“You love long drives,” Moishe had said when she told him.

“Sure I do,” she’d said. “When I have time for them, and when I’m feeling more like myself. What will you do for dinner? I doubt I’ll be back in time.”

He’d laughed. “You haven’t felt up to cooking for a few weeks, now,” he’d said. “I’ll have a sandwich. Same as last night.”

He was right. It was funny how fast things changed. In the two years they were married, she’d been a devoted menu planner, making sure supper was never boring. She’d always helped Ma cook for Yom Tov, so even though she married almost directly after seminary, food shopping and menu planning were never an ordeal. Now, though, it’s a challenge. She’s always tired.

She clicks on the Levin file. Before she starts editing, she sifts again through the previous day’s images. It was a dinnertime shoot, and the family was laughing over spaghetti and meatballs. There’s six-year-old Dassi trying to twirl the spaghetti onto her fork, and three-year-old Avi has sauce on his face. Mom and Dad are doing mom and dad things, smiling widely. Even teenage Tzvi and Shani are smiling and laughing.

Then she spots the shot with Shani and her mother arguing. She’d almost forgotten about that. They thought Perela hadn’t noticed, but she saw the rigidity of Ricky’s mouth and Shani’s folded arms. While their attention was on each other, she caught their argument on camera.

This shot is more authentic and messy than the meatballs, she thinks. She drags it over to another file where she has a collection of similar shots from other shoots. It’s the imperfections that grab her — couples arguing, kids bickering — uncensored family life.

She remembers the first time she captured a “real life” image. It had been a mistake, and she only noticed it when she was editing later. It was a first birthday cake smash shoot — the baby was supposed to smash the cake and then eat it — but this kid didn’t want to touch the icing, and the mom took her daughter’s hand and stuck it in the cake. The little girl started howling.

“Is this worth it?” the dad asked.

“It’s a milestone,” the mom answered.

She probably has that baby blanket with the numbers, Perela thought as she tried to calm the little girl. She was still holding her camera, and her finger must’ve slipped because later she found the image of the little girl crying, her parents standing behind, both of them as upset as their child.

She can’t quite explain what made her keep the image. Maybe it was the accurate messiness of real life. Maybe it was the messiness she felt when she was around Ma. Maybe it was a little bit of both. As much as she loves taking pictures, family photo shoots always feel contrived, telling only half a story. She feels uneasiness with photography and its lie of the moment; her secret folder soothes her. I’m a curator of falsehood, so I safeguard the truth, she thinks.

She glances over at her own mother. Ma’s humming, eyes on the road. She looks back at the image of Shani and Ricky. She remembers the time she saved up the money she earned as a homework helper, and bought herself a scarf of the softest gray chenille edged with a whisper of a fringe. She loved the feel of it against her face in the cold. And then one day, she couldn’t find it.

“It didn’t suit you,” Ma said.

Perela had wanted to tell Ma so many things, but her anger would have overwhelmed her and swallowed her whole, so instead, she moved into Grandma’s house for a few weeks. Time helped her wrath cool. She learned a kind of hardness and compartmentalization — an acceptance of self that made her love her black, white, and gray palette even while she still doubted it.

They’re more than halfway there, the road is a monotonous blur of green, brown, and gray. Perela is adjusting lighting, exposure, and color in the Levin file. Ma switches lanes and Perela feels a lurch in her stomach, light-headedness. She closes her laptop.

“I’m so happy you came with me,” Ma says.

“Hmm,” says Perela, a noncommittal hum meant to signify a response, but not agreement. She tries to detach from the nausea in hopes that intellectually denying it would banish it.

“About the sweaters. I only want to be helpful,” Ma says.

Perela doesn’t answer. The nausea is rising at an alarming rate. She has the urge to put her head between her knees.

“Ma, I’m not feeling well.”

“I knew you looked tired yesterday.”

“It’s more than that. Can we get off the highway?”

Ma looks over at her, but doesn’t argue. The exit to New Paltz looms ahead. In moments, they’re on Main Street, complete with the characteristic quaintness of the towns that dot upstate New York. Ma parks, and Perela opens the car door, gets out, and stands with her eyes closed. She breathes the country air in measured breaths — in and out, in and out.

