I’m still not entirely sure that I can help with anything by going with Omer. For years I’ve been going around trying to understand what went wrong between us, and what is it that angers me so much about the world. Emily has her own ways of coping. “Not everyone spends all day talking about how they’re feeling,” she often told me. Emily has all the time in the world now. She’s escaped this place. She wants quiet. Why do I need to go to her and interrupt that? I’m frustrated and I can feel it coming . . . a kind of loosening . . .a haze disconnecting certain parts of my brain. One moment I’m here, and the next I’m gone. I already know this trick that my mind plays whenever it doesn’t want to remember something.
Yotam brought me back down to Earth next to the convenience store at the corner near our house. “Can I have ice cream, Mommy?”
Now, before dinner? “Yes, Yotami,” I answered. Why not, actually? He should learn − everything is possible.
Dani
The alarm clock went off again, but this time I was awake. A jumble of words had been scribbled onto a piece of paper. I could finally breathe for a moment. I’d been shifting between reading and writing for a few hours to pass those difficult hours before morning. I had cut short the recent nights, either through waking up on my own or by Miko rescuing me. I’d wake up and not allow the nightmares to take over the rest of my night. Sometimes I just stayed awake until the late-night hours; that way, I’d collapse from exhaustion, leaving only few hours to sleep and a lesser chance of nightmares – or at least not overly invasive ones.
The previous night I went to sleep relatively early, after a long day with four-legged clients who needed their time outdoors. Clients whose owners are too busy to take them out for more than a few minutes. I came back to the apartment with Miko in the evening, drained. I barely managed to shower, and I fell asleep immediately. Miko woke me up with licks in the early morning, my heart still racing. I caught my breath, wiped off the sweat, and immediately got out of bed, as though I were running away from the next nightmare and not letting it catch me in bed and overtake me.
I looked at the clock: 07:30. I’ll take Miko out soon and start my day, I thought to myself. Today I’ve only scheduled Johnny, Mrs. Adler’s elderly dog, and Toot, a friendly Labrador whose owner is a bachelor businessman who often travels abroad.
Lately it’s become more and more difficult for me to leave home, get on buses, and walk around with the leashes of big dogs tied to my hand. My body no longer listens to me, and it starts protesting against my dismissive treatment of it. And anyway, I can’t make a real living from this job, and I’m tired of seeing my father’s bank transfers at the beginning of every month. Still, I continue doing it because it’s what I know. To continue. To survive. To be led, instead of leading my own life. And besides, I feel an obligation to the little clients awaiting me.
I went to Johnny first. I knew that Mrs. Adler would be awake and at home in the morning, and she doesn’t really have a preference for her beloved doggie’s walk time, as long as he gets his daily hour. I picked up Johnny and continued on to Toot’s house. It was relatively close by, so I decided to unite the walks and take them both to the nearby dog park. In his earlier years, Johnny wasn’t a fan of other dogs but now, in his golden years, he’s succumbed to reality. Toot is pretty indifferent; he loves humans and is friendly to other dogs, as is expected of Labradors.
Mrs. Adler was happy to see me, as usual. “I’ll wait for you with tea when you return. I baked some yummy cookies. A new recipe,” she said and winked at me, as though I were Little Red Riding Hood.
The three of us arrived at the dog park on Rehov Pinkas, not far from Mrs. Adler’s house and Toot’s home. I shut the gate after me, took off the dogs’ leashes, and sat on a bench. They started wandering around. Toot was frolicking all over the place, rejoicing in his freedom, and because of his poor eyesight, Johnny was pacing around cautiously. Toot ran around and occasionally jumped on Johnny, like a child bugging his older brother. I chuckled to myself. We were alone in the dog park until an older couple arrived with a cute poodle. They let their dog go and approached the bench near me.
I felt my heart plummeting. This can’t be.
I started sweating. I felt like I needed to pee urgently. I felt a burning sensation, but my bladder was actually empty. I started to hyperventilate. I rubbed my eyes and looked at the older man again.
