Have I mentioned that my family’s insane lately? Tonight after yoga I stopped at my favorite little market in my old neighborhood to pick up dinner. Across the street I spied my mother, her sister and her contractor dining outside. I crossed over to say hello. My mother, oddly enough, was very well-behaved. Her sister, not so much. You see, Aunt Bea isn’t talking to me because of a Ketubah.
Before the wedding she asked if I’d like a ketubah for a gift. Knowing I wanted a ketubah but that I didn’t really want to pay for one I told her yes and she told me to choose one. I went to the National Museum of American Jewish History and looked at the ketubot adorning the walls. I wrote down the names of a few that I liked and they directed me to their website where I could see more. I found a beautiful ketubah and showed it to Boyfiend. Even though he wasn’t so much into the idea of a Jewish marriage contract as art, he liked my choice and agreed to it. I called Aunt Bea and told her that we wanted the ketubah Summer of Joy by the artist Nishima Kaplan. I directed her to the website where she saw it. She said it was lovely, said she’d order it and I thanked her.
A few weeks later she called with some questions. She wanted to know the style of text we wanted, parents names, Hebrew names, witness names, the rabbi’s name and all of the other things that make the ketubah specific. We went over everything and she said I’d have it in a few weeks. After we returned from the honeymoon my mother asked if we’d received it yet and I told her that we hadn’t. A few days later Aunt Bea called to see if we’d received it. We still hadn’t. A few days later the ketubah arrived. I excitedly cut through the tape and pulled it out of the tube. It was the wrong one.
The names were correct and the text was correct, but the artwork itself was completely different than what we’d asked for. Since each ketubah is personalized, it wasn’t something we could return or exchange. I didn’t know what to do, so I decided to wait. When my mother called a few days later I explained what had happened and told her I hadn’t yet figured out what to say to Bea. Of course, because she’s ten instead of sixty-two, Mommie Dearest immediately called and tattled to Bea who freaked out.
Bea called my house in a rage, yelling at me and yelling at Boyfiend. “What do you mean it’s the wrong one? It’s the exact one you told me you wanted. I got you [Insert incorrect name here] by Nishima Kaplan.” She yelled for a while and I told her that while the name she quoted was not the one we discussed, the ketubah that arrived was by the same artist. I lied that we liked it just as much as the one we’d originally wanted. I told her it was lovely and that I couldn’t wait to have it framed and we promptly sent her a thank you note.
She hasn’t spoken to me since. In fact, she’s gone out of her way to show me how displeased she is by blatantly ignoring me whenever our paths cross. Earlier in the summer on my way home from yoga I passed her and my mother eating at an outdoor cafe. I said hello to them both and my mom invited me to sit and join them. I accepted. When I sat down, Bea angled her chair to ensure that her back was turned to me. She literally turned her back on me so I’d get the idea that I wasn’t welcome. I felt incredibly uncomfortable and left a few minutes later.
Meg, her daughter, later told me why Bea isn’t speaking to me. Apparently I didn’t console her enough. Telling her we loved it and sending her a thank you card reiterating how beautiful it was wasn’t enough.
You’d think that, for something so insignificant in the grand scheme of things, time would be enough to heal old wounds. Nope. Tonight she did it again. When I said hello my mother pulled a chair over to the table so I could sit down. Bea moved her chair as far from mine as she could and turned her back on me. She bought me the wrong present, I graciously thanked her for it and the bitch isn’t talking to me. What the hell is that about? It’s been almost six months. It’s like middle school all over again, except it’s my aunt. I stayed for a few minutes and did my best to make polite conversation, but again I was too damn uncomfortable to stay. The woman is sixty-seven years old and couldn’t even pretend to be nice for the contractor’s sake. Grow the fuck up.
