“Thanks, I will.”

Ayala understood Zev’s frustration, but she wondered if he understood hers. Did he appreciate what it felt like to know she had the exact expertise — acquired painstakingly over many years of assisting others — to help her mother through this medical crisis, but that her hands were tied because she was so far away?

She’d finally managed to reach the doctor and had gotten him to admit that another day or two in the hospital would be preferable.

“So she won’t be discharged tomorrow?” she’d asked, to confirm, and he’d assured her that he’d relay those instructions.

But she needed to be sure he actually had.

Was Zev purposely keeping her in the dark?

She shook her head. No, he wasn’t like that. More likely he’d simply thought there was nothing to write. Her brother wasn’t the best communicator, even under normal circumstances.

Ayala stood up. She needed to wake Rafi and get Levi dressed and make lunches for Menachem and Chumi. She needed to pull herself together, because she had her own life to take care of, and, as hard as it was to admit, there was really nothing else she could be doing for her mother right now.

Bracha stopped by after the kids and Naftali had left. Ayala, despite her shot of caffeine, had just been contemplating getting back into bed.

“Good time to talk?” she asked, standing in the doorway.

Not really, Ayala thought, but  said with a smile, “Much better than before I had my coffee.”

Bracha stepped inside. “Since when are you a coffee drinker?”

Ayala sighed. “I’ve barely gotten any sleep since my mother went into the hospital.”

“Mmm.” Bracha shot her a funny look. “Um, didn’t you say she was doing okay? That it was just a minor heart attack?”

“Yes, but um, it was my mother’s minor heart attack!”

Bracha walked slowly around the living room, then turned back to Ayala. “You know, there are some perks to living across the world,” she said, with a sardonic twist of her lips. “It’s not like you need to stay by your mom’s bedside all night. Why aren’t you sleeping?” She looked almost accusing.

Ayala sucked in her breath. “Thanks for the sensitivity.”

Bracha took a step toward her. “Sorry, hon, sensitivity’s not my strong point,” she said with a laugh. “But I’m only saying this because I know you and love you so well.”

Ayala swallowed. She understood the unspoken message: Stop killing yourself because you think you’re responsible for saving the world. She rubbed her forehead. Bracha may be right, but she was definitely not in the mood to be lectured right now.

Perhaps Bracha, too, sensed she’d gone too far, because she added lightly, “Don’t worry, for Chesed Tzirel clients, I’ll turn on the full force of my sensitivity.”

Ayala grasped the change of subject.

“Speaking of, how did your meeting with the Kramers go yesterday? I’m sorry I left you solo like that.”

“Oh, it was fine. I think. I mean, the meeting itself wasn’t exactly fine. Like I told you, the doctor was a bit equivocal about the MRI results and wants more tests.”

Bracha had briefly updated Ayala during the car ride home yesterday, but then her mother had called again, and Ayala had spent the rest of the ride on the phone.

“But in terms of your own role,” Ayala said. “It was okay? You were able to follow what the doctor was saying?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Bracha grinned. “I wasn’t the great Ayala Wexler, of course. But, y’know, for a distant second choice, I think I was passable.”

It was a compliment but also a challenge, Ayala realized. Could she let go of the reins? It was on the tip of Ayala’s tongue to ask her for details — which tests the doctor had ordered, had Bracha offered to help the Kramers with scheduling, were they aware of the other assistance Chesed Tzirel provided? — but she stopped herself.

“Much more than passable,” she said. “They’re lucky to have you. You keep on with them, okay? And if you need any help from me, just ask.”

Dini moved her finger down the list of families, murmuring names to herself as she compiled the feedback her CT volunteers had given her about their care package delivery project.

“Tuchman, delivered and stayed to schmooze with her for an hour. Schwartz, gave a huge thank-you. Greenberg, wants to know about our cleaning service.”

She blinked. Huh?

She checked her list of CT volunteers. Penina, Sarale’s friend, had delivered the package to Greenberg. She dialed her number.

“Hey Penina, it’s Dini Blumenfeld. How’s it going?”