“Good morning,” he smiled at me.
I stared at him, stunned.
I sneaked a polite semi-smile and tried to catch my breath and slow down my heart rate.
Okay. It’s not him. Of course it’s not him. How could it be him? He’s dead. He’s in his grave. Calm down.
Spoiled Brat
By the time I got back to Mrs. Adler’s, more than an hour had passed. My heart rate had slowed, but my body was weak and exhausted, and I felt troubled inside.
“What happened to you, sweetie? You’re totally pale,” Mrs. Adler, who is actually called Sarah, said worriedly. Her grandmothering took over at once. She held onto me and walked me over to the dining area as though I were a little child and she the strong, mature adult. “Sit, sit down, sweetie.”
I carefully sipped the tea. My hand was trembling.
“You’re shaking. Did something happen? Did someone do something to you?”
I nodded my head, and then I shook it. “Yes. No. Not really.”
Mrs. Adler fixed her gaze on me. She suddenly seemed to be more upright, almost powerful. in my mind, she became 20 years younger.
“Tell me everything.”
“No, it’s fine. Forget about it. It’s complicated.”
“That’s all right, honey. Rest assured that nothing will leave these lips. And even if it does, who would believe an 82-year-old like me who can barely leave her house?” She burst out laughing and then quickly restrained herself.
Even at her age, Mrs. Adler still maintained a lot of self-respect as well as sensitivity towards others. A well-kept and educated woman, yet still very gentle and sensitive.
“Tell me, dear, what’s bothering you? I’ve seen you wilting away for a while now. Like a daffodil. You’re so very beautiful, but something is keeping you from blossoming.”
A real poet, I thought to myself. I love this woman, truly. It’s a shame that I can’t tell her that.
“Has it ever happened to you that you’ve remembered something you’d forgotten?” I finally asked.
“Oh, honey. That happens to me all the time,” she chuckled and then gave a wise smile.
“I’m talking about things that happened ages ago,” I said. “Really awful things that you’d tried to forget, and all of a sudden you can’t anymore and they just resurface.”
“Do you mean painful childhood memories?”
“Something like that. Not exactly memories.”
“Have I ever told you about my father? About my parents?” she asked after a long silence.
I shook my head.
“My father was killed during the War of Independence, when I was 11. After that, my mother sunk into what is now called depression, a very severe episode of depression following a terrible loss. She had escaped the Nazis of the 1930s. My grandfather had foreseen everything and had the right mind to ship everyone over to Israel. He claimed that this country needed young hands, and by that, doomed himself and my grandmother to perish in the death camps.”
Her eyes saddened. I felt guilty for it.
“In any case, my mother, who was pretty young, tried to make a life for herself in Israel. She fell in love with my father, who was born here, a strong Palmach fighter, and married him. I was born a year later, the eldest of three. Then the terrible war came, in which my father fought at the foothills of besieged Jerusalem for months, leaving my mother on her own in Tel Aviv with three young children. Eventually, the horrible news arrived that my father had been killed during a fierce
battle in Jerusalem’s San Simon Monastery. My mother stayed in her room for months on end, and I became, unwillingly, a mother to my two younger siblings.”
She went quiet for a moment and sipped her tea.
“A few years later, when I was already in boarding school, I’d dream about my father arriving at our Tel Aviv home at night, saying something, and then vanishing. That dream repeated itself for years. Sometimes I’d wake up in a fright, sweaty, my heart pounding. It was only years later that an actual memory resurfaced within me. My father really had come back to our home one evening, while my mother was busy at a nearby workshop, preparing and packing battle rations for the soldiers fighting in Jaffa.”
She lifted her eyes, as though to check that I was listening, and then continued.
