Boruch rings again and hears heavy footsteps coming down the front hall. Daddy swings it open, stepping back to look at Boruch. “Hey, look what the wind blew in,” he says, but there is something flat in his voice.

“Straight from the Sunshine State,” Judy nearly shouts and Boruch expects Daddy to correct her, maybe even chuckle, “No, that’s Florida, not California.”

Daddy says nothing.

Boruch steps in and is aware of feeling disappointed before he knows why. It takes a moment for him to see the mirrors. The foyer — that’s what Mommy called it — used to have a single mirror, too small to be useful. Now he feels like he’s in the dressing room at Saks, big mirrors and lights all around.

Judy, the bustling type, is following him, “Regular, right? No sugar?” She’s proud that she knows this. “We have this machine that does latté too if you want.”

Latté! Daddy never drank more than one coffee a day, instant, out of a huge, glass Maxwell House jar.

Whatever.

“How are Miriam and the kids?” she is walking down the hall with him. Mee-ree-am, she says, and it irks him.

He swings into his childhood bedroom, unsettled by a large Indy 500 poster on the wall.

Judy is in the doorway, smiling brightly. “Yes, we put that up when my eineklach came by on their midwinter break, you know — I wanted to give the room a younger feel. I ran to Target, I wanted something with sports. They’re into baseball, I think, but this was the closest I could find.”

She lowers her voice, classified information on the way. “You know, your father isn’t one for arts, he thinks it’s silly, but I figured this was okay, it was, like, 5.99.”

Boruch is quiet.

“Anyhow,” she says gaily, “I just came to tell you to hang your things in the hallway closet if you don’t mind, your visit was kind of last minute and the closet here is full of other stuff.”

There is something in her voice. Other stuff. He nods, desperate for her to leave. When she’s finally gone he purposefully closes the door after her, and opens the closet.

The clothing is bundled together, stuffed into the space as if with urgency. Her Tehillim and the pile of notebooks in which she’d meticulously done her bookkeeping are there as well, along with a stack of picture frames, face down.

Mommy!

He stops and tries, as so often happens — usually when he’s dozing off at night — to conjure up an image of his mother; not the mother of two years ago, the thin ghost with the helpless eyes at the end of a horrible journey, but the mother of watermelon ices and crossword puzzles and the ability to remove a splinter with surgical precision.

He changes into a clean shirt. He decides he’ll take them out to Manhattan, he’ll insist on it, he’ll call for a car and do it right. Daddy will enjoy it.

Mike’s Bistro. Maybe Reserve Cut. His son Shloimy knows these things, he’ll text him.

Daddy looks up as Boruch strides into the den. “Yes?” he smiles.

Boruch has always been treated as a bit of a celebrity on these visits, his parents hanging on to his every word. His mother would listen wide-eyed as he told her about different real-estate projects, Daddy’s face slack with undisguised pride as Boruch spoke about his daf yomi shiur, the challenge of Bava Basra. His jokes earned automatic laughter, his opinions instantly accepted as fact.

“Daddy, let’s go have a good meal,” Boruch says, “I’m going to call a car and we’ll all go to Manhattan, somewhere nice.”

Judy gives him a sharp glance, detecting an air of superiority, perhaps. Daddy looks bewildered, a child trying to remember the correct answer on a test.

“Nonsense,” Judy speaks quickly. “We have a delicious supper on the way, exactly the way your father likes it. I made a nice salmon and I’m in the middle of fixing a salad.”

“Yes,” Daddy says, now that he knows what he’s supposed to say. “We have a restaurant right here.” He is back to being hearty.

During the year and a half between Mommy’s passing and Judy’s arrival, Daddy ate supper at the deli on Main Street, the same supper every night — burger and fries. He would speak to Boruch before he went to sleep, and he’d always make the same joke: “Either Dr. Solomon is wrong about my heart and at least I enjoyed a good meal, or Dr. Solomon is right and I’ll get to be reunited with Mommy soon. The way I see it, it’s win-win.”

He would laugh then, pleased with the philosophy; a more sophisticated way of saying he was lonely.

A man who could eat a burger and fries every evening for eighteen months straight wasn’t a man to get excited about salmon and salad.

***

Boruch hadn’t expected him to get married again. According to Daddy, it wasn’t his plan either. Judy was very proud of herself, actually. “I’m from Brooklyn,” she liked to say, “and we’re used to saying what we want.”

She’d heard about Daddy from Uncle Benny, who’d done business with her deceased husband, an insurance man. “I wasn’t looking for an electrician, really, but I heard he was nice and pleasant. And he’s handsome too!”

Judy drove to Passaic one afternoon and came to the house on the pretense of needing an electrician.

Daddy said that he was basically retired, and she said, of course, she just had a few questions.

He made her tea and they chatted a bit. Her husband had passed away and that was something Daddy understood. Loneliness.

Rabbi Spector called the next day to formally suggest the shidduch. They met a few more times before Daddy called Boruch, all apologetic delight, to say he’d met someone and who knows and mensch tracht and someone to drive him to the doctor ha ha.

