“Don’t let my baby do rodeo,” are the last words Maya Rubin hears from the Mon­tana-bred birth moth­er before she zooms off into the dark New Jer­sey night with the baby’s father, a man who rides bulls for a liv­ing. The baby is left in the care of Maya and her hus­band Alex, as well as Alex’s par­ents. All — like the author, Boris Fish­man — are immi­grants from Russia.

Even as the Rubin fam­i­ly flour­ish­es in their adopt­ed coun­try, the land they left behind infus­es their lives. Maya, who as a stu­dent had dreams of open­ing a Russ­ian-themed café, now works as a med­ical assis­tant, her ideals lost in sub­ur­bia. Still, when she stews car­rots and hon­ey into tsimmes, she brings home­sick tears to the eyes of the peo­ple who feast at her table. Alex has also end­ed up with a life he nev­er want­ed, work­ing in his father’s import busi­ness, which has ten­ta­cles stretch­ing back to the old country.

When young Max begins act­ing strange­ly, eat­ing grass and div­ing into icy streams, sleep­ing in a tent in the back yard and assem­bling a col­lec­tion of wild grass­es, Maya sus­pects a piece of his soul still resides in his snowy birth­place, too. After a few stabs at res­o­lu­tion in New Jer­sey — one vis­it to a for­tune teller, anoth­er to a psy­chol­o­gist — the fam­i­ly seeks redemp­tion on a road trip to Montana.

The book is told in the third per­son, clos­est to Maya’s per­spec­tive. Maya’s thoughts stew and boil, much like the food she once delight­ed in cook­ing; they are pep­pered with unre­solved ques­tions and salt­ed with unsolved quan­daries. Maya and Alex seem unsuit­ed to each oth­er but nev­er talk about it. Alex’s over­bear­ing par­ents are left behind in New Jer­sey, but nev­er to grow in their rela­tion­ship to their chil­dren. Even Max, the cen­ter of everyone’s world, remains anony­mous. Don’t Let My Baby Do Rodeo is a deep dive into the psy­che of dis­placed and lone­ly souls. There is beau­ty in the cold of lone­li­ness, and read­ers will appre­ci­ate this book for its unapolo­getic chill.