Mackenzie, Lost and Found

by Deborah Kerbel

  “We were supposed to meet for coffee today, remember? I waited and waited, but when you didn’t come, I figured something might be wrong. I knew this was your building, so I came to find you and see if you were all right. By the way, you shouldn’t leave your door unlocked. That might be okay in Canada, but not here.”

  “Yeah, okay. So, were we bombed? Or gassed? Are we at war?”

  “No, lame-o. Next time listen to your radio! It was just a practice. They do that every now and then to keep us on our toes.”

  A practice? All that for a practice? I wasted a whole day in this prison for nothing? What kind of a stupid country is this?

  Suddenly, I was mad. What a fool I was, waiting around with my teddy bear to be rescued! I ripped the gas mask off, threw it on the floor, and stomped out of the shelter. The look of amusement quickly disappeared from Marla’s face.

  “You know, everyone gets freaked out the first time they hear the siren,” she said, following me to my room. “The first time I heard it go off was a couple of months after we got here from Buffalo. My poor cat actually jumped out the window! Splat!”

  I didn’t know if she was joking or not, but it didn’t really matter, anyway. I was too pissed off to laugh.

  “Cool apartment, Mack,” she said, flopping down on my bed while I rummaged around in the closet for a pair of shorts. “Is your dad at work?”

  “Yeah,” I said, pulling them on. “Maybe you can meet him next time.”

  “Sure, whatever. So, where’s your mom? Does she work at the university too?”

  I froze in my tracks.

  Oh my God! How am I going to tell her about Mom?

  I turned around slowly and stared at her.

  “Um, well … you see … um …”

  Make up a story, Mack!

  “ … my mom’s … um …”

  Say she’s on a vacation … or out grocery shopping or something!

  “ … she’s, well …”

  Just say anything! You don’t need her pity.

  “ … she’s … she’s dead.”

  And there it was. The terrible awful truth, hanging in the air like a bad smell.

  Suddenly serious, Marla sat upright on the bed. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Back home the news had been splashed all over the TV and the papers. Everyone I knew had seen or read about it, which was good in a weird way because it had saved me from having to tell the story myself … until now. For a split second I thought about making up a total lie, something less violent. But Marla was a good friend. I knew I owed her the truth.

  I took another deep breath and closed my eyes.

  “It was a hit and run. It happened down the street from my house in Toronto. She was walking home from work. The driver ran a stop sign … they never caught him. Her name was Elizabeth.”

  As simple as that. The facts of Mom’s tragedy in fifty words or less. For Marla’s sake, I left out all the truly horrible parts.

  Like the blood-stained road. And how even after they scrubbed it clean and even after countless rainfalls, I could still see a shadow permanently ingrained in the pavement. And how I had to walk past it every morning on my way to school and every afternoon on my way home.

  And I didn’t mention how Mom’s personal items were returned to us in a manila envelope: her watch, her wedding ring, her key chain, and her wallet, which I knew without even opening was still stuffed with my baby pictures.

  And I didn’t say anything about how my own twisted brain sometimes forced me to imagine her last, horrifying moments, seeing the car coming, freezing with fear, and knowing that she was about to die. And how often I tortured myself wondering if, in that split second, she thought about me.

  I took the hem of Mom’s sweater between my fingers and held it out for Marla to see.

  “This was hers,” I said as my thoughts flew back to the day I’d snuck into her closet to take it. It was right after Dad had told me about the move. Thinking about it now, I could still smell the leftover traces of Mom’s lily-of-the-valley perfume, which had wafted underneath my nose as I ran my hands over the stack of cashmere sweaters on the shelf above my head. Mom loved cashmere so much that she wore it even in the summertime. Dad and I had given it to her as a gift every birthday, Christmas, and Mother’s Day for as long as I could remember. By the time of the accident, it seemed like Mom owned a cashmere sweater, scarf, and pair of socks for every colour of the rainbow.

  I had taken this sweater down and pulled it over my head, letting the smell and feel of Mom take over. And that was when the tears finally started to flow. Months and months of pent-up sadness spilled out of my eyes and down onto the soft lilac knit of the cashmere. I sunk into a puddle on the floor of that closet and cried for my mother and the memories I worried would soon fade away.

  “Mommy mommy mommy,” I sobbed. As if saying her name over and over again could somehow bring her back. I needed to know when the sadness would go away … when I would stop seeing her face in crowds and hearing her voice in my dreams … when I would start to feel normal again.

  And I was still waiting for those answers. It had been over a year since the accident, and my memories of her were slipping further away with each passing day.

  “Mack?”

  I opened my eyes and looked up into Marla’s face, ready for the inevitable look of pity. But instead, for the first time ever, I saw my own pain staring back at me.

  “I know exactly how you feel,” she said softly. “My mom’s dead, too.”

  My mouth fell open with shock. “Really? When? How?”

  She turned her head and nodded towards my window.

  “Believe it or not, it happened right down there.”

  “What?” I gasped, walking over and peering down at the busy intersection below. I turned and looked back at Marla, my face covered in question marks.

  “Was it a car accident?” I asked, remembering the frenzied rush of crazy drivers and blaring horns.

