Miriam went to open the door; it was Chaya Rivky, ponytailed hair still slightly wet, face fresh and absent of all makeup.

“Good Shabbos, Babbi!” she said, hugging Ruchy. “Good Shabbos Perri. Your house is so cozy. It’s freezing outside!”

She took off her coat and tossed it over the couch. Perri stood up, took the coat, and hung it in the coat closet. Chaya Rivky didn’t seem to notice.

“How are you doing, Babbi? How are you enjoying? Isn’t it amaaaaazing to be in Eretz Yisrael? Did you make it to the Kosel yet? What about Kever Rochel? I have this friend who’s doing 40 days there, she wakes up crazy early and takes this bus at like 5:30 in the morning, she says it’s an incredible experience. All these really authentic people, crying and talking straight to Hashem, not like the tourists who are there for the picture, you know? I want to try it one day, so my type, right?”

Ruchy surveyed her granddaughter. Her eye twitched slightly. “How’s seminary? Working hard?”

Chaya Rivky laughed. “Some girls work hard, they’re all into their marks, you know? Like, obsessed. I’m not like that.” She leaned toward Ruchy with sudden intensity. “I’m here for ten months, okay, well obviously not for Pesach, so less than ten months. I want to grow, like, for real. Not just by sitting in a classroom. I want to meet the real people, the authentic people, of Eretz Yisrael, and soak up all the ruchniyus. So that’s my goal right now. If I have a test, I study, but I don’t kill myself. The marks don’t really matter, right? It’s all about inner growth.”

Ruchy was silent.

Chaya Rivky didn’t seem to notice, or mind. “So I have to tell you about this unbelievable person I met last week. It actually started on a bus — I was on my way home from chesed, and there was this lady sitting behind me on the bus, with all these shopping bags, and a really old coat, and she was saying Tehillim. I could, like, literally feel how special she was. So special! So real! So when she got to her stop, I jumped up and offered to help her with the bags.”

“You did?” Simi asked, eyes wide. “A lady that you didn’t even know?”

“Crazy story, right?” Chaya Rivky exulted. “Only in Eretz Yisrael. So, she was so relieved when I offered to help her. We get up to her apartment, like fifty million flights up, and I offer to help put away all the stuff. So she takes me into her kitchen and it’s legit a closet, I’m telling you! Smaller than my mother’s walk-in-closet at home! But she insists that I have to make a brachah in her house, and she takes out these homemade cookies — well, maybe they weren’t cookies? They were pretty hard, and not so sweet, I’m not sure what you call them….”

Ruchy looked pointedly at Chaya Rivky’s waist. “And you ate them.”

“I had to, I mean, this way I made her feel like a giver too, you know? I just learned about it in class, actually. How everyone needs to give.”

“I hear.”

The room felt very, very warm. Perri stood up. “Mommy, I wanted to ask your opinion about the fish. Do you think you can come to the kitchen?”

“Sure, mammele.” Ruchy followed Perri.

“So, I have salmon and I also made some whitefish, like Tatty likes.” Perri pointed to the waiting pans. “I’m just wondering what you think. Should we plate it all individually, or maybe serve it on a platter, so everyone can take however much they want?”

Ruchy grimaced. “No platters. Tatty always takes seconds, and it’s not good for him. One slice of fish is more than enough. And now we have Chaya Rivky to worry about, too. Do you see her, Perri?” She shuddered slightly. “And not even a touch of mascara or blush, what is she thinking?”

Perri began portioning the salmon. She wasn’t sure what the right response would be.

Ruchy apparently didn’t need any. “And her hair. Maybe she thinks she looks frummer with that ponytail? I need to speak to Mindy, we might have to look into getting her extensions when she gets back. And a makeup tutorial, I have someone good for that, but she really needs to make it a priority. Perri, I need you to help us out here. Shidduchim are very tough these days. Keep an eye on her, keep her normal. She’ll be back before we know it, a year is a very short time. She has to look right.”

“Good Shabbos, Yaakov. Good Shabbos, Tamar, Elisheva, Yosef Shalom.”

“Good Shabbos, Marissa,” Yaakov said, pulling his hand through the sleeve of his coat. “Good Shabbos, kids, see you all soon. Want me to drop you off at Hodaya, Elisheva? Come with me, I’m leaving right now. It’s right on my way to shul. I can pick you up on my way home.”

