by Ragen, Naomi
And Abigail had explained patiently: “When you were little, like the baby, I had milk for you. But now that you are all grown up, Mommy doesn’t have any more milk.”
Kayla had looked up at her with those beautiful big eyes: “Do you have apple juice?”
Abigail chuckled to herself. And then there was the time Kayla had flung herself on the floor weeping: “My Barbie has nothing to wear!” Or the time she’d given a very detailed explanation for how they made Coca-Cola: “You take a black cat . . .”
She watched the unhappy baby cuddling in her mother’s arms, almost feeling the warmth of the soft cheek against her own, the fluid movements of the soft limbs.
The seat-belt sign went off. She tore the blanket out of its plastic wrapper, plumped up all three pillows, and stretched out. Despite the engine noise, the screaming baby, she slept.
When she opened her eyes, she saw that the stewardess had left some food on one of the little fold-down tables. Acquiring a rum-spiked Coke, she tore open the little tinfoil packages of beef and pasta, dipped a warm roll into the sauce, and sipped her drink, totally content. She opened the video screen. They were somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, near Europe. She felt a calm come over her. All her problems had been left far behind her, and Kayla was still so far ahead. Right now, she had nothing to do but watch all the movies, eat the delicious, cholesterol-filled brownie iced with fudge frosting, and ask for more alcoholic beverages. It would take hours and hours for the plane to land, she thought contentedly, perfectly happy to float between earth and sky, where nothing could touch her.
The plane was sailing smoothly through the sky and even the baby was finally sleeping. It was a girl, and she looked like an angel.
19
It was 6:00 P.M. local time and already pitch-dark when Abigail emerged from the terminal in Tel Aviv.
“I need to go to the Judean desert, near Ein Gedi.”
The taxi drivers shook their heads. “Maybe someone else.” They melted away, searching for an easier fare. She finally waited on line at the official taxi stand, where by law they were obligated to take you anywhere you wanted to go.
“I need to go to Metuzke Madragot near the Dead Sea.”
The driver looked her over. “Two hundred dollars. No meter. Okay?”
“Do you know how to get there?”
“I know what I know. I’ll get you there.”
She was not about to bargain.
They rode for an hour before she saw any signs of the desert. Then, suddenly, dark monoliths rose on her right, towering with menace. At every turn, something in her resonated with danger and a strange thrill. But each time she felt the word “STOP!” rise in her throat, she forced herself to swallow hard. There was no turning back.
Then the swift flow of the road beneath them slowed as they turned off the highway and headed up a narrow mountain pass. She strained with the car as it inched its way upward. Terrifying visions of Grace Kelly and her daughter plunging off a mountain road in Monaco alternated with panic-filled memories of a wild ride up the Rock of Gibraltar with Adam. Against her sounder instincts, she turned around, looking out the back window. It was all black, except for a reflection of light, elongated and shimmering, which sank into what could only be a black expanse of water.
She rolled down the window, trying to get her bearings. The air had a faint chemical smell and something gritty and abrasive.
“What is that odor?” she asked the driver.
“The Dead Sea. Good for you. ”
She doubted that.
The turns were hairpin. She gripped the upholstery and tightened her seat belt. They seemed almost vertical at times, submerged in black ether. Then, finally, she saw some lights in the distance. But as they drew closer, she was disappointed to find it was not a sign of life but simply a towering metal structure, some kind of hardware in the middle of nowhere to facilitate transmissions to faraway places where people actually lived. Its red bulbs glittered festively, like sequins, against the blue-velvet sky.
They continued climbing until the road disappeared, and there was only the crunch of gravel beneath the tires.
“It will ruin car,” the driver grumbled. “Where is place? You have address? Why no address . . .” he went on, growing angrier and angrier. Finally, the taxi’s headlights picked out a huge gate of thick yellow metal that blocked their advance. There didn’t seem to be a soul around to open it. A hand-lettered sign in Hebrew gave them a number to call.
