“But he was right, the rosh yeshivah. I think we all know that, don’t we, Motty?” Mommy said. “America is empty. It’s going down the drain. I mean, you have no idea what Obama’s planning to do. Perri, didn’t I send you that article about his plan to control everyone through social media?”

Perri shrugged delicately. “I’m not sure, I don’t remember everything you send….”

Mommy plowed on. “The point was that he had this plan to control the whole country. He’s still trying to do it.”

Miriam looked blankly at her grandmother. “Obama? He’s not the president anymore.”

“Yes! Obama! And you’re right, he’s not the president anymore, so why didn’t he go back to Chicago? Or to Indonesia! You know he wasn’t really born in America, right?”

“Isn’t there a law about this? That the president has to be born in America?” Yehuda asked.

“Mr. Obama is above the law,” Mommy said grandly. “At least according to him. That’s why he stayed in Washington, near the White House, in that multimillion-dollar mansion. Do you think any other president did that? He wants to keep controlling the country. But some of us see through it.”

Shloimy poured a shower of soup nuts onto the tablecloth and shaped them into a neat square.

“I’m telling you, kids, if you want to know who’s behind this whole craziness on the left, it’s Obama,” Mommy declared. “He appoints these figureheads to get the big jobs, but they take their orders from him. I’m telling you, we’re watching the beginning of the end of America. Just like the gedolim in Bnei Brak were saying.”

Perri tried to catch Chaim’s eye. This was not the type of Shabbos conversation they aimed for. Do something, say something, change the subject, she tried to signal him.

Chaim’s eyes were half-closed, though, and his forehead was furrowed — in thought? In distress? Was he even following the conversation, or was he thinking through his vort on the parshah?

Perri had to stop this, even if Chaim couldn’t. “Miriam, can you help me bring in the soup bowls? Chaim, how about a zemer? Chaim?”

Chaim must have caught the edge in her voice. He snapped to attention and opened his bentsher. “Yehuda, which Kah Ribon should we sing?” he asked. “You pick.”

Yehuda obligingly began singing. Tatty and Chaim joined in.

Mommy settled back into her seat and smiled. “This is the one my father used to sing. So beautiful.”

Finally, Perri thought. The ridiculous monologue about conspiracy theories and politics was over. Their Shabbos meal was back where it was supposed to be. No thanks to Chaim. She’d had to steer it back all on her own.

Balancing a stack of soup bowls, Perri waited for Shloimy to start harmonizing — she didn’t really understand how melodies and harmonies worked, but she knew that when Shloimy sang, it made the zemiros richer, different.

But Shloimy was playing with some of those yellow soup nuts scattered on the tablecloth, forming them into shapes — first a diamond, then a circle, then a line.

Perri stepped behind him and tapped his bowl. “Shloimy,” she whispered. “We’re singing.”

Shloimy sighed. He took his napkin, swept the soup nuts into the bowl, and handed it to Perri. Half-heartedly, he began to sing.

“Ima, you said you would get it. You said!” The Havdalah smoke had barely dissipated, and Tamar was deep into pre-party angst mode.

“Right, I said I would. And I will.” Marissa kept her voice low and calm.

It didn’t help. Tamar was almost frantic. “But the party is on Monday! And you have a shift at the hospital then! So when are you getting it for me?”

Marissa pulled the Shabbos tablecloth off the table. She took a quick glance at Tamar’s flushed cheeks.

“I can get it tomorrow, or even Monday. Your party doesn’t start until five.”

“Do you even know which stores sell waffle makers?”

Marissa sighed. “I can guess. It’s a kitchen appliance. But you know what, if you have an idea which store you want me to go to, let me know, and I’ll try to make it happen.”

“Great. I’ll speak to Rina and find out where she got hers.”

Problem solved. Or was it? Tamar was still radiating tension.

“We also need to figure out when to get the stuff for the salads. Should we buy them tomorrow, or wait for the fresh vegetables to come in on Monday?”

“Fresh is best,” Marissa said by rote. It was one of her mantras.

“Okay, so Monday morning, I’ll do that while you’re at work. But one of the salads has haloumi cheese, you need to fry it. And the pastas — when are we doing that? I can’t save it all for Monday morning. Remember, I have the whole setup to do! Chaya Rivky, you know, the Weisses’ niece, she explained the whole thing to me. But I need time. And flowers.”

