“Calling,” Dini scoffed, to cover her embarrassment.

“Yes, really. Your whole personality’s opened up this year. It’s been wonderful to watch.”

Blushing, Dini reached out to squeeze her hand. This was the woman who’d seen her at her most insecure, who’d guided her through her clueless, immature young years as a married woman. She thought of Sarale and Penina and all the other young volunteers. She had no doubt that Rebbetzin Greenblatt had viewed her with the same indulgent amusement.

She had a sudden urge to ask the rebbetzin at what point her transformation had taken place from immature mentee to capable adult.  But as Dini walked up to the front of the room to announce a dinner and motivational shiur break, she realized she knew the answer. There was no one point; she was still undergoing that transformation, every day.

Shuki was dozing on the couch when Dini came in later that night, but he opened an eye as she walked by.

“How was?” he asked, yawning as he sat up. “Made it to the bonus round yet?”

Dini grinned as she sat down next to him. “Hey, we’re only halfway through the campaign! Talk about being pressured by high expectations!”

Shuki raised an innocent eyebrow. “I assume that you’re killing it. I didn’t think that was a high expectation.”

She laughed as he continued, “Your mother, on the other hand, might have expected more. She called tonight to ask what you were thinking not getting a big-name singer for your video.”

Dini’s smile faded. “What’d you say?”

He stretched his arms behind his neck. “I told her that if the campaign breaks a million, we’d consider rerecording it, and asked her if we could count on her support to help us reach that goal and ensure that hundreds of Anglos in Israel never have to worry about facing a medical crisis alone.”

Dini started to giggle. “Why aren’t you in my call center?”

“I wasn’t invited. And I hear that there’s good food, too.”

“No need to be jealous, I brought you some.” She nodded at the bag she’d put down on the table.

“Excellent.” He stood up. “I’m gonna be working late tonight. I told the deli board guys I’d get them the first draft of the ad concept tomorrow.”

Dini’s eyes brightened. Shuki had come back from the US totally revved up. The meeting with the client had gone fabulously, and they accepted his price quote and signed the day before he flew back.

Even better was his father’s reaction when he casually mentioned this win.

“Marketing, huh?” His father had eyed him. “When did this become your expertise? And why didn’t you tell me?”

Despite that, Shuki was still in the billing department at his father’s company, which had caused Dini to splutter indignantly. But Shuki had related this with surprising equanimity.

“He told me that he can’t give me up there,” he said.

Dini had raised her eyebrows. “Um, does he realize that you’ve spent the past ten years, like—”

“—practicing garbage basket hoop shots with crumpled Doritos bags and chilling with the guys at the ping-pong table?” His eyes had danced.

“Wait, you have a ping-pong table?”

“Now we do. Donated in honor of scoring my first client. The Blumenfeld Ping-Pong Pavilion. Schneider put up a plaque.”

“I didn’t know I was married to a gvir,” she teased. “I should offer you the naming sponsorship of the CT Volunteer Group.”

“You got it,” he responded promptly. “I’d like to name it Rebbetzin D. Blumenfeld and Her Tzirelettes.” He grinned wickedly as she threw a crumpled napkin at him and missed. “No offense, but you could use some practice in your hoop shots. Should I ask Ta to find you a job in the billing department, too?”

It was only after they recovered from their laughter that he told her his father had discovered how he’d taken the initiative to maintain the peace among the staff in his department in the face of the new manager’s heavy-handedness.

“Is he firing Eric?” Dini had asked hopefully.

“No, cause apparently, he really has gotten the business onto a better financial footing. But he’s going to talk to him about the way he treats the staff.”

Now, catching the light in Shuki’s eyes as he spoke about his new job, she couldn’t help say, “When you become a hotshot marketer, you’ll be able to say that you started with Chesed Tzirel.”

“And when you become such a world-famous marriage mentor and spiritual guide to the masses that we’ll need to hire bodyguards to control the hordes begging for a brachah, you can also say it started with Chesed Tzirel.”

Dini stuck out her tongue. Remembering that Rebbetzin Greenblatt had said something similar, she said uncomfortably, “Please, this was just a fluke.  I really don’t know why they come to me.”

“Because you’re so good at it.”

Dini squinted at him. “What, mentoring? How do you even—”

Shuki shook his head, his expression suddenly serious. “No. Marriage.”

Ayala was hunched over her laptop when Naftali walked in. She looked up, smiling. “We’ve already raised almost $300,000. We’re three-quarters of the way to our goal and we still have another whole day to go!”

Naftali whistled, looking down at the screen. “Impressive. What was it like at the call center?”

Ayal shrugged. “I didn’t get a chance to go today. I had a meeting about a bone marrow transplant, and then, um….” She hesitated a brief second before continuing; after all, Bracha had given her explicit permission to talk to Naftali. “And then Dovid Resnik had his big initial meeting with the hospital team to discuss his kidney transplant, and Bracha asked me to come with them.”

Naftali looked up at that. “She needs your help? Doesn’t she, like, do this for a living?”

