Anuradha was sitting on her bench in the opposite corner of the room, eating lunch. I gazed at the strange woman, once again wondering if Yocheved paid her to eat. What exactly was she meant to do in the boutique? Sit around and wait for Kohlman’s next daughter to get engaged?

We’re not getting beading handwork for Shevy’s gown, we’re not.

“Okay, this is too cool,” Hindy proclaimed. “Yes.”

I was starting to regret letting Hindy come along when the doorbell rang.

“Expecting someone?” I asked Yocheved.

She slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, it’s the photographer, buzz him in.”

“The what?”

She grabbed my buzzer pendant and pressed. Two tall guys walked in, lugging equipment.

“What in the world?”

“They’re just taking pictures,” Yocheved muttered. “Marketing stuff.” She shot to her feet as one of the guys approached the table.

And then Brachfeld walked in.

“Oh, hi, Mr. Brachfeld,” said Yocheved, giving me a quick glance. “I-I didn’t realize you’d join.”

“Oh, of course, I always join shoots.”

“I’ll just…” Yocheved sputtered. “We’ll continue another day, Shevy, yeah?”

Brachfeld pulled up a chair and propped an iPad onto the table. He pretended not to notice me.

“Here,” he said. “Let me show you some stuff while these guys set up.”

My girls watched his screen curiously. I glanced at Yocheved. She was trying to look nonchalant.

“So these are the mock-ups for the next series,” he said. “Not sure about the copy, I put down a few options.”

He tapped on the screen and read. “Your wedding gown defines who you are.”

He tapped on the screen again. “The train to happiness. A little corny maybe, the pun?”

Another tap. “The gown you deserve. Or this, Because you only do it once.”

Hindy giggled.

Yocheved licked her lips. “Interesting options. Uh… Mina? What do you think?”

What I thought? Every single option was over the top ridiculous, and she knew it very well. But, holding the draft of Shevy’s gown in my hands, I couldn’t say a word.

***

Yelena

We looked like a picture-book family.

I wrapped my arms around the metal chains of the swing and swung a slow circle. Anzel, sitting on a bench next to Mama, opened a container of watermelon. Benish scooped up a piece with his fingers.

If I closed my eyes, I could forget everything. The gowns, the fridge, Moriz and Yocheved and the Dratlers. A breeze whispered past my face, gentle and cool. I swung forward.

“It’s late,” Anzel announced. “We need to head back.”

“What’s the rush?”

Anzel gestured at Mama and made a huddling motion. The sky was darkening and it was getting cold for her.

I filled my lungs with crisp, clear air. I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to think about the Dratlers, about the neatly basted muslin pieces waiting for a sewing machine. I wanted to stay in the park, listen to the leaves whisper in the wind, and watch birds peck at crumbs. So what if Tzirel Dratler was getting married in less than a month and relying on me to sew her gown?

“A few more minutes?” I asked.

Anzel shrugged, then popped a piece of watermelon into his mouth. “Oy!”

Mama startled. “What happened?”

“Ach, just bit my tongue.”

Liar.

I peered at my husband and our eyes locked. Bit his tongue, right. He needed a root canal. But after learning that insurance wouldn’t cover the procedure, he never uttered another word about the pain.

“It is getting late,” I said loudly.

“Right,” Anzel agreed.

Back in Mama’s apartment, Anna set about preparing Mama’s supper, some bean and rice concoction. I peeked into the freezer. “No chicken?”

Anna shrugged. “I used up the chicken you sent last week.”

“I see. I… I’ll try to send over more.”

Mama wasn’t going to touch this food. All her life, she’d performed magic in the kitchen. Age hadn’t dulled her discriminating palate.

I slammed the freezer door. The peacefulness of the park had vanished, and my nerves were sizzling. I couldn’t watch Anna bustling around in Mama’s house. It was all her fault, the whole Dratler mess, the impossible commitment, and she was so calm, measuring rice like there was no tomorrow.

I marched over to the table where Anzel and Benish had set up a game of backgammon. “You’re playing now?” I snapped. “I thought we’re leaving.”

Benish spun a red checker. “One game.” Overgrown baby, that’s what he was.

Mama wiped her glasses in her sweater. “What’s the rush, Yelena? You’re always rushing, rushing, rushing. Sit down, I’ll tell Anna to prepare tea.”

Tea? I pressed my lips together, glancing around the table. At my husband and son, contentedly rolling dice and moving pieces. At Mama, flipping through the latest collection of food magazines Benish had brought over. Envy bubbled in my chest. I pulled up a chair and sat down, hard.

Benish turned to Mama. “By the way, Babushka, I tried that onion tip you gave me, to start the soup with one white and one Spanish onion. You’re right, it adds so much of flavor.”

Mama nodded knowingly. “Of course. And did you make those dumplings I told you about?”

“No, not yet. Maybe tomorrow.”

He turned back to the board. I pulled my bag onto my lap and withdrew a sealed envelope. $875 — the total I’d gotten paid for Friedman’s skirt, plus most of Dratler’s deposit.

I felt Anzel’s gaze on my back as I handed it to Anna.

We’d made it. Anzel had made two rent payments—for our apartment and for Mama’s—so we were only one month behind now. And Anna had gotten her week’s salary, so that was taken care of.

Great, and how are we going to pay her next week? And the fridge — what were we —

Anna approached the table with two cups of tea.

“I don’t need tea,” I said tersely.

Benish arced a red checker over to the next triangle on the board. “What you need, Mama,” he said, “is a break. You need to get away from work, take a hike, sit at the beach, stay in a five-star hotel. You need fresh air, a change of scenery. You need to go on vacation.”

I turned my nose up. I didn’t need a vacation. I needed a sewing machine. And if I didn’t get one really soon, Anna could kiss her job goodbye.

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 663)