Flowers? For real? Was this normal? Marissa tried to remember how she’d entertained her friends back in high school. She vaguely remembered potato chips, some candy and drinks, maybe cheese twists. Definitely no fried haloumi salad, choices of pasta in sauces, or waffles with fresh fruit toppings. And most definitely no fresh flowers.

But she was the immigrant now, the stranger navigating a world she hadn’t been born in. Tamar might not know everything, but she for sure knew more about what high school girls expected here. And she was so tense. So nervous her BT mother wasn’t going to come through for her.

Marissa put a hand on Tamar’s rigid arm. “Listen, honey. I’m home the whole day tomorrow. Let’s sit down now, after I finish cleaning up from Shabbos, and make an organized list of all the things that have to get done. And then we’ll figure out when to do each thing, and see where I can help you.”

“You’ll do that with me?” Tamar seemed hardly to believe her.

“Sure. Just let’s get the house in order first.”

“Ima, you’re the best.” Marissa almost thought Tamar was going to hug her. Almost.

Half an hour later, they were sitting in the kitchen, going over Tamar’s plans. With every new item, Marissa felt the rope of goodwill she’d so generously extended grow that much shorter.

Tamar was talking with feverish intensity. “So we also need feta cheese, for the Greek salad. And grated cheese and yellow cheese for the pastas, and fresh mushrooms — the cream sauce doesn’t taste right with canned mushrooms, that’s what Mali told me when she gave me the recipe.”

Marissa nodded. It’s just food, it will make her happy, you can do this. It’s your daughter.

“And croutons, the smaller kind. Oh, and sweet potatoes, we need those for the salad too! And two types of lettuce, but that should go on the Monday morning shopping list, right? Fresh is best. But the chocolate syrup — we can buy that tomorrow. So I’m putting it on the Sunday shopping list, okay?”

Marissa pulled her lips upward. “Sure, sweetie.” She wondered if all the parents in Tamar’s school splurged like this for every teenage party. Some of them really didn’t have much money. Was this the standard in Yerushalayim?

“Ima, phone call.” Elisheva peeked into the kitchen, wielding Marissa’s cellphone.

“Thanks, Elisheva.” Tamar looked at the screen. It was Adina Laufenstein. “Hello?”

“Gut voch, Marissa. How are you?” Adina sounded brisk, businesslike.

“Well, thanks. And you?”

“Chasdei Hashem. Nothing like Shabbos guests to recharge your batteries, right? We had a big crowd here, it always does the trick.”

“Sounds so nice,” Marissa said. Wow, a woman who’s energized by guests. It sounded so intimidating.

“I hate to bother you so soon after Shabbos, but there’s this case that’s breaking my heart,” Adina said. “It’s a new mommy who’s terrified her baby has some sort of condition. I mean, the way she’s describing it — something about the baby’s reactions, the eye contact… it sounds like she’s having a trauma reaction. I have my tools for trauma, obviously, but the first thing we need to do here is take a look at the baby. Make sure things are really fine.”

“Hmm,” Marissa said, looking at the lists covered with Tamar’s bubbly pink writing. Sunday Shopping List. Monday Shopping List. Sunday Food Prep. Monday Food Prep. Suddenly she felt queasy.

“So do you think you can make a house call?” Adina asked brightly. “This isn’t something that can be solved over the phone.”

“A house call?” Marissa repeated. Sunday Food Prep. Monday Food Prep. Monday at the NICU. Run to the store to buy the waffle maker. A house call?

Marissa grasped at her memories of seminary. There was this class with Rebbetzin Grossinger, something that had felt right and true back when she’d heard it. “They say that chesed begins at home. But I want you to know, ladies, that’s only part of it. Chesed begins, middles, and ends at home. When you take care of the neshamos Hashem gave you, you’re doing the greatest chesed you can. When you have the hot supper ready for your husband along with a warm smile on your face, you’re running your own chesed organization. The official chesed campaigns look more glamorous and they might feel more fulfilling, but your family comes first. And middle. And last.”

Now Marissa held the memory right. She took a breath and told Adina Laufenstein, “I’m so sorry, I have a lot of commitments over the next two days. I won’t be able to do it until Tuesday the earliest.”

“Hmm,” Adina said. “Okay. So we’ll talk then.”

Marissa felt very small. “I’m sorry,” she said to the dial tone.

To be continued….

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 1049)