At least she had made it. That wasn’t always a given; Mordechai had expanded his cooking repertoire from eggs and tuna, to eggs, tuna, and macaroni. He wished he could give the kids something more, but these days, more included things like fish sticks or frozen pizza. It was as though Sarah had forgotten how to cook.

He’d been patient with her, helping her along, trying to make this work, until it couldn’t anymore. Then he’d read everything there was to read on postpartum depression and mental illness and therapy and the Twelve Steps and addiction, too, for good measure. The patient has to want to help himself, said all the gurus. He’d gotten Sarah on medication for a few days, but she’d started having nightmares and palpitations and while Dr. Shore said it was a matter of adjusting the dose, Sarah refused to take another pill.

“Do you want to feel like this?” Mordechai had finally yelled. And Sarah had responded with a fresh flood of tears, telling him he was cruel and he shouldn’t talk like that, he didn’t understand and—

And Mordechai felt cruel, so he apologized and began shouldering more responsibility. But he brought it up every few days, threatening to drag her back to the doctor, until she’d started painting again.

“There’s nothing wrong with me!” she’d said. “I’m tired and overworked, and I need some time for myself!”

Desperate, Mordechai hung on to the thin threads of her promise. In the past, painting had helped. It relaxed her, got her into a creative mode. And a happy mother makes happy children.

A few weeks later, though, he wasn’t sure. She wasn’t happy, the kids weren’t happy, he wasn’t happy. Their home was falling apart.

***

“So how’s the kevarim tour working?” Shmuel asked.

“It’s good. They ended up with so many women, we’re doing a charter flight. We’ve got about ten seats left if your wife wants to come.”

Shmuel laughed. “My wife says that all the women in her office are talking about it. I never even saw it advertised.”

“It was mainly in the chassidishe papers.”

“Makes sense, my wife works with a bunch of chassidishe ladies. Said they were complaining how all the nonworking women are going to go, when they’re the ones who need a vacation, but they can’t afford to take the time off.”

“Hmmm.”

“So I told her to tell all her friends: It’s k’dai to lose a week’s pay for this. They’ll come back refreshed and happy, it’ll save them hundreds on therapies. You don’t need a therapist if you visit Budapest!” Shmuel cracked up.

Mordechai shrugged and turned back to his ringing phone.

“I just need a vacation,” the woman on the line was complaining. “I need to recharge, and I’ve been to Israel so many times, it’s not even exciting anymore. Plus, I’ve got kids there who think they’re on vacation when I come. Nothing relaxing about that.

“I wanted to go to Switzerland. Can you check the flights there? If they’re reasonable, maybe I will. But really, I need to connect, I want to feel kedushah, and I must daven for my daughter’s shidduch, so Israel is the only option.”

“Find your shidduch by Reb Meilich!” Shmuel stage-whispered into his left ear.

“You know,” Mordechai broke into the woman’s monologue, “I have a group going to Europe for ten days. You’ve heard of Meir Shertzer? He’s arranging a women’s group. He’s got a great itinerary prepared, lots of inspiration, davening. Everything you need to recharge without the pressure it sounds like you’ll be under in Israel. Uh, connect to Hashem at the kever of the Baal Shem,” he added with a dark look at Shmuel, who was grinning wildly.

“Do you have more information about it? That sounds like it really might be the answer. I’ve just been so bogged down lately; my brain is in a fog.”

“Snap out of your fog — go to Prague!” Shmuel chortled as Mordechai tried desperately to shush him.

“Would you quit it?” he asked after hanging up. “I’ll lose all my clients if they think I broadcast their lives across town.”

“Hey, tell Mrs. Spiritual to be quiet. How can a guy work with her screaming into the phone like that? Besides, I just booked you another seat. I should get a commission.”

Later, as they were leaving the office, Shmuel slapped him on the back. “Here’s the best one yet: A visit to the Gaon makes things better at home.”

