Call me if you need me.

Those were the first words Rivi said to me, that summer after tenth grade.

I’d looked up at her — thinking back, we must’ve been similar height, but I always felt shorter — and marvelled at this girl who had it all: effortless confidence, easy smile, charm, and middos, too.

“Girls, enjoy! You have the best counselor ever!” Rivi had said, clapping me on the shoulder before she whisked away, probably to save the next counselor in distress.

And just like that, 14 little girls were sitting docilely on the floor in a circle, just 15 minutes after I’d almost walked out on them.

I don’t know what I’d been thinking, signing up as a counselor in a local day camp. I’d been given the second-grade bunk, supposedly easy, but half an hour in, I was ready to quit.

And somehow, Rivi’s magic had turned everything around.

I hadn’t called for help, even when the spell wore off and the girls got rambunctious again. But she didn’t need me to call; she was there anyway, and she had the girls eating out of her palm; and somehow, by extension, the campers took me more seriously.

I remember my shock at discovering that Rivi was my age. She was a division head — her mother was the camp director, but also, she was Rivi and she could. Then we ended up as bunkmates in sleepaway camp during second half, and the month I’d envisioned — safe on the sidelines, quietly making a couple of friends — transformed when she took me under her wing.

Suddenly, I was part of the in crowd, joining late night parties, sneaking into the kitchen, wheedling onto golf carts and into the pool for extra swim.

And just the two of us: DMCs and seats on the bus, Rivi reserving a spot for me at meals, talking the counselors into placing me in dance for the cantata, even though I flubbed the tryout. Sharing her endless supply of nosh. Making plans and friends and magic, sprinkling fairy dust that turned a regular summer into a fantasy experience, a regular, kinda quiet girl — me — into one of the gang, a girl with confidence to expand my horizons, a girl with friends.

We’d kept up out of school for a few years — Rivi went to a different school — and then in seminary, when we were finally together for an entire year, we really connected.

Rivi.

She’s the most alive person I know. She can’t — she can’t….

I open my texts; just yesterday, we’d been talking about my Moishy’s stomach aches, and Rivi had promised to text me the name of this amaaazing nutritionist who’d helped her sister-in-law. Because Rivi knew everyone and everything; she had guidance and advice and ideas and contacts for everything under the sun. Lmk what happens, she’d written at 10:27 p.m. And hatzlachah! These things are so tough. Here if u need me.

I breathe; it hurts to read this now.

But along with the pain another emotion worms its way into my consciousness, a flutter of… something I can’t define, something new.

I’ve always needed Rivi.

And now, somehow, she’s the one who needs me.

The message comes that evening from Rivi’s sister Michal. Rivi’s girls are at my house.

BH, Rivi regained consciousness a few mins ago. Drs very happy. Pass on.

I let out a breath that is a laugh and a cry all at once.

She’s okay! Rivi is going to make it.

She’d had surgery soon after being taken to hospital, and while the doctors were cautiously optimistic, the situation was critical until she actually opened her eyes. And now, the best has occurred: Rivi’s woken up. It will be okay.

My phone pings again, this time a DM from Michal. My mother asked whether she should call to let kids know, or if you could explain to them. Not to scare them, just tell them BH their ima’s feeling better and misses them and tom they can bez’h spk to her.

Hello, what do they think? Of course I want to tell Rivi’s children the good news. Why should they wait another minute?

The basement is hopping, what with my neighbor Chany’s kids (they come every Tuesday while she works late), and now Rivi’s girls. We baked cookies earlier, and now the girls are busy beading bracelets while I’m reading stories to the little ones. Supper is pizza; Shimi’s picking up a couple pies on his way home. There was no way I could think about supper after this morning.

“Yael, Sari,” I call. Both Rivi’s and my girls stop what they’re doing and look up.

The girls take the news in stride — they’d been protected from the worst of the information about their mother’s condition, so they take the update as a natural outcome of what they know: Ima was in an accident, so the doctors are doing a surgery to help her heal. She’s still asleep from the surgery, so we don’t know exactly how it went. We’ll daven to Hashem that He helps her feel better quickly.

