She opens the tube of ultramarine paint, dabs some onto the canvas. In the end her paintings always turn to water.

More and more blue. A sea, open, endless. The way she’d opened herself up tonight, one story after another, to make Ari understand. They’d had something before, and maybe what she’d seen today was that their past hadn’t died — it could still come back to life.

Could she say more? Would he even stick around to hear it? After tonight, he might run for the hills.

On her desk, her phone buzzes.

I’m not feeling well.

Mom.

She bites down on her lip. Mom. If she knew what Aviva had shared tonight…. Aviva inhales sharply, feels relief and exposure and fear and guilt, and all of it catches in her throat.

She pushes her phone away. A lifetime of pretenses, of trying to keep all her lives separate. To live in whichever moment she’s in. The agony of starting to undo it — and the joy.

When her phone buzzes again, she’s sure it’ll be Mom again, with a long litany of aches and pains.

But the text is from Leba. She shuts her eyes; she can’t look. Her heart speeds up. Shaking, she takes a peek.

Ari said yes. Are you available tomorrow night?

She walks in at night, after the date, feeling her way across the floor. Who is this girl with a past like rocks she holds in a bag too small to fit them? Who is the girl who — for the first time in a long while — harbors a hint of hope in her heart?

She opens the door to her room and throws her clutch onto the bed. She sits down at her desk.

She looks at the painting she’d started the other day, at the emotions she sees under its roiling waves.

Tonight, they’d ambled around the mini golf course, trying, laughing, scoring. Ari’s good with a club. The car rides had been intense. For all that she didn’t want to share more, it was Ari who’d become pensive just before they reached her street. He’d parked on the corner and told her some of his own stuff. Rustling leaves in her vision, she’d found herself sharing some more, what it was like back then with Mom. Ari, one hand on the steering wheel, had heard her. And despite it, he seemed to be able to see her in the now, how she is today.

She appraises the tubes of paint, looks for the red.

She can’t describe the relief of sharing a secret she’d bottled up for so long, but it makes her quiver.

She squeezes some paint onto the palette, is just getting to her brushes, when her phone rings. It’s midnight; who could be calling now? Could it be the shadchan, so soon?

It’s Fiona.

She presses talk, realizing with a jolt that it’s been more than 24 hours since Mom texted to say she’s not feeling good, and Mom hadn’t reached out again. Not like her.

She hears Fiona’s voice. “I’m taking Mom to the hospital. She’s asking for you.”

“What’s the emergency?”

“I don’t know. She has a fever, they’ll want her to come in.”

“Oh.”

“So you’ll come.”

“Um, I’ll call you.”

She drops the paint, falls onto her bed, feeling drained.

Fever is never good for someone in Mom’s situation. But they’ve had this before. If she hasn’t outright feigned emergencies, she’s exaggerated symptoms that have landed her in the ER.

Should she go?

She looks at herself in the mirror. She’s still made up, hair crimped and cute; she’s all dressed up. She’s dealing with other things now, for heaven’s sake.

She wanders out of her room, into the darkened hallway, in search of something she doesn’t quite know what to name. She is heading to the kitchen to take a glass of water when she hears a sleepy voice calling her from the couch.

“Aviva? Izzat you? How’d it go?”

Meira peers up out of a blanket on the sofa.

“Fine,” she tells her, already turning away, and then stops herself. Nothing’s fine… but from everything she’s seen, Meira can handle that.

She fills her in quickly. “Her nurse is telling me to come in,” she finishes. “But… I don’t know if I can. I don’t even know if this is real.”

Meira is sitting up straight now, eyes filled with compassion. “Aviva,” she says, “your mother is in pain. We can’t know if it’s in her body or only in her mind right now, but it doesn’t really make a difference. She’s asked for you, she wants you. If you can possibly go….”

She’s right. It’s not about judging if this is serious enough. It’s, can she go now?

She straightens herself, breathes deeply. Can she? She feels far from sleep. Drained but okay. She can give a few hours.

Meira looks at her, extends a hand.

“I’m coming with you. I’ll drive you,” Meira says.

“It’s okay, don’t bother, it’s late. I can drive myself.”

But Meira is resolute, and before Aviva knows it, she’s sitting in Meira’s car. Meira, who’s seen Mom in action, coming with her now. Aviva sits small and helpless, as they drive through the dark night to the hospital.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 913)