Apart From Love by Uvi Poznansky

surgeon—I hold it to her mouth. “Yes,” I report, because in no time, the glass has become clouded. “So? Now what? Shouldn’t you call someone, or take her to an obstetrician? I mean, just to make sure—”
“I’ll call aunt Hadassa,” he says. “For sure, she will know what to do.”
I can hear the wheels turning on his way back to the hall, then, a dial tone, and his voice. “Listen, there’s a problem,” he says, in an urgent tone. “Yes. No, this time it's not me. It’s Anita.”
There is a brief pause, after which he goes on to say, “Well... I wish I knew. No. I have no idea what happened, exactly. She was making breakfast, fussing over it in her own, excessive way. And she was just fine. I mean, she was fine one moment and then, the next moment she is lying there, flat on the floor. Just like that. So, can you come? I need you here. Who said you are not welcome? Why, now what gave you that idea?”
He pauses to listen and then, in a reassuring tone of voice, he promises, “Really, you are. Yes, you are welcome here. Always. And Frida. Yes, of course. And Fruma too,” he says, sounding as if all three of these women have just descended, with a heavy thud, right on top of his shoulders. “Absolutely. Listen, this is no time for games. Well, seriously now, when will you be here?”

The conversation drags on in the background. Meanwhile, I bend over Anita to check her pulse. I place a wet towel over her feverish forehead, and unbutton her shirt, to make sure she can breathe with no obstructions.  
I try to avoid looking at her body—but still, I can see the ticklish point under her chin, and the long line of her neck, which is plunging into the collar, and the jugular vein fluttering there, and the nipple, half of which is peeking out from the shadow, down there under the opening of the shirt.  
Her ribcage starts flaring up now with rapid, disorderly breathing, as if to escape a nightmare. This, I figure, is something she must face alone. And so I turn away from her and take a searching look around the room.
For the most part, it looks familiar: the same freestanding, oval mirror, tilted there, in the corner. The same four poster bed, which as I recall, was delivered in boxes from a manufacturer in North Carolina, and which took my parents two days to assemble, because the instructions were, unfortunately, less than clear, and so they nearly gave up.  
Still, there are a number of changes here. First, I miss seeing their wedding portrait which, years ago, used to be displayed quite prominently, in a thick, richly decorated frame, suspended from a nail right there, above the headboard. All that remains of it now is some plaster, smeared in a rough, hasty manner, in a sloppy attempt to fill in the hole of the nail; also, a rectangular outline up on the wall, where the frame used to hang, and where the paint still retains its dark, nearly original tone; while around the edges, the paint has faded a long time ago.
And second, I miss seeing the pure white silk sheets, which used to wrap so neatly, so tightly over this bed. They were embroidered in the corner with an elegant monogram, designed, of course, by my mother. It was an overlay, I think, interlacing two glyphs: a slanted, longhand N, combining some of its decorative strokes with an L: Natasha over Leonard.  
These sheets have been replaced, recently, with a royal blue bedspread. Pretentiously royal, I should say. It reminds me of a storm at sea, because of the color, I guess, and because of the folds rising and sinking here every which way, as if a gust of wind has blown across the surface, creating friction between that which is air and that which is fluid, and drawing ripples all around.
And there, lying on top of them is Anita, the woman who displaced my mother. Her rest, if you can call it that, is agitated—but then, at the sound of my father’s voice, coming faintly from the other end of the apartment, she spreads open her hands and