He took out his cell phone, but there was no reception. He shrugged, snapping the phone shut with disgust. “You get out here, walk around gate.”
“Here?” She looked around desperately. She was in the middle of the wilderness as far as she could see. “Absolutely not! You can forget about it! You are not leaving me here. Wait. I see an intercom.”
She got out of the car and pressed the button. “Hello?”
“Yes?” A voice answered her in English.
A wave of relief washed through her. “I’m Mrs. Samuels. Kayla’s mother.”
As if by magic, the metal gate began to slide open.
The taxi rode on in silence except for the sound of popping gravel as it pressed the rough stones beneath its wheels. This went on for at least ten minutes, then abruptly stopped.
“Higanu . . . Uhm, we here,” the driver said.
She rolled down the window. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
A makeshift group of caravans and shacks with corrugated tin roofs huddled together as if for warmth from the desert night. They were deplorably ugly, she thought, her heart sinking, feeling a strange sense of betrayal. Not a single human being was in evidence.
The driver turned around, a big grin on his face. “I drive you to five-star Dead Sea hotel? Only sixty more American dollars! Only best . . .”
For a fraction of a moment, she was tempted.
“No, of course not!”
He shrugged, resentful of being robbed of his extra sixty dollars. He got out and opened up the trunk, tossing her heavy suitcases on the gravel with a thud that echoed though the windswept hills.
“Careful!” she said helplessly, getting out of the car. She shuddered from the icy desert blast, hugging her coat around her. “I thought it was hot in the desert!”
“Not at night, lady.” He laughed. “You pay me now.”
“Hold on a minute. Can you just wait here until I find someone?”
Before he could answer, she turned and walked quickly toward the only lit window she saw. It was in a low building made of concrete blocks painted Popsicle orange. Crossing a makeshift veranda crowded with potted plants and orange hammocks hung from the branches of a giant tree, she knocked urgently on the pale blue door. Behind her, she could still make out the driver’s grumbled complaints.
A shaft of light cut through the darkness as the door opened. Standing on the threshold was a tall, slim young man wearing a colorful knitted helmet from which unruly dark curls cascaded down to a small dark beard. He wore a fringed white-linen tunic over his shirt and white-linen pants.
“Baruch HaBah!” he said with a shy smile.
Abigail stared. Faded scars covered his forehead and chin. He went silent, staring back in confusion, his blue eyes as calm and lovely as a summer lake.
“Who is it?” a voice behind him said. A woman suddenly appeared by his side. She was slim and youthful, wearing a long Indian skirt and a turquoise head scarf. Her blue eyes were beautiful and familiar, Abigail thought, her eyes shifting between the woman and the young man.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Mrs. Samuels. I’m here to see Kayla.”
“Kayla’s mother! Baruch Hashem! Come in. Can I get you something to eat, or drink? You’ve had a long journey. God bless your safe arrival.” She spoke in English with a French-Canadian lilt.
“The taxi is waiting . . . If I could just . . . where is . . . my daughter . . . ?”
“Ah, the taxi! Your suitcases! Let us help you. Kayla is on a desert tre
k with Natan. She’ll be back in the morning . . . She mentioned you might come.”
Abigail gave a confused half smile. “She did?”
She nodded. “But I don’t think even she imagined . . . that it would be this soon . . .” The woman grinned. “I’m Ariella, by the way. Let me see . . . Here’s the key to caravan eight. It’s the best one we’ve got at the moment. Would you like to have a meal with us?” She spread out a welcoming arm. “Or if you’re tired, I can make a plate for you, and you can take it back to your cabin . . .”
Abigail didn’t hear anything, busy with the slow percolation into her brain of the information she had just been given. Finally, it sank in. Her daughter—and everyone else here apparently—had been sitting back waiting for her to show up. As if there had been no other choice she could have made!
Was Kayla’s letter, then, just a cynical exercise in manipulation? And were these people expecting her because that was what all the parents of potential or actual cult inductees did? Was it simply experience that informed their expectations? Or had Kayla regaled them with intimate tales concerning her family life (no doubt at Abigail’s expense) that had led them to this conclusion? She found both possibilities equally infuriating. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, or that mouse in the maze that keeps going for the cheese, did Kayla really think her parents were that pathetically predictable?