  “No — a bus bombing,” she explained, her pretty face crumpling with sadness. “It was almost four years ago now. We were going to the market together, only we got into an argument about something stupid on our way to the bus stop. I got mad, turned around, and came home. And she got blown up by a terrorist.”

  Suddenly, Marla stopped talking and bit her bottom lip. I knew right away that she was leaving out her most horrible parts, too.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe it!” I whispered, sitting back down on the bed. “That’s just so awful!” An icy chill passed over my body, followed quickly by a layer of goosebumps. I rubbed at my arms, trying to smooth them away. “Aren’t you angry, Mar?”

  She looked surprised at the question. “Of course I’m angry. My mom was murdered, Mack! You, of all people, can understand how that feels. Aren’t you angry, too?”

  I nodded.

  “At one point, I couldn’t even leave my house I was so angry,” she continued, wiping away a stray tear from the corner of her eye. I could hear the control she was putting into each word, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “For a long time, I wanted to die, too. I used to wish Mom and I had never argued that day — that I’d been with her on that bus. At least that way I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain of living without her. It’s been almost four years since the attack, but some days I still feel like that.”

  I saw a couple of big tears roll down Marla’s cheeks before she turned her face towards the window. “You know, my mom was a really good person — a doctor, for God’s sake. She didn’t deserve to die. I mean, just think of all the lives she could have saved if she was still alive.”

  When she turned back to me her cheeks were soaking wet. She lifted the hem of her T-shirt and began wiping them.

  “Oh Mar …,” I started to say, then stopped. I wanted to say something to make her feel better, but I knew from experience that there were no words for that.

  “My dad tries to help,” she went on
with a small sniffle. “He tells me I can’t let the guilt and anger and sadness take over my life. He says being angry all the time doesn’t solve anything — it just eats away at your insides. I know he’s right, but it’s still hard sometimes, you know?”

  Her voice finally broke on the last word. I reached out to give her a hug. We sat like that for a few minutes, letting our tears fall and thinking about what each other had lost. Finally, Marla sat back and forced out a shaky smile.

  “Hey listen, do you ever go up to the rooftop?”

  I shook my head. “No, what are you talking about?”

  She stood up and flung off her sadness like a heavy winter coat. “All these buildings have access to the roof. Let’s go up and look at the view.”

  In less than a minute, she located the access door and we were on our way up. When we got to the top of the stairs I gazed around in amazement. It was beautiful. A sunny terrace with plants and deck chairs, solar panels, and, even though it was only four stories high, a great view of the huge, sloping Mount Scopus. I couldn’t believe I’d been here for eight weeks and not discovered it myself.

  It was already late in the afternoon, the sunlight was dusty and soft, and we had nowhere else to go, so we stretched out on the chairs and watched the sun go down. We talked about our mothers and shared some of our best memories. It was the first time I’d been able to do that without an unbearable ache taking over my body. I even found myself laughing once or twice.

  I told Marla about Mom’s obsession with cashmere, how she always sang in the car to help cope with her phobia of driving, and how she used to make pancakes on Sunday mornings and pour them into the shapes of all my favourite storybook characters.

  “Cinderella, the Big Bad Wolf — she could do them all!” I said proudly.

  And Marla told me about when she and her mother used to go to restaurants in Buffalo and pretend not to speak any English to see who could make the waiter laugh first. And how after they moved to Israel, they would sometimes rent a car and take off on “girls-only” weekend drives through the desert.

  For the first time in ages, my aching heart came out of hiding. And it felt good. When the sun finally went down, the cool evening breeze made the air feel almost like a summer night in Toronto. And the moon rising over the mountain and the endless ceiling of stars hanging overtop was an incredible sight to see. We stayed up there until we saw Dad’s car pull into the parking lot below.

  “C’mon,” I said, taking Marla’s hand and pulling her out of her chair. “I’ll introduce you to Einstein himself.”

  Then I took Marla downstairs to meet him.

  Chapter 8

  It was nighttime on the Judean Plain. The lights from the city shone on the horizon, illuminating the site with a soft grey glow. Nasir and Baba were stretched out on the ground, digging in the dry earth. Beside them, a metal detector and a pickaxe lay in the sand and a pair of flashlights pointed towards the hole they were gradually enlarging with their trowels. Keeping their heads down, they dug slowly, taking their time and watching their work with close attention. Nasir tried not to let his feelings of disapproval show on his face. Although his father had explained the “job” to him during the drive out here, he still couldn’t believe they were actually going through with it.

  No wonder he didn’t want Mama to know what he was up to, Nasir thought. He understood that his relatives were struggling, but he knew there had to be a better way to get money than this! Maybe he could ask for more hours at the store … or look for a second job … or something.

  “Tell me again what we’re looking for, Baba,” he whispered, trying to keep his words from sounding like a complaint. After almost an hour of digging, his throat was dry and his arms were getting tired.

  Baba didn’t lift his eyes from his work for a second. “Coins, jewellery, ancient cooking utensils — anything like that,” he replied, tossing a clump of dirt to the side.

  Nasir swiped a stream of sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand and waited another minute before asking the question that had been on his mind all night.

