by Shelly Oria
* * *
Shortly after, my sister, Lulu, needed a kidney. It got worse was all she said on the phone, but I knew what she meant—she’d been sick since we were small.
Jordan F and I had been distant since that night at Boon’s, so I asked Lulu not to mention anything. Sure thing, Lulu said, which usually meant she wasn’t listening. The next day, Jordan F was at my doorstep. You’re saving the life of our little sister, he said, and you thought I would give you a hard time? She’s not your sister, I said. Jordan F always loved Lulu, used to say when she smiles, armies around the world stop fighting. (Jordan F, due to his line of work I suppose, always talked about the war as if any pause in the fighting was a precious gift, more than we should expect.)
* * *
Look, I’m sorry I was an asshole, Jordan F said. If you want to start donating, you should start donating. Who am I to say? I was only surprised, he added, because I thought you’d ask me for money if you were short, that’s all. His voice squeaked as it does when he lies, but I smiled. He was trying his best.
* * *
To donate a kidney, you had to belong to an organization; the organization issued a card, and I was put on a database. People from around the world started writing to me, sharing awful stories. I read and kept every letter, mainly out of superstition—I had a feeling that, the day I got rid of one, Lulu’s body would start rejecting my kidney. But I only filed the letters and ignored them; I saw no point in writing back to disappoint. And I wasn’t about to give away any more of my organs. Life had calmed down: Lulu was getting better, Jordan F wasn’t mad at me—which mattered more than I cared to admit, more than it should have—and once a week I would go late at night to donate some blood and feel high. It was enough money to keep me going, and no one in town seemed to talk about it much. On the nights when Jordan F was home between deliveries, we would be at Boon’s until the dark started to fade, and whenever Lulu was feeling up to it she would drive over and join us. We avoided any talk of blood or the war or donations, and for a while all of that was just fine.
* * *
When I got the letter from the woman in Uzbekistan, I filed it away with the rest, but it stayed with me. In my dream that night, she and I were sitting at the top of a mountain, playing card games. The game seemed to be whoever gets the king wins. I’ll tell you what, the woman said in a British accent, if I get the king three times, you have to give me what I want. And if I get the king three times? I asked. No one will bother you again, she said.
* * *
I woke up and thought about it rationally. I’d never been a smoker. I was pretty certain I could do with one lung.
* * *
A reporter from a local paper a few towns over contacted me after that, wanted to run a story. You are an altruistic man, he said, and for a moment I let myself think perhaps I was, so I said Thank you. When he asked why I did it, I said this kind of giving made me happy. I said “It’s a special feeling.” I didn’t describe the feeling. I avoided the word high. The reporter used some Russian woman to pose as the Uzbekistani patient in the photographs, but all in all he did a decent job. And it was strange—reading it, I felt I was looking at a self of mine I hadn’t known.
* * *
I expected an angry call from Jordan F. The story revealed I’d been a single-lung man for weeks, and I figured at the very least he’d be hurt I never told him. I also figured he’d have some things to say. He wouldn’t be able to dismiss it as silly provocation this time, nor would he consider it justified as he did with Lulu. He might be outraged. He might tell me that he didn’t know who I was anymore. He might say something worse.
* * *
When he called I took a deep breath and held the air at the top of my lung for as long as I could. Then I exhaled and answered the phone. I want Lulu to start going on deliveries with me, Jordan F said. Okay, I said, confused. Maybe he hadn’t seen the article after all. You are her real brother, so I wanted to run it by you, he said. Okay, I said. It would still be a while before she’d go back to work, he said, and in the meantime the fresh air would do her a world of good. Okay, I said. I sat there for a long time after we hung up, feeling the weight of my body, the weight of all my organs, pulling me toward the ground.
* * *
A week later, my ex called—a woman I thought I loved once because her muscles were strong and her smile soft. I hadn’t heard from Katrina since I broke up with her three years before, but Lulu claimed to have seen her once on a street corner, begging for money. She was a carpenter when we were together, but I guess when times got rough few people were spared.