Ayala tried but failed to suppress her grin. She’d been flattered — and also, embarrassingly reassured — by Bracha’s request.  “Yes, but this is a whole new horizon for them, and she said she’d feel better knowing she had someone with more experience with the medical system.”

What Bracha actually said was, “I’m going into this as Dovid’s wife, not as a professional. There’s no way I can put aside my emotions.” She’d flashed a wavery smile. “In other words, I’m as petrified as all our clients, and I need the great Ayala Wexler to hold my hand. Will you?”

“Anyway,” Ayala continued, “By the time my day was over, I was too wiped out to go over to the call center. But Dini warned me that I’d better come tomorrow night for the grand finale, no excuses.” She laughed.

“Meanwhile,” she added ruefully, gesturing to the screen, “I need to do something about my donation page. It’s embarrassingly low, considering I’m the director of this organization.”

“You’ve called our family?”

“I’m about to. I was going to call your parents and siblings, my brother, and—” She paused as Naftali threw her a sharp glance.

“Why wouldn’t you ask your parents?”

Ayala squirmed. “They’re retired. They’re living on a fixed income. Of course, they’ll feel pressured to give if I ask, but how can I do that to them?”

Naftali looked at her. “Because,” he said slowly, “they’re your parents. And parents want to give to their children. How can you deny them this nachas?”

Ayala stared down at her hands.  Parents want to give to their children.  But somehow, with her parents, she was always the one giving. She remembered Bracha’s words a few weeks ago: Your mother wants you to be her parent, and my mother smothers me with her need to be useful. Which one is worse?

This was their relationship; it had been like this since her teenage years, and now, as her parents were entering their old age, wasn’t the time to pull back her help.  But maybe she could still give them — and herself — a different kind of gift?

Her mother picked up right away. “Ayala! I’m so glad you called!  I got a bill from my insurance that I can’t make heads or tails out of. I think I owe them money, but maybe they’re sending me a reimbursement? I was about to call them, but you do so much better with these things.”

Ayala felt her chest tighten. She really didn’t have the time to deal with an insurance agency right now. But she could squeeze it in.

She glanced at Naftali. “Listen, Ma, I’m very busy right now. Remember I told you about my campaign? I recommend you call yourself, and if you’re still confused afterward, I’ll call to straighten it out.”

“Sure, that sounds fine.” Ayala blinked at how quickly her mother acquiesced. Taking a breath, she continued, “Actually, the reason I’m calling is for this Chesed Tzirel campaign.  It’s our first ever. Chesed Tzirel has grown so much, baruch Hashem. Bubby Tzirel would be so proud.”  She paused, thinking about her grandmother, who’d been an actual parent figure in her life, her Bubby who knew all her friends’ names and sent her favorite ice cream flavor when she was sick.

“Yes, she would,” Ma agreed.

“So—”

“How can I donate?”

Ayala paused. “Wh-what?”

“I’d like to donate to your campaign. How do I do it?”

Despite having a list of people to call, after she hung up, Ayala sat and stared at the “$100 donated by Pinchas and Esther Bernstein” on her page until the words became blurry from her tears.

“Three hundred ninety-nine thousand five hundred forty-three!” Dini stood at the front of the room in front of the large screen, bouncing on her feet, her first pumping in the air.  “Almost, almost, almoooost!”

Ayala watched her from the side of the room. She was getting more enjoyment, she thought, seeing Dini’s cheerleader antics than watching the numbers on the screen creep up to their goal.

“Ooooh, just five hundred more dollars!” Sarale cried, as she frantically flipped through her phone book.

Dini turned her head and gestured for Ayala to join her. “What are you doing hiding in the corner?” she chided. “This is the big moment!” She grasped Ayala’s hand, squeezing it hard as a $200 donation came in.

Ayala felt the excitement pulsate through her. Yes, this was the moment. Chesed Tzirel was on the brink of becoming bigger and greater than she ever would have imagined back when she started it all those years ago. Despite her reluctance — fear?  — about this growth, now that she saw it coming to fruition, she felt nothing but overwhelming gratitude.

She squeezed Dini’s hand in return — and at the same moment, felt a vibration in her other hand.  Her phone. She picked it up, stepping to the side away from the noise.

“Hello, Chesed Tzirel, how can I help?”

The voice on the other end sounded panicky. “Oh, I’m so glad I reached you! My daughter’s been having severe headaches, and she just blacked out. We called Hatzalah, they said she’ll need an MRI, and — and other testing. I know it might be serious, I mean, her head, and I don’t speak Hebrew, and—”

Ayala didn’t hesitate. “Tell me your name and what hospital. I’m coming now.”

“One hundred eighty dollars!” Dini shrieked. “Less than two hundred to go!”

Ayala walked over. “I have to go.”

Dini gaped at her. “Now??”

Ayala gave a little smile. “Yup, now. Medical emergency. I need to get to Shaare Zedek.”

Dini gave her a fierce hug and then shoved her away.  “Go save the world, my friend.”

And Ayala rushed out the door as, behind her, she heard a shriek of “FOUR. HUNDRED. THOUSAND DOLLARS!  WE DID IT!” The roars of triumph carried her into the Yerushalayim night.

THE END

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 912)