“My father asked me to tell my mother that he was going to Jerusalem, and that he loves her and thinks about us all the time. Those were his exact words. I remember it clearly now, but back then, I didn’t want to remember it. Don’t forget, he told me. And I promised. But I was a child, and it was already late at night. I went to sleep, and the next day I didn’t remember to pass the message on to my mother. I didn’t realize the significance of that visit back then. A few weeks later, he was killed. And just a few days after that − the Declaration of Independence. The entire country rejoiced, except for my family.
Two months later, my mother took her own life. Yes. She shot herself with a gun that was in our house from when they’d been in the Palmach.” She paused for a minute, and then continued. “I blamed myself, I thought that she’d killed herself because I didn’t remember to pass along my father’s message to her, that if I were to just tell her he had come by and said he loved her, those final moments with him . . . But you know, that’s all nonsense. The mind plays tricks on us. My guilt made me forget about that visit, and it then became my life’s nightmare for many years.”
My heart stopped. Tears started running down my cheeks.
“Don’t cry, sweetie, I didn’t mean to sadden you.”
I’m the one who didn’t mean to sadden you was what I wanted to scream out, but I kept quiet. I just cried and gave a polite smile.
“It’s all right. It happened years ago. Here, look at me now. All in all, I’ve had a good life,” she chuckled, and added, “It’s been 70 years. Who would have ever thought?.”
I left Mrs. Adler’s house feeling drained. I walked halfway back to my apartment, and then my legs could no longer carry me so I got on a bus to South Tel Aviv. After listening to Mrs. Adler’s life story, I felt like a weak and spoiled brat. Yes, I’m spoiled, just like my father always says, about all three of us really, but specifically about me, because of my emotional crises. He says that this is my way of coping with hardships because they’d overly pampered me. I felt as though the universe had brought me Mrs. Adler’s story in order to prove to me that it was true, that my life is actually fine, I shouldn’t dare complain. How dare I suffer? I both felt sorry for her and admired her. I loved the softness that had remained in her even after all the blows she’d suffered. She had to cope with everything on her own, lift herself out of the agony, and not just survive, but truly live her life.
More than anything, I realized that the memories resurfacing within me were real, that it really did happen to me. Memories, not dreams or fantasies. Invasive memories that I’d tried to push away with all my might, but couldn’t anymore. Rotem was right. There’s something harsh and painful buried deep inside me that wants to come out. But how can I let it out without falling apart?
Morning, finally. I looked at the phone screen. Ten to eight. I needed to leave for my session with Rotem. I grabbed my bag and Miko’s leash and we headed out. I didn’t want to be pressed for time. I was already awake as it was, so why not walk a bit before the session? I decided to walk to the next bus stop, and then to the one after that, until I ran out of time, so I had to stop and wait for the bus.
I was worried that maybe I’d tell Rotem things I’d later regret having said. I like her, but I don’t feel like I trust her. What’s going to happen when I tell her personal things about myself, painful things, and then find out that she’s actually a let-down? That she’s like all of the other distant therapists who end a session and then totally forget about their patients. Or even worse, that they rummage through their patients’ souls, picking and questioning, and then let them go back out into the world. exposed and wounded. I never understood that. There were girls in the hospital who’d come out of therapy rooms crying, shattered, and utterly unable to face the rest of their day. Looking like wounded animals left to fend for themselves. And the therapists, who were mostly female, would come out of the therapy rooms with a victorious expression on their faces. Self-assured by their wondrous ability to crack this patient or that patient. I never understood why they agreed to let it happen, why those girls agreed for those therapists to pick on them like that − to see their insides.
And here I am, finding myself on the verge of doing just that. There’s a huge tiger in my stomach that wants to come out. I’m keeping it tightly shut in its cage, but it can’t take it any longer. It has to break out, and for some reason, this Rotem Golan is managing to convince me to unlock the cage. She talks about things differently, in a more personal manner, even if she doesn’t say things bluntly. I’m scared that I’ll allow her to get to know me. That she’ll understand who I truly am. But I’m mostly scared of what’ll come out. I’ve been keeping a huge, painful secret for years, without even knowing it. I’m keeping something there that’s hidden even from myself. I know that, and I’m scared of finding out what it is.
