“When my mother asks me to do a job, I get distracted and forget. But I was planning to do it, really I was! ‘Wash the dishes, Shevi,’ she’ll say. The next morning, when she finds them still sitting in the sink, she turns all kind of colors. She doesn’t yell or anything, but I see the look on her face.”

“That sounds really rough,” Rivky sympathized.

“You can’t even imagine,” Shevi wailed.

“I’m really sorry,” Rivky said.

“Yeah,” Shevi sighed. “Thanks. It’s hard to feel different. Like, why is it fair that the rest of the world can do the math? Everyone else has the brains and zips through it with no problem. But I keep failing…”

Another torrent of sobs burst forth.

Picturing huge waves turning calm and gentle as they headed for shore, Rivky bided her time, waiting patiently until Shevi’s storm subsided. When her cries became soft hiccups, Rivky tested the waters.

“It’s really painful to feel like everyone else has something and you don’t,” Rivky murmured. “I know just how you feel.”

“You do?” Shevi sounded surprised.

“I sure do. I’m okay at math, but I have a different problem.”

“What is it?” Shevi wanted to know.

“I was an artist. Until a few months ago, that is.”

“What happened?” Shevi demanded.

“An accident. Some drunk driver barreled through a red light, slamming right into the passenger side of our car. Baruch Hashem, we were all okay. Except for my finger.”

“Your finger?” Shevi echoed.

“Yeah. I saw the driver coming straight at us, and I knew we were in trouble. I screamed, and then I clawed at the roof of the car, terrified. When his car smashed into my side, the impact made my hand go right through the roof of our car. It was a mess, and I needed surgery. And now I’m not able to use one of my fingers. I’ve tried to go back to my art, but I just can’t do it like I used it — it doesn’t come out the same with only four working fingers.”

“Wow,” Shevi breathed. “That’s really rough. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks,” Rivky laughed. “Sounds like we’re taking turns. But I’ll tell you something, Shevi. For a while, I was really down. Snuggling deep inside my cocoon, I wanted to just curl up and stay there. My life, as I knew it, was over — ‘Rivky the Artist’ was no more. I didn’t know who I was, and I felt worthless. I had always been the address for art, whether there was a play or color war. And now, who needed me? I just didn’t understand. No one else I knew had their special talent taken away from one minute to the next. Why did this have to happen to me?”

“I know just how you feel,” Shevi murmured, and Rivky laughed again, a light, tinkling sound like a gurgling brook jumping over rocks.

“But my wise grandmother invited me out, and we had a long talk. ‘Do you think we get to choose our life circumstances?’ she asked me in her typical direct manner. ‘The only things we get to choose in this life are our reactions. Hashem tailors every nuance of our lives, and then we can either rise above the challenges that He engineers for our benefit — or sink. It’s up to us.’ ” Rivky paused, overcome with memories. “I’ll never forget that afternoon. I lifted my tearstained face to gaze into Bubby’s bright green eyes. She lost her entire family in Auschwitz. But she’s one of the happiest, kindest, most wonderful people I know.”

“Wow,” Shevi said.

“I have to go now,” Rivky told her, “but good luck with your math!”

“Thanks,” Shevi replied. “Can I call you tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Rivky agreed. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

Shevi gazed thoughtfully through her window, when a bird with a broken wing landed on her ledge.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she murmured. “How will you fly like that?”

The bird peered at her with black beady eyes before fluttering towards the ground and limping away.

“Feel better,” Shevi whispered.

Oops! I forgot to ask Rivky for help with my homework, Shevi realized, staring at her math book with distaste. But snatches of their conversation replayed in her mind, and she decided to give it a whirl. Just one problem, she decided.

To her surprise, she solved the problem.

“Wow!” she exclaimed. But when she checked her work, she found that her answer was one number off. Shevi sighed. I’ll try one more time. If I came that close, maybe I can get it the next time.

Shevi worked for a few more minutes, and this time her answer checked out. Elated, she moved on to the next equation.

I can’t wait to call Rivky tomorrow. She must have sprinkled the phone line with math-knowhow dust.

Rivky was ready when Shevi called the next evening at exactly eight o’clock.

“How are you?” Rivky asked warmly.

“Better,” Shevi said, “thanks to you.”

“Really?”

“I was able to do a few of the problems last night. All because of our conversation.”

“That’s great,” Rivky said. “I’m really happy for you.”

“Me, too,” Shevi said. “Rivky, do you think I’ll be able to pass math this year?”

“Shevi,” Rivky said, “I think you can do anything you want if you put your mind to it. Do whatever it takes — get help, if you need to.”

They schmoozed for a while longer, and then Shevi jolted and briskly ended the call.

“I just remembered,” she gasped, “I have a math test tomorrow. I better study. Bye!”

“Good luck,” Rivky wished.

When Shevi got her first passing grade of the year, she jumped three feet in the air. How in the world will I wait to tell Rivky? She wondered. With turtle-like slowness, the clock hands touched the eight and the twelve, and Shevi punched in the familiar number.

“You’ll never guess what!” she exclaimed when Rivky picked up.

“Excuse me, but who is this?” Rivky sounded puzzled.

“It’s me! Shevi!”

“Um,” Rivky hesitated, racking her brain, “do I know you?”

“Rivky, what’s the matter? We’ve been talking for the past two nights! And I passed my math test — because of you!”

“I’m really sorry, but I don’t recall…I’ve worked with other girls, but Shevi? Mazel tov, though.”

“Is this the Math Made Easy Hotline?” Shevi wondered, furrowing her eyebrows.

“Yes, it is,” Rivky confirmed.

A niggling suspicion flashed through Shevi’s mind.

“What’s your number?” Shevi wanted to know.

When Rivky rattled it off, everything became clear. Shevi had dialed every one of those numbers correctly — except for the last one. Instead of dialing a three for the hotline, she had pushed number two. So then who was this other Rivky?

Shevi once again dialed the familiar number.

“Rivky, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you weren’t the hotline. That I called the wrong number.”

“You sounded so upset,” Rivky explained. “I couldn’t bring myself to hang up on you. I hope you’re not angry with me.”

“Angry?” Shevi echoed. “You were amazing! I don’t know how to thank you. You— you changed my life.”

Gazing down at her limp finger, Rivky flexed it back and forth, Bubby’s trademark optimism reverberating in her mind: You can do anything you want if you put your mind to it. Do whatever it takes… Closing her eyes, Rivky imagined dipping a paintbrush into an assortment of colors until a beautiful picture emerged.

A few minutes later, the two girls ended their conversation. A bird call sounded outside, and they both glanced through their window. A little bird whose wing was dragging was trying desperately to fly. One jump, a second, and with a heady swoosh of wings, he reached a branch. Because you can do anything if you put your mind to it.

(Originally featured in Mishpacha Jr. Issue 684)