New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

by Shelly Oria

  * * *

  Back in New York, the world speeds up again and I’m left behind. I sleep for two days, and then it’s time for work. I am a grief counselor. Israelis consult me about their grief, and I offer efficient ways of coping. The Israeli government pays me to tell Israelis Living Abroad that if their son died in a suicide bombing they should stick to a rigid sleep regimen and drink green tea every morning. When I moved to New York to run away from my addiction (I was under the impression then that my drug was exclusively Israeli married men), the counseling job was supposed to be temporary, until I figured out what I wanted to do; but it turned out not to be temporary at all, maybe because, like Lizzie says, nothing ever is. I get a lot of death-related grief, but sometimes more interesting cases, too, like people who don’t feel at home in New York but don’t want to go back, or like that woman whose cats kept dying; she adopted a new kitty every time as an affirmation of her trust in the universe, and every time the universe failed her. Any grieving person who proves their grief to be related to the situation in Israel is entitled to twelve hours of free counseling. Put the word free in the title and you’re guaranteed long lines of eager Israelis.

  * * *

  Every visit takes a few weeks to shake off, and this one isn’t any different; skipping back and forth between my two worlds feels like some maniac kid keeps pushing Reset on a computer that controls my behavior. I’m more aggressive, more impatient with my clients. I find it impossible to hold the door for the person behind me, or to smile at a stranger on the street just because we are both human beings. People don’t do these things in Israel, and it takes me several weeks every time to remember why I should. Americans say New Yorkers are rude, but I think it all depends on your point of reference. Another difference: pacing. There is rage and rudeness in Israel, but they move around confidently, knowing nothing is ever going to change. In New York people run and run and run, because change is absolutely possible, if only they run fast enough to catch it.

  * * *

  On my fifth day back, Lizzie and I go out. At the bar, she follows my eyes to a man in a gray sweater. He’s alone, and we can’t see his left hand from where we sit, but I feel the tickle and know, and because of me Lizzie knows, too. Lizzie is an addiction expert; she’s helped many people and even invented her own method for adults whose addiction is not 12-steps compatible. There’s a clinic in Vermont that practices her method, and they call it the Brinn Method, because Brinn is Lizzie’s last name. Mention the word clinic, or method, or Vermont, and there’s no escaping a ten-minute lecture titled Why I Am Great, by Lizzie Brinn.

  I make fun of her sometimes (though not often to her face), but the truth is, she’s my map to the treasure; a day without her and I start to think maybe there’s no treasure at all.

  Lizzie always says, You really are a special case. By that she means I’m more messed up than most. Every time she says it, I feel like somebody put pride and anxiety in a one-shot glass and said, Drink. Now, at the bar, she says it again and adds, But I have a new idea. I want to say, Can we talk about it another time? but I ask, What is it? Lizzie says, We have to do something drastic and dramatic because nothing we do seems to stick with you. I say, I’m listening. Lizzie says, You can skip work next Tuesday, right? Because I’m thinking Monday night will be good for this, so you’ll need the morning after for sleep. I say, Sure. Lizzie says, I’ll need you to go over everything you own, absolutely everything. I’ll tell you what to look for, she says, but I’ll need you to be thorough, ruthless, brave. Can you do that? she asks, and before I have a chance to answer, she says, Tell me if you can’t, I need to know now if you’re not up to it. There is urgency in her voice, which makes me uneasy, but I still say what I know she wants to hear. What choice do I have, Lizzie? Her eyes nod at me.

  * * *

  At the end of the night I walk home; the bar is exactly six blocks north of my apartment and south of Lizzie’s. I think about the man in the gray sweater, I think about going back. He was still there when we left, sitting on his stool and drinking slowly, deep in thought like he was contemplating different ways to stop some war. Like possibly he was briefing the president in the morning. It appeals to me, this sense of duty in a man.