“Is Ima going to come home tomorrow?” Sari asks me, all innocence.

Now I want to cry again. “Not yet, sweetie. She is very… tired from the accident. She might have to stay in the hospital for a while. To get strong again. It might be some time before she can walk around or do the things she used to. But you can speak to her tomorrow, and maybe soon you’ll be able to visit her.”

“Are we staying here tonight?” Yael asks me.

“Yes,” I say. No one’s asked me, but no one’s mentioned any other plan, either. I’m just so happy to be doing something helpful.

As I go upstairs to figure out sleeping arrangements and wash more uniform skirts — Yael and Sari didn’t come with clothing — I think about how many times Rivi’s hosted my kids over the years.

When I had a baby. When I’d gone with Shimi to his grandfather’s levayah out of state. When my sister made a bar mitzvah in Eretz Yisrael, and my parents had offered me a ticket — but there was no way we could afford to take the kids.

And somehow, I’d never gotten to return the favor. While my parents had since moved to another neighborhood, and my sisters were out of town or in Israel, Rivi’s mother and sister live right nearby; she’d never been stuck with finding someone to take her kids for a night — or a week. And if I’d ever offer, she’d laugh it off: “Tam, you’re so sweet, but you have enough on your plate.”

When I come back downstairs, the girls have gone back to their bracelets, my littles are coloring, and the pizza has arrived. I take a moment to watch them. See? I can do this, even with everything on my plate. I can be there for you, Rivi.

And then I feel guilty, because I have only gratitude to Rivi, and if the gratitude is colored by the faintest annoyance, how can I linger on that while my best friend is laid up after a frightening brush with death itself?

Later that night, Rivi’s husband Baruch comes by. Shimi brings him in, offers a drink, while I plate some leftover pizza for the microwave.

“Here are some things for the girls, clothing for tomorrow, my shvigger packed it up, so I’m sure it’s a better guess of what they’ll need than I would do,” he says, words tripping over each other in exhaustion.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “We have plenty of everything they’ll need.”

He gives a slight nod, brow creasing. “Thanks so much. But really, you’ve done enough. I’ll pick them up from school tomorrow, and they’ll go to Rivi’s mother until we — you know, just for the time being.”

Shimi’s nodding, but I frown. That makes no sense, Rivi’s mother has the boys already, she also has a job and a daughter in the hospital.

“Let them stay here,” I say, my voice rising a little. “My girls love having their friends over. I have clothing in their size, they can go to school and come home together. Won’t that make things easier for you?”

Rivi’s husband looks a little bemused. “Look, it’s really nice of you to have them, but it’s a big deal having two extra children on your hands,” he says, like I don’t have four of my own, like I have no idea what looking after kids entails. “I — we — we don’t want to burden you for longer than necessary.”

So. Classic. Rivi. I bet this was the first thing she said after waking up. And why? Why can’t I be there for her? Wouldn’t she do this for me, in a heartbeat?

“Please!” I say, my voice climbing to a higher pitch than necessary. “Let me keep them until things are more stable. It’s no problem at all.”

Riva’s husband frowns and rubs his yarmulke back and forth over his head. “Are you sure? I mean, it would definitely be easier for us… but what about you?”

“I’m sure,” I say, and Shimi adds, “Of course we can have them. We’re happy to help out.”

“Is Rivi up for visitors?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Not just yet, but thanks for offering — I’ll tell her. Hopefully in a week or two.”

Poor guy. He looks like he’s falling asleep standing up. I package the rewarmed pizza, and Shimi pushes it into Baruch’s hands on the way out the door. He looks surprised but grateful.

After he leaves, Shimi and I just sit, the day’s adrenaline fading and leaving exhaustion in its wake.

“I think we should get some sleep. Strength for tomorrow,” Shimi says finally, dragging himself up from his chair.

I’m exhausted, but also strangely energized. Now I want to figure out what Rivi would appreciate, so I can surprise her with a nice gift when I visit her. As soon as I’m allowed to, of course.

