Divine Inheritance
| October 6, 2022The girls don’t seem to take to the ideas that I recount so passionately. There are shuffles and whispers and the occasional giggle
Seven years and I still wonder if I’m getting it right. The conversation, I mean, not the treatment.
Mrs. Brach is back. She’s probably my longest-standing client, and definitely holds the track record for the most varied — and original — issues that she claims need treatment. Every month is something else — jaw pain, trouble sleeping, stiff muscles. Every time she claims the treatments had “done her magic” and the problem has disappeared. And then the next one comes along.
She isn’t really here for any of those reasons. She’s here for the chance to relax, lie back, and close her eyes. And to talk. Before the treatment. After the treatment. Sometimes, during the treatment, too.
“You get a mazel tov, Mrs. Brach, isn’t that right? The bar mitzvah of your…” I want to say einekel, it feels like the right word, but I’m also unsure if it really is, and if Mrs. Brach is the type of person who would pronounce it ai like pain or ei like pie. “Grandson,” I finish lamely.
Mrs. Brach doesn’t notice my discomfiture. She settles on the massage table, lies back with a sigh. “Achhh, that’s better. Yes, yes, the bar mitzvah. It was wonderful, but all those hours in heels… I need you to do your magic again.”
I cradle her right foot in my hand. “So there’s the ankle pain. Is there anything else you’d like me to work on today?”
She waves a hand at the ceiling. “Whatever you see, mamma’le. I trust you. You know what you’re doing.”
I nod, trying not to smile. What I see… I read the foot, it’s my profession, but I’m not a mind reader. Still, I know my customers, and Mrs. Brach never seems to leave disappointed.
“Aside from the heels,” I say. Mrs. Brach appreciates conversation — at least until she falls asleep. “I’m sure it’s a lot of nachas, seeing your grandson reach that stage. It must have been beautiful.” Something cuts at my heart as I speak. But I can’t go there now.
“Of course.” Pink lipstick stretches into a wide smile.
Conversation falters. Is it something I said? Or she’s just tired?
I dip my fingers into the jar of moisturizer. It’s running low; time to restock. Mrs. Brach gives me a tired smile and closes her eyes. I let out a breath and reach for her foot again.
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