Grievous Sin

“Cindy—”

“Daddy, better I be in charge than some of the staff during the graveyard shift. It gets real weird here at night.”

Again Decker paused. “What exactly do you mean by weird?”

“Darlene said because of the budget cuts, the hospital is forced to use a lot of temporaries and floaters. Some of them are very strange. Believe me, we’re very lucky to have Hannah under Darlene’s care.”

“Well, that was confidence-inspiring.” Decker bit the ends of his mustache. “Maybe I should check Hannah out today. The pediatrician told me medically she could be discharged. But I really wanted her to stay overnight. It’s going to be another day before Rina can come home, and I wanted to give her a chance to hold Hannah. I didn’t want her to feel isolated from everything. But you’re a sharp kid. If you say it’s weird, I’ll take both of them out of here.”

Cindy looked pained with the responsibility of decision. “Dad, I’m real tired. Maybe I’m exaggerating.”

Decker sat back down. “Good Lord, do I know that feeling.”

“Daddy, I’ll watch Hannah again tonight. Last thing I want is to take the baby away from Rina.” Cindy hesitated. “How’s she doing?”

Decker didn’t answer.

“Daddy?”

Decker ran his hands over his face. “There’ve been a few complications, but she’ll be all right.”

“Serious complications?”

“She’ll be all right,” Decker said again.

“You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”

Decker looked at his daughter. “I just don’t like talking about Rina when she’s not around.”

“You’re right. I don’t mean to be intrusive.”

Decker put his arm around his daughter. “Princess, go tell the nurse to wheel the baby out. Then I want you to go home and get some rest. Come back here when you’re refreshed. I really do need your help.”

“Daddy, it’s my pleasure being able to help you.” Cindy ran her toe along the ground. “Being able to be with you like this has been really nice. You and I talking like friends. I know you’re my father first. But it’s nice to be friends with your dad, right?”

Decker tousled Cindy’s rust-colored hair. “Yes, it’s very nice.”

They had moved her to a regular hospital room—an indication that she was no longer in danger. Now she was just a mere patient. They’d look after her for a day or maybe two, then she’d be released. No matter that she’d leave a shell of what she’d been. That didn’t concern the hospital. As long as her heart was beating and her breathing was steady, she’d be sent home.

She didn’t look at Rabbi Schulman. From a single glance, Rina knew Peter had told him. One part of her felt angry and betrayed. But the other side whispered relief. The emotional pain was too much to bear alone, too much to comprehend. Why was happiness always ripped away from her? After Yitzchak had died, she thought she’d never love again. But Hashem knew better. She met Peter, and she did love again. It was a miracle.

Then this.

Why did He feel the need to constantly test her? Wasn’t her unwavering faith enough?

Without her realizing it, tears had formed—hot and bitter. Still staring at the wall, she said, “He shouldn’t have told you. It wasn’t his place to tell you.”

“I knew something was very wrong, Rina Miriam,” the rav said softly. “Akiva simply told me the specifics.” He paused. “Perhaps it was my fault. I asked Akiva detailed questions. I apologize for prying into your life.”

Rina didn’t answer. Now, instead of being angry, she felt guilty that she had made Rabbi Schulman apologize. Weak and sick, pain encircling her like a tight girdle, she wanted to sleep for a hundred years.

Schulman said, “I would like to wish you a refuah shelenah, Rina Miriam—a very speedy recovery. I am sorry for your pain. It is confusing when unfortunate things happen to nice people. It puts us at odds with our sense of justice.”

Rina turned to the rosh yeshiva. The man was in his late seventies, and his age was finally beginning to show. His skin was wrinkled and mottled, but his dark eyes were as clear as ever. He sat stoop-shouldered, legs crossed, his liver-spotted hands clasped and resting on his knee, fingers holding the rim of his homburg. He wore his usual black suit and tie and a starched white shirt. His beard was white, as was his hair. Atop his head was a black silk skullcap.

Rav Schulman was a calm man, a calming man—his voice, his presence. No matter what life demanded of him, he always had enough time for those who needed him. Rina said, “I suppose this is a minor setback in the scheme of things.” She sighed, then grimaced as her wound throbbed. Her voice had come back, but her throat still felt raw. “It isn’t the Holocaust.”

“No, it is not the Shoah. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t entitled to your grief, Rina Miriam. I lived through the Shoah; I lost my only son. Yet I still become frustrated when I misplace my wallet. So what does that say about human nature?”

Rina sank into her pillow and stared at the ceiling. “I feel petty for feeling so … bitter.”

“Your operation was far from petty. Your bitterness is very understandable.” Schulman licked his lips. “Are you in pain? Do you need anything?”

Rina looked at the I.V. in her arm. “Nothing, thank you. My doctor told me I can eat solid food for lunch. Not exactly heart-stopping news. But it is the only news I have.”

“I’m glad you are recovering nicely.”

“Thank you for coming down, Rav Schulman. You have always been a rock of support for me and my family.”

“You’re welcome, Rina Miriam. Have you seen your baby?”

“They won’t … I’m still running a fever, and they don’t want the baby to contract anything.”

“It will help when you can hold your baby.”

Rina continued to stare at the acoustical ceiling tiles, wet streaks down her cheek. “I have three healthy children, baruch Hashem. I should be doing better than this.”

“You needn’t reproach yourself for showing human emotion. Nowhere in the Torah does it say we cannot feel sadness or happiness or anger or even doubt. Sarah laughed when Hashem told her she would conceive at the tender age of ninety. Some say it was the laughter of joy. After nine decades of being barren, she was elated at the prospect of having a child. But others say it was laughter of disbelief.” Schulman paused. “Not so hard to imagine her disbelief, nu?”

Rina nodded.

“Hakodesh Baruch Hu Himself tells Sarah of such a miraculous, wonderful event,” the rav continued. “The same Kodesh Baruch Hu who created the world. Is nothing beyond Him? Is there anything that He cannot do? Yet Sarah—a prophetess—still could not think beyond her earthly limitations, and laughed at Hashem’s prophecy. So if she could be human, so can you.”

“I’m angry at God,” Rina whispered.

“I, too, have been angry at God. He is strong. He can take your anger without feeling personally affronted.”

Rina surprised herself by smiling.

Schulman said, “You are not without insight, Rina Miriam. You should be grateful for your three healthy children. And you are grateful. But while I don’t want to put words in your mouth, I would imagine you are saddened by the fact that your family size was determined by a surgeon rather than you. In reality, how much control do we actually have over our lives? Life is a loan from Hashem. We are put here by His design; so shall we leave by His design. So if death, like life, is part of the Eternal’s plan, why do we say tehilim for the sick? Do we really think that our prayers will alter Hashem’s design?”

The rabbi held his finger up in the air.

“The answer for me is yes, they can. We believe in a personal God—a God who at least listens to our prayers. We don’t understand Hashem’s ultimate design. But that doesn’t mean we can’t ask. King David knew his first off-spring with Batsheva was a child born from sin. He knew from prophecy that the child wouldn’t live. The words came directly from the prophet Natan’s lips. Yet David, Hashem’s own anointed, fasted and prayed to Hashem to spare the child.”

“It didn’t work,” Rina said.

“No, it didn’t. But David gave it a try. There are times when Hashem is willing to deviate from His original plans, times when He has forgiven the most grievous of sins. Our prayers are not empty words, Rina Miriam. Though the world may seem very dark now, Hashem has an open ear for you. You may ask. You may not get, but you may ask.”