“Yup. Soon,” I say.

It feels weird to be out in the mall on a regular Wednesday morning. But before I visit Rivi, I need to figure out the perfect gift.

I’d try my sister Laykie for inspiration, but she’d tell me to bake cinnamon buns. My co-workers at the office are two young secretaries who think I hold the world’s answers to everything, from invoice issues to dating conundrums. And Rivi’s own family, of course, would tell me not to bring anything. “Just your company. You’ve done enough already.” I can hear them saying it.

I have done a lot, I’d had Rivi’s girls for a full two weeks, and since they went back home, I’ve been part of a supper rotation for Baruch and the kids. But I want to bring something when I finally, finally get to see my friend again. And I want it to be original, perfect, something Rivi wants and needs.

I stop by a pair of fuzzy slippers, debating. Typical gift for a hospital patient, something cozy and warm to wear on their feet, but Rivi for sure has her own. What about cushions, something to make her bed more comfortable? Is that weird?

I decide on a gorgeous mauve throw blanket, impossibly soft and so pretty. The saleslady wraps it, and I sit in my car to write the card, wanting to convey everything I feel.

Gratitude that she’s alive and on the mend.

Empathy, feeling, care.

And the fact that I’m there for her.

Anything you need, I’m here.

Perfect.

Only my best friend can pull off that stylish, fresh look while half-lying on a hospital bed.

She’s wearing a gorgeous headscarf and diamond earrings, and even though I’m fully dressed and made up, I still feel kind of underdressed.

But that thought is only fleeting, because it’s Rivi, she’s alive and smiling and oh, I’m so happy to see her, I could cry.

But I won’t. I’m here on a mission to cheer her up.

“How are you feeling?” I ask. She looks okay, at least from the shoulders up, which is all I can see; the rest is covered by a fuzzy grey throw. Ugh, my gift is redundant.

“Better than expected,” Rivi says, with her infectious smile. “But tell me how you are! And thank you for having my gorgeous girlies for so long. I really hope they weren’t too difficult for you.”

“They were great! No problem at all,” I reassure her. “And this is for you. Not sure if you need it, but I can exchange….”

“Tamara! You didn’t! That’s so, so unnecessary,” Rivi exclaims. She unwraps the gift, runs a finger over the blanket. “Stunning, so soft, so yummy. I love it. And it’s perfect, actually, my sister lent me this gray throw, but now I can give it back to her. Still, I feel bad that you bought me anything. I should buy you something, first hosting my kids, now coming out here to visit….”

“Oh, please, Rivi, what are friends for?” I protest. “Really, it was not a big deal.”

Rivi sets the gift down beside her. “You’re the best, Tamara, and it’s so good to see you, wow.”

It’s been a month and a life-threatening accident since I saw her last, but Rivi’s the same friend she always was. The warmth washes over me; it feels good to be appreciated, noticed. Wanted.

“So, fill me in. I know we’ve texted, but it’s been so long since we talked. What’s doing? How are you managing? Did you find cleaning help?”

I blink. I didn’t come to talk about me.

“Um, Rivi, you’re in the hospital, why do you care about my cleaning ladies?”

Rivi waves a hand. “Eh, I’m not an invalid. I mean, I guess I am, but you know what I mean. What should we do all day, talk about my injuries? Trust me, they’re not the best topic of conversation.”

I take that as a cue. “How… are you? What do the doctors say?”

“Getting there, getting there.” Rivi shrugs. “Taking time for things to heal, and then I guess I’ll need rehab, but baruch Hashem. Could’ve been worse, you know.”

I know.

“Anyway, I have a ton of time on my hands, and my phone is just about the only thing I can use. I’m bored, can’t move or anything. So really, if you want me to make some calls or whatever, just let me know.” But she stifles a yawn as she says it, and I jump on that.

“You need to rest! Talk to your kids, your family — don’t use your energy on me. You must be exhausted. And in pain.”

She smiles slightly, shifts position, and winces. “Ouch. Yeah, it’s not particularly conducive to sleep, being here. Every time I doze off a nurse comes in to check my blood pressure. And leaves the light on.”

