“Well, yeah. I wanted to know what happens next if, y’know, it’s bad news.” She swallowed and looked down at her hands.

Ayala closed her eyes. The couple in front of her was in agony, and Ayala, who’d come to help, wasn’t even present for them.

Pulling her thoughts away from her mother, Ayala leaned closer to the young woman and responded to her question. She knew that it wasn’t really information she wanted, but assurance. There won’t be bad news. Everything will be fine. You’ll come out of his office dancing with relief.

Of course, she couldn’t and wouldn’t give such assurance. All she could do was gently tell them that no matter what the doctor said in that room, they had the strength to deal with it. And that Chesed Tzirel would be by their side to give whatever support they needed.

The father was nodding, the mother taking deep breaths as she clutched her daughter close. But even as Ayala said the words, her heart was begging for someone to assure her that her mother would be okay. That the doctors would give her the right medications, that Mommy would be responsible about taking those medications, that this mini-heart attack wouldn’t turn into a major one down the line, chas v’shalom.

Because if something happened to her mother… while she was far away in Israel… when, all her life, she’d been the one to bear responsibility for Mommy’s care….

She didn’t know if she’d have the strength to deal with it.

Ayala rubbed her forehead, as she felt Bracha cast her a concerned glance. As soon as Bracha had seen her this morning, she’d said, “You look like you’ve been up all night.”

“I have,” Ayala had yawned. She’d been on the phone with Zev, her father, and the doctors for hours, and even after she’d finally fallen into bed, she’d been too agitated to sleep.

Bracha had told her to stay home, had tried to convince her that she’d be fine handling this case on her own. But Ayala couldn’t bring herself to do it. Was Bracha really ready to work independently? And on such a sensitive case?

Now, she sighed. She probably shouldn’t have come.

Her phone rang. Mommy? Ayala jumped up. “Sorry, gotta take this,” she mumbled to the young couple. As she strode out of the waiting room, she heard Bracha explaining, “Her mom’s in the hospital.” Ayala cringed. She was always careful not to share her personal problems with her clients. They had enough of their own to deal with; it wasn’t fair to make them worry about hers as well.

She spoke into the phone as she walked. “Mommy! How are you? What’s going on?” She glanced at her watch. It was four in the morning in New York.

Her mother’s voice was high-pitched. “Ayala, I need some water and no one’s here to give it to me.”

Ayala clenched her teeth. “Did you try ringing the nurse’s bell?”

“Yes, I keep ringing, but no one comes.”

“Zev?”

“He went home.”

Ayala blinked. He did? He left Mommy alone in the hospital? She frowned at herself. What do you expect, Ayala? The poor guy had been with her the entire afternoon and evening. He deserves to sleep in his own bed.

Her mother was still speaking, “Tatty’s not here, either. He went back to Zev’s house, so that he shouldn’t have to sleep alone. Obviously, no one cares about me being alone.”

Zev did the right thing, Ayala told herself. He’s taking care of Tatty and Mommy. And you?

She closed her eyes. “Try ringing the nurse again,” she said helplessly.

Despite her inability to bring her mother a cup of water from across the ocean, Ayala stayed on the phone until her mother was calmer.  As soon as she hung up, she raced back to the waiting room, but Bracha and the young family were no longer there. No. She hurried over to the receptionist.

“They went in almost a half hour ago,” she told Ayala, “but I don’t think they came out yet.”

Ayala’s heart pounded. A half hour! That wasn’t a good sign. And Bracha was handling this delicate discussion?

She walked up to the doctor’s closed door and raised her hand to knock.

She paused.

After a half hour?

For better or for worse, Bracha was in there, and she’d managed to navigate things until now.

What benefit would there be for Ayala to enter the discussion at this point… other than to assuage her own conscience?

She hesitated another moment, then walked back to the waiting area and sat down, leaning her head back against the wall and closing her eyes. She’d give Bracha the opportunity to handle this one alone.

The wind whipped Dini’s sheitel into her face, and she pulled her coat tighter around her. When Sarale had asked for a one-on-one chat; she’d thought a walk was a nice idea. It was more private than meeting at a café. She’d even driven out to Ramat Eshkol to save Sarale the schlep on the bus. But she hadn’t counted on the weather.