Elisheva nodded.

“Great, so grab a coat. It’s chilly.”

Marissa sank into the couch as Yaakov left to shul, Elisheva in tow.

Tamar sat down near her. “Something weird happened.”

“Really?” Tamar hadn’t confided in Marissa in a long time; Marissa had gotten the sense that Tamar just didn’t consider her all that relevant lately. This felt like a rare opportunity.

“Yeah. Really weird. Yesterday this person, an American guy who’s visiting here, called the house asking to speak to Abba. Abba was working, so I took a message. And then when I gave the paper to Abba, he completely ignored it.”

Marissa shrugged. “He was probably busy. I’m sure he returned the call later.”

Tamar shook her head defiantly. “No, Ima, he wasn’t busy. He was upset. Maybe even… disturbed. He just stuffed the paper into his pocket and didn’t even look at it. And then today, when I reminded him about, he totally ignored me. I asked him if he had a chance to call this guy, and he pretended he didn’t hear me. He said something about the cholent not being hot enough. But I know he heard me. I know.”

Marissa stole a glance at Tamar. Something was bothering her, something more than Yaakov not returning a call. Now that Tamar had pointed it out, Yaakov had actually seemed a little jittery today.

“The guy’s name was Pollack. Micky Pollack,” Tamar said slowly, looking intently at Marissa. “Do you know him?”

“No, sweetie, I don’t think so.”

Tamar kept her probing eyes fixed on Marissa. “You sure? Because when I said that name to Abba, he definitely recognized it.”

“He’s probably one of Abba’s old friends. From before.”

“And you don’t recognize his name? Abba never told you about his old friends?”

Marissa shrugged. “Some of them, for sure. But not every single friend he ever had. Why should he?”

“I thought,” Tamar said tartly, “that a married couple should never have secrets from each other. They should have total trust. Like, a totally open relationship. No secrets. That’s what I’m planning to have when I get married.” She tucked her dark hair behind her ears and leaned forward. “I’m gonna find this guy who I can tell everything to, someone who shares his whole life with me. Not someone who like, you know, closes this door and doesn’t let me in.”

Not like Abba, she didn’t say. She didn’t have to.

Marissa closed her eyes for a moment. “I hope you’ll have that, sweetie. It sounds like such a beautiful relationship.”

Tamar’s eyes flashed with ire. “So why don’t you know all these things about Abba? Why don’t we even know the whole story with his hand?”

“We do know, I mean, I know. Don’t you? I think we’ve always been very open about it. Abba was at a concert back when he was in college. It wasn’t like the concerts you do in Bais Yaakov — this was much wilder, with dancing, screaming… a very wild scene. At some point, those dancing kids lost control and there was a big crush… I guess a stampede is a better word.” She sighed. “Abba’s hand was crushed, the fingers lost circulation. It’s not a secret, Tamar.”

Tamar did that aggressive Israeli shoulder shrug that Marissa could never quite mimic. “Okay, but you see, he does have all these secrets. His old friend called the house, and you don’t even know his name, and you don’t even seem to care! It’s like, he shut you out of his life and you just let it happen!”

Marissa looked at her daughter. The strong chin, stubbornly angled forward. The deep-set dark eyes, flecked by smoldering golden embers. All those classes with Rebbetzin Grossinger in seminary had never prepared her for this conversation. She needed to figure out how to say this right.

“I understand how it looks to you, Tamar.” It probably did look strange, to this daughter she’d raised in a perfect frum bubble. How much to say? How much to hide? “It’s a little different for us,” she said slowly. “Abba and I, we’re both coming from a different place. I respect that he made changes. He set new standards, discovered a whole new world. It was a very conscious decision. If he wants to keep the door closed on the people from Before, I understand.”

Tamar sat there silently. Marissa wondered what she was thinking.

“I’m going to start on the table,” she said, standing up. Was it smart, what she had said? Was it even true? Yaakov had definitely been on edge today, but she respected his silence. She wasn’t the type to pry, to cross unspoken boundaries. When he sank into one of his occasional dark moods, she knew to leave him alone, allow him to simmer at his computer until he eventually snapped back. But maybe she did have the right to know a bit more?

She pulled out the silverware and napkins, brought them to the dining room, and began setting the table.

And all the while she wondered, Who is Micky Pollack?

To be continued….

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1048)