What the hell? I walked around the car, shaking with fear and anger, wondering why anyone would have committed such a hostile act. There were no signs of who’d done it, no notes or fuck yous scrawled across the windshield. Only the car, an image of defeat with its collapsed tires. When I couldn’t stand looking at it one more minute, I went in the house and called Triple A. The car, of course, would be taken care of, but I felt, oddly, as if a nail had been driven into my soul, as if I’d been singled out, marked as a victim.
After the car had been picked up by a wrecker to be taken to the Honda dealer a few miles away, I poured myself a cup of coffee and went to my office to work on my blog. I was too out of it to go in the studio. For me, still on Israeli time, it was six in the evening rather than ten in the morning. Unable to concentrate, my mind kept drifting back to the violence that had been perpetrated on my car, an attack that felt personal, like a warning or the intimation of a curse set on me and my family. I was going a little out there, I thought, jetlagged and mentally in another time zone. Better rein myself in. And then my eyes fell on the package from Laura. I reached for a scissor and began to cut it open.
Inside the package, I found tea towels, a blouse, several jars of Gerovital wrinkle defying cream, a sheaf of dusty papers written in Romanian, and beneath the papers … OMG, my fingers scraped against the leather covering of a book and suddenly, without really knowing why, I began to hyperventilate.
I lifted the book out. It was thick and heavy with a very ornate leather cover. Opening it, I saw it was written in Hebrew, back to front, and that lots of the ancient gold-rimmed pages were illustrated with drawings of plants, flowers, parts of the human body. WTF?! I didn’t have to look too closely to realize I was holding the Bukh in my hands. Startled, I laid it down quickly on the desk, and just sat and stared at it.