There were some perks to having a husband who was hearing impaired. I could slam doors without arousing suspicion

"Shaya.”

He didn’t turn around.

“Shaya,” I said louder, and walked a bit closer to where he was standing and slicing peppers.

He finally turned. “Calling me?”

I nodded.

“Sorry, battery’s low.” He put the knife down and pointed to his earpiece.

I waved. No use saying goodbye if he couldn’t hear me.

He resumed cutting and expertly added oil and salt to his salad. “Breakfast?” he asked, pointing to the bowl.

I shook my head and made a gagging motion. To think of all the sunny-side ups and French toast I made him just a couple of months ago. Although this nausea thing was finally getting better. I was more than halfway through!

“At least take this.” With a flourish, he whipped out a cheese Danish. “You need some energy for your day.”

The last few months had taught him a thing or two. I winked and smiled to show my gratitude.

“Bye, Aviva. I’ll meet you at your mother’s tonight, right?”

I nodded. Supper tonight at my mother’s. For the first time ever. On the menu was spaghetti and a vegetable salad of tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers.

There were some perks to having a husband who was hearing impaired. I could slam doors without arousing suspicion.

  

The cold air whipped my face and blew my sheitel all over the place, but it felt good to walk against the wind. I glanced at my watch. It was 8:25. Dassi was in school already. Too late to call and ask her to upgrade the menu. So what were my options?

I thought of the meals Shaya’s mother served whenever we went there. The appetizers, the roasts, the desserts for the royal new couple.

And my mother would serve spaghetti. Because Wednesday was spaghetti night. It said so in large letters on the erasable calendar on the wall that Bubby and Mommy filled in together every Motzaei Shabbos.

No wonder we never ate there.

We’d been invited, of course, but I had an entire list of reasons why we couldn’t come. First it was because I had to get to know Shaya, and then I was way too nauseous to eat at all. But this week, I had run out of excuses.

Mommy had probably prepared her spaghetti pot this morning before heading to school. The one with the black line, drawn by Bubby with a Sharpie, to indicate exactly how much water to fill it with. I quickened my pace. My only option was to get takeout. Maybe pick up some lo mein.

Urban Pediatrics came into view. The parking lot had a couple of cars already, which meant a full waiting room before the day had even begun. I swung open the back door, quickly changed into scrubs, and turned on the lights a moment before Dr. Lazar walked in.

From then on, all thoughts of supper receded as I swabbed throats, checked temperatures, and filled in growth charts with experienced precision.

Finally it was 11:30, the last appointment before my lavish cheese Danish lunch, when I entered exam room B.

“Good morning.” I loaded the chart on the laptop. “And who do we have here today?”

I looked up and found myself staring straight into the face of Mrs. Green, my ninth grade mechaneches. Ugh. Oh well, meeting people I know is par for the course at Urban. Usually, I loved it. Let them all see that I’d made it.

But teachers were a different story. They knew my mother from the office all too well. They had all treated me with the same practiced pity.