We were living off my night shift paychecks, but making jewelry filled me in a way that reams of data entry never could

Another night shift.

I’m jealous of Kayla, the teenager who babysits until Shua comes back from night seder.

She walks in, goes straight to the corner of the dining room, and peers at the lollipop earrings drying on the shelf.

“Whoa, Mrs. Green. I think these are your best yet!”

I offer her a tired smile.

“I’m not joking! I can take one picture of these and send them to my sister-in-law, she’ll Whatsapp them to the universe and boom — you’ll have a business.”

I shake my head and stifle a yawn while Kayla makes herself comfortable on the couch with a book. My eyelids sink despite the nap I took that morning. I haven’t cleaned up from supper; homework and projects litter the dining room table.

Kayla looks up. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Green. Hindy’s sleeping, and I know how to take care of her if she wakes up.”

Hindy. She’d wanted to cuddle, but I 'd needed to get into scrubs and throw in a load of laundry before I left. So I plunked her in the crib and let her scream. Mommy guilt creeps up my chest as I clutch the doorknob tighter.

“Well, I guess if Hindy does wake up, give her an extra hug from me.”

“You got it, Mrs. G.” Kayla flashes me a thumbs-up.

I fumble through the door and into the car, and manage to arrive at the hospital 15 minutes early.

As I walk toward the building, I distract myself by thinking of the new bracelet I started for Penina, my six-year-old. I’d decided it would be called “Brunch,” then set to work making tiny clay French toasts and mini Danishes. And little coffee cups. As I imagine sitting there, painting the delightful details, like the froth in the coffee cup or the crust around the French toast, an aura of calm descends on me. It evaporates as soon I walk into the hospital.

I think back to nursing school. Ma had researched all the options, concluding that nursing would be the right fit, giving me a secure income and setting me up for life — the right shidduch suggestions, a steady income, security. I think of Ma putting up supper in the Crock-Pot early in the morning so she could stay later at the office to pay for my college bills, bleary-eyed from being up with extra work in the evening.

And I, well, I played around with clay and paint and attended the classes and did my best and bit my tongue and studied and designed more jewelry in between. I passed nursing school with a sigh of relief.

Then I walk through the automatic doors and there’s no more time for remembering. I sign in to the pediatric ward and the nurse from the current shift fills me in on my patients. Tawnee in Room Eight is a nine-year-old admitted for complications after a seizure. Bari in Room Six is being monitored due to an abnormally high fever and Baila in Room Four had had her appendix out.

Baila... it was always nice when there was a frum girl I could take care of. I looked at Baila’s last name. Oh. Baila Diamond. In a small frum community, it’s not hard to put a face to the name. She’s in my daughter Penina’s class. Her father's sponsored half the buildings in town.

“Room Eight needs her vitals checked,” Marianne, the head nurse, says. She’s over six feet tall with a husky voice and broad shoulders. Under Marianne’s piercing gaze, I drop the blood pressure monitor. Feeling awkward, I look at my computer and fumble with the buttons as I try to regain my composure.

Marianne flicks her blonde hair and fixes her blue eyes at me.

“Room Eight. Now.”

“Y-Yes,” I stammer.

“And don’t waste time chitchatting. I know how you are.”

I nod, then steal a glance at the clock. Only 12 more hours left to go.