The Others

by Sarah Blau

  “It’s just not the best time right now,” Taliunger replies, pointing at the table. I notice how short she is without her heels, cutting the figure of a tiny empress with her grand, magisterial wave, fingernails sparkling with metallic nail polish. All this is mine.

  “I’m really sorry, it’ll only take a few minutes.”

  My voice is quiet, my tone polite. In the realms of the bourgeoisie, manners work like a magic spell, able to open the biggest and baddest padlocks. Even the kids are listening silently now. Ari is playing with his fork, a plastic neon-pink apparatus, and looks dangerously close to shoving it up his nostril. The girl is cute, but her skin is glimmering with an oily sheen and I can tell she’s going to inherit her mother’s complexion. C’est la vie. Blood always leaves a trail.

  We stand perfectly silent, engulfed in the delicate aroma of eggs and politeness. I can feel Taliunger’s eyes giving me a once-over and notice her face is stripped bare of its usual mask of make-up. Her skin is thick and riddled with cavernous pores, as if ploughed by a thousand tiny needles.

  “Fine, let’s get this over with.” Neria finally relents, and starts heading towards what turns out to be a study. I quickly follow, feeling Taliunger’s eyes burning holes in my back, and regret choosing this grey skirt that only looks good from the front.

  “Do it quickly,” she blurts. “I need your help here.”

  The very existence of this study is surprising. How many rooms are in this house anyway? I know Neria is some sort of a high-tech big shot, and Taliunger does something education-related, do you need to be reminded that you also happen to be in the educational field, and may very well have more in common with her than you think?

  But the modest dimensions of this room force a strange kind of intimacy between us. It’s been a while since we were squeezed into such a small space together. The last time was in his car, back then, when my love for him fizzled in a flash.

  “What do you want?” he asks flatly, but I sense he has rehearsed the neutral tone. I still remember all the different shades of his voice.

  I lean back, he didn’t invite you to take a seat, on a drawer cabinet without realizing it has wheels; I trip and almost fall flat on my butt, but Neria leaps in and catches me in the nick of time. It’s a tight clasp that pulls us together, bodies pressed against each other for a split second, in which I manage to catch the scent of fabric softener from his shirt, like a dog marked by its owner, before we break free of each other.

  It’s remarkable how certain feelings never truly disappear; they merely ebb and flow, in and out of the heart, because instantly I’m overcome with the desire to make him like me, a desire to reignite the spark that flickered in his eyes when he held me. Oh, no, Sheila, not that again.

  You see, I specialize in the field of unfulfilled potential. It’s kind of my thing. Any man who has ever shown any sort of interest in me before, even if he has since moved on with his life, will forever remain in my secret pool of men. I still enjoy thinking of myself as someone’s unfulfilled option, an object of desire. Eli insists this is the most problematic feature of my psychological make-up. “You like thinking of yourself as some kind of future possibility, but you can’t commit, which is why you keep all your options open. But they aren’t truly open, Sheila, and even if they are, they won’t stay that way forever.”

  That’s what you don’t understand, Eli, it’s basically Schrödinger’s cat. Until you actually try to pursue an option, it’s neither open nor closed.

  I look up into his face, searching for that spark I saw earlier, What will that give you? Don’t you understand that’s exactly what’s keeping you stuck?

  “The night Ronit was killed, at what time did you leave the party?” Uttering these words, I realize I’m mimicking the feigned intimacy in Micha’s tone.

  A spark flickers in his eyes, his pupils dilate and shrink, but it’s not the right kind of spark. “What? Are you crazy?!”

  I haven’t even started.

  “Do you mind answering the question?”

  “You really have gone mad. You think I killed her?”

  He isn’t shouting, Neria, but his voice is loud enough to echo off the walls, one of which is decorated with a framed diploma proclaiming Taliunger a certified psychotherapist.

  “All I want is to narrow down the suspect list, so I’m talking to people who hated us,” I say.

  “Who’s us?”