* * *
On the phone, Katrina said I’d broken her heart. She needed a new one. She’d read the story about me and surely if I was helping perfect strangers whose wounds I hadn’t caused, I would help her. I could tell she was reading from a note. Due to my broken heart, she was saying, I have been rendered unable to work, degraded to panhandling. Kati, I said, a heart’s no small thing. You’re not using yours anyway, Katrina said—her first spontaneous words in the conversation. She was clearly being sarcastic, but she made a valid point.
* * *
I knew it was a big decision, of course, but it felt small to me. Jordan F and Lulu were on the road, so I saw no need to share the news.
* * *
What I learned about charity was, word always gets around. People kept finding me. The woman with the facial reconstructive surgery gone bad was the next letter that got my attention. She used to be so beautiful restaurants paid her to patronize them. And perhaps, as Jordan F pointed out inside my head, beauty was not the thing to worry about in a time of war. I was often talking to Jordan F in my head. But, I thought, that is what the woman is asking of me, that is what she needs.
* * *
Lulu called from the road that evening, said she couldn’t tell me where they were but she was getting stronger with every passing day. It used to be that Jordan F went on long deliveries only when the fighting got worse somewhere and the demand for blood was especially high. How come you’re away so long? I asked Lulu. You know I can’t answer that, she said, but you can figure it out. Nothing’s been reported, I said. That’s not how it works anymore, she said; reporting risks lives. I held the phone for a bit, not knowing what to say. Then Lulu said, From what I understand, you work in blood now yourself, so what’s with the war judgment? Let’s talk about something else, I told her, and besides I only donate blood once a week, to get by. You know, she said, I keep telling J. that you know what you’re doing; if you’re donating organs, you’re donating organs, we should still support you. But I see now what he means when he says you’ve changed. Please stop, I told her. I was starting to shake. If Jordan F has something to say, he should call me himself, I said, and hung up.
* * *
I wished our conversation had gone differently—I wanted to ask Lulu for her advice on the face-surgery woman. But it seemed there was no room for that kind of talk between us anymore. When I stopped shaking, I tried to think about things rationally. It is no secret that in our world a faceless woman is as good as dead, but a faceless man is still a man. Realizing this, I didn’t see how I could say no. And looking back, I can say I wasn’t wrong; my life didn’t change much.
* * *
The only thing that did change was it seemed silly now to keep making a fuss. I knew if I was asked for something I still had, I would say yes. And I did—the alcoholic who needed a liver, the AIDS patient who needed my skin, the guy from Montreal who collected spleens for a living—I felt lighter with each part of myself I gifted. When a bomb fell in town—something that happened every few months, yet always got a good deal of attention—it seemed only natural not to wait till the requests came in. I walked over there to see what organs might be needed. It was warm out, and I was sweating by the time I got to the scene, so later, in the local paper, they said I ran over there as fast as I could and “gave everything I had to give.” People appreciated it. Some called m
e the town hero. The difference between running and not running seemed immaterial, so I never mentioned it.
* * *
The highs were intense and usually lasted a couple of days, but I told myself that wasn’t my reason for doing it. And as it turned out, I suppose I was right.
* * *
I got a letter from Jordan F at one point. I thought perhaps he’d heard I was helping people in our town and perhaps that changed his mind—Jordan F always valued loyalty. I have one question for you, the letter said. Doesn’t it feel like you’re disappearing? I wrote back: No. It feels like I’m taking shape. I imagined Jordan F reading it, his face twitching.
* * *
It was only when that last request came in the mail, the one I had to refuse, that I was forced to look into myself. I was giving away my organs, but it wasn’t out of charity, it didn’t prove I was a good man. All it proved was I still had the one thing that mattered: my manhood. I felt ashamed realizing this, but I knew it was the truth.
