Ayala stared as Bracha silently paced up and down her living room for several moments, lips pressed tightly together.  She had never seen her friend so agitated before. When Bracha had walked in her front door with an apology for barging in and a hope that she wasn’t catching Ayala at a bad time, she’d been almost tempted to tell her that yes, she was. Ayala was still shaken from her conversation with Dini, and had been looking forward to some quiet time to think about their discussion and analyze her confused emotions.

But Bracha hadn’t waited for a response. Instead, she’d started this pacing, and Ayala, watching her, quickly forgot all of her own troubles.

“Brach?” she asked hesitantly. “What happened?”

Bracha stopped walking and turned to face Ayala. She rocked back and forth on her heels before abruptly saying, “Your rich-girl friend!”

Ayala’s eyes widened. “Dini?”

Bracha sat down hard on the couch. “No, your other outrageously wealthy friend.” She frowned.  “You know, I never understood what you saw in her. I’d always thought she was shallow, spoiled, self-centered….” She waved her hand in the air as if to conjure up more adjectives.

Ayala’s eyebrows furrowed.  What in the world could Dini have done to make Bracha lose her equilibrium so badly? “Yeah, and I always thought you were unfairly against her,” Ayala said lightly. “But you told me this already. And you said that, shockingly, you’ve discovered that she’s actually a good person and a good friend.”

A slight tremor of guilt passed through Ayala as she said it. Dini was a good friend. How had she failed to appreciate that?

But Bracha’s frown grew deeper. “Well, looks like I was wrong. Or right. With my first instinct, I mean.”

Ayala shook her head, bewildered. “What happened?”

Bracha rubbed her hand over her eyes, breathing heavily. At last she said, in an altered voice, “Dovid is sick with kidney disease.”

Ayala blinked. That was the last thing she’d expected Bracha to say.

“K-kidney disease? But….” Her eyes widened in horror. “Kidney disease,” she repeated. “What stage?”

Bracha’s eyes were still closed. “Four. It’s progressing fast — faster than the doctors expected.  They said we should be starting to look for donors.”

Ayala sucked in her breath. There was so much to process.  “When did you find out?” she whispered. Her head was already starting to whirl. Support. What support did Bracha need?  Meals? Babysitting? Assistance with doctor’s appointments… well, at least she didn’t need that.  What hashgachah that she’d trained to be a medical liaison just in time.

Bracha was still silent.

“When was he diagnosed?” Ayala repeated, a suspicion starting to form.

“Oh, a few months ago.”

“A few months ago?” Ayala bit her lip hard. This is not about you. Not. About. You. But—! My gosh, Bracha was her close friend and this was her expertise, for goodness sakes!

She swallowed once, twice. “And I didn’t even notice anything was wrong? I’m sorry for being such a terrible friend.”

She felt her throat constrict. Terrible friend; that seemed to be the theme of the day.

Bracha shook her head. “I knew you’d react that way, which is why I hesitated to tell you. But you’re being ridiculous. How should you have been expected to know if I hadn’t told you?”

Exactly the point. Ayala sighed. “How is your husband feeling? Are you happy with his medical care? Who are you using?”

Bracha gave a small grin. “Dr. Staufer.  I hear he’s the top nephrologist in the country. At least, so says someone I know who’s an expert in medical matters.”

Ayala forced a smile back. Yes, she had given Bracha that reference, but as part of her Chesed Tzirel training!

“You sneak,” she said lightly. “Worming classified information out of me by pretending it was for someone else!  I bet that’s why you decided to join our team in the first place, huh?”

She said it as a joke, but Bracha’s guilty blush confirmed her suspicion. Ayala raised an eyebrow.

“Y’know, you didn’t need to go all this trouble. All you had to do was ask me.”

Another not-joke that Bracha understood too well. She reached out to touch Ayala’s arm.  “I know. Believe me, I knew that if I ever felt things were getting too much, all I had to was ask you for help and you’d give me whatever I needed and more. You can’t imagine how comforting that’s been for me.”