  His tone gives him away. Poor Neria doesn’t know that pulling off a casual, innocent tone takes years of hard work.

  “Who’s us?” I repeat. “Come on, you’re honestly trying to say you don’t know who I’m talking about?”

  He doesn’t reply.

  “I’m talking about Dina, Ronit, maybe myself as well.”

  No flicker.

  “I’m talking about the Others, who else?! Can’t you see we’re disappearing?”

  Finally, there it is, the flickering spark, and it looks like the right kind, but then he opens his mouth, “Tell me, do I look stuck in the past like you?”

  A sharp pain pierces my side, almost making me double over. Taking a step back, careful not to lean on anything this time, I say, “It isn’t the past.”

  “Oh, yes, it is. You come here, accusing me of things that happened twenty years ago.”

  How did you become such a loser?

  “But these murders are happening now,” I reply.

  He looks at me with the same look Dina gave me. The eyes couldn’t be more different, her bulging, dark cow eyes and his light, sunken ones, but the look carries the same sentiment, How did you become such a loser?

  It stings, but I’m past it. Like Dina, Neria can say whatever he wants; he can keep standing in his study, surrounded by framed certificates and other visual aids illustrating his present life while the next generation waits in the living room, but he won’t be able to escape the fact that the past never rests. The past is the future.

  And it’s this very insight that gives me the strength to go on and tell him, “Neria, you hated the Others, and you hated Dina, and we both know why.”

  I mean, now we both know. Because there were those two days when only he and Dina knew.

  She obviously couldn’t stand him from the very first minute. I never knew if it was something about Neria specifically that rubbed her the wrong way, or if she would have reacted with the same animosity to any man I took a romantic interest in, any man any one of us fancied. Well, you know now.

  I remember her little digs, the names she used to call me those days, “little wifey,” the snide remarks about toeing the line, wasting my life, “All your brilliant ideas, you know what happens to your brain once you take the marriage-and-kids route? And for who, Neria Grossman?” I don’t know if this constant trickle had any part in my decision to break up with him. I don’t think so, I’d like to believe it didn’t, because when I look back, the first thing that shoots into my mind is that moment in his car, when my love for him… Poof! like a billow of smoke.

  I told them before I told him, obviously, I mean, what are friends for? And that was my mistake, because Dina happened to run into him and beat me to the punch.

  I don’t know how it went down exactly – they each gave a different account – but one thing was clear, Dina was all too happy to give him the news of his own break-up. “You’ll hear it from Sheila soon enough, but it’s better if you’re prepared,” she told him, flashed her fake smile and walked away. Or that’s what she said at least.

  I still think Neria was the one who gave the true version of the story.

  My expression must somehow betray my thoughts, because all of a sudden Neria flares up, “I’ve never met a bigger megalomaniac in my life,” he hisses, pointing a long finger at me. “You actually still think I’m into you?”

  Again that shooting pain, this time in my lower abdomen, and it hurts.

  “You come here, to my house, smiling at me, begging…”

  The pain is excruciating, I put my h
and on my stomach trying to soothe it, hoping it won’t start making noises.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?”

  You are the Witch of Endor, you are the Other, you are… You have a goal, don’t let him weaken your resolve, you hear me? “But you hated her,” I mumble.

  “So I hated Dina for exactly two minutes and moved on!”

  “So how did you know she was exsanguinated?”

  Stop mumbling!

  “I told you, I have a buddy on the force.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Stop mumbling!!

  “None of your business, Sheila. If you want, get them to arrest me, but even then I won’t answer your questions, only the cops’.”

  Neria’s eyes glow like coals, there’s your spark, happy now?

  “And I have to tell you something,” he says. “The years haven’t been kind to you. I mean, maybe looks-wise you aren’t that much worse for wear, but inside something’s gone completely out of whack. So I guess having a family, kids, it does keep a person normal. No offence, Sheila, but you should get yourself some professional help.”