Sixth Meeting
A minute before knocking on the door, I stood outside the clinic and tried to catch my breath and steady myself from the dizziness I was experiencing.
“Hi. Good morning. Are you okay?” Rotem opened the door. She must have heard me, or sensed me there.
I lifted my head a bit. Rotem’s a tall woman. My vision was blurred. I walked in with difficulty. I noticed that Rotem was gently holding my hand, a fluttering sort of grip. Kind of hesitant, wanting to support me and hold me up, yet careful about touching me. I wanted to tell her that it’s all right, that I feel comfortable with her. But I didn’t say anything, I just sat down on the armchair carefully.
“What’s happening, Dani?”
“Nothing. Dizziness. It’ll go away soon.”
“Are you eating? Drinking? Do you want me to make you some coffee?”
“No. I’m fine,” I said, dodging her question.
“Are you managing to eat anything during the day?”
“No, not really.”
“When did you last see your doctor?”
I looked up at her, puzzled. Is she for real? Is she genuinely asking me that? There’s no such thing as going to see the doctor with us. Dad’s the best doctor, and we don’t ever go to any other doctor. All of the other doctors don’t know diddly-squat anyway. If we ever do need a specific doctor, then we always go to one of Dad’s friends.
“Why are you surprised? You have a family doctor, don’t you?”
“No. Maybe formally, but I have no idea who he is.”
“Well, then find out. Go see him, and your father doesn’t need to know about it,” she sneaked a little smile, and I felt relieved that she got the gist on her own.
“He’ll find out, and I can’t keep things from him.”
“Why should he find out? How will he find out?”
“He has his ways. You can count on that.”
“Sounds like you’re troubled by him. Like you live your life feeling that he’s constantly watching you and pulling your strings.”
“Yeah, I’m kind of like his puppet. We all are, really.”
She remained silent and gave me that look of hers.
“It’s just a shame that he’s so blind,” I added.
“What does
n’t he see?”
“Me. Everything that’s happening to me, that ever happened to me.” I’d never thought about that, about what I want from him. “I think that deep down I want him to see me, to truly understand me. But on the day-to-day level, and considering the fact that I’m aware of his emotional limitations, I just prefer for him to leave me alone.”
“Do you really prefer to be left alone?”
“Sometimes. Yeah.”
“Would you prefer for me to leave you alone too?”
That question embarrassed me. I’d discovered that I actually liked her, and that I was pretty okay with coming to the clinic. I’d suddenly gotten some peace. Felt less alone. I didn’t tell her any of that, and I didn’t know what to say. I kept quiet.
“How have the last few nights been for you?”
I was glad that she moved on to a different topic. I thanked her for it in my mind. “Relatively okay. I just don’t sleep at night − that way I narrow down the chances of bad nightmares.”
“So when do you sleep?”
“A little bit at night, and I make up the rest during the day, if I can. If not, then I only just sleep a little bit.”
“Sounds difficult, and not quite like a solution.”
At this stage I started drifting. I drifted away from the room and from my own awareness. Half dozing off due to exhaustion, half staring at us from afar, somewhere else.
I saw us. Me and this Rotem. The woman whom I’d let enter my life, without my noticing or planning it. I saw us sitting in the room. Two of us. One, a serious and concerned woman, utterly wrapped up in wanting to rescue. To save. The other, half-child, half-woman, sad, recoiled, and afraid of her own self. Curled up on an armchair, trying to disappear, and more than anything, trying with all of her might to keep the cage shut. The cage holding the huge tiger within her. So that no one discovers it, so that no one notices her. She suddenly started shaking. The child-woman curled up even tighter on the armchair, trembling, the other woman’s heart going out to her, but the woman had no words, or perhaps the words that she did have simply didn’t reach the other end.
A Room of Their Own Page 6