Ayala’s eyes asked the obvious question, and Bracha continued, “But I wanted to do this on my own. I can’t handle pity. Dovid and I felt that as long as we were able to manage without outside help, we would keep it to ourselves. You understand that, don’t you?”

Ayala nodded. She did, actually. Only too well — ironic for someone who’d built her life around helping others.

“So you decided to keep it quiet.  I see.” Ayala rubbed her forehead. Something must have happened now to change her mind. Had her husband’s condition gotten worse?

She sat up. She’d forgotten. Dini. Bracha’s fury. “You told Dini, didn’t you?” she said slowly.

Bracha nodded, her face darkening. “While you were away. I was talking to her and it just somehow came up.”

Ayala closed her eyes, feeling the expected surge of jealousy. Of course. Dini was a great listener. Never mind that Bracha barely knew her but still felt more comfortable sharing her deepest secrets. Why hadn’t she worried about Dini’s pity?

She opened her eyes. “So what happened now?”

Bracha scowled. “What happened is that she doesn’t know how to keep a secret! I told her so much, trusting her to keep my confidence! And now I just got a hysterical call from my mother, asking if it’s true that Dovid’s dying and how could I not have told her?” Bracha’s lips tightened.  “Dealing with my mother’s panic is the last thing I need!”

Trying to ignore the “I told her so much” part, Ayala asked, “How do you know it was Dini?”

“Who else could have spread this? Dr. Staufer? There was no one else!  Besides,” Bracha’s eyes narrowed, “She all but admitted it just now. When I suggested she discussed it with her volunteers, she turned red.”

Ayala’s eyebrows crinkled. The Dini she knew didn’t break confidences. She opened her mouth to defend her friend, but then closed it.  Then again, the Dini she knew was definitely too obsessed with marketing and PR and making Chesed Tzirel’s campaign into a smashing success.  What if she’d decided that this was just the story to pull on her ambassadors’ heartstrings?

Dini was so shaken, she wasn’t quite sure how she made it back to Yerushalayim. When she did, she headed straight to Sarale’s apartment. It was the middle of the afternoon; her conscientious husband would undoubtedly be at second seder.

Sarale’s eyebrows shot up when she saw Dini. “Oh!  Oh my gosh! Wow!” She beamed as she invited Dini inside.  “What a kavod! I wish I had something yummy to offer you.  Oh wait, I have cookies in the freezer. Hold on a sec, they won’t take long to defrost.”

Dini held out a hand. “Cookies in the freezer? You earn the balabusta prize, but honestly, I’m not hungry.” She didn’t think she’d be able to stuff down a cookie if she tried. “I came here because, well, a bit of an emergency came up and I think maybe you can help me with it.”

“Me?” Sarale turned pink. “I dunno, I’ll try. What is it?”

Dini pulled on a sheitel strand, wondering how to ask her question delicately. “Remember after our last CT Volunteers meeting, when you stayed on afterwards, and I got a phone call from Bracha?”

Sarale suddenly looked wary. “Yeah.”

“I was discussing some personal stuff on the call — and, um, I think you might have heard?”

Sarale’s cheeks reddened. “A bit. I mean, I tried not to, but I couldn’t help it, y’know?”

Dini took a breath. “Did you tell anyone else that Bracha’s husband needs a kidney transplant?”  She leaned forward. “Please, tell me the truth. It’s important.”

Sarale was pulling on a string in her sweater. Looking down, she said, “Um, just one person. My sister. See, she’s good friends with Bracha’s sister. And I thought, when I was asking her to donate to the campaign — well, you told us that we should find a way to make it personal for our donors, so that they’d want to give more. And it worked. Chani gave a thousand dollars after hearing that we were helping Bracha. And I made her promise not to tell anyone.”

She looked up, pleadingly. “A thousand dollars for Chesed Tzirel!”

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 907)