***

“Lots of young people are in real estate these days,” Judy says emphatically as Boruch tries to tell Daddy about the Plumtree Project. Daddy must be interested in the zoning change and what they’d done with the retail space, but Judy isn’t done. “It’s funny, my nephew isn’t the sharpest bulb in the pack, if you know what I mean,” she winks, “he was always being tutored and what have you, but he went into real estate and he does well. Who would have thought?”

“And he wasn’t even the brightest bulb in the pack,” Boruch says admiringly, hating himself. Daddy does that thing where he looks down as if to check his shoelaces.

***

Monday morning they go to shul together, the early minyan where Daddy’s friends like to knock back Johnny Walker Red Label — there’s no difference between that and Blue Label, they insist — but Daddy doesn’t drink that day. He doesn’t feel so hot, he says. He doesn’t mind, really, to just sit back and watch his friends greet Boruch, and read their minds: So nice for Manny, can finally smile again, the new wife and now the son came to visit from California, good for him, a bit of nachas.

Gruber actually says it. “Manny, does the heart good to see your boy here.”

They walk home from shul, passing homes that, to Boruch’s mind, are real houses. No one has sat around the dining-room table eating almonds and deliberating with a self-important architect about whether to aim for a Spanish Colonial look or to go all out and try Storybook style, the turrets and thatched roofs of fairy tales meant to usher some of that magic into ordinary life. These are homes bought with borrowed money, accepted as they were, front porches permanently sagging from families gathered on long summer nights. Boruch feels cleansed by the crisp, cold morning air, the hard gray sky like an expressionless face, none of the sunny pretense of California.

Judy has set the table for breakfast, real dishes, and milk in a red jug with a picture of a smiling cow. Mommy hadn’t done that, but Mommy had the paper out of its wrap and neatly folded by Daddy’s seat so that before he went off to work he could complain about the Yankees, the clowns at the UN, and the weather.

Judy prefers conversation. She says this brightly, mildly reproachful, as if expressing a preference for red wine, sensing once again that Boruch thinks his father should be left alone. She’s perched on the chair across from them, chatty as a morning radio-show host. Boruch slouches carelessly and plays with the scrambled eggs as she tells them that her daughter in London has table manners like you wouldn’t believe. As if to convince Boruch, Judy sits up straight and mocks how British royalty sit at the table. “I’m a Brooklyn girl and believe me, no one taught us these things,” she says, delighted with her own wit.

Daddy is looking down.

After breakfast, Judy stands in the kitchen doorway with a siddur and says each of the birchos hashachar out loud so they can say Amen. Mommy hadn’t davened with a siddur, but she used to offer a steady stream of Yiddish requests to her Creator, speaking with Him as if with another person in the room.

Daddy doesn’t work much anymore but he enjoys poking around in the shop, which is what he calls the empty room in the basement, fixing old hair-dryers and broken lamps people drop off. He restores them and they go to poor families.

Boruch follows him down to the basement. “Judy brightened the place up a bit,” Daddy says as he stretches to reach the string hanging from the bare light bulb. A large sign says, “Manny’s Place,” and there is a sleek leather chair where the worn workbench used to be. There is also a birdcage holding a garishly colored fake bird, and a new lamp on the wall over the table. Boruch notes that Daddy doesn’t turn it on.

“Nice,” Boruch volunteers.

“Nice,” Daddy repeats, then he says it again before shaking his head and pitching forward. He lands with a thud, his arms spread out as if making the snow angels they used to make in the winter, when Boruch was a child. It’s silent for a minute, then Boruch screams and runs up the stairs, “Call an ambulance, something happened.”

***

Later, Boruch will feel silly about how hysterical he’d been: Judy is the composed one, calling Hatzolah and sitting her husband up, urging him to swallow aspirin.

The new neighbor, Barber, a Hatzolah member, is there in under two minutes. Daddy is awake, just a bit dizzy, but Barber insists that he get checked.

Daddy tries joking on the way to the hospital, asking Barber — Boruch can tell Daddy doesn’t remember his name — where he’d gotten such cute kids, Wal-Mart or Target?

“Okay, we’ll just get you settled,” says the round-faced emergency room doctor, dashing Boruch’s hopes that they’ll all head home and he’ll make his flight.

“Your father needs to catch his breath,” the short Indian nurse adds reproachfully, perceiving Boruch’s eagerness to escape. “We’ll run a few tests and keep him overnight, then we’ll see.”

He sighs and texts Miriam.

***

In the late afternoon, the Grubers come. Nachman Gruber is Daddy’s oldest and best friend and Boruch can see the relief flooding Gruber’s face when he sees that Daddy will be fine.

“I know, Nachman, you thought I was taking off before you could hit me up for your einekel’s school again, right?” Daddy is being jovial.

Daddy suddenly sits up straight. “Listen, Boruch, it’s hard for Judy and I told her not to come, it’s too much for her. Do me a favor and go eat supper there,” He speaks with a sudden burst of authority. “She’s expecting you.”

He pauses for a moment. “Don’t worry about yichud; her grandson is coming from Brooklyn to spend the night, he’s there already.”

