Shifra gets a package from her mother in the States. Some makeup an old moldy paperback about Yiddishe cooking that was supposed to be funny but is totally not sheet music with the chords of a song she used to play and the newest bestseller her closest friend from high school had just written.

Shifra hadn’t seen Dori in years 30 to be exact but somehow Shifra’s mother thinks this will wake her daughter up out of her crazy Jewish slumber that her mother calls “the lobotomy.”

This was supposed to be you! screams her mother’s between-the-lines message. It’s a kind of plain book; the book flap explaining the theme something about a little girl. On the other flap in back is a picture Dori who basically looks exactly the same only there’s a little bit of a faraway not-so-glittery look in her eye like somewhere along the way a light was snuffed out.

The last thing Shifra remembered about Dori was Dori’s father’s funeral and Dori’s mother her right leg in traction in some private room in a downtown Manhattanhospital. Novels and glossy magazines spread across her bed and Dori’s mother looking as she always did like she was in the middle of the New York Times crossword puzzle over cups of coffee at her sunlit kitchen table on leisurely Sunday mornings.

Dori’s father was shomer Shabbos though at the time Shifra had no idea what that meant. His marriage to Dori’s mom was his second marriage made on the understanding that she would keep the house kosher. All Shifra knew was that Dori’s family had a big meal on Friday nights with Kiddush in the huge dining room with the large Andy Warhol original behind the father’s chair.

And Dori had her own life private Protestant school during the week Shabbos on Friday night lacrosse games on Sundays.

Then one day the bug bitDoris’s mom. “We’re moving to Bernardsville” she declared.

Now Bernardsville was far from the small Jewish city Dori’s family had lived in for years. A very long drive into the woods ofNew Jerseywhere tenth-generation Americans hung their flags and built their homes.

Dori’s mother felt like their family had finally arrived. They were ready to move to Bernardsville and finally live that dream.

But one thing was forgotten — they were Jews.

They sent all their furniture ahead to the perfect home in the perfect wood setting. A fireplace in every room. Quiet and serene. Their dream of being the all-American family had finally come true.

That night Dori’s mom and dad headed out to their new home. Dori’s dad had his misgivings he just wanted to please his wife but realized he was leaving his Jewishness behind.

Suddenly on Route 57 something happened. They didn’t know if it was a heart attack or a bump in the road but the car swerved off the road.

Dori’s father never made it to Bernardsville.

And when Shifra heard that story she’d understood it somewhere in her bones though she couldn’t say why at the time. But she just felt like G-d didn’t want to let him go too far.