***

Okay, Shmuel was corny and downright annoying sometimes, but could he be onto something? Painting hadn’t done the trick, but maybe a trip to European cemeteries would help Sarah. “It’s gotta be grave if you’re visiting the graves.” He texted Shmuel and was pleased to receive a smiley in reply.

He’d have to force Sarah to go, he knew. And would it help? Mordechai doubted it. But at the very least, the family would have a break from her. A horrible thought, but true. Let them have a normal week, for once, with a mother away, not mentally checked out. But how would he get her to go, if he could hardly get her to talk to him? He had to stage an intervention, that was what all the books said, as though he hadn’t tried that a million times.

Maybe all she needed was a legitimate vacation. She couldn’t feel good about herself, knowing she was neglecting the family. Maybe a real vacation would help her snap back.

Mordechai pulled into the driveway. No crying. Whew. Maybe Sarah was all painted out. He would market her masterpiece, she’d feel good about herself, things would return to normal. Forget vacations. Forget Europe and the graves. Maybe Sarah really did know what she needed.

Oh, right. Shuey’s at that babysitter.

In the beginning, he had had no reason to send Shuey out. But then Sarah hadn’t come back to herself.

When she’d started her painting, Mordechai had suggested a babysitter. Sarah had resisted, largely, Mordechai suspected now, because she had wanted to prove that she was just tired and overworked.

“He’s a baby. I’ll paint when he’s sleeping,” she’d said.

“The studio’s soundproof, Sarah. How will you hear him?”

They’d bought a video monitor, and that worked for a while. In the first days, Sarah had even perked up a bit. Supper was still fish sticks, and the laundry haphazard, but there had been afternoons that Sarah sat on the couch and watched the children play. But as her painting progressed, she’d turned more and more inward, and last week, Mordechai had just sent Shuey out. Sarah hadn’t protested; Mordechai wondered if it had even registered.

Well, he’d speak to Sarah now, while his idea was fresh and the house quiet.

He entered the studio and shut off the music. Sarah didn’t react. She was mixing paints, frowning at her canvas.

He opted for an excited tone. “Sarah! I had the best idea!”

No reaction. She didn’t even turn her head. Mordechai sighed. But he hadn’t expected a reaction, had he? Still. He was sick of this. He’d tried, for months now, to be careful, and where had it gotten him? Maybe that was why all his interventions hadn’t worked. This one would.

He took the brush out of her hands, and in the space before she could react, he felt an urge to cover the entire painting in black. He deserved a medal for his restraint.

“Sarah!” he said again before she could open her mouth. “Listen! You know my client Shertzer? The Encyclopedia of Graves?” Sarah had given him that name back when she was smart and funny and with-it. He must have a photographic memory, she’d said, the way he could map tens of cemeteries.

“He’s organizing a woman’s group.” Mordechai paused to hear Sarah’s snort, but it never came. “And you’re going, Sarah. It’s in two weeks and I got you the last seat. You’ll have time to get away, meet new women, tour new places. It’ll be amazing.”

Nothing. She’d chosen another brush and was back to mixing paints.

“You’re going, Sarah. Like it or not,” Mordechai hissed. “You can’t spend the rest of your life in the studio.”

He turned to leave.

“I can’t go on vacation now,” Sarah said. She dabbed paint on the canvas. “I’m just about finished here, but then I got an idea for a new piece. It’s—”

It was almost like having the old Sarah back, and for a minute, Mordechai allowed himself to hope. But as he listened to her prattle, he realized she would spend the rest of her life in the studio. She needed out, and fast.

“You have two weeks to finish it. You’re a mother, Sarah. A wife. That comes before painting. It needs to.”

***

As Mordechai drove Sarah to the airport, he wondered if this really was a wise idea. She hadn’t spoken to him once since he’d given her his ultimatum, and he’d ignored her mostly, too, justifying his need for her to take this trip. It would force her out of her comfort zone, force her to look around, take stock. She’d interact with other people, hear their stories, put hers in perspective. At least that’s what he told himself as he took down her suitcase and packed for her.

