Deep within Denver’s pediatric hospital, Henry Sokol sat at the brightly lit Market Place Food Court where he had barely touched the day’s special, a pasta puttanesca. He hadn’t eaten in more than sixteen hours.
            “Try some soup—tomato bisque, quite good,” said his wife, Arlene. Concern showed in her normally bright eyes dulled by lack of sleep and narrowed by worry.
            Henry didn’t hear her. His petite wife, who could still run a half-marathon, stayed focused on her abnormally pale husband, his fingers playing a nervous rhythm on the Formica tabletop. An image: His daughter in their living room surrounded by toys. The way she would line up her stuffed animals. “Time for their nap.” “What are their names?” “Dotty, Kitty Cat, Brighty, ’rilla.”
            “The tuna on toasted Italian bread isn’t bad,” said Dave, his ex-wife’s boyfriend, a stocky sales rep for a major optical manufacturer, who looked for affirmation from Jan, the ex-wife, her body in start-stop motion like a cornered rodent.
            “It’s been an hour,” she said with pointed finger, “and not one beep on the pager. They were going to keep us up to date on this pager.” Henry also had been given one, a link to whatever was happening. Would a beep signal good or bad news?
            Jan directed a salvo at Henry: “How could you not have noticed? My precious three-year old daughter’s heart is giving out, and you don’t notice.”
            “Our precious daughter,” Henry corrected in his engage-Jan-in-a-calm-voice tone. “And the doctor said it’s easier for children to hide symptoms than adults. Plus, I did notice she was acting tired. And once I did, we went straight to her pediatrician.”
            “Really? And did you think to call me?” This was the third round of the guilt trip, Henry noted, his forbearance teetering at cliff’s edge.
            “At that point it wasn’t serious.” He quickly corrected himself. “It didn’t seem serious. Do we need to review this again?” He adjusted his new bifocals to emphasize his point.
            “Do we need to examine the limits of joint custody in light of this?” Jan said as she reloaded.
            Sandwich in hand, Dave said: “Look, we’re here now. She’s in surgery. That’s what’s important.” Off topic, Henry observed how Dave’s mustache was shaping up to be a handlebar. Not exactly a trendsetter, bland Dave, maybe more a quiet rebel. A retro rebel.
            Henry’s facial hair always came in spotty.
            Everyone temporarily accepted Dave’s peacemaking attempt and stared into their paper plates. Another image: The first time she wore shoes, tiny doll-like booties, and took halting steps as she crossed the floor.
            “Since we both have pagers, I’m going outside,” Henry said. “There should be an outdoor area around here.”
            “I’ll go with you,” said Arlene. “Fresh air would be good.”
            The cashier instructed them to follow a nearby hallway to the second entrance which led to a courtyard. After two minutes of wandering down a long straight stretch, the couple came to a no-entrance sign on wide, closed doors.
            “They need better signage, like one pointing to fresh air.” Henry thought about putting his observation into a suggestion box, if he could find one.
            Arlene took Henry’s hand and gently led him back the way they’d come. At the intersection of the food court, she chose a second hallway, which did lead to narrower doors that opened to a den-sized, walled garden. A square of sky directly above looked partly cloudy. Was that a sign? What would partly cloudy portend?
            “Better?”
            “Not worse. Jan is right in her own oblique way. I should have sensed Aleta wasn’t well. Parents are supposed to have innate capabilities. Plus, it gives her more ammunition to use against me.”
            “Let’s focus on the present,” Arlene suggested. “Aleta is in good hands.”
            As an aside, Henry noticed how his wife was just beginning to show a bump.
            “Well, that’s what we hope. Dr. Hawkins seems good.” The touch-of-gray-sideburned surgeon (early forties?) had a way of carefully explaining what he was going to do, patiently without patronizing. Arlene had said with his deep-set eyes and dark wavy hair, he could have been a matinee idol during the Golden Age of Hollywood. “I’ll settle for competent surgeon,” Henry had answered.
            A thought bubbled up and Henry knew it was ridiculous even as the words formed in his mind: It’s not exactly brain surgery. Hah, that was true, but it was heart surgery.
            Like any parent thrown into such a “why us” situation, Henry had accessed articles on the Internet, and the information had scared more than relieved him: Ventricular septal defect. Hole in wall separating heart’s lower chambers. Leakage. Permanent damage possible. Delay can be fatal.
            When Dr. Hawkins had discussed the little girl’s condition in person (Had it just been late last week?) in the sparse Congenital Heart Center conference room, he had gone into detail about the particulars of Aleta’s issues and the way he would go about patching the defect. Henry had found the doctor’s explanations and restrained optimism calming. He wondered whether to ask what Aleta’s chances of success were. If she had only a twenty percent chance of surviving, would it matter to know in advance? Was ignorance bliss or avoidance? And what about operations that are supposed to be almost routine only to turn bad. Risk always lurked in the background.
            “It’s chilly,” said Arlene. “Let’s go back inside.”
            “No shadows,” said her husband.
            “What?”
