“Yes, sir, Sergeant-Major!” Omer pouted, trying to look like the goose-soldier from the children’s TV show we used to watch together, year after year, every summer break, somewhere between searching for Marco’s mother on another TV show, and walking with Dorothy over the yellow brick road towards the wizard who’d return her home. To be honest, it’s always the same: Everyone only looks for their home or their mother.
The boys left the house, and I allowed the weights over my eyes to shut them for a while.
After half an hour of stolen silence, Yotam suddenly sat on my stomach, and Snoopy sat on my head.
“Who loves you?” I asked.
“Mommy,” he answered.
“And who do you love?”
“Mommy.”
That’s the correct answer, for a kid.
“So, Rotemeister, how are you?” Omer asked, his brows tightening momentarily in a passing gesture, which I caught nonetheless.
“I have no energy, Omer. I’ve been like this the whole afternoon − on the couch, hands at my sides. Useless.”
“Why useless? One of them keeps your watch. Anyway, I’ll make dinner. You just rest. Come on, Yotam, help me peel the potatoes. We’re making real French fries today, not like Mommy’s oven-made Weight Watchers’ ones.”
What would I do without that guy? He’s paying me back for all those countless babysitting sessions while young Emily was doing long shifts during her residency, and he’s showering Yotam and me with love.
“Can you stay with Yotam and study for your exam here? I have a sorcery course today.”
“A what course?” Omer asked.
“Family therapy, but I swear that what it really entails is spirit-summoning. It’s called ‘Systemic Constellations’.”
“So I gather that you’ve run out of things to study,” he joked.
“Yes, I really have. That’s what it’s like when you get old.”
Yotam was standing on the blue stool near the kitchen counter and peeling potatoes, looking like those old-world British children in orphanages. All he was missing was some soot on his face and the picture would be complete.
“Well done, Yotam. Here’s another one. I’m just going to check on your mother for a second, and then we’ll start frying them.”
Omer placed his hand on my forehead, then stroked my cheek. “Rotem, you feel warm. Did anything happen?”
“When I picked up Yotam today, his teacher complained about him making faces at the other kids during quiet-time. It took me a minute to get what she meant, and then I realized it: the facial tics have come back. He’s got a few new ones, and vocal tics too, clearing his throat for half the night. I felt like killing her. I kept smiling and left with a ton of tears in my throat and just one thought going through my head: What the hell was I thinking bringing him into this world on my own?” Not that doing it with someone else would have been the best idea, I thought to myself.
“All right, but that doesn’t help us with anything. He’s already here.”
“That doesn’t mean that I can’t feel bad about it right now.”
“You’re right. Do you remember how it stopped the last time it happened?”
“Of course, it stopped when I calmed down. He senses my stress.”
“Then you know the answer. But Rotem, you can’t calm down under pressure. Someone told me that once. A very wise woman.”
“And a beautiful one at that. Yes, you were studying for your SATs for the third time, determined to get accepted to medicine at Tel Aviv University with Maya. You explained to me that you had to calm down because you already knew the material, but it’s the stress that keeps pulling your grades down − and then you won’t get accepted and you’ll have to study some kind of business administration and work with your dad.”
“Yeah, well, you have to admit that it’s a stressful thought.”
“Working with your dad? Yes, I’ll admit that.”
“Omer, I finished!” Yotam shouted from the kitchen.
“Come on. Come sit with us.” Omer gave me his hand and pulled me up. I dragged a bar stool from the kitchen island and sat down next to them at the counter. I started tidying the silverware drawer, if only so I’d feel useful to the world and not like just somebody wasting their life away doing nothing.
“Have you decided what you’re going to do your residency in?” I asked.
“Almost. I’ve narrowed it down to two options: surgery with another pediatric residency, or psychiatry with a specialization in children and adolescents. I don’t know which one is more heart-wrenching, watching them physically suffer or mentally agonize. But I don’t want to give it up and just work with adults.”
“Well, they all usually come with parents, so you won’t escape adults either way, but I’m glad you’re not giving up. The talent you have with children would be a shame to waste.” I took a cutting board out of the cupboard. “How’s your sister? I haven’t heard from her since they moved to Be’er Sheva.”
“Ya’ara’s started her MBA in business management at Ben-Gurion. It’s as dull as it sounds. Nitzan has chicken pox because they didn’t manage to vaccinate him in time. We’ve forgotten about that disease here, so it’s lucky that Ya’ara is inoculated, because she’s pregnant. It’s her turn this time.”
“Oh, how convenient,” I smiled. “Congratulations!”
“Yeah, it’s still early. She said that if Mom doesn’t come back for the birth, then she’ll never speak to her again. After the wedding − which your side of the family boycotted − Mom told her, ‘I’m not responsible for the entire family, and why do you need them anyway?” Did you really think that Rubi would turn up with his eight children and their side-curls? How would he explain to them why there’s no rabbi, not to mention no groom? It’s easy for you to be enlightened, until you’re met with closed-mindedness.’ So now Ya’ara asked me, ‘What’s going to be her excuse this time? Maybe she’s not responsible for herself either, or just doesn’t care?’ As though I have any idea about what’s going on in our mother’s head.”