I make a mental note to order a comfy eye mask.

“Anything I can bring you? When I come next?” I ask, even though I know what Rivi will say.

“Tamara, please! I feel bad that you took off work and shlepped out to visit. You have enough on your plate.”

“But I want to,” I say. “Come on, when do we get so much uninterrupted time together?”

A nurse wheeling a trolley pushes the curtain aside just then. “Riva?” she says, pronouncing it like river. “Can I just get your vitals?”

“So much for uninterrupted,” Rivi says, and I take that as my cue to leave, still laughing.

The box is huge, lots of Amazon packing tape, and my first thought is that this is a mistake. I haven’t ordered anything recently.

But it has my name and address, so I slit open the packaging dubiously, and there it is: a Betty Crocker, in all its glory.

My eyes pop open.

Wait, what?

I’ve been wanting one forever, but we have so many kitchen gadgets, and I’d been trying to cut back. And Shimi’s not the type for surprises like this.

I set the machine gently on the table. A note flutters to the floor.

Tamara, I can’t thank you enough for everything you’ve done during my hospital stay. From hosting the kids to your visits and the thoughtful gift. I hope this makes supper prep easier for you!

Love, Rivi

Seriously? My friend is in the hospital, and her kids stayed by me, big deal. When Tova had a preemie, we all pitched in to help. I had her toddler for a week, and she thanked me like a normal person, maybe sent flowers and cake for Shabbos. And visiting her? We’re friends. Why such an over-the-top gift?

I read the note again and my throat tightens. Why does Rivi do this, shift the balance every time I get a chance to be the giver? I don’t want a gift for being a friend.

The Betty Crocker sits placidly on the table, all sleek and shiny and brand-new packaging, and it’s all I can do not to take the whole thing and toss it in the garbage.

I haven’t visited Rivi in a while — first the baby had a virus, then I had to put in extra hours at work to prepare for a trade show. And then it was Shabbos, post-Shabbos, and then somehow it was Shabbos again. And maybe also I’ve been the tiniest bit frustrated, wondering if she even wants me to come? If she even needs me?

Now, when I knock on the open door and call out a hello, she offers me a huge smile, and for a moment, all the niggling doubts and resentments recede.

“Tam! It’s good to see you. I’ve missed you.”

She looks great. For real this time. She’s wearing a cute top and please Rivi, a sheitel?

Okay, it’s her fall, the old one she uses for frying (who else wears a wig for frying, I ask?), but still.

“For visiting hours,” she says with a grin. “Come on, since when do I ever entertain wearing a snood?”

Touché, Rivi, but when was the last time you were laid up in the hospital post-surgery?

I put a brown paper bag gently on the little table by Riva’s bed. “Breakfast,” I say. She gives me her wide-eyed oh-but-you-shouldn’t-have look and then peeks.

“Tamara! You doll. But you need to stop with this bringing me something. I love your company and you have enough to do. Wait! That reminds me, I was reading this article, and I thought of you….”

She rummages through a stack of magazines beside her, and pulls one out, triumphant. “This one. It sounds exactly like Moishy! The stomach issues, and all those infections he had as a baby — read it, take it to the doctor, I’ll bet it’s the root of everything.”

“Oh — wow. Thanks.” Moishy’s on the waitlist for Rivi’s amaaaaazing nutritionist, and meantime I’m trying gluten-free, because that’s what everyone tries first. It’s maybe helping, maybe not, and honestly a bit of a logistical nightmare, trying to make sure he isn’t eating from the wrong food.

“You have to make the whole house gluten-free,” Rivi tells me, after I fill her in. “That’s the only way. It’s not so hard, you can buy everything gluten-free nowadays. I’m gonna get you some recipes, and you need to sign up to this email newsletter I get — Leah Licht, she’s this major health nutritionist, and she has these amazing menu plans, gluten-free, sugar-free, everything.”

And she’s off, texting me numbers, emailing me links.

