Back in the waiting room, she watched one of the mothers do what she should have done an hour sooner — approach the front desk to ask if they could please, please, please, change the video. As soon as the screen darkened, all the kids in the room plopped down on the floor, pretzeled their legs, and eagerly waited to see what would play next.

But just as Bello’s face appeared on the screen, the receptionist called, “Lizman, Miriam and Ne-hama.”

This time Miri’s harrumph was completely warranted.

In the exam room, the nurse got down her girls’ height, weight, and hemoglobin.

“Hey, Miriam!” she said as she entered the information into the system. “You’re having a birthday next week!”

Deena blanched. Birthday?

Yes. July 28, next week — how had she forgotten?

Miri squinted at Deena, confused. Deena quickly collected herself and nodded.

“Yes. Yes, of course. Miri’s turning seven! A big girl!”

I forgot Miri’s birthday. Totally and completely forgot.

She’d never forgotten a birthday before. Birthdays at the Lizmans were legal holidays. She was a food blogger, for goodness’ sake. Her followers rightfully expected a proper party, and her creativity always went into overdrive when she planned those parties. How had she forgotten?

Well, good thing this appointment was a week before the big day and not a week after. Miri wouldn’t know she’d forgotten; she’d assume Deena had planned a surprise. And there was plenty of time to prepare. Miri’s birthday — this was going to be one memorable celebration.

While they waited for the doctor, Deena scrolled through previous birthday parties in her mind.

She’d done color schemes, character themes, seasonal themes. She’d done elaborate cake smashes for both of her girls’ first birthdays.

Cake smash. Zev.

Her throat tightened.

“Now, Tzippi,” she yells.

Her sister squints through the lens. Nechama’s pudgy fingers plunge through the tower of pink cream. Miri and all the cousins squeal. Shira clicks away.

She’s holding Nechama in her lap, fluffing her pink tutu and laughing as her baby licks the cream off her grubby fingers, when Zev approaches. She hadn’t noticed him leaving, didn’t know he’d missed the big moment.

“I’m not feeling well,” he tells her quietly.

Her breath freezes. Now? Of all times?

She tightens her grip under Nechama’s arms. “What’s the matter?” she asks. She’s afraid to hear the answer.

“Fever,” he says. “It’s 100.3.”

Her fingers go cold. Zev is not allowed to run a fever. “Anything over 100, go in immediately,” the nurse practitioner routinely reminds them.

Deena whispers to her sister Elisheva. “I need to leave. Zev…” She gestures. “Can you take over here? Maybe the kids won’t notice…”

Zev doesn’t talk in the car. She drives, hands trembling as she grips the steering wheel, passes red lights.

Two hours later, his temperature is regulated. They wait for results.

Zev doses off. She checks her phone to pass the time, still her nerves.

Shira had sent her pictures. Already edited — how did she manage that? Nechama’s eyes glint at her from the screen, her hands coated in cream.

She can’t help the regret. I missed the whole party.

Zev is still sleeping. It’s going to take at least another hour to find out what’s happening.

She goes on Instagram. Uploads the photos, writes up a cute blurb. It’s a good distraction.

The nurse practitioner returns. “His numbers are okay,” she says. “We want you to stay another few hours for monitoring, then you can go home. Dr. Hang will follow up on this at your appointment tomorrow.”

Later, when she returns from the Bikkur Cholim room with some fruit, she finds Zev holding her phone. She hadn’t realized she’d left it behind.

“My mother’s on her way over with food,” he tells her.

“Okay.”

“Who would’ve guessed?” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Nuts and Basil’s kid is one, they’re having so much fun at the party.”

His voice is cynical. She doesn’t know what he’s trying to tell her. Does he feel sorry for her?

He doesn’t sound sorry. He sounds… hurt.

Doesn’t he realize that she’d missed the party because of him? That she sacrifices everything for his care? That this isn’t easy for her, none of this… this?

She doesn’t blame him that she’d missed the party — it’s not his fault. He didn’t choose to get sick.

What bothers her is that he doesn’t care. Doesn’t appreciate what she does for him.

She doesn’t tell him.

They never talk about it.

They never talk.

Ever.

Deena tried Hersko again later in the afternoon, but he didn’t answer.

At night, while she cleaned up the kitchen, she tried another time. Voice mail.

Maybe there’s something wrong with his phone?

She had his landline number programmed in her phone; he’d called her from home once. She didn’t want to nag, but she also didn’t want to lose this guest. And neither would Hersko.

His wife answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Hi, can I please speak to Mr. Hersko?”

“He’s— who’s calling?”

“Deena Lizman. I’m doing the cooking show for his Succos tour?”

“Oh.”

Does she not recognize my name or does she not know how to react? Deena had that all the time; some people were a little stunned to bump into Nuts & Basil in real life.

The woman was quiet an extra beat. Then she said, “My husband isn’t home.”

“Uh, okay. When will he be back?”

“He’ll be back next week Monday. He’s… the Greece tour is running now.”

“Oh!”

“Any message?”

There was something shifty in the way the woman spoke. Deena couldn’t figure out what it was.

“Uh, yes,” she said. She picked up a pen and doodled on the trip note from Miri’s camp. “But I guess I could email him. I didn’t realize I’m calling you in Greece. Sorry, what time is it by you?”

“I’m not in Greece.”

“I thought you said…?”

“My husband is in Greece. I’m home.”

“You’re—” Deena put her pen down. That something in her voice wasn’t shiftiness. If she wasn’t mistaken, it sounded more like bitterness. “Uh, okay,” she mumbled. “I guess I’ll email him then. And I guess we’ll meet in Italy on Succos?”

“Uh… yes. Yes, sure! Looking forward.”

Ten minutes later, as Deena sat down to email Hersko, her phone rang.

Ruthie.

“Deena! We need to talk about the tour. I started looking up flights, and I figured, we should probably fly together, right?”

Not right.

Deena squirted soap and water on the counter and scraped her squeegee over it. “We’ll see.”

She pictured the flight: two single moms supporting each other through their shared challenges. Alone Together.

She nearly gagged. Forget commission, forget the celiac guest. The Instagram tour announcement had been one big mistake.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 767)