A season is set for everything . . . a time for seeking and a time for losing, a time for keeping and a time for discarding.
—Ecclesiastes 3:6
North Coast of California, 1985
Jasmine and I were looking for Bart, and we knew in advance he wouldn’t be living anywhere nice.
“Mom,” Jaz said, “I’m only along to make sure you don’t get into trouble. I mean, after all these years, why would I want to see the sperm donor?” That’s what she called her father, who hadn’t crossed her path since second grade.
Jaz walked ahead of me in full paramedic gear, including steel-tipped boots. She was carrying emergency rations, oxygen, and antibiotics––just in case.
This was more than a hike.
*
The rabbi had said I needed a get, a Jewish divorce, in order to break my spiritual connection with Bart and get on with my life.
“Look, Aurora,” she said. “What you’re telling me is that this ex-husband of yours still has his hands all over you.”
“Well, not exactly hands,” I said. “I haven’t seen him in years.”
“My reference is figurative. He still has you in his clutches.”
The rabbi was short and stocky with freckles and frizzy red hair. She kept her tiny kipa, her religious head covering, locked down with a dozen bobby pins.
“It’s true,” I told her. “He was a painter, you know. He used to paint my picture all the time. Well, I think he’s doing it again. I think he’s out there somewhere, painting me. When I look in the mirror, I feel like my face is not my own.”
The rabbi was wheeling her bicycle out of...
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