“She really has to come live here. She should be near us. What else does she need at this point besides us and our children, her nachas?”

“She’s not answering.”

The phone is clammy in Gila’s palm. “I’ve been trying Mom all evening. Seriously, Avigail, whose phone is off at three in the afternoon?”

From her window, Gila takes in the inky blackness of the Jerusalem night. They’re half a day and half a world away from Mom who’s on her own, somewhere in a New York afternoon.

“I’m calling Dora from my cellphone,” Avigail says. “Hold on.”

Gila waits on the line, feeling the darkness, the distance, press in on her; all those lines of latitude away. She closes the curtain in one nervous swipe.

She hears a tinny voice come over the loudspeaker, and Avigail say, “Hi Dora, it’s Abigail, calling from Israel. Have you seen my mother today? My sister and I have been trying her.…”

“Abigail, dear. I saw your mother this morning, getting into her car. She was looking spiffy, dressed to go out. Don’t worry yourselves. She’s probably having a good time and forgot to charge her phone. That can happen with us old folks….”

Gila hears Avigail try for a laugh. “Thanks, you’re the best, Dora.”

But neither of them is really placated.

“Dressed to go out,” Avigail says. “Where would she be going?”

“Her volunteer work, you know...” Gila tries.

“She just needs to come here,” Avigail says.

Not again. But Avigail’s bulldozing on. “You know what, I think that’s it. I think it’s time to look for an apartment for Mom right here in Yerushalayim. Once we find her a place, there’ll be nothing else holding her back from this move she really has to make.”

That’s not quite true, Gila knows. She thinks of the new condo Mom downsized to recently. She has a whole life in that new building of hers in Brooklyn Heights. Her friend Dora, a gym and a pool, her clique of pool ladies, her volunteer work.

“I’m going to start looking into apartments,” Avigail says decisively.

Gila doesn’t try to naysay her sister right now. She’s concerned too. Her kitchen shows it. There’s a half-started fish dressing, and the vegetables she’d taken out for the soup sitting prettily on the counter. She was going to put up that soup while catching up with Mom….

She sighs.

“Hey, where you up to with Shabbos?” Avigail asks.

“Not much. Unpeeled vegetables all around.”

“Come to us for the Friday night meal,” says Avigail.

And Gila falls into the familiar script.