“What’s wrong with you?” Ma asks. She’s out of the car, peering at Perela. Her caftan glimmers in the sunlight.

“I’m pregnant,” Perela says. “The nausea comes and goes.”

Her eyes are still closed, and she feels the queasiness loosen its grip.

“Oh, sweetie.” Ma gathers her into an embrace. “What wonderful news.”

“We’re very happy,” Perela says, pulling away after what feels like a decent interval.

“You’re going to love being a mother,” Ma says.

“I think so, too,” Perela says. The intimacy of her news feels like a bond with Ma. She looks at Ma, smiles a half smile.

“I’m going to show you how to do everything. Remember how I’d schedule you all the minute you were born? That’s something you have to get on top of even now. I’ll give you some books.”

Perela turns away from Ma, focuses her gaze on the shop across the street. Manny’s Art Supplies, More than Just an Art Store, the sign declares. Through the windowed storefront, she can see a mess of supplies inside. Someone had crafted enormous bugs out of wire and tissue paper, and pasted them to the windows.

“You’ll need a noise machine,” Ma says. “And only bamboo sheets for the crib.”

“I haven’t given baby linens any thought yet. I haven’t given any of this much thought, Ma.”

The wind blows, and Manny’s sign, which hangs from a pole, swings back and forth. She follows the movement with her eyes, and feels her nausea rise again.

“You’ll have to, if you want to be prepared. I can’t wait to show you how to hold a baby properly, and how to burp a baby after feeding. You’ll come to me afterward, of course.”

“No,” says Perela, tearing her eyes from Manny’s bugs and looking at Ma. “I’m going to Grandma’s.”

She has to admit New Paltz has its charms. Main Street is a collection of classic revival buildings with symmetrical forms. Some have updated the windows and replaced doors, but they’ve stayed loyal to the 19th-century feel. Here and there are more modern structures that stand out brashly, but most add to the charm of the street.

There’s a healthy collection of vintage shops, and Ma has gone to explore. First Rock Candy Vintage, then Water Street Market. Perela told Ma she’d stay in the car, wait for her equilibrium to recalibrate. There’s a shimmer of blue, and she spots Ma walking toward her. She has a half smile on her lips, and she’s carrying some bags.

“The shops here are great,” Ma says, as she walks to the back of the Pilot. She presses the key fob to open the lift gate, places her bags in the corner of the cargo space, and turns to face Perela.

“I’m sorry about the sweaters,” Ma says. “I only mean to be helpful.”

“I know,” says Perela, “still, I prefer to choose my own clothes.”

“You’re right,” Ma says. “Sometimes I forget, but it’s only because I want to be there for you.” Ma squeezes her arm.

Perela feels warm and small, and also uncomfortable, but she smiles and squeezes Ma back.

Ma rustles the bags in the cargo space, and pulls out a package wrapped in brown paper and twine. There’s a sprig of dried flowers tucked under the string. She hands it to Perela. “Open it,” she tells her.

She pulls off the packaging and she’s holding a white knit blanket with scalloped edges. She unfolds it, confused.

“A blanket for your baby,” Ma says. “A local woman makes them.” She pauses for a moment. “It’s okay if you don’t want to come to me after you give birth,” she says next, “but I want to help you, to be there for you.”

Perela hears her words, but they’re muffled under the rush in her head. It’s like the rush of water. Her heart feels small, and she’s biting her lower lip, tastes blood. This vulnerability she’s feeling reminds her why she’s going to Grandma. I need my space, she thinks.

Ma is looking at her expectantly, so she forces a smile, and says, “We’ll figure it out after.”

They get into the car, and when Ma isn’t looking, Perela thrusts the blanket into the back.

The gallery is in a gray building with a red door. Plate glass windows allow passersby to peer inside and glimpse the white walls and colorful artwork from local artists. Only Ma could find this place, Perela thinks.

She’s annoyed about the blanket and angry at herself. The minute she lets Ma close, Ma oversteps. This pregnancy still feels so new; she isn’t ready to put anything away for the baby. And she wants to be the first person to put something away for this new person.

While Ma waits for the painting to be wrapped, Perela opens the Levin file and reviews her edits. Scrolling through the images again, something catches her eye. She looks more closely. The image focuses on Dad and the kids; but in the background Perela can make out Ricky embracing Shani. She hadn’t noticed that.

