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Since Jenna has been gone, a few of our friends have surprised me by mentioning that they always admired the way she and I got along. Successive living partners of the same man aren't necessarily expected to become friends, but Jenna made it easy. Of course, first I had to make up my mind whether I wanted to be friends with Rob; by the time I decided that I did, it was more than clear that Jenna was part of the package. When I set about getting to know her, she answered every overture with an eager warmth that flattered me as much as my interest appeared to flatter her. Not liking her would have been impossible. She became much more to me than just part of the Rob package. I soon came to think of her, quite explicitly, as a sort of a younger sister. Now that she's gone, I've discovered that almost everyone I've talked to felt the same.
Everyone has always mentioned how she seemed so much older than she was, and it's true that she did. But I always thought her daredevil enthusiasm had a youthful quality. I remember one cold spring day at Coney Island, waiting with Bryan Cholfin while Jenna and Rob rode the Cyclone with two other friends. As our party emerged from the ride and staggered toward us, Bryan commented, "The only one smiling is Jenna." "That's because Jenna's the only one under 30," I replied. But I didn't let her hear me say that, it would have made her indignant. A couple of years before that Rob and Jenna took my kitty in for ten days while the floors in my apartment were being refinished. Jenna was so delighted she shot at least half a roll of film of him frolicking with their two cats. In my favorite shots, her own bare feet appear at the edges of the frame. Maybe there's nothing particularly youthful about that. I just find it particularly endearing. Jenna was a terrific cook, and she knew it, too, although she was modest about it. I don't recall ever going by her house when she didn't cook dinner, and I don't recall her ever making a dinner that wasn't excellent. She really seemed to enjoy it, as much as she enjoyed collecting and trading clothes. I got a surprising number of cute things from her over the years. "Oh, here," she'd say, stepping away from whatever was on the stove, "This seems like something you might like. It came in a bag of things Claire Eddy got from a thrift store." One night I mentioned I might want something new to wear to that year's SFWA party. She reached into her closet and, poof, pulled out the perfect frock, in exactly my size. How? Who knows? Jenna could just do things like that. I like to remember the satisfaction she took in her formidable culinary and fashion abilities, because I know other areas of her life were not as satisfying. Jenna was my only friend from sf who shared my growing interest in Judaism. During some portion of her patchwork childhood, she had participated regularly in Synagogue life, and somehow it had stuck. A couple of times she attended High Holy Day services with me, and on one of these occasions we stopped to admire a newborn girl. We learned that the baby's name was Talya, and when we were alone again Jenna volunteered that her own Hebrew name, Tali, was similar. The first year she and Rob attended my Passover Seder she amazed me by reciting the Four Questions entirely in Hebrew, but not before insisting on covering her head. Another year, gathering around the Seder table gave me the chance to introduce Jenna and Vanessa to my own younger sister. I got a huge kick out of spending an evening as two pairs of sisters, and from our conversations afterward I think the Felice sisters liked it too. For a third Passover, Jenna's talents played a crucial role. I was making Seder for the first time with my boyfriend Peter. It would be the largest ever, with 16 guests, including both of our mothers, who would be meeting for the first time. The evening arrived, and the guests piled into my tiny new apartment. As usual, Jenna brought a large and delicious homemade kosher-for-Passover flourless cake. We truly appreciated its value only after she left, along with the other guests. We'd been so caught up in making the Seder we'd forgotten to supply ourselves with bread substitutes for the coming week. "Where's Jenna's cake?" we'd ask each other daily, savoring each piece even as we tried to make it last. Much as I enjoyed Jenna's company, it became increasingly difficult to get together with her. "I know, I've been really incommunicado," she e-mailed me last summer, although I hadn't chided her, "… my life is in such turmoil I'd be hard-pressed to give you a good reason *why* I have such a hard time calling you back. I don't call anyone back." She suggested we meet for dinner in the neighborhood one night soon "with RK or not, as necessary." But it never happened. The next and last time I saw Jenna, before I saw her at the hospital, that is, was at my wedding in January. By the time we finally got to the dancing Rob had already said goodbye, and Vanessa seemed to have gone as well. "Do you need to leave?" I asked her, gesturing across a section of the room. "I'm with you," she signaled back, pointing emphatically first at herself and then at me. Later when we did say goodbye, she promised we would get together soon. But we won't. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After the first High Holy Days service we went to together, she told me she had remembered all the words to the oseh shalom. These days I cry each time I hear it, remembering her saying that. In my congregation we sing it to a solemn melody at the end of the Mourner's Kaddish, and translate it: "May the Source of peace in the high heavens send peace to those who mourn and comfort to all who are bereaved; and let us say: amen."
Amen.
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