order an ambulance, sobered her up to the fact that this was potentially dangerous. “Don’t forget she has no insurance. The emergency room will have a doctor for her, free.” “Is that why you think she should go?” “She doesn’t have insurance. You said she needs a doctor.” “I meant Doctor Zussman.” Men! To place pragmatism in a painful situation was to cheapen it into mere calculations. “She can’t be schlepped. She needs… care.” She was so… thin. Like a butterfly captured by pudgy hands. “A house call is what she needs.” “It’s the middle of the night. And she doesn’t have insurance. You said she needed emergency care. I can take her to the hospital.” “I don’t know.” They’d have to wait for hours before anyone looked at them. Malka’la would have to sit there, and in her current state… Gella had really wanted reassurance from
wasn’t responding. “Mama?” Gella tried. Malka’la stirred. She shifted in her bed. Her eyes were barely open and she pulled the blanket higher unto herself. But she was still a mother. Gella placed a newly moistened towel on her head. Malka’la murmured something incomprehensible. It was the middle of the night. It didn’t make sense
Now, safety came before privacy; she needed to remember that, always. Safety before privacy. her husband. Not being spit out into a busy hospital corridor. But if the situation was serious enough then… but no. She had to go downstairs to check. Maybe it was just a cold. Or even pneumonia. Everything was healable. She opened Malka’la’s door again, gingerly, lest Malka’la be up, and if she was, this was a real intrusion on her privacy, but now, safety came before privacy; she needed to remember that, always. Safety before privacy. The room was clean now, and everything was completely untouched since Malka’la had arrived, aside from the suitcase she’d stashed in the closet, and hadn’t even opened yet. “Malka’la?” she asked gently. She was breathing, but she
58
/ THE MONS E Y V IE W
to wake her and drag her out in the cold. Tomorrow, she would call the doctor, who would come check on her, and prescribe something. She would buy it, in cash; it was worth it, it needed to be done. In the meantime, she sat on the other bed, keeping vigil. The night passed like clouds, wisps of sleep and awareness moving through at a rapid and slow pace. In the morning, the doctor came. He prescribed strong antibiotics. Gella used her womanly powers and Zalman paid. A week went by. Gella nursed Malka’la back to health with consistent dedication, feeding her chicken soup every night, and farina every
morning. One day, Malka’la was strong enough to stand up and walk around, and Gella found Malka’la sitting at the desk, eating a yogurt. “You’re eating farina. I’m cutting you a salad. You are not eating cold yogurt.” “I can’t eat too much. And you said I should come to supper. I’ll come to supper,” Malka’la said. Gella laughed. “That was… before. So much has changed since then. Please allow me to cook breakfast for you.” Malka’la came out to the kitchen. She still felt faint if she walked for too long, so she held onto the wall. Her appetite was returning, and she was hungry. She sat at the kitchen table. From the bay window, the snowy backyard was an expanse of calm, not the whipping beast it was when she confronted it. “I’m here for over a week. And I have nothing to show for it.” She ate, and for the first time, she tasted. The food was warm, good, sweet — indulgent. She felt a wave of nausea rise. “You were in danger. And you’re not going out now.” “I can’t. I can hardly walk… But how can I not?” To be continued... Chany Rosengarten authors columns and serialized novels in leading publications. She can be reached at gchanyg@gmail.com.