her upstairs. Just keep calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, try to be nice. It was a mantra Mimi had been chanting to herself for years and it was no coincidence that she was most often parked in this very spot when chanting it. It took some energy to climb from the car, follow the line of junipers leading to the foyer, and then take the stairs to the second floor. Pausing on the landing, Mimi considered how much the building reminded her of an aging woman trying desperately to retain a semblance of youth. Not so unlike myself, she reflected. Stepping into the hallway, she was immediately hit with the odors of pollo con arroz and enchiladas. Once upon a time it had been blintzes, knishes, and mandel broite, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, when she had lived with her parents in their two-bedroom apartment on the third floor. It was a time when daughters lived at home until they were married, passing their time and learning those necessary household functions that, once mastered, identified them as a serious matrimonial prospect. By the age of twenty-six, however, Mimi figured she had waited long enough and one fine day, accompanied by two suitcases of clothing, fourteen cartons of books, and one leather-bound doctoral thesis, she moved to her own apartment in West Los Angeles. She had prayed mightily for a peaceful exodus, but Sarah’s analysis had proven correct: That as long as Rivka Zilber lived, her daughter might be allowed to fold her tent, but she would never be able to steal silently away. Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before settling on the blue wool gabardine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gentians that refused to bloom for her in the parched southern California climate. A bitter aftertaste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspiration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its underslip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insisted it was more a bleat. Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipulation, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house.
Topics/Categories:
Eastern Europe, Family History, Grief, Jewish-American Fiction, Literature, Shtetl Life, Women
Genre:
General Women's Studies - Interest
Type of Work:
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Original Publish Date:
03/15/2001
Formats:
Paperback
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