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BY: FAIGY GOLD

Recap: Tehilla visits her mother in the hospital. Her father realizes that Tehilla isn't showing up to school and that she was rejected by all three high schools. Ahuva's mother tries to take her shopping to have a conversation with her.

Tehilla receives a rejection letter from her camp. She goes to the Public Library to read up about strokes.

CHAPTER FIVE:

“Hey! How are you doin’ Tehilla?”

Was it a good sign that the librarian knew my name already? I ignored the thought as I showed her my library card.

The next half hour was spent searching for books that discussed different recommended therapies for stroke victims, what can be done to prevent strokes, and what causes a stroke in the first place.

I stared at the black numbers and letters dancing across the pages. There were so many options and loads of ideas. But one common thread pierced painfully in my subconscience. Stress. Every book that I had skimmed through agreed that strokes were caused by stress.

My mother had been stressed. I hadn’t known about it at all. Then again, I had just dropped a bombshell on that fateful day of the stroke. Could my news have caused such destruction?

I tried reading up about that, too. Could the shock of unhappy tidings cause a stroke?

Thankfully, most sources agreed that it wasn’t usually the case.

But what if this time it had been? Was there a way to really know? ***

“Mrs. Korn, I am not sure what you are talking about.” I gazed into my principal’s face.

“I have been the most obedient and wonderful student since I entered the walls of Ateres Tzipora. I can’t think of even one reason to justify all three rejections.” It had taken a lot of confidence and resolve to broach this subject with my principal. After all, it was my mother’s job, not mine, to ensure that I had a high school to attend.

“Look, I will be frank with you, Tehilla.” Mrs. Epstein sighed and looked at me in the eye. “We have been receiving rather unflattering reports regarding your home life. I didn’t want to believe it myself, I thought so highly of you.”

“Home life? I got rejected before my mother landed in the hospital.”

“I mean to say- things happening out of school. Off school grounds, not necessarily at home.” An uncomfortable feeling wormed its way into my throat. “Can you please give me examples?

I am not sure what Mrs. Epstein is referring to.” I kept my tone respectful.

“Visiting the Public Library, associating with non-Jewish friends, not dressing appropriately.” The principal spoke in a measured tone of voice, betraying the bombshell she had just dropped on me.

I felt her clever eyes on me, scanning my face to read my reaction. She was waiting for my eyes to widen in shock and disbelief.

My eyes glazed over as I focused on the bird flying away from outside Mrs. Epstein’s window.

“Is your silence just confirmation of what we already know?”

With my eyes still following the lone bird, I whispered, “I don’t know.” ***

“Push me! Higher! Higher!” I exerted all my might and pushed the swing. It flew out of my hands, and scraped the skyline as it glided across the sky. My third-grade camper giggled.

“Me, too! I also want to fly!” A chorus of “push me-s!” rang out as I ran from swing to swing, transporting my campers into fantasy land. Somehow, no matter how elaborate the activity, the playground seemed to surpass every other activity in day camp. I didn’t mind, even on a hot day like today. If it took sweating and pushing to make my campers happy, I would do it. It wasn’t like I had an excess of happiness to share. The swings were an easy way to spread joy.

My hands automatically pushed the girls in robotic motions. I stopped for a minute and leaned my head back to catch the sunshine. I felt the warm rays spread over my face and sink into my skin.

In the distance, I heard soft music playing, notes holding hands to form an ethereal tune. The lyrics sort of followed, dancing to the melody in a beautiful voice, creating a masterpiece. My eyes closed, lashes softly resting on my cheekbones. My chest heaved up and down as the song replayed itself in my head several times.

“Tehilla!” I jumped up. “You stopped pushing us!”

“Here I come!” I pushed the swing and let my arms fly in the air.

I couldn’t wait to get home to write down the new song.

“Ephraim, I think that I need to be the one to tell her.”

Ephraim stared at her limp body, still wondering why he was agreeing to this. As usual, his wife read his thoughts. “You think I should stay here.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Ephraim grabbed the opportunity.

“Chava, it will be so hard for the children to see you like this. Are you really sure that you want them to look at their mother as an incapacitated woman, who needs help to simply stand up on her own?” Ephraim’s voice held anguish that ran deeper than what he was saying.

Chava didn’t even wait to formulate an answer. “You know that there is no other way. For the rest of their lives, yes, they will be more ablebodied than their own mother. Instead of me being the one to help them, they will have to help me. And yes, as painful as that reality is, our lives can no longer follow the path of our relatives and friends. Do you know what? I believe that it will only do our children good. They will grow up as more empathetic and respectful people.”

Catching the doubt on her husband’s face, she confidently added, “Mark my words. Not only will our children respect me, they will respect me more than ever before!”

