“Dani?” I felt a hand touching me. I shook off the faraway place I’d been to. I lifted my eyes and remembered that I was in a room, at Rotem’s clinic.
I looked at her silently, embarrassed. She handed me a glass of water. I pushed it aside.
“Dani, what can help you right now? How can I help you?”
“You can’t.” I gave the same answer to the question she’d already asked me.
“Still. Let’s try to think. What do you need?”
I looked at her again.
“You don’t believe that I, or anyone else for that matter, can help you. You’re lonely within what you’re experiencing, and that’s a horrible feeling. So let me be in it with you, and we can at least let that togetherness do something. Sometimes we don’t need all that much. Just to be together, and not alone.”
Tears dripped onto my sweater. I hadn’t noticed that I was crying. I didn’t totally understand what she’d said, but something about it moved me. I hated all of the solutions and bland ideas that therapists would always suggest in situations where they felt helpless, and for the first time, no one was trying to offer me any solutions.
I suddenly really wanted to hear what she’s been through, and how come she knows how to be with me without getting scared off by me. I had a feeling that Rotem knew what I was talking about in a different way, but I didn’t dare say any of that. Asking her about herself seemed like breaking a code I had kept throughout all the years of my various therapies. And anyway, it’s not customary to ask your therapist personal questions about themselves. That in itself has always seemed strange to me. How am I supposed to share my most private matters with a person about whom I know nothing? Not even if she’s married or has kids, what she likes to eat, what book she keeps on her night table.
She then intrigued me even more. As though I’d shifted my mind away from myself and my own issues, and a desire arose within me. A desire to get closer to her, get to know her and hear about her life. Understand what she’s been through, how she grew up, what was it that made her who she is to enable her to be with me.
I wanted to ask what names she’d chosen for her children, if she has any. For some reason, that seemed like the most intimate question of them all, its answer teaching us about the person, about their dreams, their hopes, the things that matter, their tastes − much more than other subjects. But I didn’t dare say any of that. I could hardly admit it all to myself. Instead, I heard myself saying in venomous frustration, “What kind of togetherness can we possibly have? The session’s going to end in two minutes, and I’ll just go back home with all of this shit and try to keep living.”
“True. But you’ll take this feeling along with you, and I’ll take it with me too. You spend the whole week alone with yourself, needing to live with all of this inside of you. It’s a temporary period and it’ll pass, but right now I suggest that we continue meeting twice a week. I want to see you more, and we can also set telephone conversations in between sessions. Do you think that can help?”
I didn’t answer. I left her words hanging in mid-air. She wasn’t facing me helplessly. I wanted to get up but I couldn’t. I looked up at the clock on the wall.
“It’s all right. Take a few minutes for yourself. I still have time.”
Rotem
We grew up in Kiryat Shemona. My very first memory is Emily on my third birthday, grabbing hold of me over the balcony rail, stopping me from jumping down.
I’d waited for that moment for the entire year, with the patience of summer-born children. That moment at the end of the party, after all of the guests had gone home. They sat there, on the large dining room table near the entrance to the house, waiting just for me. My presents.
The largest was at the bottom, and the smaller ones were piled up over it. After opening three boxes of colorful chalks, four packs of marbles and one hairband there was only the big box left. Inside it, within protective bubble wrap, were the long-awaited round, colorful glass balls. A present from Aunt Orna, who’d just returned from Venice. We played with them on the balcony. One careless move, and they flew over the rail. Four colorful spots falling down, flying past all of the building’s floors on their way down to the ground. They’d remained intact throughout the entire journey from Venice, only to shatter at the foot of our building.
Red, green, yellow, and blue, tied together by a golden string.
Emily, only eight years old at the time, towered over me, fighting with all of her strength for me not to jump off after them, while I looked at them longingly as they sped towards the sidewalk beneath our building. I gathered all of my strength and tried to release myself from her grip and jump after them, to rescue them. Only after they’d reached the ground, and the delicate glass scattered every which way, only then did she let go of me. But she continued with all of her might, during the following years, to try and rescue her crazy sister from herself, until one day she gave up and stopped.
One time, Orna – “The Travelling Aunt” as Dad used to call her – sent us a postcard from London, detailing the city’s beauty in a few concise sentences, and ending it with: “Instead of purchasing another living room set, go out and see the world.”
“Who’s even buying a living room set?” my father grumbled quietly. He’d never gotten on a plane or left the country. He’d arrived in Israel with his older brother on a Youth Aliyah ship before the rest of the family. They studied at the Kadoorie Agricultural High School, battling snakes while picking mangos. Their parents and eight siblings joined them after about five years, and they were all sent to the Khalsa transit camp in Kiryat Shemona.
On Dad’s 70th birthday we all went out to Mama Khalsa, the only kosher restaurant in that area. At the end of the meal, Dad said, “Their food is nice, but nothing can compete with the Mafroom dish that Grandma Emily used to make in those giant metal pots, right here, 50 years ago.”
