Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 16 of a new online serial novel, If Anyone Is Listening, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
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Batya walked out to the path, pushing Shmuli’s carriage. She basked in the sun’s gentle warmth, and when she glanced at the baby, she saw that he was also gazing wide-eyed at the brilliant blue sky.
“A bit of sun, an outing, and some wind won’t hurt us right now, right?” She smiled at him. “We have nowhere to hurry. Abba will be back for supper only in five days, at the earliest, b’ezras Hashem, because China is a country that keeps people very busy. So we can walk calmly to the grocery to buy some cheese and a few nice cucumbers. Who needs cooked food? You certainly don’t.”
She walked into the store and meandered down the aisles. She’d never loved to cook, and didn’t particularly care for cooked food either. Bread, cottage cheese, and a tomato were a perfect meal in her view, especially in the years when she’d come home late from school and didn’t want to become fleishigs. One of the hardest things she’d had to adjust to after her marriage was getting used to eating “real” meals, and, even more than that, cooking those meals.
The phone rang. Batya was surprised to see her mother-in-law’s number on the screen. In middle of the week? Even when Shimmy was in town, they hardly spoke by phone, and when such a conversation did finally take place, she was usually the one to initiate it. She was the one who remembered to call to say good Shabbos once in two or three weeks, or at least, a gut voch. But since when did her mother-in-law call her? When she needed something urgently, she called Shimmy, and even that was quite rare.
“Hello,” Batya answered the phone, while putting a few vegetables, a can of tuna, and a package of yellow cheese on the register counter.
“Hi, Batya. How are you?”
“Baruch Hashem, great.”
“Tell me, is Shimmy in financial trouble or something?”
Instinctively, Batya glanced at the credit card in her hand. “No, chas v’shalom. I mean, not that I know of.”
“So why is he asking Tatty to help him get a loan of half a million?”
“Half a million shekel?” Batya gaped at her bag of cucumbers.
“No, dollars.”
“I…I really don’t know. We haven’t spoken since last night.” Something cold gripped at her breath and stopped her. She struggled to take in some air. “Do…do you think something…happened to him?”
“I don’t think so,” her mother-in-law replied, and her American accent suddenly sounded much more pronounced than usual. “He sounded just fine. I’m the one who answered the call. But then I heard the rest of his conversation with Tatty, and I was very displeased.”
“I have no idea what this is about,” Batya said, staring blindly at the cashier scanning her items. She handed over the card. It was approved without a problem.
“I have no idea either, and this isn’t sitting well with me at all.”
“I’ll try to call him.”
“Try, and get back to me. Because I told Tatty that I’m not ready to do it. What is this, you also became Israelis who think that all Americans are rich?”
“I assume that Shimmy didn’t mean to ask you for the money,” her daughter-in-law mumbled cautiously. She didn’t usually remember the prominent disparities in mentality between Shimmy’s parents and her own. For the most part, no one mentioned it, because it didn’t make a difference to anyone.
“Of course not, because we don’t even have a tenth of that. But Tatty has all kinds of friends and relatives in America, and Shimmy wants him to talk to them. But I vetoed that.” Shimmy’s mother was usually very pleasant, except for when she didn’t have extra time for trivialities such as these.
Batya stepped out of the store with her carriage, the grocery bag, and the phone. She wanted to call Shimmy right away, but she knew that the street was too quiet right now for such a conversation. Every open window on a first floor could invite curious eavesdroppers, especially since the communication between her phone and Shimmy’s was not always of the best quality, and here and there she sometimes had to raise her voice in order to be heard. No thanks. She’d call from home.
But Shimmy’s phone was on call waiting. She fed Shmuli, prepared her own lunch, put it into the fridge because she had no appetite, and still, Shimmy was busy on his calls, and was not answering her.
***
I show my girls the photos I took in Isamar’s room before we left America. It’s a dreamy navy and light blue room, decorated with gold accents. A day before the bris, the room had already been painted, and the day after the bris, the furniture Ruchi had ordered had arrived. It really is a gorgeous room, soft and sweet, taken straight out of the pictures in children’s catalogs. There is only one problem with it: It’s in Yudi and Ruchi’s house, and no one has any idea when little Isamar will be able to enjoy the grand accommodations prepared for him there.
