The Deflowering of Rhona Lipshitz
Copyright © 2012 Lisa Lieberman Doctor
In loving memory of my parents, Louis and Rebecca Dean.
And for my children, Andrew and Jamie, who fill my life with
love and light.
Wednesday, August 11, 1971
If Millie Rosenblatt hadn’t bitten into that empty frankfurter bun without realizing the boiled meat had quietly slipped to the floor and rolled under the table, I might never have left my husband Stuie.
Millie and I had a lot more in common than one might suspect, particularly if one were basing an opinion on outward appearances. Where she was somewhere past fifty, I was barely eighteen, where she was short, rotund and brassy blonde, I was tall and slender with dark brown hair. But we shared more important qualities than looks. What united Millie and me was the fact that we truly believed we were taking huge bites out of life when the sad truth was, our lives—much like Millie’s roll—were actually quite empty. There was no real meat for either of us to taste, but no matter. We were determined to conceal what was missing with mustard and sauerkraut and convince ourselves that everything was totally fine.