  The pain punches me in the gut. I have to keep myself from bending over as if I’m bowing to the wisdom of his words. Who would have thought it would be so painful? This usually follows a standard procedure: when someone even starts sniffing in the direction of my life choices, and seems about to start preaching or granting unsolicited, unwanted advice, I give them a very specific look or very specific smile that says: My friend, you go on your way and I’ll go on mine, and just between you and me, I’m not so sure your way is that great, should we talk about it? Should we compare lifestyles? No, they never want to. But those words, coming from Neria Grossman of all people, caught me off guard, and the worst thing about it is that I hadn’t realized until now exactly how far off guard.

  I feel the tears coming and have to get out of here before they spill out. The last person I want to catch me crying is Neria.

  “Thanks for the advice,” I say, hoping my voice doesn’t betray me, and out of the room I go, with the pulsing pain in my stomach only getting worse.

  I almost fall on Taliunger who’s been waiting behind the door. Judging by her expression, I’m guessing she hasn’t heard the conversation, and I voicelessly pray, Please, please, please, God, make it so she didn’t hear, please, please, please.

  “What did you want from him?” she asks belligerently, without even a sliver of embarrassment for being caught eavesdropping. At least she didn’t hear anything, thank God.

  “Sorry, if you could point me to the toilet? I have to tinkle,” I half-whisper, banking on euphemisms and general decorum to smooth everything over.

  “Straight down the hall, to your left,” Taliunger replies with civility. After all, the two of us share the same reproductive and excretory systems, and we’re both civilized.

  “Thank you,” I reply, dart down the toy-strewn hallway and finally collapse onto the toilet.

  The pain in my stomach worsens while I pee, and I’m hoping these aren’t my usual PMS cramps slightly ahead of schedule, because the other option is too unbearable. And seriously unlikely, so you can calm down.

  As always while on the toilet, my hand automatically reaches for my phone, where I discover a text from Micha: We need to talk. Found out something about Naama.

  Well then, as far as texting goes – not a man of many words. Nine, to be exact, and five of them serving as an excuse for the conversation. I wonder if this is how it’s going to be between us from now on, conversations that have a “reason,” conversations surrounding the investigation, relevant, to-the-point conversations; yes, it’s certainly a possibility, which is why the first conversation we have is crucial – it’ll set the tone for all future ones.

  I step out of the bathroom and find the Grossmans standing in front of me. If it was winter now, they would silently hand me my coat, like old butlers in a dilapidated Victorian mansion. He seems tired and she looks vexed. He starts to say something, but she shushes him.

  Outside, my phone rings and I’m so sure it’s Micha that I don’t even bother to look at the name flashing on the screen, but when I pick up, it’s Gali, and she’s so upset I can barely understand a word she’s saying.

  “Jezebel’s giving birth,” she says, “and I think there’s a problem.”

  The distress in her voice is so palpable that I immediately ask if she wants me to come over, even though I have no doubt it’s going to be disgusting, and bloody. All that goopy slime that is the miracle of birth.

  “Yes,” she whimpers, “please come.”

  She quickly opens the door, flustered and bleary-eyed. The house is quiet, and there’s no sign of Avihu. With such clear signs of new life, is it any wonder the widower has disappeared?

  As soon as I open the door to her room, the smell smacks me in the face, red and metallic. I turn my gaze in the direction of the cage but can hardly see a thing; it’s all stuffed with wads of torn toilet paper.

  “I followed all the instructions,” Gali says, “come, look.”

  I approach the cage and see Jezebel with two red, moist lumps by her side. Only one of them is moving.

  “It said not to touch them,” she says, “I think they’ll be okay, but look at Jezebel.”

  The hamster isn’t moving. A grey, eyeless blob, she looks like a taxidermied gremlin. “It isn’t supposed to be like this after the birth, I saw a video on YouTube.”

  “Is it over?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure, there might be one still stuck inside.”

  “Can’t you check? Maybe call a vet?”

  “I don’t know… I wasn’t thinking straight,” she falters, “I just called you. I don’t know why I’m being such an idiot.”