We had four older brothers –- Rubi, Moshe, Shimi and David – and then Emily and me. After they’d finished naming everyone after the deceased grandfathers, grandmother and uncles, they got to choose one name that they loved. Rotem. It reminded Mom of white blossoms, and Dad liked the sound of it.
Emily fulfilled Dad’s dream and went to study medicine and become a state employee with a steady income at a governmental hospital, and I fulfilled my own dream and went to study social work in order to end up becoming a therapist, and a self-employed one at that, having the added bonus of no bosses ever getting on my case.
Dani
I’d hardly touched anything in two days. Three cups of coffee with a bit of milk until noon, and an apple cut up into pieces or a few rice cakes until the evening. Then I’d collapse into a broken sleep, or remain awake until the early morning with a few more cups of coffee, or tea with some milk. I didn’t eat anything today. I only drank two cups of coffee. I felt like I couldn’t get anything else inside me. Even the coffee was only in order to remain alert and speed up my body’s pace, because I felt like it was no longer carrying me.
I had no idea how much I weighed, but my body was very clearly sending me distress signals. I was really cold, and my toes kept getting numb. I’d already gotten used to the dizziness, and I’d learned how to control it. When it got to be too much, I’d have coffee and some water, and then I’d feel better.
I was sure that Rotem would talk to me about eating again at our next session. She was trying to help me find other ways to let out my pain. It seemed so difficult to me, to eat real food without vomiting it. It seemed so difficult to have to gain weight, and it suddenly seemed difficult to feel good. Something about this depression was somehow organizing me. I knew what was expected of me. There weren’t that many surprises, and there wasn’t much need to make an external effort I was simply within my shell, sunk into self-pity or, actually, filled with self-pity, and that was relaxing.
So what is all this about finding different ways of relaxin
g, I thought to myself. Better ways of expressing my pain? Why even try if it’s a lost cause? It’s been too many years of this being what I know how to do best: Extinguish myself. Push away my surroundings. It’s also much more convenient this way. I always have an excuse for why I’m alone: I didn’t want, I didn’t try. Meaning that if I were to want and try, then I’d have friends. Yes, that’s what I supposedly tell myself and the world. But deep down, I know that I don’t have the faintest idea about how to behave in company.
I’ve known for so many years that I have a big disgusting secret that I have to hide. I was scared that someone would find out, so I distanced myself from everyone. Became cautious and closed off. Cautious outside, but at home, in my room, in the place that was supposed to be the safest, I wasn’t safe at all. I knew that there, in the room, anyone wanting and trying enough could invade me. Maybe that’s why I had to carry such a massive shield of protection and distance. I tried to look like I was kept safe, when actually, inside, I’d been broken into.
Go try to explain that to this perfect woman, the one always dressed nicely, at her designer clinic on Rehov Ahad Ha’am in the center of Tel Aviv, the one who surely has everything working for her in her life. She’s trying to fix me from her immaculate position. She’ll eventually discover that she’s just like everyone else. She, too, will end up sending me to be hospitalized because she’ll run out of the guts and patience to stick with me.
I suddenly thought about the fact that Rotem was the only person I talked to now, and I still didn’t know anything about her. That thought gave me the shivers. I suddenly felt so disgustingly pathetic. Dad was about to travel abroad. We messaged each other a few words every once in a while, and I didn’t talk to Mom very often. I was supposed to schedule another meeting with Tal, but I got out of it. I postponed it. It was too much for me to cope with right now. It was selfish of me, I know, because she needed me. But what good would I do just sitting there in front of her in silence, like last time? That’s much worse than just saying generic stuff or bad stuff. The worst is not talking at all. She must have felt so lonely. Just like I did.
Darkness. Cold. Hanukkah. We’re sleeping over at Grandma and Grandpa’s. We love it. At least, Tal and Iddo love it. Or at least it seems that way to me. I just tag along with them. I don’t express my opinions, just like I don’t express opinions on any other matter. Not that I don’t have an opinion, I just think that I don’t know how to express them. I don’t think it would interest anyone.
Anyway, it’s Hanukkah time, with the lighting of the candles and the whole celebration repeating itself for eight consecutive nights once a year for the entire duration of your life . . . I found it exhausting even back then. But I loved Grandma’s cream doughnuts, which she labored over throughout the entire holiday, and, in fact, throughout her entire life.
I was already in fifth or sixth grade. I remember that I was already conscious of my body, and worriedly awaited the signs of puberty, ones that most of my friends had already received, but not me, to my great joy.
It’s nighttime, I’m in bed and can’t fall asleep. I think about Tal, who chose to sleep in the guest room with Iddo, leaving me to sleep on my own in the work room on the top floor. I’m a little bit scared, but mainly insulted. There was a short argument, which ended with me giving up, of course, and not letting on that my feelings were hurt, but rather showing indifference. Indifference that concealed within it fear and a lot of hurt.
