She’d known all along that something was wrong. Was it the lost heirloom?

Miriam

Beth Jacob, the caller ID shrilly announces. Miriam squints at the phone, hovers a finger over the answer key, then firmly places it back on the counter. She waits, tapping her nails against the counter, until the ringing stops.

Why is the school calling? It must be the principal. And it must be about Yehudis.

She won’t, she can’t, not right now, she’s not ready to speak with Mrs. Gewirtzman just yet.

Maybe Yitz will do it?

Yes, Yitz will do it, she decides with a tight nod. Someone has to call the principal back, and it won’t be her, not today.

She acts breezy as she walks back into the dining room, platter of chicken in hand, aiming to keep her tone light, as if the phone call hadn’t shifted the world from its axis, as though her center of gravity hadn’t been upended from the name flashing across her caller ID.

“Yitz, the school just called, I think it was probably Mrs. Gewirtzman. Do you think you can call her back?”

He doesn’t say anything, just evenly pierces a grilled pepper with his fork. He points it at Miriam. “What’s this about?”

She shrugs, wraps herself in a careless air.

“Who knows? Probably nothing. I mean, I’m sure it’s nothing, but can you call her?” The desperation crawls into her words, and she wishes for some of Yitz’s calm.

He gives her a look, the one that tells her he can see straight through her, and she blushes, looking down. She can’t make this call, he can certainly understand that.

Finally, he breaks, takes out his phone, and asks her for the number.

One thing they did agree on: After the fire, their marriage took a hit. Like a crack in the sidewalk in the aftermath of an earthquake, what was barely discernible had morphed into a chasm that grew larger and larger between them.

Maybe it was PTSD; maybe it was all those years of infertility when they longed for a child; maybe they’d never really been compatible to begin with.

Not that any of that was discussed, it was just felt, in the way their daily check-ins trickled, then sputtered out entirely, in the way Yitz stopped bringing home a surprise bouquet every now and then, in the way Miriam no longer asked what he preferred for supper, in the way their anniversary became just another day on the calendar.

Now Miriam feels doomsday descending. Their cold war, born out of her anxiety for Yehudis, has only driven her daughter away.

Miriam knocks on her daughter’s closed bedroom door.

“Yehudis, bubbeleh, the food will get cold if you don’t come down soon.” She hears some supposedly Jewish music blaring from the other side of the door, and she winces. Yitz wouldn’t lose his equanimity over this, she knows. She can picture him shrugging, saying, “This is what teens listen to today.” But far from bringing reassurance, the thought only makes her feel more alone.