“Complex PTSD,” the mother says. A word and four initials. Nechami feels like an intruder about to enter a private room.

Should she back off? Or walk through the open door?

“Complex PTSD?” she says. “I’ve heard of it, but… what does it mean, exactly?”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” the mother explains. “But more complex. It’s when the trauma wasn’t caused by one isolated event. Or if it was left untreated, so complications set in. We can’t know for sure. But the psychiatrists in the hospital told us that a breakdown as serious as hers probably indicates previous trauma that was never treated.”

“What sort of trauma?”

They’ve put down the bags of fruits and vegetables. There’s muttering from one of the inner rooms. The neighbor arranges the bags of lettuce in the fridge. She lines them up neatly.

“We can’t know. In ninth grade, she seemed depressed for a while. We thought she was having trouble with friends. She was a bit different from most of the girls. She liked to learn about birds and trees. And she always had a lot of difficulty with transitions.”

Nechami nods understandingly. A door opens, and Ruti appears. The two young women stand facing each other.

“People like to blame the parents,” the voice from the fridge, from the lettuces, continues. “How could you not know? How could you not see it? Your daughter was going through a prolonged trauma, and you weren’t aware of it? Maybe you should have done some probing — there must have been some warning signs.”

“Right? How could you not know?” says Ruti.

“And then, like I told you the last time we spoke, with every new baby, it got worse. Having a baby is also a kind of transition.”

Tell me about it.

“And moving out of the city, that was another transition.”

After that, she lost all sense of structure. All the boundaries fell away, all the definitions. Inside. Outside. Reality. Imagination. Time. Mind. Body.

“It all just fell apart.” The mother is crying now, and Nechami’s eyes fill with tears too as she places a hand, one hand, on her neighbor’s shoulder.

“It’s not what you think,” Ruti tells them. “Time isn’t divided.” She rocks forward, backward. “Hours. Minutes. You people made that up. Frequency. All of it.”

Now Nechami must go back to her Jerusalem street, to the aloof winter sun. She must applaud Yehudit for riding her bike for the first time without training wheels; she has to find Yossi’s sweater floating like a rag in the middle of that big puddle; to spot Sari in the middle of a boisterous game of jump rope; and to chat. To chat with all the neighbors about inconsequential things.

And this leaves her no time to think about that scene upstairs.

•••

“No, Rav Weinberg, there’s no point in asking again. The answer won’t be any different.”

Gedalya purses his lips. Weinberg’s ad is causing problems. It’s going to be a long night. To the agitated steam of words coming through the phone, he responds as calmly as he can: “No problem. I have lots of patience, and I’ll explain.”

From the corridor, Gedalya hears stifled giggling; the production staff loves to listen while he argues. Shimshon the production manager has long claimed that Gedalya should be cloned — how do the other publications manage without him on staff?

“Of course, you’re right, parnassah for a kollel yungerman’s family is a very important thing,” Gedalya says. Calm, composed, professional as ever. “But you wouldn’t rob a bank for him, would you?”

A pause.

“No,” Gedalya says, unruffled as ever. “I’m not turning it into a joke, I’m just explaining why we can’t run your ad in its present form.”

Another agitated stream of words.

“We know that you paid in advance for the package,” Gedalya says soothingly. “We’re giving you the page you were promised. It’s waiting for you. Reserved. But the ad has to be aligned with the values of our publication.”

More words, more frustration.

“No, I’m not the one who determines the publication’s values. We have gedolei Yisrael who set the guidelines.”

Another pause.

“Yes. They ruled we shouldn’t be printing photos of this type of product,” Gedalya says, his voice smooth and unhurried. “Yes, you can advertise, but not with pictures.”

The frustration is louder this time.

“I’m very sorry you weren’t told that in advance,” Gedalya says. “The rule is nothing new, and most of our advertisers know about it. It’s there in the media kit, you can take a look.”

The conversation goes on, coiling into itself like a tangle of threads. Gedalya looks at his watch. This night shift has gone on far too long. His mobile phone rings, dancing spasmodically along the desk. Nechami?

“Send a corrected ad — without pictures,” he says on a note of weary finality.

At the end of the corridor, in the marketing department, a hubbub ensues. Everyone’s analyzing whether he laid down the law properly. Gedalya blocks them out and answers his cell phone.

“Gedalya!” His sister sounds relieved. “I’m so glad you answered. Did I manage to catch you at the office?”

“Yes,” he says. “An argument about an ad kept me here overtime. My coworkers here find it very amusing. They say they should just make a recording of me saying my side of the argument, all the things I say every time, and have a robot deal with these calls instead.”

Nechami hears the tinge of hurt in his voice, and she jumps to his defense. “That’s not true! You’re not like a robot at all!” He is a bit, actually, but her response is slightly edited for the sake of shalom. “I’m sure you feel bad when you have to reject someone’s work. But that’s your job.  You have to say no, that’s what they pay you to do.”

“Yes. Anyway, what was it you wanted?”

“It’s about the dresses for the girls, for the wedding,” Nechami says, her words laced with urgency. “I spoke with Shifra already, she knows all about it. She needs to choose a style and then look at the size chart to see what size to order for each one of your girls.” Then comes a barrage of words about fabrics, styles, and matching hairbands. And finally, “Okay?”

“Okay what?” Gedalya says, disoriented.

“I’m sending you all the information in a PDF, all laid out clearly, so you can print it out for Shifra. You have a color printer there, right?” Nechami searches the files on her computer. On the way she sends Odelia Gunter the receipt from Shemesh Tzedakah: Five hundred shekels, Keren Tovat HaYaldah. Thank you for your generous support.

“No,” Gedalya says heavily. “I mean we have a printer, but….”

“What, they don’t let you use it for personal matters? It’s only two pages. Ask for permission, and pay them a shekel to cover it.”

“They do let us use it for personal matters.”

“So what’s the problem, then?” Nechami was getting irritated. “We’re getting very close to the wedding date, Gedalya, and there’s Purim in the middle, too. We have to get moving on this. Only Hashem knows why I’m the one who has to coordinate all this business with the dresses, when I have mostly boys anyway.”

“Why, actually?”

Nechami sighed. “Shifra’s not feeling so well, and Sari lives in Tzfas, and it’s hard to coordinate everything from there, and Yaffa’le… well, you can’t expect us to let her pick the dresses for all the girls. We care about Ima’s heart, don’t we?”

“Why don’t you just make all these decisions on your own?” Gedalya counters. “We trust your taste.”

“How can I?” Nechami protests. “I don’t know your girls’ sizes. Shifra has to check the chart and measure them so she can figure out which size will fit each girl best. And there are a few different styles to choose from, and the little girls’ styles aren’t the same as the ones for the older girls. And we haven’t even decided on the color yet. Besides the fact that I’ve got a ton of work here, and I’ve spent half the week in Chaya’s apartment, painting walls and trying to make hundred-year-old closets look new. Do me a favor, and don’t make this more difficult than it needs to be.”

In the offices of HaMehadhed, late at night, the one and only, unduplicated Gedalya sits at his desk, running his fingernails slowly over the surface. Scrrr-atch. Scrrr-atch.

“No,” he says.

“No what?”

“I can’t print out your PDF. It’s not for work purposes, so I can’t do it.”

“Huh?”

Dudi yells. Ima cries. Chaya makes sarcastic comments. Yoeli flutes. Gedalya lays down the law. And Nechami? Nechami keeps quiet.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Mishpacha, Issue 886)