  I think how sex with him would feel. I think how his face would look in that one moment that matters, the moment that relieves my guilt of its weight, the moment I wait for. I always look them in the eye throughout, so as not to miss my moment, and that can be tricky, because they mostly try to avoid the intimacy of eye contact. I wait, and then suddenly it’s there, passing through them like a wave. In that moment, their entire lives turn to air—their mothers, babying them too much in the early years, or leaving on the eve of their thirteenth birthday to reunite with a salesman in Kentucky, or fighting cancer for years, being so damn brave; their fathers, the memory of snow caves, of absence, of Camel Lights; their wives, that moment when their eyes first locked through Halloween masks, and this morning, the way she turned her face away in bed, so many gentle moments, so many small heartbreaks; and their children, those scary hours at the hospital, and the first time the baby girl said Daddy, or Home, or Clementine, and they realized the true meaning of the word devotion. It all disappears. What’s left is something from years ago, an idea of the men they wanted to be, long abandoned. For one brief moment, they go back in time, they make different choices, they are different men. And my body is the time machine that takes them there.

  * * *

  I keep walking, I don’t go back to the bar, simply because right now I am able not to. I want to feel something like accomplishment, the conquering of weakness, but I don’t. I feel numb. It’s colder than it should be this time of year, and I’m drunk and can’t wait to get home. I am thinking Get home get home get home, but when I get home I don’t feel like going in. I imagine opening the door, turning the light on; I imagine my blue pajamas, my empty bed. I can actually see it and feel it, because that’s something Lizzie and I have been working on for a long time: Visualization. Through the help of Visualization, I become convinced that I don’t want to go into my apartment. I call Lizzie from the hallway, and I whisper because I don’t want to wake any neighbors up, and if they’re already up, I don’t want them to hear me; I wouldn’t think much of someone in my situation. Lizzie says, I don’t see what the problem is. I say I just don’t want to go in. She says, But why? I say I just don’t, it feels wrong, I know I’ll be sad. Lizzie is quiet for a few seconds, and then she says, Are you going to fuck somebody now, is that it? It’s harsh, and I can hear the three shots of vanilla Stoli in her words. I say, I’m not going to fuck anyone tonight, that’s the whole point. Then I think I hear someone in the background, but I don’t ask her about it.

  After we hang up the phone I’m still unable to go in, and the walls are dancing, so I sit down. From the floor, things are looking up. The hallway feels steadier, and I think, This is not so bad. I stay there, on the welcome mat by the door to my apartment, and I fall asleep. When I wake up a few hours later, there is daylight, and opening my front door seems easy. I walk in and feel nothing except the need to shower, the need to change clothes, the need to go to work. What was my problem last night? I think in the shower. I was drunk, I think, and I giggle to myself and the water giggles back.

  3. The Bonfire

  Monday night, Lizzie honks the horn for me to come downstairs. The car is Oz’s. Oz is a guy who used to be addicted to cucumbers—used to eat a few dozen every day, throw up, and start all over. Lizzie helped him, and now they’re fuck buddies. Once, Lizzie and I went to Six Flags (stages six and seven in the Brinn Method, Getting in Touch with the Child Within and Experiencing Danger in a Safe Environment), and there was some kind of problem with one of the roller coasters. At the top of the man-made mountain we sat, waiting, and talked about Oz, because he and Lizzie had just had sex for the first time the night before. I said something mean or cynical about his addiction, and Lizzie got very upset. She said, I’m not supposed to
discuss this with you, but Jesus, can’t you figure it out? I mean, clearly it’s a phallic thing, and I’ll just say this: he had a very rough childhood. I felt stupid. You of all people, she said, and I really hoped she wouldn’t finish the thought. Then she said, All you addicts are the same; you all think you’re better, your addictions are sophisticated and complicated and other people’s are beneath you. There was something in Lizzie’s voice then that made it easy to imagine her one day saying, I don’t think I can help you anymore. I’ve never said a bad word about Oz since.

  * * *

  I put my bags in the backseat and get into the car. It smells funky, but I don’t say anything because it’s Oz’s car. Instead, I say, Why did you honk, you could have buzzed or called. I know the answer: Lizzie likes to honk. She knows I know the answer, so she just honks again and smiles at me like a wink. I grab her honking hand, but not too strong, and say, Shhhh. Lizzie glances at the side mirror and starts to pull out. She asks, Do you have everything? and I nod but she can’t see me so she asks again. Yes, I say; I have everything.