  I know why. And I want to hug her, but I don’t dare. And how would you?

  “Look at them, they’re so tiny, they might not even make it. They might die. She might die…” Her voice trails off, and just then Jezebel opens her eyes. She isn’t moving, but seems aware of what’s happening in the room.

  “I barely remember Mali.” Gali’s voice is so quiet, I have to move closer to hear her. “I remember my mum well, and also think about her a lot, but I barely have any memories of Mali. Isn’t that weird? Twins are supposed to be so close…”

  Gali is still facing the cage, with me behind her, my hand on her shoulder, how is your hand not bursting into flames? Both of us silent, I can sense her tears before she lets out the first sob.

  “You know that if Jezebel doesn’t die, there’s a chance she might eat her babies? That’s how it is with hamsters.” Her voice is wet, and I know what she’s going to say next, and freeze. “And not just with hamsters, apparently.”

  “Oh, Gali, honey, don’t,” I tell her, and just then, I hear a sharp, scary squeal and the cage starts to shake. I try to see what’s going on, but Gali is blocking my view of Jezebel, and I don’t dare move, not a millimetre. She’s crying her eyes out now, these are old tears.

  “They say Mali was the first, that Mum strangled her first, and then when she got to me, she ran out of strength in the middle. But how hard could it be to strangle a two-and-a-half-year-old?”

  Naama’s face drifts into my mind, a small crown sparkling on her head; she’s trying to tell me something but can’t get the words out. When Gali turns to me, her face is red and contorted, she doesn’t look like her, she doesn’t. I hug her, feel her small head on my shoulder and so want to cry along with her, but I know I don’t have the right.

  “There, there, little munchkin, shh…” I try soothing her as if she were a little girl. She never was a little girl, never got the chance.

  “She had enough strength to hang herself afterwards, had enough strength for that,” she says with a muffled voice, head still pressed into my shoulder. “They said I was a medical miracle, that I was lucky to come out of it without brain damage…”

  “Sweetheart…” I rock her back and forth but her body is stiff and
unyielding, or maybe you just don’t know how to do this? Maybe you don’t know how to calm an upset child?

  “You see, Sheila? A mum who tries to choke you to death, who strangles your twin sister and commits suicide, but I’m lucky because I don’t have brain damage…”

  And finally, she breaks down in my arms and I hug her tighter, pressing her against me, my shirt wet with tears, or saliva, or snot, and I’m surprised to find myself undeterred and undisgusted, maybe even the opposite. From deep within me the old sing-songy call rises, Little munchkin, pretty little munchkin, who wants a hug? Who? Here she is, coming to her Auntie Sheila… Gali’s sobs become louder, blending with the tiny shrieks coming from cage, and then there’s nothing but silence.

  19

  I DREAM ABOUT NAAMA.

  I know it’s a dream, because I can hear my own voice saying, “This isn’t a bad dream, Sheila, you could have had nightmares, but this isn’t a bad dream.” I see the red-headed girl, her face round and cherubic, without even a single tiny freckle to mar the skin, and she’s prancing towards me, her steps light and breezy despite the black rope wrapped around her neck, dragging behind her on the grass. She approaches me and almost touches my face, don’t touch my face! But the rope stops her short. That’s when I wake up.

  And there’s the other dream. The red hair shorter, the face not so cherubic any more. She’s sitting on a swing, holding the chains, knuckles white with effort, the chains black. She’s swinging back and forth with momentum. Two little girls are sitting at her feet, and I know it’s Gali and Mali, even though they look like a weird, squished version of themselves. Gali has no feet and Mali is transparent, I can see the trees through her.

  The two toddlers press their foreheads together and giggle; then Naama joins them and they all laugh with big, gaping mouths, and I think to myself: this is a dream. This has to be a dream, because I never saw Naama laughing with her daughters like that. I’ll never forget that look she’d get in her eyes whenever one of them called her “Mum.”

  And now, pull yourself together and tidy up the place for Micha.