For a moment, he thought about picking up the phone and calling his father-in-law. To thank him for taking the kids, making this entire trip possible… and maybe to express his appreciation for everything he’d done for him over the years.

But… the TTS audit. He shuddered. No, he wasn’t going there. Not with his flight scheduled for the next day. And not with Eli T. texting him again about the edible flowers, double checking that they’d be a thousand percent fresh and delivered at the very last minute because of their short shelf life.

In their bedroom, Pessie slid a pile of T-shirts into a large bag and zipped it shut. She reached for the vacuum hose and attached it to the turbo valve on the bag. Then she paused, pulled the pile of T-shirts out again.

“Maybe I should wear this for the flight,” she said. “Yes, I think I should.”

Yochi opened his closet and took out his two piles of shirts. “Oh, my goodness, Pessie, I can’t believe this is really happening.”

Pessie made a face. “Neither can I.”

She powered on the vacuum cleaner and Yochi turned around to watch. The bag shrank around the pile of clothing, as all the air was sucked out.

“Cool,” he whistled as Pessie tossed the shrink-wrapped package into an open suitcase.

Pessie opened another bag and reached for a pile of towels that was sitting on the dresser.

“Men, women,” Yochi said. “My flight is in a few hours and I didn’t start packing yet. Your flight is in five days and look at you. And by the way, why are you packing towels? Won’t the hotel provide them?”

“We need a lot of towels. We’re going to the beach, remember?” She shook open another bag and stuffed the towels inside. “Oh, no, I forgot to buy more tights for Hindy. I’ll need to go tomorrow. And I can’t decide if she should fly in her shoes or her sneakers. Her shoes don’t have laces, she could slip them on and off if she wants to sleep, but sneakers are way more comfortable. On the other hand, sneakers take up more space in the suitcase. Hmm?”

“That’s a serious sh’eilah. Should I call the dayan?” Yochi put his shirts in the suitcase. “I wish you could come to Zambia with me.”

Pessie glanced at him briefly, then turned her attention back to the bag of towels.

“It would’ve been so nice to go together,” Yochi continued. “This tour is going to be beyond words incredible, you can’t imagine. I mean, it’s obviously bashert, with my parents’ schedule and everything, but we’re going to make up for this, Pessie, we are so going to. The Greece tour, after Tishah B’Av, you’ll love it. Greece is stunning. Totally different idea from Zambia, it’s more of a luxurious getaway type of vacation. More your style, huh?”

Pessie turned and looked at him strangely.

“And the kids will have a full program, they won’t be your headache. We’ll have a babysitter for Motti when we go on trips. I mean, I won’t be able to go every day, I will be working after all, but we’ll have plenty time to tour, Binick says.”

“Yochi…” Pessie said.

“Hmm?”

“Never mind.”

Was that — was she crying? “What, Pessie?”

“What?” She flung the vacuum hose down on the floor. “When I come back from Eretz Yisrael, Yochi Hersko, I am not flying anywhere for a very long time.”

Ciro, the Shabbos goy on Deena’s block, loved gefilte fish.

Everyone knew that, and if a neighbor forgot to turn off the fridge light before Shabbos, Ciro came to the rescue and earned a slice as a token of appreciation.

Once, when the steam had stayed off on a freezing winter Shabbos, Deena had summoned Ciro to her house. Deena had been hosting Leah, and her table had been set in true Nuts-and-Basil style. Ciro had been duly impressed by her talent.

“I have culinary blood in my veins myself,” he’d told her. “My mom was a chef in a restaurant in Italy before we moved to the States. She was famous for her handmade pasta, students would come to watch her work all the time.”

Deena recalled this conversation now, as she gave up on her fruitless Google research.

Google was a copout. Anyone could follow Italian recipes online and pretend to be a cultural chef. This wasn’t the kind of demo Deena Lizman was going to perform. She was too jaded for that.

Deena caught Ciro on her way home from the grocery with her girls on a Sunday morning. Ciro was mowing his lawn, and he turned off the mower when Deena greeted him.

“Your girls are getting big!”

“Yup.”

They made some small talk — the heat wave, the construction site next door — and then Deena casually said, “Hey, Ciro, tell me more about your mom’s pasta.”

“My mom’s pasta…” He chuckled. “I once bought her a gift for Mother’s Day, an apron that said, Keep out. I’m having a pasta moment. That’s how my mom is with her pasta.”

“Did she ever share recipes with you? Any hacks? I’m asking for research purposes. I’m preparing a demo on Italian cuisine.”

“She taught me a thing or two, but why don’t you talk to her directly? She’s nice, she’ll gladly help you.”

Pay dirt! Wow! “Thanks, Ciro. That would be amazing.”

Miri pulled Deena’s elbow. “Ma?”

“Just a minute.”

“Here,” Ciro said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll FaceTime her right now. She’s always complaining that I don’t call, she’ll be happy to hear from me.”

A moment later, a middle-aged woman’s face filled Ciro’s screen. She wore sunglasses over her brown hair, and gestured animatedly with her hands. They spoke in Italian, and then Ciro handed his phone to Deena.

Deena introduced herself. Then she started telling Ciro’s mother what great things she’d heard about her cooking. But before she could finish her sentence, Miri yanked her hand. “Maaaa!”

Deena’s cheeks turned hot. “I’m sorry,” she told the woman. “Just a moment please.”

Why? Why did Miri always have to make things difficult for her? This was a priceless opportunity, couldn’t she remain calm for just a few minutes?

Deena eyed her daughter sternly. “Miri, I’m having an important conversation, please be quiet and wait for me to finish. It won’t take long.”

She turned back to the phone. She knew how to conduct an interview. How many stories had she featured in her time? But it was impossible to keep up a flow this way, with Miri whining at her side.

“I’m wondering if you’d have the time — not now, whenever you’re available — to teach me some techniques. I need to get familiar with the Italian food culture, well enough to be able to present a show. I’ll pay you, of course.”

Ciro’s mother waved her palm. “You don’t need to pay me, please. Here, let me see if I can pull up this link, I have a few demos from—”

Miri tugged her skirt. Deena’s eyes flew to her daughter, then back to the screen. “Uh, so, great. Let’s set up a time to talk. I don’t want to keep you…”

Finally, she ended the video call, after taking down the woman’s email address and agreeing to be in touch in the future. After thanking Ciro and continuing down the block, Deena turned to Miri. She was about to launch into a serious scolding when she noticed Miri’s face.

She was stewing — that much was obvious — but she was also flushed and sweating.

Deena slowed her pace. “Is something wrong, Miri?”

“I am so thirsty. I’m going to faint.”

Guilt snaked through Deena’s heart. Goodness. Her daughter was parched, it was a scorching hot day, how had she neglected her like this?

“I’m also thirsty,” Nechama piped up.

Deena turned to her. Nechama’s face was also red, and come to think of it, she herself could use a drink.

Then again, neither she nor Nechama were having a meltdown over the heat. Miri, once again, was overreacting. Deena hadn’t done anything wrong by having a conversation for a few minutes. Her daughter should have been able to handle it.

Well, maybe — hopefully — therapy would teach Miri to self-regulate. Because being thirsty didn’t mean the world wasn’t coming to an end. It really did not.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 756)