Then another idea took over, shoving out all the rest: Here I am in the desert on some godforsaken mountaintop with a bunch of refugees from Woodstock. And Kayla is nowhere to be found.
The taxi honked viciously.
She saw the woman and the young man glance at each other in sad understanding. “Ben Tzion, be a tzadik and get Mrs. Samuels’ suitcases from the car? She is probably very tired. In the meantime, I’ll prepare something for the driver.”
“It’s all right. I’ll take care of him . . .”
“I’m sure you will . . .” The woman smiled. “Still, he needs something more. Something to sweeten his soul.”
Abigail paid the driver, who continued to mutter beneath his breath. Behind her, she heard the quick footsteps of the woman. Ariella put her arm around Abigail’s waist and leaned into the driver’s window, handing him a handmade ceramic box covered with amulets. “Fresh zaatar, from our gardens. Put this on your salad, your hummus . . .” She smiled.
The driver opened the container and sniffed. His hard eyes softened.
“From your own gardens? You can grow something in this hole?” He smiled.
“Baruch Hashem.” She smiled back.
“Todah, geveret.” He nodded.
“Bevakasha, adon.”
He reached into his pocket, then handed Abigail a card. “Lady, this is good place. But anyway. Here is name, number. Anytime, I get you out of here.”
Abigail pocketed it, forgetting all about the driver’s bad behavior, thinking only what a relief it was to be a phone call away from rescue, even if Prince Charming on the white horse was a cabbie with thinning hair and a bad temper who didn’t speak English.
The revving of the engine pierced the quiet. The rough sound of rubber flattening gravel grew fainter, until swallowed by the night. She felt a quiet desolation settle over her. She was really and truly stuck now. “Well, I am tired. I think . . . I’ll just . . . go now. Thank you.” She put out her hand to Ariella, who ignored it, giving her a hug, which Abigail found intrusive and inappropriate.
“Ben Tzion will see you safely there. It’s just a short walk.”
Abigail followed the young man and her suitcases up a poorly paved and meagerly lit path to what looked like the prefab concrete boxes you see on building sites. White paint peeled off the badly fitted wooden door.
The young man said nothing, lugging her suitcases without complaint, standing patiently outside her door until she finally realized it was she who had the key. She fumbled through her purse in the dark, finding it, certain it would jam. To her surprise, it turned smoothly in the lock. Blindly fingering the walls, she found the light switch. A bare bulb illuminated the distempered walls. With a touch of fear, she peeked into the bathroom.
“You have one of the few houses with its own bathroom,” he told her cheerfully. “Just . . . don’t drink the water from the faucet . . . It’s not drinking water.”
She thought of the scene in Sex and the City when the girls are in Mexico and Charlotte mistakenly opens her mouth in the shower . . .
He carefully brought in her suitcases, which took up half the room. “My mother will bring you some bottled water and some food.” He was silent for a moment, at a loss. “Everything will look better in the morning,” he promised kindly.
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” She opened her purse to tip him, but he was already gone.
The floor of the shower stall had peeling whitewash, revealing the cracked tiles beneath. There was also a claw-footed bathtub that had seen better days; a sink with a faucet that reached out almost beyond the basin; and an old toilet with a plastic seat that seemed straight out of black-and-white prison movies. Two beds hugged opposite walls—slabs of hard foam rubber on simple wooden pallets that raised them barely above the floor. Two small, chipped Formica night tables filled the gap in between, and a rattan bookcase on a third wall held rough white towels and brown blankets. The only other piece of what could loosely be called furnishings was yet another foam mattress wrapped in a colorful fabric with several beaded pillows placed against a wall like a sofa. Old curtains covered the single window, which looked out at the concrete block behind it. There was also an old air conditioner, and a wall-mounted spiral heater. She pulled the dangling cord and took some comfort as she watched it turn fiery red. The room was freezing. A smell of bromide drifted in from the bathroom.