***

Judy sits at the far end of the table, making an elaborate show of leaving Daddy’s place empty. Her grandson, Aron, is learning quietly in the living room. She’d wanted to come to the hospital all day, she explains, but she also wanted to leave Boruch his private time, surely he’s got to get home to California already.

“I figured, your father’s not home, we don’t have to be so careful tonight, so I permitted myself to fry schnitzel, the good way.”

She speaks easily, about her work — she still teaches high school English — her children, how he should really speak with her Shragie before he and Miriam start shidduchim with Gitty, Shragie has lots of experience.

Dessert is a rich chocolate cake, and she asks if he’d like a cup of tea.

She frowns as she cuts the cake and he knows with certainty that she’s trying to appear distracted, as if what’s coming next hasn’t been carefully formulated.

“This scare we had today, you know, this incident… you need to speak to your father about his diet, about what he eats. It’s hard for him to accept that he needs to be careful.”

Boruch doesn’t say anything.

Slice, the knife shoots through the thick cake with force. She looks up.

“Your mother? She wasn’t one for healthy cooking, I guess? He looks at me like I’m crazy when I talk about control. He called me a health nut when I suggested we make meal plans so that he isn’t hungry ten minutes after supper.”

Boruch lost her at “your mother.”

Your mother, she’d said, crossing the invisible line between them as easily as a child wandering into the candy aisle. He was unnerved, something about the way she’d said, “your mother,” with a certain possessiveness. Did Daddy talk to her about Mommy? How much? Did he compare them, comment on Judy’s cheerful nature and tell her about Mommy’s long silences? Did he smile and blush when she laughed at his jokes, and maybe tell her about old dreams he’d long ago wrapped up and packed away on high shelves in the basement?

Boruch looks at his phone. “The Grubers must be leaving already, I’ve got to take a shower and pack an overnight bag for the hospital.”

She nods, the piece of chocolate cake, the special treat she’d prepared in honor of Daddy’s absence, still sitting there.

***

Daddy sleeps well, sedated enough that the constant clack-clack of wheels and muffled voices and erratic beeping don’t disturb him. His roommate, a middle-aged Italian gentleman with coiffed hair and visitors who seem to upset him, is coughing heavily and Boruch gives up trying. He walks out to a chilly courtyard, this fountain is a gift from the Lyons family in gratitude to the staff, speaking to Miriam and each of the children. A few more days, he assures them; they’ll probably release Daddy in the morning, latest, the day after.

Boruch finally falls asleep as dawn spreads its pink sheet across the nighttime sky and the hospital comes to life, to a new day filled with promise and dashed hopes and grateful patients allowed to try to live again.

Daddy is irritable, eager to put on tefillin at the first opportunity. Boruch’s head is heavy with fatigue, his legs ache from the cramped recliner as he wraps the thick straps around his father’s arm.

Your mother? That had been her question. She’d formed a sentence with those two words before continuing, and that was even more inappropriate than the new lighting and furniture and the suggestion that Daddy should read real books and not just the Star Ledger.

Daddy fiddles with the applesauce and barely drinks the orange juice in the small, clear plastic cup with a sticker for a cover.

Boruch desperately wants to talk about Mommy, something they’d never really done, not since shivah. He wants reassurance, maybe comfort. He wants the lines drawn in the sand again, to erase the breach she had made with her “your mother.”

But Daddy isn’t feeling chatty. The tape on his arm is itchy and how could they send him home if they weren’t bothering to figure out what was wrong with him? And what’s the point of a window that doesn’t open and is too dirty to see through?

By nine o’clock Daddy has fallen asleep again and Boruch thinks about trying to sleep himself.

There is a soft knock at the door and Judy steps in.

Boruch is taken aback and can’t speak. Of course she’s here. She’s wearing a red coat, the color of fresh tomatoes. She looks like a clown, Boruch thinks.

Your mother.

Mommy would have grimaced at the sight of that ridiculous coat, strident as a blaring horn in the night. It was wrong. Wrong.

Daddy stirs and opens one eye. Boruch can’t even warn Daddy that she’s come before she hurries forward. “Manny,” her voice is a little shriek. Man-Nee.

Daddy opens the other eye and shifts toward his wife. Boruch watches his face soften, settling into a look of contentment. Daddy smiles, happy to see her.

“Judy! You’re here!”

Daddy forces himself into an upright position. “You slept? Good, I’m happy. The schuchen,” Daddy points across the room and lowers his voice, “now that’s called snoring. Like a machine.”

A moment’s quiet, then, “Did Shragie get the promotion?”

“There’s a nurse here that looks exactly like the cleaning girl, Irena, maybe they’re sisters.”

Soft laughter.

“My left side hurts a bit but I feel much better.”

Boruch steps back, giving space to his father and the wife he’s happy to see as the words that connect them swirl around this room with the sterile, beige walls, fake flowers, and the painting of two purple dogs at the edge of an orange lake.

And Boruch sits down, filled with a sudden rush of gratitude to this woman in the strange, strange red coat.

(Originally featured in Calligraphy Pesach 5777-2017)