“You’re going,” he’d spat. “I’m not joking, Sarah, the game’s over.”

Shertzer, at least, was gratified to see him at the airport.

“My wife’s going, you know.”

“Yes, thanks. Excellent publicity. I don’t know how you got those last seats filled so quickly, but you’ll have firsthand experience now to do it again. It’s mamash great.”

Mordechai grimaced. It was Shmuel who’d gotten those seats filled. Shmuel and his dumb jokes. But he’d take it.

Mordechai left the airport already feeling lighter. He’d scheduled a cleaning service to get the house in shape while Sarah was gone. He’d been sweeping the floor and taking out the garbage all this time, but he was a man; keeping house was out of his league. The one time he’d hired help, Sarah had fired the woman before she’d had a chance to get out a mop.

He’d also called his mother to come, after the cleaners left. He’d have a break, the kids would have a loving mother, clean clothing, and nourishing meals. He’d worked it all out, explaining that he booked Sarah so last minute she had had no time to prepare meals. Mordechai was looking forward to the pampering.

In the past, the basics had never felt like pampering.

***

His mother had shooed him off to bed as she walked in the door. “You’ve been a single dad for the past two days, you must be exhausted,” she’d said.

He woke up to the smell of chicken. It’d been so long since they had chicken during the week.

“These kids eat like vultures,” his mother said, smiling at Mordechai as he came into the kitchen. He’d slept three hours, which was embarrassing, but he felt better than he had in a while. “I had to hide a piece for you. No wonder Sarah makes chicken only for Shabbos.”

Mordechai forced a smile.

“What does she make for suppers?”

“Macaroni!” Esty piped up.

“Or tuna fish.”

“Tatty makes supper!” said four-year-old Chaim. “But he doesn’t know how to cook. I like chicken. Can you make it every day, Bubby?”

***

“What’s happening?” his mother asked as he walked in from Maariv.

“What do you mean?” Mordechai responded. He was stalling; he knew that his mother knew it. He sighed.

“Let’s try again,” his mother said. “How’s Sarah? How are you?”

“It’s hard. She needs a break, taking care of everyone all the time.”

“Mordechai, please.” Her voice was soft. “The kids have told me what’s going on. Let’s cut right to it.”

“What did they tell you?” Mordechai asked, glancing around the kitchen, which was cleaner than it had been in months. He wondered absently if that was attributable to the cleaning crew or to his mother, suspecting the latter and regretting the money he’d spent.

“It sounds like Sarah hasn’t been around these past few months.”

“Yeah. I’ve been dealing with it.”

“Dealing with it how? These things don’t usually resolve on their own. It might need doctors. Medicine.”

“I know.” Mordechai sighed. “She won’t take anything, won’t see anyone, and won’t let me get help.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Mordechai rubbed his eyes. “You’ve been here less than a day. I need a break, too.”

“Okay, I’ll let it go for now, but not forever. Because I love you.”

“A mother’s job is never done.” Mordechai flinched as he repeated his mother’s favorite line. “I know. And I appreciate it. I just need time.”

***

“Sarah! Finally! How is it? What’s happening?”

It was Sunday morning, and Sarah had finally answered the phone. His mother had taken the kids out on one last outing; she’d be leaving the next day. “Tonight, I’ll show you what I’ve put away in the freezer. Suppers and soups and stuff. You’ll call me for directions on how to heat them,” she’d said before they left.

Once they’d gone, Mordechai had dutifully called Sarah, sure she wouldn’t answer. He hadn’t spoken to her once in the week that she was gone. Not for lack of trying. He’d called and texted religiously for the first three days of the tour, lying to his mother and kids when they asked how it was. Then he’d called Shertzer on the pretext of finding out the itinerary.

“My wife and I keep missing each other,” he’d said. “With your jam-packed schedule and the time difference. Can you resend the itinerary? I must have deleted the one you sent before the trip.”