  “But Baba,” he asked, choosing his words carefully, “isn’t this kind of thing against the law?”

  His father stopped digging and looked up. Even in the darkness, Nasir could see the flash of anger in his eyes. He knew he’d said the wrong thing.

  “Against the law?” Nasir’s father repeated, pointing the tip of his trowel at his son like an accusing finger. “The law says that everything pulled from this earth belongs to the state of Israel. But that’s not true, Nasir. You must remember that it belonged to us before it belonged to them. This is our heritage and we have every right to claim it. Give it to Israel? Who needs it more, your poor grandparents and aunt who are suffering in a refugee camp, or the rich government? Just remember, we wouldn’t be here right now if they hadn’t driven us to this point.”

  He was practically daring Nasir to disagree with him. But Nasir knew enough not to argue with his father when he got angry. Not when it was about politics or religion. And especially not when it was about the Palestinian cause. Nasir scooped up a handful of dirt and let it fall slowly from his trowel. Sometimes it was hard for him to believe how much violence had been waged over such a dusty, dry stretch of soil. Ever since he could remember, his father had told the story of how the Palestinians had been robbed of this land. Baba had often spoken of al-Nakba, the catastrophe that befell their people when Israel became a nation. But Nasir’s textbooks at school told a different story. From them, he’d learned that the Arabs and the Jews both had roots here. It was a fact he was wise enough not to point out to his father right now.

  “But … but Baba, I still don’t understand how we’re going to sell it,” he said instead. “I mean, who’s going to buy an ancient fork … or frying pan … or whatever we find out here?”

  “Just keep digging,” he replied, pointing his trowel back down to the hole. “And let me worry about those details.”

  After that, neither of them said much. It was really late now — just a few more hours until sunrise, when Nasir knew he’d be pulled from his bed for the morning prayers. He worked diligently, telling himself how every shovelful of dirt was bringing them closer to finding something for Baba and getting him home to his bed. They carried on with their digging for another hour until Nasir’s shovel struck something with a loud clang. Baba immediately grabbed his flashlight and shone it into the hole.

  “You’ve found something Nasir!” he cried, reaching down the hole to remove the object from the ground. Baba gasped when he saw what it was: a small figurine, no bigger than a child’s hand. He gently brushed the dirt away, slowly revealing the bronze image of a woman draped in a long, flowing robe.

  Nasir sat back on his heels and sighed with relief. He had no idea how old this thing was and didn’t really care, either. They’d found what they’d come for — although neither of them dared utter a peep of celebration out there in the darkened field.

  While his father looked over his prize, Nasir gazed up at the full moon floating over Mount Scopus. To him, it looked like a giant eye staring down from above — a colossal-sized witness to their crime.

  Chapter 9

  Have you ever been the new kid in school? Pretty scary, right?

  Well, try being the new kid in school in a completely different country with classes in a completely different language. I realized quickly that it was time to sink or swim! The first day was absolutely hellacious — by the end of it I needed a life jacket.

  My homeroom was a nightmare — nobody said a word to me except for the teacher, but even that was only during roll call. In between classes, I walked the halls like a geek, staring at my shoes and clutching the straps of my backpack for dear life. Call me paranoid, but I could feel their eyes on me, the freaky new girl with the pasty white skin.

  Thank God Marla was there with me. Even though she was one grade ahead, at least we got to meet up at lunchtime. Honestly, if I had to spend lunch si
tting by myself I would probably throw up!

  The first day she introduced me to some of her friends.

  “This is Mackenzie Hill,” she said, putting a protective arm around my shoulder as we joined them in the cafeteria. “She just moved here from Canada and she’s going to sit with us from now on. Okay?” She spoke in English. I had already figured out that all the kids at my school spoke English outside of class. Thank God for small favours!

  “Um, hi.” I smiled, hoping to look friendly … but not overly friendly like I was trying too hard. One thing I learned from my old high school is that nobody likes a desperato.

  The three girls looked up from their cellphones, waved hello, and made room for us at the table. There was Ronit, a short girl with curly brown hair who seemed kind of shy. I wasn’t sure if I liked her or not. Even though she didn’t say much, I got a creepy feeling from her, like she was judging me or something.

  And there was Yael, who I did like right away. She was bubbly and cute and always seemed to be smiling with her dimples and gap-toothed grin.

  And there was Noa with the smoky grey eyes. She was curvaceous, beautiful, and radiated confidence. I could tell right away that she was the kind of girl other girls watched and tried to copy.

  For the entire first week, they were the only kids in school who spoke to me. The five of us sat together every day for lunch. On the rare rainy day we stayed in the cafeteria, but most of the time we would take our food outside and sit under the shade of the giant olive tree and talk.

  Well actually, they would talk and I would listen.

  Holy cow! The kids in Israel might look and dress the same as the kids back home, but they sure didn’t act the same. Yeah, they were interested in dating and clothes and movies, but the things that really got them excited were politics, social matters, world affairs, and religion. They were so ultra-intense it was almost frightening.

  Every day there were heated discussions and sometimes even arguments. And it wasn’t just Marla and her friends. Walking down the hallway was like elbowing your way through a debate club meeting.