Sarale, walking next to her, was blowing on her fingers as she spoke.

“So it was our four-month anniversary, and I wanted to do something special. I mean, four months!”

“It’s a milestone,” Dini agreed solemnly, even as she smiled to herself. Had she been this adorable as a newlywed? “What did you do?”

Sarale pursed her lips. “I decided to make a super fancy dinner. I mean, I knew Yisroel would never agree to go out to a restaurant unless we, like, won the lottery or something.”

Dini raised an eyebrow at the sarcasm. “Didn’t I first meet you guys at Waffle Bar?”

Sarale flicked her hand. “It was my birthday. And my parents had given us money to go out.”

“Oh,” Dini said awkwardly. She always felt wrong-footed when it came to finance discussions. “So in general, you don’t have money for extras like that?”

Sarale rolled her eyes. “Nooo. Yisroel’s very into our budget. At the beginning of each month, we sit down and figure out exactly how much we’ll be spending and on what. Like, down to the shekel.”

“Oh. Wow.” Dini rubbed her arms as another gust of wind blasted through her. What was she supposed to say? This sounded extreme to her; but then again, she’d never budgeted anything in her life. She shifted uncomfortably, feeling out of her league. Maybe it was time to refer Sarale to someone who really knew how to do this mentoring thing? Like Rebbetzin Greenblatt?

She closed her eyes. What would the Rebbetzin have told her? Our words create our reality. Focus on the positive and it becomes positive. How often had she heard that advice, after kvetching about Shuki’s tendency to plant himself on the couch and veg — so different from her own high-achieving father and brothers?

“Um, that sounds very… responsible,” she said carefully. “You’re lucky to have a husband who knows how to take care of finances. You’ll never go into debt.”

Sarale cocked her head to the side, as if conceding the point. “Yeah… I guess that’s true. But we’ll never have fun in life, either!” She blinked rapidly. “Do you know what happened when I made this fancy dinner? Made, mind you, not bought. Yisroel started legit analyzing the ingredients! He was like, how much did this steak cost? And pastrami also, wow, that’s expensive!” Sarale drew in a shaky breath. “Do you see what I mean?”

Dini frowned. She would have killed Shuki if he’d done that. Not that she could ever picture Shuki being so tactless. “Did he, um, also say thank-you and, like, show appreciation for your hard work?”

“Yeah, he did.” Sarale smiled shyly. “He said it was delicious and looked professional, and he couldn’t believe I’d made it all myself.” She sniffed. “But why couldn’t he have stopped there? Why did he have to ruin it by worrying about his stupid budget?”

Dini shook her head helplessly. She wished the Rebbetzin were here. Or even Shuki. He always knew the right thing to say to people, knew how to give wise advice without sounding like an annoying wise-advice-giver. She remembered how good she’d felt the other day when he’d told her that she had a lot to offer a girl like Sarale.

Was that true?

She pushed windblown sheitel strands out of her eyes and shivered. Next time, she’d make sure to meet indoors.

She turned to face Sarale. Focus on the positive. “It sounds like he’s sweet and caring. He just has different expectations about money than you do. Have you ever tried discussing this with him? You know, an open conversation about how it makes you feel when he gets so hung up over every shekel?”

She winced. Did that sound judgy? Yes, it was judgy. “I don’t mean hung up in a bad way,” she amended. And cringed. Even worse. Now she simply sounded stupid.

But Sarale was looking thoughtful. “You think I should? It won’t offend him? I mean, I learned that we need to make our husbands feel respected and in control.”

Dini stopped herself from rolling her eyes; the girl’s idealism was endearing.

“Open communication is always the best,” she said with assurance. “In a strong marriage, you shouldn’t be afraid to share your feelings.”

As Sarale silently mulled that over, Dini couldn’t help thinking about her own husband’s current lack of communication, and the way he was hiding whatever was going on at work.

Her eyebrows furrowed. What did that say about her marriage?

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 886)