            “There are no shadows within these walls.” Arlene nodded in agreement.
            Returning to the food court, Henry noticed Jan and David were gone, which was fine unless Jan was trying to gain entry into the operating room, a maneuver not to be unexpected. Arlene suggested they grab a latte and return to Aleta’s room, which Henry wondered how they’d ever find in the massive, labyrinthine hospital. Pointed the way by nurses and orderlies, the two reached the ward, nodded to the attending desk staff, and settled into the fluorescent lit patient’s room. Unneeded during the operation, their daughter’s heart rate and blood pressure monitors had been turned off. Looking but not looking, Henry took in a painting above a small bureau—certainly the Rockies—he recognized the double summit of Longs Peak front and center.
            Henry opted for the lounge chair which could serve as a visitor’s sleeping spot. Jan sat at the bottom of the hospital bed and tried to lose herself by checking CNN updates on her phone. He glanced at the wall clock to see if it matched the time on his phone. Twice. Memories of Aleta, bouncy and dancing and singing nursery rhymes came to mind. He didn’t know if he wanted to register those images right now. The contrast of his daughter on an operating table was too much.
            Last night, actually, before sundown, Rabbi David had made an unannounced visit to Aleta’s room. A tall burly figure, he walked with a stoop and rhythmic bounces of the head as though he were hearing music (Jewish folk tunes?) without needing AirPods. Henry was not a regular service goer, although he had attended enough Friday night Shabbats to gain a feel for the rabbi’s contemplative style, a presence in the here and now also linked to four thousand years of Jewish thought and traditions.
            “My sources alerted me of Aleta’s condition,” cracked the rabbi who could add a bit a dry humor to most situations. “Before Erev Rosh Hashanah starts, I wanted to come by and offer a prayer, if I might. Get a head start on the new year.”
            “Of course, Rabbi.”
“And how is your daughter? Such a shock.” He had turned serious, concerned.
            “Resting before tomorrow’s operation.” They both checked on the three-year old asleep in the bed, monitors attached to her giving continuous numerical and graphic readings. The rabbi pulled out a small, tattered prayer book and recited what he said was the Jewish prayer for healing. He also added in English a blessing of a fruitful new year for the family. Then he apologized for having to leave. “I am committed and expected to do tonight’s services for the new year. Shona Tova.”
            Henry thanked Rabbi David and gently closed the room’s door two-thirds of the way to limit the ward’s other sounds: nurses talking, a machine chiming from another bed, a cart being rolled across the central station’s shiny floor.
            He spent the night trying to get even halfway comfortable on the stiff lounge chair. Henry was vaguely aware of nurses or orderlies coming in to check Aleta’s stats. In memory, he consented to relive fun moments with his daughter—birthday parties, a first snowfall, seeing the ocean.
            At seven thirty in the morning, he heard a polite knock. Henry tried to say something and his garbled words came out hoarse. Eyes half open, he stared at this being, backlit, gliding toward his daughter.
            “This is a mild sedative to make Aleta more comfortable in preparation for her surgery.” Of course. Dressed in the universal hospital soft blue scrubs, this was a nurse, friendly and professional as she attached a syringe to Aleta’s existing line. “She might fall back asleep.” Henry thanked the nurse. His daughter, looking lost in the bed, drowsily tried to stay awake—He held her hand, intoning, “It will be all right, honey.”
            Jan, followed by Dave, appeared. They were staying at the nearby Ronald McDonald House; Jan had informed the hospital social services staff that their Fort Collins home was too far away considering the seriousness of her daughter’s condition. She needed to be close to the hospital, close to her daughter. A moment later, dressed in a festive blouse of many colors, Arlene arrived.
            No hellos passed between the ex-couple. Henry moved directly into explanation mode, saying Aleta had been given a sedative to keep her calm. As if noting a medical procedure lesson, he detailed the nurse’s actions. Jan dismissed his ramblings through a head turned up and away and a roll of her green eyes, a practiced movement. She positioned herself at Aleta’s other side and took her other hand.
            An energetic orderly entered, offered a quick but affable “Good morning,” and coupled with a twirling arm motion announced he would be wheeling the patient to the operating room. “She’ll stay in bed—this sports model comes with struts and heavy-duty wheels—until we get there. Like a free ride.” He began disconnecting lines from the readout equipment while keeping the saline flow going from its own treelike holder.
            Tactfully, Arlene let Henry and Jan follow Aleta as the orderly began to maneuver the bed out of the room with practiced dexterity. “Need any help?” Henry asked although he already knew the answer.
            “Nope, I’ve got it. Thanks for offering.”
            Down the hallway, the small, quiet procession moved at the steady pace of the rolling bed. They entered a large elevator designed to handle hospital equipment, ascended two floors, and followed another hallway until reaching closed doors. “So many barriers,” thought Henry.
            The orderly flicked a pass card to gain entrance into the operating room, where a long, elevated table awaited Aleta. More equipment than Henry could comprehend and everyone dressed in pure white gowns and surgical masks. A few nodded as the orderly paused a moment.
