When there’s no light, and there’s no heart because it’s gone, broken, and you’re falling into a bottomless pit, what’s left?

Nechama swivels around on her chair, to where Galit is making a note on the whiteboard. “Choose a number, any number, between one thousand and five thousand.”

“You don’t have anything better to do with your lunch break?”

Nechama checks the time on her phone. “Supper break. We missed lunch with the emergency C-section, remember?”

Galit grins. “The look on that guy’s face when we put those two little girls into his arms. Precious.”

“A good day. Now. A number.”

“Three thousand.”

“Okay. Destination?”

“Thailand.”

“I thought you’d say India. Thailand on three thousand. How many days?”

“Ten.”

“Ten days in Thailand for three thousand — shekels or dollars?”

“Ummm. Dollars.”

“Ooookay, let’s see what I can do?” Nechama takes a forkful of salad and pulls her hoodie over her uniform; it gets chilly toward evening. Then she turns to the screen, for her own version of Ticket to Ride.

No way can she do a direct flight on that budget. If she takes a flight to… where’s nearby? She opens Google Maps… And then takes a train. How long will that take? She only has ten days. And she has to leave enough money for accommodations. Food isn’t included in the budget, she decided early on. After all, if she were at home, she would also have to eat.

Hold on, if she stops in Abu Dhabi, AUH Zayed International, and then another flight to MAA Chennai, then it will cost her $844. The journey will take forty-two hours, cutting three days off the ten-day trip, but doable.

Chagit leans over her screen. “What do you have?”

Nechama crumples her forehead. Still working on it. But then the bell sounds and Rivkah, the midwife in room number three, needs a hand. She leaves the screen open on her search and jumps to her feet.

She knocks and walks in and Rivkah gives her a grateful look. The epidural hasn’t taken and the woman is hysterical, and her husband is pacing up and down like a caged tiger. Nechama goes over to the soon-to-be mother and takes her hand. The woman threads her fingers through Nechama’s long, strong fingers and grips tightly. Nechama places her other hand over the woman’s hand. “Motek, it’s going to be okay. Look at how well you’re doing.”

The woman lets out something between a sob and a cry.

“Honey. I’m here with you.”

“Don’t. Don’t go. Promise.”

Nechama pats the woman’s hand again. “I’m right here. Holding your hand.”

Later, before she logs out to go home, she sees her search open on the computer. Chagit has left her a scrawled note: Enjoy the game.

At home, she has sixteen tabs open on the computer. Places she could visit with David: Greece, Portugal, a Jewish history cruise up the Danube, which she thinks he might actually enjoy. And then the places they could go along with the kids and the grandkids, with safely fenced-off swimming pools and gardens, not too far from Teveria. She’s dreaming of booking somewhere for Chol Hamoed, a grand gathering, all four of their couples and the kids.

They can afford it. They can figure out all the hechsherim and the meshugasim.  She could take time off, and technically, David could as well. But every time she brings it up, he shuts it right down, click, like he’s closing a window. “My patients need me,” he says, and then she can’t bear the guilt of it, and feels bad to have even suggested it.

But Chol Hamoed, at least, with all the kids. And then she’ll drop all thoughts of the cruise. It’s not like they’ve got too much to talk about, anyway.

(Excerpted from Calligraphy: Pesach 5785, Mishpacha Issue 1057)