There was no more denying the truth. A small part of Ephraim wanted her to stay right here in the rehab. When Chava was here, at least he could pretend that life will get back to normal one day. Although he wouldn’t say it, inside, he knew that if Chava remained in the rehab, there was hope that she would return back home completely healed. As soon as Chava came home in her current state, her stroke would become their new life. And Ephraim was terrified of the new normal. ***

Putting words to pen and paper was an old habit of mine. Somehow, I found it soothing to let the words flow straight off my mind and bleed into the paper. It was easier than verbalizing, and easier than thinking. After I finished writing, I always felt the same relief of a load off my shoulders. It was the safest place to confide in- it would never tell my secret. This time, the words had been waiting the entire day. My pen made swift strokes, neatly filling up the lined paper, words forming a beautiful poem. My breath caught in my throat. It was so poetic, so sincere, so…me. I proudly read the words aloud to my silent room:

Feet slowly push into the air, Determination on your face

The feeling of anticipation

Rising as you soar

Push, swing, Push, swing Higher and higher.

The security, the adult, pushing at your side.

Soaring high

Aiming high

Letting security be your guide

But you know

It is true

That final push Must come From YOU.

It would take many years and lots of water under the bridge until I would actually appreciate the depth of what I had just written. But for now, this poem was comforting enough, secure with the knowledge that no matter what happened, it was ultimately up to me to make choices and grow.

***

“Home Sweet Home” Chava’s eyes glazed over when she caught sight of the poster hanging on the door. It was adorned with pictures of swarming bees and honey. She leaned forward on her cane, and allowed her husband to push the door open.

Moti was first to greet her. His little eyes widened at the sight of her cane. Bursting into tears, he buried his face in his father’s feet. Chava tried to ignore the hollow pit that was widening in her stomach.

Chayala came next, a bit confused by all of the commotion. “Ma!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around her mother’s feet. Chava tried to hug her back, but her cane really was in the way. Her husband stole a glance at the kitchen.

Where was Tehilla? They both thought it at once.

The kitchen was laden with a festive tablecloth, and a four-course meal was simmering on the stove. But the cook, the superstar who had arranged this evening to perfection, down to the small bags of potpourri waiting on her mother’s bed, was nowhere to be found. ***

“So you are Pori Sternstein.”

It was unnecessary, really, as she was holding her resume, and only Pori was scheduled to be here.

“You worked at Riverside Crossings for four years?”

Pori nodded, her plastic smile firmly etched into her face.

“And you would like to become a high school teacher?”

Pori nodded again and then thought better of it. “After sitting behind a desk and gaining a lot of interpersonal relationship skills, I decided it was time for a more meaningful way to utilize these skills.” She could tell that Rebbetzin Cohen was appropriately impressed. “I specifically chose your school because I just love the way that you run this incredible place. Unsurpassed warmth and devotion, no ego involved, always growing and watching the girls blossom.”

Now Rebbetzin Cohen was smiling. “You got me, Pori!”

Pori smiled back. “May I ask which positions you have open for the upcoming year?”

“We have the Chumash for tenth grade, Navi for ninth….and wait! This looks perfect, we need a Hashkafa teacher for ninth graders, and we would love it to be someone who can also coordinate the ninth grade extra-curricular activities. So, it is two salaries, as well. Does that speak to you at all?”

Speak to her? Pori could hardly believe what she was hearing. This job was made-to-order for her. This job was sitting and waiting for her to take it and run with it.

Rebbetzin Cohen hardly needed a model lesson. Pori insisted on handing over a model written lesson plan, and finally, after reading it, she looked up.

“Pori, what can I say? I am impressed. I already spoke to the references on your resume, and honestly, they couldn’t have raved enough about you. You have so much to offer, and I am honored and privileged to offer you this position. Our ninth graders will be so fortunate if you accept.”

An hour later, logistics in place, Pori stepped out, contract in hand. Things had moved so fast, she hardly had time to register that her lifelong dream had just come to fruition.

Clutching the contract and walking home under the soft mid-afternoon rays of the sun, Pori thought to herself, Is this what it feels like when they talk about dreams coming true?

A small voice whispered back, No Pori. This isn’t what they talk about. You have too many dreams that are far more important than a simple job. You need so much more in order for you to say that your dreams have come true. And when they come true, you will know that your miserable journey is over. You won’t have to question it at all.

Ahuva swung her day-camp bag over her shoulder and began walking home. It had been another one of those exhausting days that left her wondering why she wasn’t in sleepaway camp. It also reminded her of the painful answer: lack of funds. At least this way, she was earning money. In the distance, she spotted Tehilla, turning into her block. She quickly looked away. She still felt the sting of their conversation, as if it happened today. Time couldn’t heal a friendship of ten years. Time didn’t do justice to the unfair way that their bond had been severed.

Is life fair? Is anything that happened to me fair? Crying over spilled milk won’t help. A single tear fell from her eye and laced her cheek. Spilled milk can be wiped up. Our friendship can’t. If there was a way to prove my innocence, I would do it. But what if in the process I uncover something else? The mistrust will always be there. The milk can be cleaned, but no one will ever be able to drink that fresh, frothy cup of milk ever again. The aftereffects can be taken care of, but no matter what, the friendship will be forever stained.

TO BE CONTINUED