            “This is as far as you can go. We’ll take it from here.”
            Henry kissed his daughter on the forehead. Jan did the same.
            “It’s easy to get back to her room, two floors down, and a left when you exit the elevator,” said the orderly, moving Aleta forward.
            Not getting lost this time, Henry and Jan returned to Aleta’s room. For once Jan was quiet, except for some soft sniffling. Henry dabbed at his eyes. A thought surfaced: They did have something, someone, in common. Even though he didn’t have an appetite, Henry wondered where a dining area would be, a place to pass the gulf of the opened-ended wait.
           
* * *
            In the interstice between wakefulness and sleep, half here, half there, Henry was dimly aware of slouching on the lounger, of bright light beyond his closed eyelids. And from beyond, a blast of trumpet, long of note, followed by a burst of staccato. Familiar, almost predictable. A summoning. Eyes open, perking up. He hadn’t intended to fall asleep; exhaustion had dictated otherwise. Arlene, who’d also been napping, made wake-up movements. More calls from the trumpet just beyond the room. Through the diaphanous curtained window, Henry saw floating figures, tall and thin, arms flowing, bodies bending.
            He pushed at the curtain revealing a stage and scene. Time for Aleta’s last journey?
            Leaning into the boundary at the room’s open door, Henry observed the vision: Before him stood two celestial creatures, thinnest of beards, black-garbed, wearing felt hats, brimmed and crown indented. One held a curved horn at his mouth, the other intoning, his eyes heavenward.
            A call issued from the horn, a pure haunting note growing in intensity.
            Come for her. Calling. Taking her away.
            Who shall live and who shall die
Wrapped in robes of black, they assume an Earthly form.
            “Shevarim. . .Teruah.” He knew those words.
            Who shall perish by water and who by fire
            Three suspended pushes came, not as long as the first, followed by a series of quick bursts and, again, a persistent note. The reverberating blasts filled the ward; staff, visitors, mobile patients watched from a safe distance. All witness this as well. . .
            Angels they be. Were these entry-level frontline workers sent to gather souls and deliver them to the higher ups? Frozen in the doorway, Henry wondered what rank of angel his daughter would have earned in her abbreviated Earthly life.
            Who by famine and who by thirst?
            Another round of divine, sharply accented notes, finishing along a sustaining solid tone— “Tekiah gedolah” had voiced the angel—until The End (Aleta’s) and a final puffing release of her air. The other angel lowered his horn. Why stop? Would such a being run out of or even need air?
            “Shona tova,” said the angels together to Henry and Arlene, who now stood beside her husband. “We wish your daughter a speedy recovery.” The taller angel held the curving horn, yes, yes, a shofar, a ram’s horn, casually in his right hand.
            All Henry could manage was a single nod, almost a bow, as he began to fit their appearance into the context of Aleta’s hospitalization. These were not angels. They were Jews, Hasidim, members of what Henry considered to be a sect still living in the Middle Ages. Like a Jewish version of the Jehovah Witnesses who came to your door on Sundays.
            Their boldness ebbing, the two young men in black glanced away from Henry and towards the linoleum floor as they haltingly backed away and turned to go. Vulnerable. Though with just a touch of proud smiles. Did they earn Hasidic points for their actions? Were they trying to convert Aleta to their brand of Judaism? No! Keep such cheap thoughts at a distance. Breathing in Rosh Hashanah and the new year, a time for forgiveness, Henry rewrote his inner dialogue. Did such intentions matter? Regardless of why they thought they were here, in their own ritualistic way, the pair had brought the holiness of the High Holidays into a sphere where the link between life and death was not an abstract concept but the prime equation. Let them go in peace. He watched the two depart not by wing but on foot.
            Within the hour, both pagers sounded. Jan and Dave had joined the couple in the now-cramped patient’s room, and before they could call the check-in number, Dr. Hawkins glided in, still wearing his Earthly teal operating scrubs. Henry focused on the doctor’s almost prim mouth.
            “She’s in recovery, waking up from the anesthetic. We are quite pleased by the results.”
            Unable to vocalize, Henry offered a thumbs up. The doctor responded in kind. Everyone, including the physician hugged everyone, Henry meeting Dave’s request for a high five.
            Before saying he had to go, “time to check on some other patients,” Dr. Hawkins added that once she was awake and vitals were stabilized, Aleta would be wheeled back to her room, returned to them.
            Henry couldn’t help murmuring what he could remember of the Hebrew prayer for giving thanks. He went further. During this period of repentance and forgiveness, he added his own prayer of sorts—an appeal for he and his ex-wife be kinder to each other now that Aleta had received a renewal of life. At least he could attempt to be nicer.
            Refocusing on Arlene, Henry gave her a tekiah gedolah hug—firm, extended, and enveloping. “Shana tova,” he said, “Happy New Year.”

Martin Perlman is from Atlanta, and he has spent his adult life out West in California, Colorado, and now, Washington. He experienced a permanent alteration of the psyche upon reading authors such as J. G Ballard, Laurence Sterne, and Flann O’Brien.