Not that he is exactly sleeping now in a scratched plastic cradle taken from a gemach, chalilah! Ruchi’s mother had also prepared suitable furnishings for him. But still, there’s a dramatic difference between the rooms.
“I’m not sure he will still fit into this cradle, when he finally moves to his real room,” my Sara’le says after everyone leaves and only she stays behind. They’re cute, our kids. They came to fill up the house and to welcome us home. But Sara’le, our oldest, is the only one who is really able to sense the delicate nuances laced into the stories and descriptions of our trip. She is also the only one who spoke to Ruchi by phone before the bris, because of all my kids, Ruchi only likes to speak with Sara’le.
“Because if you ask me, Ima,” she continues, “they are going to be at her parents’ house for at least a year.” She is quiet for a minute. “I spoke to her twice, Ima, and she told me about all her fears, about Isamar’s leg, and everything… What’s with the orthopedist appointment?”
The appointment is in almost a week, I tell her. Before that, the baby is scheduled to see his pediatrician, for his two-week visit. I advised my mechuteiniste to ask the pediatrician about the leg, but she said that if Ruchi would be with her, it would be impossible, because the subject got her totally hysterical.
“And she won’t be hysterical at the orthopedist?” Sara’le asks compassionately.
“She won’t be there for that appointment. Her mother will take the baby by herself.”
“So why is Ruchi going with to the pediatrician?”
“Because that’s a regular checkup, Sara’le, and she has to learn how to do it with her child. There is no Tipat Chalav there like we have here. You come to the doctor once every so often, he examines the baby, and the nurse comes in for weighing and the other measurements, as well as the vaccines. Ruchi has to learn to do all that by herself.”
“Really? She’s going to be with him for shots?”
“I don’t know.” I sigh. “Her mother said that she will…I hope it’s as simple as she makes it out to be. But Ruchi won’t be coming to the orthopedist. Her parents will take the baby themselves, and they’ll ask whatever has to be asked.”
“I really hope he’ll say that what she’s thinking is all imaginary, and that the child is going to grow into a strong, tall boy, b’ezras Hashem.”
“Amen.” I smile with effort. “The truth is, we can’t know if she’s right or not,” I add. “Even I, at one point, began to believe her. There does seem to be something to what she is saying…”
“You know, Ima…I’m thinking about what we were discussing before, about when they’ll move back to their own home… Maybe they should just live by her parents, and that’s it. It’s possible that that is what’s best for them.”
“Not for Yudi,” I say firmly. “Yudi needs his own corner, his quiet, without the presence of his shver and shvigger all the time. Not that they’re not really fine people,” I hasten to clarify. “They are wonderful. But he’s a big boy, Sara’le. He’s a husband and father, and he needs his own home.”
She nods and looks a bit distracted suddenly. “I wanted to ask you something, Ima,” she says, and I make a mental check mark to myself. “What do you think about opening a branch of a jewelry store at home?”
“Me?”
“Yes. My neighbor is an importer of Glitters and Glints, you know, costume jewelry, but of really good quality. She’s been expanding and opened a few branches, in different cities. I thought of you. What do you say about selling jewelry from home?”
What do I say? That it’s nice of Sara’le to find me something to do.
“Nu, Ima?”
“I worked all my years, dear. Now I’m retired, baruch Hashem.”
“Baruch Hashem a thousand times, but it’s an early retirement, Ima! You’re really young!”
“Relatively.”
“And you can’t sit at home all day only thinking about Yudi, Ruchi, and their baby.”
Aha. I knew it. “I agree to think about you and your family, too.” I smile at her. “And should I tell you something? I do that, sometimes.”
“For sure,” Sara’le tells me. “I also know how many things you are doing at home already. But at the same time, Ima, you need something to keep your thoughts busy. Even if you’d have continued with your accounting job, I would have advised you to take on something else, something lighter, that gives you contact with people. Jewelry—it’s something pleasant and very alive. And by the way, you won’t have to deal with the accounting of the store, because my neighbor herself takes care of all the bureaucracy for each branch. So, what do you say?”
***
If someone is listening to me now, and is enjoying the music, I’d love if they could write that in to the number that is given in the introduction to the hotline. Like this, I can know whether to continue with the guitar in upcoming lectures as well.
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