She scrolls back, checking if she’d missed anything else. Now that she knows where to look, she can see the rest of the story unfolding in the background of the previous shots. Ricky and Shani talking, no longer angry. Ricky touching Shani’s cheek. Ricky and Shani hugging.

Her gaze lingers on their hug, and her heart squeezes.

She’ll have to blur the background.

Ma’s coming out of the gallery, and behind her, two men are carrying a large wrapped parcel. The painting. Ma had described it after they had left New Paltz.

“It’s a painting of a young girl’s shirt. I think the artist copied a photograph because he edged the painting with a white border,” Ma had said. “But you really notice the details — the round collar, the puffed sleeves, the pleated front. Except for the border, the whole thing is done in shades of blue.”

Perela could understand the allure of this type of art — it turned the viewer into a storyteller. There were so many possible stories in one article of clothing. She turns to look at the blanket she threw in the back. She can see it under the seats they’d laid flat so there’d be room for the painting. It sits in a heap on the floor, and she feels a twinge. She wonders if Ma noticed it there.

Ma’s at the back of the car. She opens the lift gate, and the men ease the painting into the car. She thanks them, and they return to the gallery.

“So that’s that,” Ma says. She looks at her watch. “It’s still early, and this town looks nice. Should we explore a bit?”

Perela feels the need for a break, and though she isn’t drawn to quaint shops the way Ma is, she could use a stroll after all the hours she’s been cooped up in the car. They walk down Main Street, which is remarkably similar to New Paltz with its own array of classic revival buildings.

Ma’s drawn to the building next door to the gallery, and she stops to look. It’s a four-story building with gingerbread trim. The display window says Saugerties Antiques Center in gothic lettering. Through the shop windows, they can see a multitude of old radios and lamps.

“This looks fun,” Ma says.

They go inside, and the first thing Perela notices is a funky smell, like a closet that hasn’t been aired in months. She sees a pile of old trunks stacked to the ceiling. They’re rectangles of black, cream, green, and shades of brown. The shop is set up with displays of dining sets, sofas, and bookcases, and. every free surface is crowded with knickknacks, lamps, and books. The walls are covered with art.

“I’m going to look around,” Ma tells her.

Perela moves at her own pace. She skips a collection of busts and clocks, and lingers over some crewel work hanging on the wall. The store has a dizzying amount of merchandise. She decides to walk through the place quickly, then wait for Ma at the front. Her eyes sweep over snow globes, posters, and old records when she spots a green pitcher. She reaches for it and holds it in her hands.

The glass is crackled and the handle’s graceful sweep looks like a hand on a hip. Ma used to have one just like it. Perela remembers how much Ma loved that pitcher. She always said it made her think of her grandmother who gave it to her, and died shortly after Ma and Ta married. Perela remembers that Shabbos when she was clearing the table and the pitcher slipped out of her hands, and shattered on the floor. She’d stood there, trying to make sense of the shards of glass, and feeling awful, when Ma had come and given her a half hug.

“It’s just a pitcher,” Ma had said. “I love you more.”

Perela thinks about Shani and Ricky, about the image she has of their argument, and all the other pictures she’s amassed, the swollen collection in her private file. She thinks about the carefully curated collections she has for each client. The falsehoods and the truths, she’d called it, but that wasn’t really accurate.

I’m the one who made that separation, she thinks. There’s really so much nuance and overlap.

Perela thinks about Ma and the blanket, about how much Ma wanted her to come along today. She wonders at herself, at her own curated memories, memories that loop on repeat in her mind, memories that separate her from the present.

She picks up the pitcher, goes to the counter, and pays for it. Then she looks for Ma, and sees blue outside the shop.

“I got you something,” Perela tells her when she joins her outside. She opens the brown bag where the pitcher is nestled.

“Look,” she says.

“My pitcher,” says Ma, looking at it for a long moment. She puts her arm around Perela, pulls her close. Perela rests her head on Ma’s shoulder.

“Ready to go?” asks Ma finally.

They’re only a couple of feet from where they parked. Ma clicks the fob and unlocks the car. Perela opens the rear door and pulls out the blanket Ma bought earlier. She removes the pitcher from the bag and wraps it in the blanket, and places them both gently into the brown bag.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 756)