The man’s story was horrifying. He’d been away from home for nearly three years, fighting. On his first night back, his wife chopped his penis off in his sleep because she believed he’d cheated on her while away. I wanted to help this man so badly my balls hurt. It was as if they were already getting ready to relocate, stretching out toward a new body. I cried, coughed, couldn’t stop saying no, no, no for hours. I sounded something like a miserable rooster. I couldn’t breathe. It was clear: I couldn’t do it.
* * *
For the first time in a long time, I debated contacting Jordan F and Lulu, who I could only assume by this point were more than just traveling together. I knew they would likely be supportive, say I was allowed to draw a line somewhere, I was entitled to my feelings. I didn’t call. I tried saying these same things myself, but all I felt was sadness. I wanted to be a better man—the kind of man who’s not a prisoner of his own anatomy, the kind of man who saves a life if he can, expecting nothing in return. A true hero. But ultimately, I failed.
* * *
Dear Sir, I wrote. Everything you’ve heard about me is true, but unfortunately I cannot help you, for if I help you it will be the end of me. I would never again be able to love another body, never be able to conceive a son, and if ever I wanted to fight for something I believed in, no war—neither the one we’re in, nor any future one—would take me. I would be considered a man no more (no offense). Maybe in a different time, in a different world, I wrote. I could only hope that he was smart enough to know what I meant, and kind enough to forgive.
TZFIRAH
When the sun comes down on Tel Aviv, it comes down hard. You open a window and darkness is everywhere. You think, Wasn’t this land lit up just now? Wasn’t the air yellow only moments ago? But you can never be sure.
* * *
You flew in from New York when your sister was enlisted—of course you did—and her new olive uniform could have fit two of her. The induction center you were all escorting her to was attached to your old base, and in the car on the way over you waited for that familiar right turn onto a winding road. It’s all straight after that, you remembered—straight through treeless, browngray streets with no U-turn. Your dad joked about how excited you must be. You put your hand on your sister’s knee and pretended not to notice the shaking. Then: the waiting area that looked like a parking lot, your sister small like the drive had shrunk her, and a giant billboard of names blinking red. Your father was the first to notice when her name came up, and you felt angry at him for seeing.
* * *
When the sun comes down on Tel Aviv, it comes down hard, and on the days when people try to remember, it comes down even harder. In Israel, there are days devoted to the task of remembering. Once a year: remembering the Holocaust. Once a year: remembering fallen soldiers. This is how a nation achieves collective remembrance: it freezes to the sound of a wailing siren for the duration of one minute, or two. Cars stop mid-road, screaming babies go unattended, and if you turn on the television or radio you hear nothing but the soundtrack of grief.
* * *
Now here’s the confusing thing: remembrance sirens sound exactly like wartime sirens. In Tel Aviv, this can get especially confusing if you are someone who currently lives abroad. If Tel Aviv is your hometown but on this Day of Remembrance you are merely visiting, this is what will happen to you: You’ll be brushing your teeth, when suddenly you’ll hear a gentle cry growing into something violent, the roar of a man-made wailing machine. You will think that maybe a new war is starting, or an old one returning, because the Gulf War is something that your body remembers, and sirens are part of that memory.
* * *
You were twelve, and for a while your family moved from city to city in an attempt to avoid danger, but the Scud missiles seemed to follow you. Finally you settled in a town called Raanana that seemed far enough from peril and close enough to routine: school for you, day care for your sister, work for your parents, every morning all of you clutching your boxed gas masks like purses. You got your first period in that temporary home, and in the bathroom which was not your bathroom you stared at the blood for a long time. Then: the siren; another missile was on its way.
* * *
Brushing your teeth, you will think about that war and say to yourself, This is probably nothing. A few seconds later you will open the bathroom door and shout to your sister, What’s going on? But she will not hear you over the piercing sound of her music; on this Day of Remembrance, she is a soldier on her day off, trying hard to forget. You’ll spit, and with toothpaste on your lips like foam you’ll shout again, you’ll shout loud. Your sister will hear you. She will step out of her room and gasp. This is what she will scream: Tzfirah! In Hebrew, the siren that reminds people to remember has a special name—Tzfirah.
