“You can’t skip the warm-ups,” Pessie told her client Sima Porges.

It had been a mistake to allow this mother-daughter duo to train together. They’d begged her — it’s so much more fun to work out with company, it’s going to make both of us be more accountable — until Pessie had reluctantly agreed. She’d predicted this wouldn’t work the moment they’d arrived for their intake session, but she hadn’t realized just how much it wouldn’t work.

“The problem is their different stages,” Pessie had explained to her sister Malkie after the first session. “The mother married off all her kids and spends her days volunteering and meeting friends for lunch. She looks younger than her daughter. She schleps her daughter along to work out, and the poor woman looks like she can barely muster the strength to stand.”

Pessie understood Rivkie. She trained Rivkies all the time, young mothers who grasped onto the promise that working out would change their lives. Of course, as a personal trainer, Pessie was the first to endorse that sentiment, but she also knew the truth. Raising kids was exhausting, and if you finally managed to carve out a little me time, working up a sweat didn’t feel like a treat.

Pessie got the pair started, but after three minutes, Sima threw up her hands. “I’m all warmed up, can we start some real exercise now?” She leaned forward. “Hey, did you get a new necklace? So pretty! What’s the occasion?”

Pessie’s chest tightened. “Thanks,” she muttered. “Anniversary gift.”

Anniversary gift, right. It wasn’t a gift. It was a bribe. To get her to agree to the crazy tour idea.

Why was she even wearing a necklace while training?

Pessie rubbed her palms together and straightened her back. “All right, warm-ups done, I’ll stop torturing you. Abs!”

She turned around to the speaker to crank the music volume up. With her back turned, she reached for the necklace and tucked it under her T-shirt.

Pessie stayed in the basement gym after Sima and Rivkie left. She usually avoided calling Yochi during the day, but they had to talk. The tour joke had turned alarmingly serious.

She didn’t bother asking if he could talk, just burst out as though they were middle of a conversation.

“So you don’t love your job, I get it. Jobs aren’t meant to be loved. Sometimes doing what you love is a bad idea, starving artists and all that, but seriously, Yochi, your accounting job is solid. It’s stable and normal and earns a decent income. You’re good at what you do, you have a future at the firm, and honestly, a little clout doesn’t hurt either. You can make partner one day.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Pessie. What just happened?”

“Nothing happened, I’m just telling you how crazy this is. It’s barely five years since you passed your CPAs. How could you waste all the time you invested? How could you give up an actual career and go careening around the world instead? It’s… It’s irresponsible, it’s weird, and hello, do you expect me to stay home alone?”

“Pessie, you really don’t get me.”

“I get you. It’s tax season, you work crazy hours. This happens every year. I don’t blame you. You’re under enormous pressure now. But you know it passes. In another few weeks, it’ll be behind you, things will become normal again, you’ll be able to breathe.” She kicked an exercise ball to the corner of the room. “I can’t believe we’re even arguing about this.”

“Okay, look, Pessie, I’m at work, I really can’t talk now. We’ll discuss this later, okay?”

She hung up the phone and dropped it onto a yoga mat. Later, sure. So convenient.

She turned the music back on and got down on the mat. Crunches, that’s what she needed. She contracted her abs, inhaled, exhaled, lifted her upper body. Another deep breath, back in position. Contract, inhale, exhale, lift. Contract, inhale, exhale, lift.

She moved on to cardio, then spent a few minutes cooling down. It was true, what she always told clients. Working out was important, productive me-time. By the time she went upstairs, her mind had cleared a bit and her chest felt more relaxed.

Pessie prepared herself a cup of lemon water, filled a plate with cantaloupe, and sat down to eat. But she’d barely started her snack when she heard the door creak open.

“Hello?” Pessie called.

Nobody answered. She heard someone shuffle down the hallway and a door closing. She stood up. It was 3:15. Malkie and Motti were playing at the Neusteins’ and she wasn’t expecting anyone home yet.

Pessie poked her head into the girls’ room.

“Hindy?”

Her nine-year-old daughter was lying on her bed, squeezed into a ball, face buried in her pillow.

“Hindy Hersko! What are you doing here and how in the world did you get home?”

Hindy didn’t look up. “I’m not going back to school, ever!”

Pessie sat down next to her. “Okay, princess. Tell me what happened.”

Hindy sat up and threw her pillow to the floor. Her face was blotchy. She swiped at her eyes, then rolled up her uniform shirt sleeve.

Pessie winced. Flaking, bleeding, scaly patches snaked up her daughter’s arm.

“Makas shchin,” Hindy said bitterly. “That’s what they called it.” She scratched angrily and pulled her sleeve down. Then she dropped her head down on the bed again.

Pessie took a deep breath. “We’re going to fix this, Hindy,” she said. “We’re going to get your skin healed, we’ll find a way.”

“I’m not going to any more doctors, and I’m not going on any more diets.”

“No doctors,” Pessie said. “And no diets. We’re going to figure this out. Leave it to me.”

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 735)