I want a detailed and unfiltered report. I wanted it so badly. I wanted to discover what it was about me that made my days just an endless chain of same, of boring predictability, of getting nowhere, ever

My name is Riva Bergman, I have four kids, I’m a school librarian, I hate tomatoes. I’m not sure if I need to punctuate this and I’m just rambling so I can fill up ten lines on this unlined paper so this graphologist can analyze the dots on my i’s and the crosses on my t’s and the slant of my letters and conclude that I’m a kind and refined person who is sensitive to people’s needs and in touch with my feelings and also very creative. Because of course he won’t publicly announce that I’m a dimwit and a coward and that I have zero confidence or ambition, even if it’s the truth, which is why I find this whole handwriting analysis business stupid. It’s great for teens who love hearing how amazing they are, but — hey, I’m done, ten lines. Goodbye.

I turned my paper facedown and shook my wrist. Around the table, heads were bent, pens flying over paper. For a moment, I thought I should rip up my paper and write a new paragraph — would this graphologist guy be insulted by what I’d written? He’d assured us that it didn’t matter what we wrote, he wouldn’t even read it.

I shrugged. Who cared, really? It had been Miriam’s idea to call down a graphologist to our parents’ anniversary party. Personally, I thought the point of a family party was to sit around and schmooze with your siblings, and enjoy a good meal, of course. But Miriam argued that we needed a program, and since nobody offered other ideas, and she actually got this David Karr’s phone number and called him, and she was sponsoring it; did we have a choice but to cooperate?

The waiter brought in dessert. I stood up and went to the kitchen to cut up some fruit for my diabetic father (kind, sensitive to people’s needs). When I returned, Karr was collecting the papers.

He started with my parents. “I want the truth,” my father warned him. “Don’t tell me how amazing I am, tell me what’s wrong with me, why was I punished that I can’t have dessert.”

We laughed, but of course Karr said only positive things. And my father didn’t seem perturbed; he reveled in the announcement that he was “a deep thinker, people savvy, and strongly principled.” He nodded along with the sophisticated analysis, forgetting to demand the bad and ugly.

After my mother’s report (ambitious, creative, courageous, unstoppable — admittedly all true), Karr went in random order. My brothers kibitzed around, teasing each other about hidden strengths and saintly powers: “Hey, look at that, you got all of Tatty’s genes, when are you becoming a lawyer?”

When the graphologist reached Ari’s paper, everyone perked up, eager to discover the secrets hidden in Miriam’s husband’s handwriting. What was it about him? About them — Miriam and Ari as a couple. Created a designer brand in men’s fashion that became “the” name. Involved in endless projects and events, traveling the world for various causes. Our family’s power couple. And so cool about life, totally chilled. Like they had no idea how stress even looked. Take this graphologist — you’d think Miriam had nothing more important going on in her life than booking entertainment for an anniversary party.

“Suave,” Karr started. He paused, brought the paper closer to his eyes and whistled. “Man, intense one, here, eh?” He coughed. “Okay, so I see a deep understanding of mental patterns. A person who’s not afraid of risk but also not impulsive. There’s — there’s a lot going on in that brain, a lot of activity.”

“Einstein,” my brother Avigdor muttered.

Miriam chuckled. Ari gave a lopsided smile, and as Karr continued with the analysis, reached for the seltzer. His face didn’t darken or brighten, just registered mild interest, like it was somebody else being dissected. Suave alright.

As he moved along to my sister Bracha, I got a text from my friend Tziporah. When can we talk about the shoe store? Need your creative input for some setup stuff.

Not now, I replied. I’m about to find out who I am.

Huh?!?!

Lol, nothing, ttyl.

Karr called my name.

Instinctively, I tensed. Don’t analyze my handwriting.

I watched Karr hold up the paper and squint. I fidgeted. I’d heard enough that evening to realize that although this graphologist cleverly made every person sound like a success story, he knew what he was talking about. Even if he did leave out the juicy stuff, whatever he said was unquestionably true.

What was he going to say about me? Quiet? No, he’d call it refined, or introverted. Laid back — which euphemism would he use for that?

“Nice handwriting,” Karr started. “Neat and structured. That’s an organized brain. Levelheaded, uncluttered.”

“Our master librarian,” Miriam contributed.

Thanks. Thanks, sister, really, thank you so much.

The analysis was short. An exaggeration of my creativity; lots of “kindness” fluff, terms like “easygoing” and “mellow” and a bunch of other synonyms for the word boring.

I knew I was blushing furiously. Of all the ridiculous ideas in the world, a graphologist. I glared at Miriam. But of course, my sister was ecstatic. And why not, accomplished person that she was. Got her praises publicly sung.

“Really, Mr. Karr,” my brother Mordechai grumbled. “You’re being crazy nice to everyone. Can you say some real stuff, too? I don’t mind blushing a bit. Go ahead and tell it like it is.”

Karr smiled. “Listen, if you really want a detailed and unfiltered report, I could do it for you, but not on the spot. I can take home your paper and write you up a report. It would cost you 30 bucks, if you’re cool with that.”

“Deal.”

“Hey, I want a report,” my brother Avigdor piped up. “Can I get one too?”

“I can do it for whoever asks,” Karr replied. “Uh, here.” He reached for an empty plate from the table and blew crumbs off it. “Whoever wants me to send them a report, I’ll pass around a paper, write your name and email address. It’s $30, you can put your money in this plate.”

The plate went around the table, Karr’s collection box, and when it reached my place, I paused.

I want a detailed and unfiltered report. I wanted it so badly. I wanted to discover what it was about me that made my days just an endless chain of same, of boring predictability, of getting nowhere, ever.

I snapped to get Chaim’s attention. His eyebrows knotted, and I understood his question. Thirty dollars to find out who you are? Are you insane? You don’t take cleaning help, you don’t get manicures, you don’t buy yourself lunch, ever. A handwriting report, seriously?

But I was serious. It was suddenly mightily important to me, more than clean bathrooms and pretty nails.

Please? I mouthed.

He shrugged, as in, Do as you please, I totally don’t get you.

I took out my wallet, withdrew a ten and a twenty, and dropped them onto the plate.