* * *
You will want to laugh at the absurdity of the moment, but you will not. You will want to hug your sister with too much force and whisper, Don’t go back to your base, but you will not. Let’s pretend we can’t hear it, you will want to say; let’s walk over to the kitchen, toast some bread, fry some eggs. But you will not. For the remaining twenty seconds, this is what you will do: stand still alongside your sister, listen to the siren, and think about death, about darkness that takes over a city in a flash when the sun comes down hard.
BEEP
Everyone knows Thursdays are wacky. It was a Thursday when the new shopping center opened, when, thrilled by its proximity to my apartment, I spent some money on ceramic pots I didn’t need. Also, a few books I already had but couldn’t resist rebuying. I came home carrying bags of purchased happiness, but no one was there to share my excitement. And then I heard the beep.
I looked for the source of the beep everywhere: nothing. Under the blankets, behind the TV, inside the refrigerator: nothing. Every time I thought it was gone, it would beep again. I counted the seconds. My discovery: inconsistency. Five seconds, eight, two, twelve. Beep, beep, beep, beep. I stopped counting. I tried to convince myself it was one of those things that happen on Thursdays, no big deal. I wasn’t buying it.
Jojo got home around seven. Hi, honey, I said, how was your day? I was waiting for the first beep we could share. I was waiting for him to go crazy trying to figure out where it came from. Jojo was the kind of guy who would. I waited: no beep. More than eleven minutes: no beep.
Hungry, babe? Jojo asked, and went in the kitchen to fix dinner. No thanks, I said. And it beeped. Hear that, Jojo? Hear that? I shouted. I was excited. Hear what, babe? he shouted back. The beep, the beep, there was a beep, didn’t you hear? I was mad at him for missing it.
Then I thought: Maybe it’s my own private beep. Maybe it won’t beep when Jojo’s around. Weird, I thought—everybody usually liked Jojo. Then dinnertime came and refuted my theory. My beep was beeping all through dinner. Jojo was right there. He couldn’t hear it. I asked, almost every time: he couldn’t hear it.
* * *
Then: the particles. They were small at first, s
o I didn’t mind them. Small particles flying through the air can be distracting, yes, but I’ve seen worse.
We were at a restaurant. Jojo, I said, did you see that? Then I asked the waiter, and a woman sitting at the next table. I was thinking there might be something wrong with Jojo. There wasn’t. They couldn’t see the particles either.
Then the particles got bigger, and then even bigger. Soon there were things flying in the air that could potentially be hazardous. For example: the stop sign that got knocked down by the storm the other day; an equestrian. Despite the danger, I felt relieved; my particles were part of something larger. I kept dodging: I had to. Jojo thought it was a twitch. He made an appointment for me to see a neurologist. Jojo, I said, there are fucking horses flying around in here. Babe, he said, you crack me up.
* * *
Then the strangest thing happened. Jojo came home from work one day, and he wasn’t Jojo. He was Dora. He had breasts and everything. He didn’t even look like Jojo, or sound like him. For three days, he denied it. Denied the breasts, denied the voice, denied the blond hair. Finally, she cracked. You’re right, she said, I’m not even sure who Jojo is. That’s it, I said to myself. Jojo’s gone. I’d always known that one day he would leave me.
Dora couldn’t see or hear any of it either.
One day Dora came home from work and said, We gotta talk. Babe, she said, you’re seeing things, you’re hearing things, I’m worried. Aren’t you, I said, hearing things, seeing things? I gave examples. Babe, she said, it’s not the same, it’s stuff that’s real. My stuff’s real, too, I said. Who’s to say what’s real and what’s not, I said. You’re not being supportive, I said.