I shift in the bucket-shaped plastic seat, those ones that make it impossible to sit comfortably. How did this happen? I’m just here to visit, how did it turn into yet another scene in the story of our lives: Capable Rivi Saves Her Friend?

I realize suddenly that somehow, even though so many years have passed since that summer after tenth grade, to Rivi I’m still that floundering counselor who needs support. When really, I’ve changed, everything’s changed.

“So what else is doing? How are your girls?” Rivi’s looking at me intently now, waiting for me to spill. I don’t have much to spill — the girls are great. Chani and Bracha have good teachers, good friends, they’re generally happy-go-lucky and even get along with each other, most of the time.

But somehow, I find myself ferreting for something to tell Rivi, something she wants to hear.

“So hard to find nice shoes for girls,” I say. “It’s actually Bracha who’s complaining — Chani wouldn’t know the difference — but Bracha keeps talking about styles — can you imagine? They’re what, first graders? And I have no idea where to find these mythical slip-on sneakers with white soles, not to mention that her current shoes are fine.”

It’s the right opening. Rivi chuckles. “Oh, the joys of little girls. I’ll send you links to what I bought Yael and Sari. But you know, you don’t have to give in, sometimes it’s worth teaching some life skills, not bowing to peer pressure. Often, it’s about your confidence, you know? Because kids pick up on our vibes….”

Okay, this plastic chair is annoying me so much. But standing up is just weird.

So I stay seated, keep the smile plastered on, and wonder why, yet again, spending time with my friend doesn’t feel good at all.

Home tomorrow😊

My heart flutters. This is… wow. It’s been what, two months, three? That awful day of the accident, the miraculous moment when we heard she’d pull through. Days and weeks of surgeries and recovery, rehab and therapies, and now she’s finally being discharged.

I know there’s a long road ahead, but coming home is coming home. It feels like a dream.

Can’t wait for everything to be back to normal.

I bite my lip; something about Rivi’s second text is… bothering me.

Back to normal.

Can it really be like that? Everything go back to how it was?

I think of how I’ve managed, Moishy’s appointments and Chani’s fight with her friend and the baby’s sleep regression; all things that used to send me running for Rivi’s sympathy or advice or expertise.

But I’d done it, taken charge, figured things out.

Maybe it doesn’t have to be the same anymore. Maybe I don’t have to be that helpless day camp counselor again for us to stay friends.

And maybe it doesn’t have to be all or nothing, either.

I send Rivi supper a week later — when the welcome celebrations have died down and people have forgotten.

I’d insisted it was no problem, it was just what I was making my own family anyway (lies, of course, my own family would never get a soup, two salads, and dessert along with Chinese stir fry).

And Rivi’s grateful, I can tell, even though chas v’shalom she’d admit she needed this. Her thank you is almost swallowed in the whirl of compliments that comes afterward.

“Tamara, your supper was amazing, tell me how you pulled it off with everything going on,” she says, when she calls to thank me. “Kids, work, your boss….” She trails off meaningfully.

It’s an invitation.

I open my mouth obligingly, and then I stop.

I don’t have to do this.

“Thanks, Rivi. But it’s all good. Really,” I say. My voice is firm. I think.

There’s a breath on the other end of the line.

I’ve changed the script, the script that’s defined our friendship for so many years, Tamara share, Rivi solve. But surely our friendship is more than that. We can do this, find a new balance on this seesaw, give and take in tandem.

Right?

“So let me send you something for Shabbos,” Rivi says, finally. “I’m ordering anyway, what can I get you? Kugel? Cake? Dessert?”

She sounds like Rivi, offering, giving, suggesting-but-not-really-suggesting. And yet underneath the confidence I hear something new, something… needy.

Let me give. Let me be needed.

It’s my turn to breathe.

I close my eyes, picture that seesaw, feel my way to a place of balance… of peace.

I could say no. Could tell her my freezer’s stocked, I have what I need.

And I do — mostly.

But also… here’s somewhere we can both feel good.

“Kugel would be great,” I say.

I can hear Rivi’s smile in her voice. “Thank you, Tamara,” she says.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 855)