“Sure. Sending now,” Shertzer had replied. “But don’t worry about your wife. Mine is taking very good care of her.”

Mordechai had laughed, relieved, loving the pretext of Shertzer wanting to keep his wife happy. He didn’t call again until Friday. She didn’t answer, but at least she responded, leaving a message at home to wish everyone a good Shabbos. It was the only time they’d heard from her.

“I’m sorry I haven’t returned your calls,” Sarah said. She sounded shy. “It’s been… I don’t know.”

“Yeah? What have you been doing?” He winced at his tone, but it was too late. All the resentment came back.

“Mordechai?”

He tried again. “Meeting new people, seeing new things? How are the accommodations? The food? How was Shabbos?”

“It’s good.” But she sounded unsure of herself.

Well, good.

“I met another woman who paints. I was doing a sketch at the Besht’s kever, and she started talking.”

So it was the Besht now. Be your best with the Besht. He could hear Shmuel, and he grimaced. What did Shmuel know?

“And?”

“She showed me some of her work. She takes pictures of her stuff.”

There was silence. It was as though they hadn’t spoken in so long, they couldn’t think of anything to say.

“How are you feeling?” he asked finally. She was talking. That had to be a step forward.

He could hear Sarah sucking in her breath. “I know I need help,” she said. “I’m sorry about the past few months. I’ve been talking to Chedva Shertzer. She saw me looking around and she thought I must be looking for a relative or something and I said I just needed to rest and—” Sarah stopped.

“And?”

“She started talking. She said she knows how I feel, she’s been through it herself. She’s been helping me. It just feels good to know I’m not alone.”

Mordechai clenched his fists. So. Some woman she met in a graveyard tells her she’s not alone. She’s made our lives miserable, and this is what she comes back with? ‘I met a woman at the cemetery. It’s good to know I’m not alone.’ Even the voice in his head sounded sarcastic.

“Mordechai? Are you still there?”

“That’s great, Sarah,” Mordechai finally said. “Uh, I gotta run. Shuey’s crying, but I’m glad you’re feeling better. I’ll talk to you later.”

He hung up without waiting for her reply and found himself heading toward the basement freezer. Old habits. Sarah used to keep ice cream hidden there, and all the best cakes and cookies, but there was nothing now. He’d know, he’d taken over the shopping and most of the cooking, while she was all alone, with no one to help her­.

He turned to go back upstairs, but the tiger in his chest roared as he passed Sarah’s studio. He keyed in the combination, once, twice, three times before his fingers calmed down enough to do it right, and stopped in front of her painting, itching to destroy it as it had destroyed them.

It was a forest scene, all trees. But it was raining, and the trees were mostly bare. Mordechai shivered suddenly. He knew that was a testament to her talent, but he felt none of his usual pride in her work. He wished he had the guts to damage it. Let her see what that feels like.

His eyes roved the canvas, and he noticed, in the bottom left corner, a small woman in black. The figure was smudged, but still, she gave off an air of despondency. It’s good to know I’m not alone. Mordechai replayed her words. Was this really what she felt? Was this bleakness what Sarah woke up to every day?

She knows how I feel, she’s been through it herself. Mordechai traced the figure on the painting. It wasn’t about him, was it? Not the food or the cleaning or the laundry. Not even the kids. Sarah was suffering. The person behind the organized house, behind supper and laundry and bedtime. She was once their center, and she deserved to be that again.

I know I need help, she’d said. She needed hope, encouragement. To climb out of her despair not for the family’s sake, but so that she could heal.

I’ll help you, he promised silently. Whatever it takes. It would be hard, but she wouldn’t feel alone. He would do this the right way. Sarah would be Sarah again.

He felt footsteps above his head. His mother and the kids were back.

For you, Sarah, he thought with one last glance at the painting. And for the first time in months, there was a spring in his step as he ran up to join the chaos that was his family.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 638)