  * * *

  Lizzie puts a crumpled green Post-it in my hand and asks, What exit does it say? Lizzie can write tomes on Post-its in her tiny, compressed handwriting, but I’ve always been good at deciphering it. I read: Take the Belt Parkway to exit 6. Head south on Cropsey Avenue to West 17th Street. KeySpan Park and the Parachute Jump will be in front of you on Surf Avenue. Metered parking is available along most streets. Fuckers, Lizzie says, they don’t want you to park close to the beach; but we’ll see. Who, the evil powers of Yahoo Maps? I say. No, it’s from their website, Lizzie says; there’s an official Coney Island website. Well why’d you copy it if you weren’t going to follow the instructions anyway, I ask; for some reason this annoys me, and I fantasize about nudging Lizzie’s shoulder hard so she’ll lose control of the car. Maybe I’ll grab the wheel and save us. Maybe we’ll swerve, fast and sharp like on a Six Flags ride.

  Lizzie looks at me like she can see my thoughts. We can park exactly where they want us to, she says, and carry all your shit for two miles, or we can park where we need to park, and assume the police have higher priorities this time of night; what’s your pleasure? You know I get bitchy when I’m nervous, I say, just ignore me. She does.

  * * *

  At Coney Island, the air is smoky and salty and the sand looks like ashes. Lizzie walks confidently past a few small bonfires: schoolkids, new lovers. I follow her to a secluded area behind a large Dumpster that seems misplaced. Lizzie says, You can leave your stuff here. Then, for about thirty minutes, we go back and forth from our spot to the car, where there’s a trunkful of planks. Then Lizzie starts the fire.

  While I’m taking everything out of the bags, Lizzie says, You really mean it this time. Lizzie’s instruction was Bring everything your addiction finds inspiring. So I packed bags and bags of inspirations: everything the men had ever given me, pictures where we look happy, private journals with too much truth. Then I thought, Do better do better do better, so I added DVDs we watched together, the lace bra that opens from the front—anything that held a memory.

  I’m happy that Lizzie has noticed my effort, and I say, I’m done, Liz, I’m done; no more married men. Then I say I’m done one more time, to make sure. By now the bonfire is something that can harm. Lizzie starts ripping things, and with her eyes she says, You do the same. I do. I know we have to make everything small before we burn it; one of the principles of the Brinn Method is Graduality, which means breaking down any Significant Action into several mini-actions whenever possible. When we’re done she says, I can’t do any burning for you. I start feeding the fire—carefully at first, but then it gets wild. I’m jumping in the air, attacking the bonfire from all directions, screaming. The fire eats away at my fantasies, and the smoke that it feeds back to the air feels sober.

  * * *

  When Lizzie asks if I’m ready, I assume she means am I ready to go home, and I say yes. She says, Then we should get started. I give her a look that says I don’t understand, and she says, Listen to me: What’s the one thing we’ve been ignoring all this time, the missing variable in your addiction’s equation? What’s our oversight? (A big part of the Brinn Method is finding oversights.) I say I don’t know. Lizzie looks at me. Think, she says. I can’t think. I say I don’t know. She says, The kids. I say, The kids? and she repeats, The kids; most of your men had kids, but we never bothered with that, it seemed immaterial. That’s our oversight! she declares, and I can tell she’s been waiting for this moment for days.

  Lizzie reaches for one of the bags, takes out a big brown envelope, and starts handing me photographs. I’m sitting on the sand and she’s standing close to me, studying my reactions. In the photographs, random children play or cry, unaware of the camera. I look up at Lizzie and say, I don’t get it. What’s not to get? she asks; these are the kids. I still don’t quite understand, but then I see him—the kid with the cards, from the eye doctor, only he looks older than I remember, and there are no cards in this picture. Instead, there’s a dog, and he seems to be talking to it. I think, This can’t be right. I look at Lizzie, then at the picture again. Lizzie looks pleased, almost smug. I say nothing for a few minutes, and stare at the blackness of the water. Lizzie is giving me the time that I need, because she thinks I’m making progress.