I think Tal’s revolted by me. I ask myself how come my sister doesn’t want my company, and it reminds me of Galia and Shira, the most popular girls in the class, who always find reasons to make fun of me, leading the other girls in my class to follow suit. It’s not that I’m openly shunned, but I’m definitely a source of mockery − much too often.
A warm hand flutters over my back. I think that I’m imagining it.
I try to turn around and look, but it’s pitch black. I hear his breathing. Suddenly reality mixes in with my dreams. They’re not dreams. That awareness rises within me. They’re not dreams. It happens every week when Grandpa and Grandma come over to look after us. I’m suddenly so angry at Tal for not wanting to sleep in the room with me. My thoughts wander to her, and to the insult and anger intermingling. Until the hand reaches my underwear. I keep pretending to be asleep. When the fingers start invading my body, I start coughing. I want to drive him away from me. I can’t think of anything else anymore, I just want him to leave. Touch whatever he wants, as long as he stops penetrating me. I cough loudly and it startles him, he pulls his fingers out of me and quickly leaves the room. That night, I don’t fall back asleep until the sun comes up. I sleep from sunrise until noon, when Grandma walks into the room with a concerned face and takes my temperature.
When I get out of bed, he says, “Of course she slept late. She spent the whole night having nightmares. How can anyone sleep like that?” What a perverted man.
I got up to vomit.
Despite not having eaten anything, there’s always something to vomit. Miko looked at me in concern. I wanted to disappear. Get rid of this filthy body. I won’t let them force-feed me. I’ll be stronger this time. I got back into bed filled with motivation, hoping to fall asleep quickly.
Seventh Meeting
There was a familiar, timid, almost inaudible knock on the door.
“Hi, Dani.” She slowly walked in and sat on the armchair facing me. Silence. “How are you?” I asked.
“Fine.”
“Good,” I said. Waiting. Giving her a chance to peel herself open.
Dani was wearing a white sweater. She held onto the zipper for a long while, and finally started talking. “I met with my sister Tal last week.” She grabbed onto her left sleeve and pulled off the sweater. “She’s not doing great, thinking of stopping her studies.”
“That bad? What happened?”
“It’s been hectic for her recently. Everything mixing together. Mourning for Grandpa and doing rounds with Dad’s surgeon-friends and their stupid jokes. She’s usually good at coping with it all, but now she’s getting panic attacks, which she’d only ever heard of in the medical books she studied.”
“How was her relationship with your Grandpa, and yours with him?” Before even managing to complete the sentence, I already realized that I’d overshot it. Dani’s shoulders tightened up, recoiling. She remained silent. I waited for a bit.
She answered, hesitantly. “It was okay. We didn’t see them much during the last few years. They lived in New York, where Grandpa was teaching .” She slowed down. “Grandma was homesick. She’d already visited all of the museums there. She’d send us clothes she found on sale there. She waited for our yearly get-togethers, living from one to the next. What else could she do there but sit around waiting for him to get back from university?”
Dani stopped, disappeared. All of a sudden.
“Where are you?” I quietly asked.
“Don’t know.”
“What happened, Dani?”
“Tal doesn’t know, and I didn’t tell her about it. I could have given her a hint, helped her out. I couldn’t. I sat there in front of her and stayed silent, like an idiot. That’s what I am, a total idiot.” She reached her hand to the tissue box and pulled one out.
“What doesn’t Tal know?”
“What happened with Grandpa. Why he went for that phoney mission abroad. For a forced banishment to New York. But why was Grandma to blame? She never did anything, she never harassed students as young as her granddaughters.” Dani went silent. Her shoulders trembled. She was disappearing again.
“Nor did she harass her granddaughters,” Dani then added quietly. “That’s what she doesn’t know . . . They don’t know . . . No one knows . . . I just remembered that I’d forgotten it.”
“He hurt you,” I said.
“Not just me. I’m pretty sure that he didn’t skip Tal. But she doesn’t rem
ember, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. As it is, I’ve been tired of the role of ‘family memory keeper’ for a while now. If her subconscious has repressed it. then it must have a good reason to do so, right? But now she’s looking for answers. She asked to meet me. I wanted to help her and I couldn’t. I’m totally beat.”
“You’re having trouble sleeping?”
“Something like that. And when I can finally manage it, I have nightmares all night long. Can’t totally remember them, just that a huge chunk of ice settles over me and doesn’t let me move. It scares me and I’m super cold. I try to move and shift it off me any way I can, but it’s no use. I look for a way to melt it. Eventually I give up. Wait for time to pass. Suddenly my face becomes wet. Great, I think to myself, it’s melted a bit. But my face really is wet, the ice chunk turns into a ball of fur, I see his eyes fixed on me and his tongue licking my face, and I realize that it’s Miko, looking after me, waking me up to rescue me.”
Dani was quiet. I waited. She wanted to unload her burden, but she was scared. I didn’t want to rush her, but I didn’t want to play along with her avoidance either. She can be scared on her own. I breathed slowly, concentrated, allowed space. Dani was still silent.
A Room of Their Own Page 7
