A celebration of the walls that surround, protect, and define us

Wash with Care

Shira Isenberg

A

rriving straight from the airport, I turned the key and stepped inside.

I was shocked — my house was clean.

Twelve days earlier, I’d left Memphis for Chicago with just my baby, and I was there, at my mother’s bedside, when she passed away a few days later. My husband and three older kids were at home. Due to severe fog that somehow only impacted air travel between Memphis and Chicago (a Hashgachah pratis story for another time), they were unable to make it to the funeral but would join me in a few days.

Second night of shivah: My parents’ house in Peterson Park was bustling with visitors, and I ignored the buzzing phone in my lap. When it continued to vibrate, I looked down — it was my husband calling repeatedly (our super-secret signal for emergencies). I picked up.

As soon as I heard his voice I knew: Something was horribly wrong.

His father in Israel had collapsed. EMTs were working on him, but it didn’t look good. He was on the other line with his sister in Israel, and I stayed on the phone while my husband tried to piece together what was going on.

I heard my kids in the background. It was only around eight p.m. in Memphis — bedtime.

I motioned my uncle over. His son’s wife was my neighbor’s sister. “Hey, can you call Reuven? Shimon needs someone to watch the kids so he can focus on the phone.” (Yes, those are actually their names.)

My neighbors came right over — and from that moment, everything was taken out of my hands. Let me explain.

I can’t remember how long it was before the EMTs called it, maybe just a few minutes. My father-in-law had passed away. It was sudden and unexpected and omigosh what were we going to do now?

Shimon needed to go to the funeral. Obviously. And he would need to leave almost immediately because, with stopovers and wait times, it would take a good 20 hours or so to get to Israel. But my kids! They were in Memphis. I was in Chicago, about 561 miles north.

Do I go back home? Even if I did, I’d get there — earliest — late morning. And I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to sit shivah with my father and siblings, hear from the people who actually knew my mother. Memphis neighbors were willing to take the kids for the rest of shivah. But I’d already been away for almost a week. I couldn’t leave them like that. And even if I did, I’d have to rush back right after the shivah ended, which I didn’t want to do. This was a huge, well, thing for me. I wanted to be able to process it on my own schedule.

I called Rivki, who lives across the street from me.

“Shira, I’m so sorry about your mom—”

“I know,” I interrupted her. “I need your help.”

I gave her the bad news about my father-in-law, then asked: “Is there any way you could pack up some clothes for my kids?” I told her briefly what they’d need and where to find everything.

In the meantime, my neighbors had gotten my kids to sleep. (Still wondering what magic pill they used to accomplish that!) I’m fuzzy on the rest of the details. Rivki came over. Someone had called Rabbi Males from our shul who also came over. People were in and out of the house, figuring out last-minute tickets for Shimon and for the kids, rides to the airport, babysitting for my kids until they could be taken to the airport, accompanied by Reuven — with an official letter written by a lawyer at some point that night giving him our permission to travel with the kids.

I don’t know who came over to babysit. I don’t know who woke the kids up or picked out their clothes that morning. I don’t know who took them to the airport. I don’t know which airline they flew or the flight times. A relative was commissioned to pick them up in Chicago. Someone treated them to hot chocolate on the way to the shivah house. And then, just like that, around one or two p.m. the next day, Reuven brought them in.

Phew. It’s a strange experience to be so out of control in your own children’s lives. (I guess we always are — it just doesn’t feel that way.)

It was an emotional week in Chicago, in my mother’s house without her. On Sunday, the kids and I flew home, which is when I walked into a clean house. I knew this wasn’t how we left it.

Somehow, in the midst of all the craziness of arranging everything for our family, then getting them out the door, someone had noticed that our house was in complete disarray. And had arranged for a cleaning crew to come in and wash the dishes and vacuum and clean the bathrooms and put everything back, so I wouldn’t come home to a mess.

They couldn’t bring my mother back, but they could still take care of me.

No one copped to sending the cleaning help. I suspect it was the Rebbetzin — who picked us up from the airport — although she wouldn’t admit it. “No, this must be how Shimon left it.”

Right.

I don’t know if we’ll be in Memphis forever. You need to hunt down pomegranates in three different stores (if you’re lucky!) before Rosh Hashanah, and your Pesach order’s gotta be in by February. Your kids may talk funny (it’s endearing, promise!) — and be the unwitting subject of Yisroel Besser essays.

No place is perfect. But anywhere that has people who care enough to also call the cleaning lady will always feel like home.