  Then she says something about talking to the photographs, apologizing to the children, but I can’t really hear her. I get up, shake the sand off. Where did you get these? I ask her. I have my ways, she says, and smiles. I look her straight in the eye. Where did you get these? I ask again. Now she can see that there is no progress at all. What’s your problem? she asks; you know how much effort, not to mention money, I had to put in to get these? You think it’s easy? I don’t think it’s easy at all, I say; I think it’s fucked up. Lizzie looks at me. Are we regressing back to Resistance, she asks, is that what’s happening? I want to know how you got these, I tell her for the third time, but this time there’s more weakness than threat in my words.

  The soles of my feet are numb now. I can’t stand, and I don’t want to sit back down. I need to go home, I tell Lizzie. Not before we do this, she says. I shake my head no, slowly. Then I look right at her and say, I don’t give a fuck about these kids. I didn’t make them. Get their fathers to apologize to them, not me.

  There is madness in her eyes and I think she might hit me, but she says nothing and then puts the photographs back in the envelope, the envelope back in the bag.

  On the drive back to the city we are silent, but when we get to my block Lizzie says, You weren’t ready; it’s my fault. All of a sudden I have the urge to ask her if she called Oz to come over the other night after the bar. I want to suggest that maybe she has problems of her own, and that maybe she should focus on those for a while. But I figure whatever I say, I’m likely to regret it in the morning. When I’m about to enter my building, Lizzie honks, and I know she wants me to turn around and smile; I walk in without looking back.

  4. Grief

  Two weeks later, Lizzie and I are splitting a tuna sandwich and a lemonade on St. Marks, and she’s holding the lemonade and taking fast, short sips, because she never had any siblings and isn’t good at sharing. I let her, and focus on the tuna sandwich until she says, Hey, leave some for me. I look at her and feel the itch of confession. Lizzie’s way of dealing with the bonfire night has been to pretend it went well; even without completing the evening’s full program, as far as she’s concerned, we were ultimately successful. She’s been carefully constructing her sentences around now that you’re clean. Soon, I know, if I don’t stop the charade, she will start planning my 100 Free Days Celebration. I say, These past few weeks … you don’t know the whole story. Then I ignore her face and tell her about the man on the plane. She’s taking a deep breath. And since the bonfire? she asks. I tell her there have been two men since the bonfire, even though there’s only been one; I need her to lose hope. One was a grief client, I say, the other a regu
lar at the coffee shop I go to who told me he was getting married in three days. Lizzie says, Okay, okay, and nods slowly many times, until it gets irritating. I say, I think the worst part is, I don’t regret it. Lizzie gives me the Lizzie look. I say, I just don’t, and shrug.

  * * *

  A woman comes into my office. She has beautiful eyes, but where they meet the rest of her face you can see fatigue. She says, I think I’m addicted to my grief. Grief is a very addictive substance, I say. We are not supposed to say things like that, but I don’t care. She seems surprised, like she expected me to say something else entirely, or maybe just offer her a glass of water. She asks about studies, and I understand: she wants printed data, black ink on stapled paper. Everyone does. I say, Suppose some research has been conducted, suppose proof exists that grief is one of the most dangerous drugs out there, that tens of thousands of Israelis abuse it every day; do you really think the government would let that information out? She looks at me like she doesn’t understand, but I know that she does. You have to go slowly with these people; they are not always ready to know what they already know.

  We are quiet for a few seconds until suddenly she says, Everyone is an addict, then. My clients often exaggerate, once they see my point. Well, not everyone, I reply. I want to focus on her personal grief now, but she repeats her statement, and there is conviction in her tone, like she has slammed some door I can’t see: Everyone is an addict. I say, Addiction is a serious matter; you are belittling it when you put it this way. If anything can be an addiction, she says, then everyone is an addict. Please stop saying “everyone is an addict,” I say. I should point out the flaws in her logic, but somehow I can’t. Instead, my brain fills with words that can hurt her, words like wrinkles and faded. She smiles and looks at the wall behind me, and I get a strange feeling, like part of me has been sleeping this whole time. I turn around to see what it is she’s looking at, but it’s all white. I say, I think our time is up.