She chuckled to herself as she heard the younger woman stutter a breathless reply.

“Listen, I’m calling about the Greenberg family. Thanks for delivering the package, you’re awesome. About the feedback you sent me… do they, uh, realize we’re not a cleaning service?”

Penina laughed, as if Dini had made a joke. “Cute! I meant that they want to know if they could get the free cleaning help we offer. They were totally excited when I told them about that, and, well, to be honest, looking around their house, I could see why.”

Dini sighed. “Penina, we don’t offer that.”

The younger woman gasped. “You don’t? But you said you did! At our first meeting at your house! I remember!”

Dini was caught short. Had she? She gritted her teeth, angry at herself now.

“I’m sorry if you misunderstood me. What I meant was that we’re hoping to, eventually, when we can get things organized. Right now, we don’t. Can you please tell them that? Unless you know anyone willing to clean?”

“You mean for free?” Penina squeaked.

Dini raked a hand through her sheitel. It was her fault this misunderstanding had happened.

“Forget it. I — uh — I’ll pay for a cleaning lady. You can tell them that someone will come to their house this Thursday.” She’d beg Maya to go to the Greenbergs after she was finished with Dini’s apartment. “But this is a one-time thing,” she added. “Make sure they understand that.”

That was all she needed, for Ayala to hear she was sponsoring cleaning help for the Chesed Tzirel families.

“Oooh, they’ll be thrilled! You are so cool!”

Dini winced. “No, I’m not.” I just have a big mouth.

“You are!” Penina insisted. “Sarale’s been telling me all about how you’ve been helping her and giving her shanah rishonah guidance and everything.” She giggled. “Could you, like, do that for me, too?”

Dini’s eyes widened. How in the world had she suddenly become the marriage mentor of choice for the shanah rishonah crowd? This had to be the biggest joke of the century.

She swallowed. “Um, I really don’t have so much wise guidance to give. But… I guess. I mean, I’m happy to help.”

After hanging up the phone, she shook her head and laughed aloud. She couldn’t wait to tell Shuki about this one.

Then she frowned. She’d barely spoken to him lately. And whenever she did, he was pretending too hard not to appear tense, pretending everything was fine and normal at work, so that she wouldn’t ask him yet again.

She stood up and walked around her small office. Why couldn’t he just tell her? True, he’d said these were company things he couldn’t share. But… did that include his very own wife?

A ping sounded on her computer’s WhatsApp. Probably Ma, reminding her about some great-aunt’s birthday, or to order tickets for Pesach already. This year was her family’s turn, and — through an oversight that Ma was still completely mortified about — they’d chosen the same Milano hotel that her in-laws had hosted them in last Pesach.

“We had a great time last year, we’re thrilled to go back,” Dini kept insisting, but her mother persisted in apologizing.

Honestly, the only thing Dini found embarrassing about this was her own Yerushalmi-bred daughter’s reaction. “We’re going to Milano again?” she’d cried.

Dini had glared at Chaviva, and Shuki had muttered, “Do you want to slap her or should I?”

But, opening her WhatsApp now, she saw it wasn’t her mother but her mother-in-law who was sending her an early- morning message.

Raising her eyebrows, Dini peered at the screen.

Dini, I’m booking the Waldorf for you and Shuki this Shabbos. Surprise him.

Dini rubbed her eyes hard, then looked at the screen once more. No, she hadn’t read it wrong.

What in the world?

She started rapidly typing back, but another message came in before she could ask the obvious question.

Chumi Feiner said she could stay with your kids.

Dini blinked. Chumi was Shuki’s cousin’s daughter and was here in seminary for the year. Apparently, her mother-in-law had arranged everything. Without asking them. What if they’d had plans? What if—?

Her hands were poised on the keyboard once more, when a third message appeared.

I think Shuki can really use the vacation.

Dini stopped. Oh. So her mother-in-law clearly assumed Dini knew what was going on.

She took a deep breath.

Thanks, Ma, she wrote. So do I.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 887)