“Do you mean to tell me that Ya’ara and Hadas really wanted them all at their celebration − all of those small-minded people? And what about that sweetheart, Hani, who arrived without telling Rubi and brought Grandma along without telling Grandpa, to save him from a second heart attack? Did Ya’ara forget about that? Anyway, when is she due?” I asked.
“Roughly at the end of August.”
“Where did I put the olive oil . . .? All right, so your mother still has a few months left to come to her senses. Oh, it’s on the second shelf. There’s a little bit left.”
“Actually, I don’t think that’ll suffice. She’s too deep into it.” Omer took out two tomatoes and a cucumber from the fridge, already familiar with our preferred ratio. “Where do you keep the nuts?”
“Do you really think that she won’t come back for the birth? I find that hard to believe. You know how much she loves Ya’ara − and children in general. The nuts are in the fridge door, but break them a bit so that Yotam can eat them.”
“I think that you don’t fully comprehend where she is. You’re not going to come with me, huh? You know what? No pressure.” He crushed three nuts and added them to the salad bowl. “As it is, I don’t have time for anything right now − not for Mom and not for Ya’ara. I hardly even get to see Maya. I’ll be finishing a psychiatry rotation at the hospital in July, and then I’ll go. If you feel ready and decide to join me, I’ll be the happiest man on earth,” he said. “And tell that Eyal of yours that you two have a lot of work to do solving secrets and enigmas. So come on, Rotem. Solve it already. Get a move on.”
“I’ll tell him. So will you stay?”
“All right. I’ll ask Maya to go by my apartment
and bring me the material for my exam. So, do you talk to him about it?” Omer asked.
“What else do I have to talk about? I’m on it, Omer. Just take into account that it’s Yulia’s birthday in July and she’s the one who said she’d stay with Yotam, so if and when, we’ll have to coordinate dates with her.”
“It’s a deal,” Omer smiled.
I suddenly realized that I had four months to solve this thing. It was the first time that it was worded that way. It had seemed to me that it would last forever. Without a good reason for mending my bond with Emily, we’d just continue playing this ghost-version of catch for eternity, where sometimes I’m the catcher and sometimes she is.
The mist rises and I loosen up. Emily couldn’t remember what had happened, and she couldn’t talk about it and let it go, so she planted herself in beautiful Ma’ayan Baruch, far away from anyone who loves her. And I’m still frozen, watching from the side. Watching her and scared to help her, as though it hasn’t been 40 years already.
Thirteenth Meeting
A little girl is walking on the sidewalk carrying a big red school bag, making vows to God all along the way. By the time she reaches the path in front of the Uziel School, it’s already 8 a.m., and she knows that the teacher, Rachel, has started taking attendance.
“Alby, Shoshana. Alkabetz, Moshe. Bar, Yonatan.” And then she reaches G. “Golan, Rotem.” The girl’s not going to be there in time to answer, and she’s still bartering: God, if I can just make it there in time . . . And the amount goes up each time. If I get there in time I’ll give 10 agorot to charity . . . 20 . . . 30 . . .
One time, she even reached a whole shekel. When she put the coins into the charity box’s slot over the low, dusty cupboard, Rachel smiled at her understandingly. “Did you make a vow? This isn’t right. This is too much money for you. You’re only in second grade.”
She finally reaches the school and quickly climbs the stairs. A new cardboard sign with cut-out letters hangs on the wall. “A simple, peaceful home is better than a lavish home filled with quarrelling.” The language is complex for her, but she still understands the meaning. Those gushing Friday night dinners, and the noise that went on until all hours of the night. Their shouting kept her from sleeping again last night, and she woke up, armed with her Big Bird pajamas, and screamed, “Let me sleep!” It only made them laugh. So when morning arrived, she had trouble waking up yet again.
She walks into class recoiled, her shoulders clenched and her head lowered, shrinking herself, as though that’ll make her unnoticeable. Rachel sends her to the principal’s office. Defeated, she makes her way back to the stairs and the signs filled with despairing pearls of wisdom, and then she hears someone calling her from above. “Rotem, come back here.” Rachel had changed her mind and came looking for her in the hallway. The little girl’s heart resumes its normal rhythm.
My eyes barely opened. I squinted at the little clock by the bed. Shit! It’s already 7:30. Yotam doesn’t like being late. He finds it hard enough to go to school as it is, and I won’t have time to stay with him for a game. I’ll have to run to my first morning session, which is with Dani today.
“Let’s just give it up. We’re doing nothing but talking, and none of it helps. I can’t stop vomiting,” Dani said.
“What is it that you want to expel from yourself?”
“Everything. I hate myself. I’ve never loved myself, the girl I used to be. She always embarrassed me. Never suited them. Or this life.”
“That’s sad. Is there another way of getting that out?”
“I don’t know. Not that I know of. You tell me.”
“I feel that we need to go through it together. Remain in those unbearable places, until they become a little bit more bearable.”
