Immersion

The sun has finally settled behind the buildings of Brooklyn, and the soft swirls of dusk have dissolved into the sharp black of a winter’s night. She climbs out of the tub, ensuring she’s brushed off all the soap suds. She dons her robe and combs her curls with care. Tonight, she skips the usual routine, makeup and lotion and perfume, those tiny bites of feminine delights. Instead, she clips each bare fingernail and files them to neat squares, taking time to even out the edges. She looks down at her toes: still spotless and unpolished from last month, no need to fuss with them. She eyes herself in the mirror and sees only betrayal. Month after month, she bleeds, and her husband simply shakes his head when he finds out. In Orthodox Judaism, it is a mitzvah to bear children, and despite trying for the last 3 years, the lifespan of their marriage, they have failed their families, their community, their Hashem.

She was almost certain that this time was going to be a success. She even underwent an ultrasound and heard a heartbeat, horses’ hooves galloping greedily. But then, her womb blossomed, and her own heart broke along with her baby’s. So she made a reservation at the mikvah, to start fresh, to be close to Hashem for a precious few moments. She recalls her girlhood, watching her mother leave after sunset for the mikvah. She once asked her mother if she enjoyed it, and her mother responded, “I don’t just like the mikvah, shana punim,I love it. It brings me closer to Hashem and reminds me of my responsibilities as a Jewish woman.” She had admired her mother for taking such pride in her duties and willingly abiding by the faith, even with all the other responsibilities of raising a large Orthodox family. She had fantasized about her own adulthood, with her own michpacha: a child at her feet, a child at the breast, children at play amongst themselves. These days, going to the mikvah felt less like a blessing and more like a lashing, a reminder of her bereavement.

In the last few months, she had become more aggressive about preparing for the ritual. She still followed the basic rules: enter clean, no makeup, no jewelry. But recently, she found herself scouring her heels, scraping her calluses until the skin was rubbed raw. She started using a toothpick to clean every speck of dirt out from under her fingernails, welcoming each sting of pain. She flosses until her gums bled, spitting pink into the sink. She wonders whether the extra time and care spent will convince Hashem that she is worthy of a family.

Tonight, she finishes scrubbing herself of her impurities and dresses simply, in a long black skirt that brushes her ankles and a long-sleeved black T-shirt. She covers her hair not with a sheitel, as she would during the daytime, her favorite wig a shiny curtain of chestnut brown, but instead tugs on a simple black baseball cap and pulls it low over her face. She yanks on her socks and shrugs her arms into her puffer coat. As she approaches the front door and pushes her feet into a pair of black sneakers, she eyes her husband, who’s splayed out sideways on the couch in the living room, watching a basketball game. A small hopeful smile passes between them, and she leaves the apartment, closing the door gently behind her.

She takes the stairs to the lobby instead of waiting for the elevator, and encounters a shock of bitter cold when she emerges from the building. Wind burns her face as she turns left, her still wet hair electric from the freezing temperatures. She ducks her head low, shoving her hands into her coat pockets and walking quickly. The mikvah is only a few blocks away.

Overhead, tree limbs dance bare, skeletons waving her along the path. Her breath materializes before her, blooms of heavy fog. The sidewalks are empty, save for her and the trees, the streetlights casting a ghastly glow. Around her, the apartment buildings are lit up with life, families inside having dinner, doing homework, watching TV. She averts her eyes from the warmth inside, instead focusing on her feet navigating the uneven pavement.

Tonight, she has to force herself to ring the bell. She shivers in the cold, waiting for the door to unlock. Once she hears the click, she pulls on the handle with a bare hand, nearly recoiling from the cold metal, and steps inside. The lobby is warm and brightly lit, a welcome respite from the tundra outside. Just past the entrance, an attendant greets her and graciously takes her coat. She recognizes this attendant from past visits, an elderly woman wearing a light blue turban, and a matching robe and disposable gloves. The woman smiles sweetly at her and gently nods her head, indicating to follow her down the hall. They walk together along a carpeted corridor that resembles a hotel hallway, softly lit wall sconces mounted in even intervals along the walls, a row of closed doors on either side. They stop near the end of the hall and the attendant opens a door on the right, using her free hand to gesture a welcome. The woman steps into the room, which resembles a modern hotel bathroom. She has done this so many times, she can navigate the space blind. A plush white robe dangles from a hanger hooked on a brushed chrome fixture on the wall. A simple shower runs along the back, and opposite sits a vanity sink with all the cleansing necessities: shampoo, soap, clippers. Two small wooden stools sit between, one stacked with freshly folded white towels. The attendant leaves the room and gently closes the door, allowing the woman to prepare.

She usually moves quickly through the steps, but tonight she feels as though she’s being dragged through quicksand. She undresses and rinses in the shower. She emerges and carefully puts on her robe, running her fingers along the soft terrycloth. As if in a trance, she hovers her finger over the button on the wall, which would signal for the attendant to return. For a brief moment she hesitates: if I don’t do this, if I stop this process now, will it just turn into a bad dream? Then she remembers: without the mikvah, the sacred cleansing, she and her husband can’t try again. She pushes the button, cuddles her robe around her and sits on the free wooden stool, legs crossed, awaiting the attendant’s return.

The attendant slowly opens the door and peeks in, eyebrows raised. They nod at each other. The woman stands and they walk together to the small room that houses the mikvah. The mikvah always reminds her of the jacuzzis she enjoyed while on vacation with her family as a child, the eight of them barely fitting in the small whirlpool, the jets lulling them to relaxation. She takes a quiet moment and then disrobes, knowing the attendant has averted her eyes. She quietly asks the attendant to ensure there are no loose hairs draped along her back, and the attendant gently brushes away a few stray strands. The woman then places one scrubbed foot in the water and counts the seven steps down to the belly of the mikvah.

She inhales and sinks below the water’s surface, crossing her arms across her womb, as she does every month when she is tumah, impure. Tonight, the mikvah envelops her as though she is suspended in a womb herself, cocooned by the warm fluid, by shelter and protection and pure love. She emerges and exhales, sensing the generations of women who came before her, their joy and pain, all the lost children, the lost hope, the found family, the miracles. She whispers her prayers under her breath, the mikvah water running down her cheeks mixing with her own hot tears. She immerses twice more, and her eyes remain closed, but she hears the attendant say “Kosher” with each immersion, verbally affirming that the ritual has been successful. For the last step, she always conjures a novel personal prayer, a wish list for the future. Tonight, she prays for her family, for her fertility, for all the unborn babies and unfulfilled mothers of the world. She whispers the words, lips barely moving, eyes quiet and closed. She then flutters her lids open and takes a moment to seal in the prayer. She then ascends the steps and approaches the fluffy towel awaiting her, arms of the attendant outstretched on either side holding the towel’s edges, her face obscured by the blinding white. She allows herself to be enshrouded by the attendant and the towel, and holds herself tightly when the attendant pulls back her gnarled hands. She hears the attendant silently slip away. She is pure once again, taharah, and she dresses with care. On her walk home, the warm honey glow of the mikvah radiates around her, illuminating the path ahead.