“What?”

“The left ear is detachable. It’s stuck on with Velcro. I think it was custom made to be… just like Tovi. It even came with a band around its head, just like the one she was wearing in the pictures we sent. And a ‘bone-anchored hearing device’ like hers, made of fabric.”

Suddenly his head is aching. He catches himself trying to imagine the teddy bear’s parents. Where are they? Did anyone think to custom-make them too?

“The little girls loved it. They were starting to fight about who would get it, if Tovi didn’t want it. And then she got out of bed, tore off the ear, and threw it out the window, and she was screaming at them that they should be quiet, and nobody needs that stupid bear. I’ve never seen her like this, Gedalya. What’s the matter with her?”

“First of all, send someone down to Grosses’ yard to pick up the ear.” He doesn’t like the thought of the Gross children finding a furry ear in their yard and trying to figure out how it got there.

“Don’t worry. Suri ran down to get it, and she put it back on the bear. They were patting it, telling it not to be bothered by Tovi’s yelling, she’s just been in a very bad mood lately. Gedalya, I can’t cope with this — she’s crying hysterically right now. When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know.”

Suddenly the door swings open, and Shimshon is standing there. “Teddy bears again?” he roars.

The two men stare at each other, both of them stunned.

Shimshon swallows hard. “Forgive me, Harav Silver,” he says. “But don’t you realize that we’re counting on you? You have a full day’s shift today, and we can’t move forward without your approval.”

“Yes, I realize that. Sorry.” Gedalya puts his phone down on the desk and waits for Shimshon to move on.

With no pretense at ceremony, Shimshon picks up the phone and pockets it. “Don’t worry,” he says. “You’ll get it back in three minutes, as soon as that article is approved for layout. And again, I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

“Three minutes?” Gedalya checks the word count. “There are 3,542 words here.”

“Just give it a quick skim,” Shimshon says, magnanimously disposing of Gedalya’s worries. “There’s nothing problematic in that article, I assure you.”

“Out of the question.”

With a mighty effort, Gedalya shoves everything else out of his headspace and reads the whole article, line by line. He changes a word here and there, approves it, and sends it to layout.

• ••

At last, little by little, things were starting to look up.

Abba had spoken with real estate agents, and Ima had gone with her friend Yocheved to see apartments. They’d left her at home, with friendly suggestions that she take a nap, study, daven, or go to Rebbetzin Skurnik’s shiur for kallahs.

“The shiur is on Wednesday, not today,” Chaya reminded them.

“So find something to do. How about making strudel?” Yocheved Beigel said in a motherly tone, just before disappearing behind the door with Ima. “Or maybe galeh… your chassan is Polish, right?”

“Sure,” Chaya said, laughing as she pictured herself cooking calf’s foot jelly. Instead she went to do some homework for her video editing courses. She turned on her laptop, looked at the assignments, and smiled as she slipped into a clear, bright world of happiness.

They would rent a cute little chassan-and-kallah apartment for her, for the first six months. Nechami would help her set it up, and they’d fill it with scent diffusers and pretty lace-trimmed towels. After those six months? She’d have time to think about that together with Moishe, and decide whether to move into the apartment they’d buy, or continue renting. And as long as she could figure things out together with Moishe, she didn’t care what they’d decide.

An hour later, Ima calls to let her know they’ve found a place definitely worth considering. It’s small, and rather old, but it has two and a half actual rooms. It would only need some superficial renovations. The location isn’t the greatest — it’s in one of the housing projects — but the building itself is all chareidi, and the agent says it’s already trending toward…

“Ima, excuse me a second, somebody’s at the door.” After a few knocks, the handle turns and Gedalya comes in, looking ashen. He sits down on the couch.

“Where’s Ima?” he asks.

All at once, her luminescent dream is darkened.

But you can’t tell your gray-faced older brother to get up and leave because you want to be happy now. You can’t tell him you don’t want to hear about your niece refusing to undergo the surgery they’ve planned, and that even if they manage to persuade her, they still don’t know how they’re supposed to pay all the costs, and no insurance will cover it….

She listens. Abba arrives and tries to be encouraging. Ima comes home and takes a turn trying, too.

Then, as soon as Gedalya leaves, Dudi shows up. Sometimes Chaya thinks somebody forgot to separate that boy from his mother. Isn’t that a process that’s supposed to take place during adolescence? Why does Dudi, despite all the tension and friction, keep coming back home for another dose of criticism?

She sits at her computer, staring at her homework, hearing the familiar raised voices from the kitchen.

“You don’t mind sending Shua to learn with him,” Dudi is yelling. “Shua, the tzaddik, the talmid chacham. But all of a sudden you’re afraid of what’ll happen to me?”

“Nu, you always wanted me to care about you more than all the others, no?” Ima snaps back.

“So care about me. That doesn’t mean I’m a little boy who can’t associate with this one or that one.”

Smoggy steam from the kitchen has condensed all over the bright window to Chaya’s future. She gets up from her desk, pressing her lips together. Very quietly, she creeps up on her brother. On her mother, who’s saying, “I don’t know what you were thinking when you made up to learn with him. It must have been Yaffa’le’s idea, I’ll bet.”

“Absolutely not,” Dudi says, glowering. “She even…”

“Kaf-beis Adar,” Chaya announces.

Dudi turns around, surprised. He waits for her to explain.

“That’s my wedding date,” she tells her annoying brother, who can’t find a better way of communicating with his mother than arguing. “Kindly make a note of it on your calendar. And until then, I don’t want any fighting in this house.”

Let a girl get married in peace! Let her dive gracefully into that big, clear, happy sea, bordered by a golden beach where a chuppah of blue velvet stands, alongside a shining ring.

Dudi gapes at her.

“Did you throw Gedalya out of here, too?” he asks, a bit offended.

“Gedalya didn’t come here to fight with Ima,” she tells him. “And Gedalya has a daughter who needs an operation, and none of us really knows how complex and sensitive the surgery might be. Just imagine how many delicate blood vessels are in that area that they’re going to cut open — and reconnect. And how complicated it must be to open up the hearing canal. And then she’ll be vulnerable to infection, because the new ear won’t have the same natural defenses as a real ear. Gedalya is tense and worried, and he’s carrying a lot on his shoulders. And he isn’t rude to his mother…”

“That’s because Ima doesn’t treat him like a little boy!”

“That doesn’t make a difference,” Chaya insists primly. “Feel free to sit down in the living room and talk nicely and respectfully about any issue you’d like.”

“And what if I don’t want to?” Dudi can’t believe this is happening. His baby sister, the funny little girl he used to take to gan and to the makolet, is standing up to him all of a sudden.

“You can invite Ima to your house if you want to fight with her, and let Yaffa’le and Avital enjoy the show. But here, in this house, until my wedding, we’re going to do whatever we can to keep it pleasant.”

Her father nods in agreement from his corner, where he’s learning. “Chaya’s right,” he says.

“Come, Dudi, let’s go out to the balcony,” Ima suggests. They open the door and step out onto the little mirpeset, and a moment later they’ve resumed their battle in whispers. Chaya hears an angry “Pushpesh,” answered by a “Pashpeshush” and then a loudly whispered “Mah pitom?” from Dudi, and an urgent “Shhh, or we’ll have Chaya out here in a moment!”

Chaya and her father look at each other, and they can’t help smiling.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 881)