ONETopanga Canyon, Spring 1984            Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before set­tling on the blue wool gabar­dine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gen­tians that refused to bloom for her in the parched south­ern Califor­nia climate. A bitter after­taste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspi­ration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its under­slip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insist­ed it was more a bleat.             Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipu­la­tion, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house.            Plowing through the traffic with tight-jawed deter­mination, Mimi achieved the forty-minute drive between Topanga and her moth­er’s apart­ment in less than thirty, numbed by the realiza­tion that she had made this journey with no recol­lection of having driven here. But then, surviv­ing on the Ventura Freeway in a state of mental paraly­sis was child’s play compared to what awaited her up­stairs.             Just keep calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, try to be nice. It was a mantra Mimi had been chanting to herself for years and it was no coinci­dence that she was most often parked in this very spot when chanting it.             It took some energy to climb from the car, follow the line of junipers leading to the foyer, and then take the stairs to the second floor. Pausing on the landing, Mimi consider­ed how much the building reminded her of an aging woman trying desperately to retain a semblance of youth. Not so unlike myself, she reflected. Stepping into the hallway, she was immediate­ly hit with the odors of pollo con arroz and enchi­ladas. Once upon a time it had been blintzes, knishes, and mandel broite, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, when she had lived with her parents in their two-bedroom apart­ment on the third floor. It was a time when daugh­ters lived at home until they were married, passing their time and learning those necessary household functions that, once mastered, identified them as a serious matrimonial prospect. By the age of twenty-six, however, Mimi figured she had waited long enough and one fine day, accompanied by two suitcases of cloth­ing, four­teen cartons of books, and one leath­er-bound doctoral thesis, she moved to her own apartment in West Los Angel­es. She had prayed mightily for a peaceful exodus, but Sarah’s analy­sis had proven cor­rect: That as long as Rivka Zilber lived, her daugh­ter might be allowed to fold her tent, but she would never be able to steal silent­ly away. ONETopanga Canyon, Spring 1984            Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before set­tling on the blue wool gabar­dine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gen­tians that refused to bloom for her in the parched south­ern Califor­nia climate. A bitter after­taste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspi­ration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its under­slip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insist­ed it was more a bleat.             Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipu­la­tion, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house.            Plowing through the traffic with tight-jawed deter­mination, Mimi achieved the forty-minute drive between Topanga and her moth­er’s apart­ment in less than thirty, numbed by the realiza­tion that she had made this journey with no recol­lection of having driven here. But then, surviv­ing on the Ventura Freeway in a state of mental paraly­sis was child’s play compared to what awaited her up­stairs.             Just keep calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, try to be nice. It was a mantra Mimi had been chanting to herself for years and it was no coinci­dence that she was most often parked in this very spot when chanting it.             It took some energy to climb from the car, follow the line of junipers leading to the foyer, and then take the stairs to the second floor. Pausing on the landing, Mimi consider­ed how much the building reminded her of an aging woman trying desperately to retain a semblance of youth. Not so unlike myself, she reflected. Stepping into the hallway, she was immediate­ly hit with the odors of pollo con arroz and enchi­ladas. Once upon a time it had been blintzes, knishes, and mandel broite, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, when she had lived with her parents in their two-bedroom apart­ment on the third floor. It was a time when daugh­ters lived at home until they were married, passing their time and learning those necessary household functions that, once mastered, identified them as a serious matrimonial prospect. By the age of twenty-six, however, Mimi figured she had waited long enough and one fine day, accompanied by two suitcases of cloth­ing, four­teen cartons of books, and one leath­er-bound doctoral thesis, she moved to her own apartment in West Los Angel­es. She had prayed mightily for a peaceful exodus, but Sarah’s analy­sis had proven cor­rect: That as long as Rivka Zilber lived, her daugh­ter might be allowed to fold her tent, but she would never be able to steal silent­ly away. ONETopanga Canyon, Spring 1984            Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before set­tling on the blue wool gabar­dine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gen­tians that refused to bloom for her in the parched south­ern Califor­nia climate. A bitter after­taste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspi­ration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its under­slip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insist­ed it was more a bleat.             Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipu­la­tion, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house.            Plowing through the traffic with tight-jawed deter­mination, Mimi achieved the forty-minute drive between Topanga and her moth­er’s apart­ment in less than thirty, numbed by the realiza­tion that she had made this journey with no recol­lection of having driven here. But then, surviv­ing on the Ventura Freeway in a state of mental paraly­sis was child’s play compared to what awaited her up­stairs.             Just keep calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, try to be nice. It was a mantra Mimi had been chanting to herself for years and it was no coinci­dence that she was most often parked in this very spot when chanting it.             It took some energy to climb from the car, follow the line of junipers leading to the foyer, and then take the stairs to the second floor. Pausing on the landing, Mimi consider­ed how much the building reminded her of an aging woman trying desperately to retain a semblance of youth. Not so unlike myself, she reflected. Stepping into the hallway, she was immediate­ly hit with the odors of pollo con arroz and enchi­ladas. Once upon a time it had been blintzes, knishes, and mandel broite, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, when she had lived with her parents in their two-bedroom apart­ment on the third floor. It was a time when daugh­ters lived at home until they were married, passing their time and learning those necessary household functions that, once mastered, identified them as a serious matrimonial prospect. By the age of twenty-six, however, Mimi figured she had waited long enough and one fine day, accompanied by two suitcases of cloth­ing, four­teen cartons of books, and one leath­er-bound doctoral thesis, she moved to her own apartment in West Los Angel­es. She had prayed mightily for a peaceful exodus, but Sarah’s analy­sis had proven cor­rect: That as long as Rivka Zilber lived, her daugh­ter might be allowed to fold her tent, but she would never be able to steal silent­ly away. Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before set­tling on the blue wool gabar­dine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gen­tians that refused to bloom for her in the parched south­ern Califor­nia climate. A bitter after­taste of coffee rose in her throat; patches of perspi­ration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on the skirt. Its under­slip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, she called it, but Sarah had always insist­ed it was more a bleat.             Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyes to burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipu­la­tion, rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house.