She sat down on the cold bed, shivering, hungry, heartbroken. There was nothing she wanted, she thought, nothing that would make her feel better. She thought of all the things she had done for Kayla over the years. And this was what Kayla had done for her! But even in her anger and despair, she knew it wasn’t only Kayla. She had come to the end of some strange, twisting road, ending up in this dump, surrounded by darkness and strangers, far away from everyone she loved. Without even willing it, she began to sob, her whole body aching with longing to be home.
But where was that, she wondered? In the neighborhood of people who had shown her no compassion in her time of need? In that huge, expensive, barely inhabited pile of bricks, filled with things slowly falling into decay? Or at the side of her silent, broken husband who shuffled around like an old man and went to bed at nine, if he went to bed at all? If home was to be defined as a place of comfort and sheltering warmth, compassion, and well-being, then she was, for all intents and purposes, homeless.
She heard a gentle tap at the door. It was Ariella. She held a covered tray and a large wicker basket. The scent of warm bread and meat and potatoes wafted into the room. Abigail opened the door wider, letting her in.
“It’s still warm,” the woman said as she placed a large white plate covered with a napkin on the night table. “And here is mineral water, wine, and juice. We’ll move a refrigerator in here in the morning. And maybe a chair and table.” She looked around, her eyes alert. She picked up the basket and began to unload its contents onto the bed. “Some soaps and body lotion. They’re full of Dead Sea minerals. Wonderfully healing. And some scented candles you can light to relax when you take your bath.” The woman looked at Abigail, her beautiful eyes filled with compassion. “Kayla is a lovely girl. I’m so happy you’ve come. You must have missed her very much.”
Abigail nodded cautiously, watching the woman’s bustling hospitality with suspicion. She’d heard about these kinds of cults, where they first drew you in, disarmed you with kindness, then wound up robbing you of your children and every last cent. She pressed her lips together.
Ariella reacted, becoming still. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you a more luxurious room. You know, most of us sleep in tents.”
“Kayla too?” She w
as shocked.
“Kayla was actually assigned a room. But she said she liked the tent better.”
Abigail stared at her, speechless.
Ariella grinned: “You look amazed! Your daughter is not a spoiled American. She’s wonderful. She’s one of us.”
“And when did you say she’d be coming back?”
“Tomorrow morning, or maybe afternoon. You never know.”
Abigail’s heart sank. “Why is that?”
“Well, these treks are so organic. They start out as one thing, then things happen you don’t expect, and so they grow into something else entirely.” She shrugged.
What did that shrug mean? Abigail wondered. Did it mean, “Oh those crazy kids, you can never tell what they’ll do next”? Or was it sad, resigned, even a little frightened?
“It’s not dangerous, is it?”
Ariella smiled. “Well, that would depend on what you consider danger and how safe you think our lives usually are.”
Abigail’s head began to swim.
The woman cocked her head and said nothing for a few moments. “Don’t let the food get cold. You’re tired. Everything will look different in the morning.”
That was the second time she’d heard that phrase tonight, Abigail thought. At least the Moonies had gotten their story straight. Then she remembered: The young man had said his mother would be bringing some food. The two were mother and son. The woman looked too young.
“I’m sorry. I am tired. Very tired. Good night.” Abigail opened the door and waited, a rude gesture that fit her mood. The woman smiled and kissed her on both cheeks, then walked out into the night. Abigail swung the door shut, almost slamming it, turning the key twice in the lock.
“I should throw your tray out the window,” she said in fury. She sat down on the bed and looked at it, breathing in the delicious aromas. She lifted the napkin off the plate.
There was warm pita bread with zaatar; a mound of minutely chopped fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, grilled chicken, and rice with lentils. There was a small ceramic bowl with hummus and warm chickpeas, and another with a few pieces of Arab pastry dipped in honey and filled with pistachio nuts. She opened the thermos. It was filled with fragrant green tea.