Dani remined silent.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she smiled, only with her lips. A frozen smile.
“What do you want to say?”
“I’m too embarrassed to talk about it.”
“Then we should overcome the embarrassment and talk about it. That’s important.” I looked away from her. Gave her some space.
She stayed silent for a moment. “You’ve run out of patience for me,” she then said quickly, and immediately resumed covering herself with silence.
“It’s difficult to feel that way,” I said.
“Come on, Rotem, enough already. You’ve run out of patience. Just admit it.”
“What makes you feel this way?”
“I know it. I can already tell.”
“I’m sure that you’re attentive towards indications of distancing, but what do you mean?”
“You don’t reply to my messages the way that you used to. You send a short reply and you say that we’ll continue talking about it when we meet. Why do you encourage me to message you, and then when I do it, you just say that we’ll deal with it in therapy? You keep talking about my responsibility, but I think that it’s just a nice way of saying that you’ve had enough of me.”
“And how do you feel when someone’s had enough of you?”
“How do I feel? I feel like I want to die. Like I’m tired of fighting. Like it feels heavy and bitter and enough. Like I want someone to be with me and stop this feeling, and at the same time I don’t want anyone to be here or look or pity or nod their head, as though saying “Poor Dani. She never gets any rest.”
Nothing can be covered or blurred with her, I thought to myself. Her senses are sharp.
“You’re right, Dani. What you feel is right. You can’t keep someone for a long period of time, not within this framework. You want to lean on yourself and you’re scared of being dependent on me, but at the same time you also believe that your strength comes from me. We need to find a way for you to lean on your own strength, and do the work during our sessions and not through messages. I believe that you can do that.”
“But it’s hard for me to talk here. What’s the problem with me messaging you? I told you already, if you’ve had enough of me, then just say it. You don’t need to say complex things in order to hide the truth.”
“That’s my truth. I hope that you also feel that I try very hard to be as honest as I can. The aim of the communication between sessions is to give support during difficult times, but it can’t be instead of the work during our sessions. It really isn’t very simple to use messages in the right way, the kind that helps the therapy progress but doesn’t replace it. Dani, you come here and remain silent. Of course it’s easier sometimes to talk on the phone or write messages, when the feelings fill us up to the brim and flood us. It’s much easier to remain in avoidance during the actual meetings, but it doesn’t let us progress.”
“Progress to where? Where is it that we need to get to all the time?” Dani asked without looking at me.
“Nowhere. The place we’re at right now is the right place and the right time. Move forward to here. To the place where we can sit quietly with ourselves without running away. Without vomiting or cutting, or eating or purchasing, or any of the thousands of ways humans have invented in order to escape from themselves and from their feelings.”
Dani enveloped herself in silence again.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
“That I really don’t know how to do that. To just be. To love myself. I don’t know how I can be any different, or whether I’m even capable of it. That’s enough for today. I’m leaving. I’ll go think about it quietly at home. I can’t do it with you here looking at me. But don’t worry, Rotem, I’ll come back and we’ll talk about it, just the way you like.” She gave a little smile and walked out.
Dani
Enough . . . quiet already! That’s how I used to pray all the time, and still do, actually. The noises I constantly hear. Not voices like some crazy person, but the noises of the world penetrating my skull. I used to lie in my childhood bed with a pillow over my head, praying for silence. Praying that Iddo would lower the volume on the TV or on
his computer games. That Tal would lower the volume of the music regularly blasting out of her room. And that’s not all. Downstairs was constantly filled with my parents’ discussions, which always sounded like shouting, and my mom’s phone conversations, which were even louder than when she’d talk to Dad. Outside there were cars and trucks, and sometimes even the birds’ chirping bothered me. Not to mention the sound of a plane that dared fly low right over our house.
Everything, simply everything would penetrate the skin, through my blood, muscle tissue, straight to the neurons in my brain, driving me mad, not leaving me alone. I cursed the world, and then I cursed myself. I didn’t know which I hated more − the noise providers or myself − for being so sensitive that everything bothered me. I hated myself for my suffering, and now I solve it by being reclusive. Ban myself from any action that would place me in a crowd. Even walking through a busy street can sometimes be too big a task. A burdening, troubling task, so much so that I want to skin myself, scratch and peel everything off of me in order to let the penetrating noises back out. But sometimes a walk like that can go by peacefully. That’s part of the difficulty: I haven’t really learned this thing’s regularity yet.
Tal used to get mad at me. She’d scream at me that I’m just an egocentric idiot who constantly asks her to lower the volume. Iddo was patient; he always accepted my requests. And generally speaking, he knows how to handle my singularity. My being different which a lot of siblings tend to think applies to them, too. But not Iddo. He’s self-assured enough, with a kind of real inner peace. He knows that I won’t infect him.
It was Wednesday afternoon. Just another ascetic day for me, but a strange feeling was added to it. A kind of burden. That morning, I’d visited Mrs. Adler, who seemed even more worried than usual. At first I thought that maybe something terrible had happened in the country. It took me a while to realize that her concern was aimed at me.
A Room of Their Own Page 13
