“Look at this dining room/living room — you haven’t seen a lot of houses yet, have you?” the agent asked, then continued without waiting for a response, “This is a nice-sized one, I’m telling you, you have space for an L couch, a coffee table, and there’s room for at least a six-foot table.”

Was it normal for agents to give decorating and living tips? They’d never done this before; in Israel they just took over the apartment of a friend of Ephraim’s who was moving back after having lived in Israel for six months. The apartment had come with nearly new furniture.

At the time, Shira had had mixed feelings about coming into a ready-made situation. But now she wished she could reality-check her 20-year-old self. She had everything, that girl.

As the agent droned on about the Ring doorbell, Ephraim caught Shira’s eye with an are-you-listening-to-this-babble face. They exchanged small smiles, then looked away before they broke into laughter.

“Let’s check out the kitchen,” Ephraim broke into the agent’s running commentary.

“Oh, sure, we can skip around a bit if you want.” The agent fluttered her hands in the direction of the kitchen.

They entered the space and Shira gagged and swallowed hard. If the tenants had cleaned up, maybe she could imagine living here, even with the warped linoleum floors, and industrial cafeteria green Formica countertops. But the double sink overflowed with piles of dirty dishes, some still with food on them. It probably wasn’t any worse than a Motzaei Shabbos kitchen before clean-up, but how could tenants leave the house like this if they knew people were coming over?

Ehpraim coughed delicately, Shira figured he was trying to figure out a kind way to say that this place was a no, and was about to say so herself when the loud voice made all conversation impossible.

“THIS IS THE CHICAGO POLICE. THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD.”

“Is this block safe?” She asked the agent.

“For sure. I mean there’s always some crime in Chicago, but it’s a normal block.”

They all drifted to the front window to see what was going on with the neighbors.

“Oh, dear,” The agent put her hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

Shira pulled back the curtain so she could get a view, and froze. Her throat caught and her hand went limp, the curtain falling back.

It wasn’t the neighbors.

It was them. This house was surrounded by cops.

She turned instinctively to Ephraim, and he met her round eyes with steely focus. It would be okay. Maybe. Her stomach churned and throat ached, she tried focusing on a spot on the wall and started counting down from 100.

“You have permission to be here?” Ephraim demanded.

“Of course!” the agent snapped. She jangled the keys. “The landlord gave them to me.”

Shira snapped back to attention and watched Ephraim take a deep breath and slowly exhale.

“We should go outside,” he said. He seemed confident; that made Shira feel better, but a part of her wanted to run and hide and maybe they wouldn’t find her. This felt like an old game she used to play in her head — if the Nazis were coming, where would she hide? Madness, she knew, but it was a hereditary instinct.

“THIS IS THE CHICAGO POLICE. THE HOUSE IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS ABOVE YOUR HEAD.”

They had megaphones. Ephraim pulled back the curtain. She counted three police cars and she could see three cops. Then a dog. There was a dog! Shira’s body started shaking, it didn’t feel like her own.

“You can do this, Shira, we’re not doing anything wrong. This is all a misunderstanding. We’ll figure it out. It’ll be okay.”

She tried listening to his voice, but it felt so far away. She stood there a moment, summoned every calming breath she could, and started shuffling to the door.

Ephraim went out first.

“Hands where we can see them!” the cop with the megaphone said. “No sudden movements.”

Shira saw Ephraim ahead of her raise his hands higher. Shira was so uncomfortable, when was the last time she picked her hands up like that? It felt so exposing.

The cops were on them the moment they exited, quickly leaning them again the walls, patting them down, and in a quick motion, Shira found her hands behind her back, and her arms in cuffs.

She couldn’t hold it together anymore, and her tears and the wailing drowned out any thought.

A cop led her to the backseat of one of the patrol cars, Ephraim and the agent to others.

“Where are you taking my wife?” Ephraim shouted, though Shira could hear his restraint. “She’s expecting! Don’t take her away from me.”

He’s going to take care of me! They’re separating us! The dual thoughts surfaced; the latter took the lead and the panic seized again. Shira tried all the breathing exercises every mental health podcaster had ever mentioned, but she couldn’t stop the spiral.

A female cop approached and started saying something to Shira, but she couldn’t process what — the tears were too hard and fast and consuming. The cop left, and Shira just sat there in the car for she didn’t know how long. Long enough for her to calm herself down and breathe. Long enough to look out the window and see a woman with a family pull up, and then a man, and then the two of them were shouting at each other.

None of it made sense.

After a few more minutes, the female officer opened the passenger door.

“You’re free to go.”

Shira felt like vomiting as oxygen rushed back into her body.

“What just happened?” she choked.

The cop looked a little exasperated, her gestures tight.

“The tenants weren’t paying rent, the landlord threatened to evict them. Having an agent show up was meant to be a scare tactic for the tenants. Except the tenants weren’t home when they usually are, and then they saw you on their Ring doorbell and called 911 about a breaking and entering in progress. They’re fighting it out now,” she said, pointing to the man and woman arguing on the lawn. “But you’re free to go.” She shrugged.

Shira stepped out of the car, blinking in the sunlight, and saw Ephraim coming out of a car as well. She ran to his side, and the tears went for an encore.

On the short ride home, Ephraim ranted about suing the landlord. Shira didn’t hear a word he said. Once ensconced in their room, she broke down again, rocking herself.

“Is this our future? Is this our life? All these crazy things happening. We don’t have a home. I don’t have a place. What are we doing here? I was almost arrested. Who am I?”

Part of her knew she was rambling, and made no logical sense. The other part believed every word she said as truth.

Ephraim looked on, bewildered.

“Yeah, that was wild. It’s crazy how that happened. Gotta admit I was terrified there for a bit.” He paused. “I’m so sorry that happened, Shira.”

And he sounded sincere. Shira waited for more understanding.

None came.

Was this the most he could admit to? Terrified for a bit? Shira looked at her husband; he didn’t seem to notice her inner state.

He doesn’t know how to help me, Shira thought. He doesn’t even realize I need help.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 809)