by Davis Bunn
The woman’s translation resulted in another tirade by the driver, followed by three others. The stout woman beside her became so upset she bounced in her seat with each word, vibrating against Amanda.
“How did you meet this child?” asked the woman across the aisle.
“It’s a long story.”
She sniffed again. “And what else are we to do with our time on this bus than hear about the sick child?”
So Amanda told the story. About visiting the Wailing Wall with her friend. About seeing the young rabbis accost others. About the stranger who offered to guide them inside.
The bus made a stop. No one left, but two teens climbed aboard, chattering gaily. The driver and two old men seated up near the front sharply rebuked them. The teens subsided into startled silence. The doors squeaked shut and the bus trundled on.
Amanda described how Miriam asked her to write out the prayer and set it into the Wall. She told about taking this same bus to the village yesterday, and going to the house, and spending the afternoon with the little girl.
Her words were greeted with a moment’s silence and then the bus driver spoke. A bearded old man seated up front chimed an agreement. The woman translated, “There is a saying in our tongue. It speaks of the special place in heaven reserved for the righteous Gentile. We are certain you are counted among them.”
The bus rolled to a halt.
“This is your stop, yes?” The woman across the aisle rose from her seat. “Come. We go together.”
“My name, it is Nechama. In Hebrew this means comfort.” She rolled her eyes at her own statement, as though telling Amanda a joke. She exited the bus behind Amanda and demanded, “Which way do we go?”
Nechama had the face of a fighter, with fierce eyes and a chin that was ready to jut forward at a moment’s notice. Amanda had the distinct impression that the woman was ready for any protest she might put forth.
Nechama set a briskly impatient pace. At the last turning, Amanda did not recognize any of the buildings. But just as she was ready to confess she had led them down a wrong street, the little house with its ratty front garden came into view.
Miriam had been waiting for her because the door opened as Amanda pushed through the front gate. When Amanda introduced her companion, the two women instantly launched into a lengthy discussion in Hebrew, which continued as Miriam led them through the house and into the same back bedroom.
Rochele was alone. As Miriam lifted her up, the child gave the stranger a solemn inspection, then reached out for Amanda to take her.
Miriam smiled as she released the little one. “She is glad you came.”
Amanda carried Rochele back into the living room where the cook emerged long enough to welcome Nechama and then again to bring them tea. Amanda felt a comfortable sense of belonging as the conversation in Hebrew swirled around her. The cook emerged from the kitchen to join in and the conversation grew increasingly voluble. The cook waved her arms and dabbed at the corner of her eyes with her apron. The tirade was loud enough to draw the helper in from the back garden, and she added her own volume to the discussion.
Nechama’s voice and expression grew ever more severe. Finally she clattered her glass into the little saucer, rose to her feet, and spoke her first words of English since entering the home. “I have heard enough. Let us go and speak with these doctors.”
Miriam set a surprisingly swift pace for a woman supported by a cane. They were midway down the lane leading to Bet Jola’s central thoroughfare when they met Rochele’s mother coming toward them. Alathea heard their plans with rising anxiety, her face going pale with worry over confronting the doctors. But when she started protesting, Nechama cut her off with such intensity the woman meekly fell into step beside Amanda.
Miriam directed them into the central market. Here and there were vestiges of the original village, now almost swamped by wave after wave of poor immigrants seeking work in the factories and offices rimming Jerusalem. The market was filled with second-rate produce and noise.
Amanda reached over and took Rochele from the fretful mother. The little girl’s face shone with a delight that bordered on wonder. Amanda turned this way and that, allowing Rochele to stare at a stall selling live songbirds hung in wicker cages. Then came the spices, great rainbow mounds of colors and scents. The air was cramped with diesel and cooking lamb and coriander and mint. Amanda slowed a bit, as much for herself as the child. She turned with Rochele, reveling in the gift of seeing the world through young eyes.
When they finally emerged from the market, Amanda hurried to catch up with the others. She wondered if there was some way to do what Chris had prayed. Because that really was what lay behind his words. To be restored meant returning to what had been lost. Amanda always said that such things as love and joy had to come naturally. And yet here she was, feeling a shared sense of hope in the impossible happening. A return to what had always been so simple, until it was lost. She had spent an entire year running from the hollowness at the center of her world. She ached for the one who should have been there in her arms. And now, as she walked the road with strangers, carrying a child who was not her own, Amanda found herself feeling threatened. As though part of her feared growing beyond where she was and allowing herself to be happy again.
She was still mulling this over as they rounded a corner and the town’s clinic came into view. As soon as Rochele saw their destination, she whimpered and reached for her mother. Amanda relinquished the child, and their little group walked past the men standing in the shadows cast by the tall buildings to either side, filling the outer passage with their cigarette smoke.
As they entered the clinic, Amanda faced a new realization about herself. The difference between this moment and the life she had known before the crisis came down to one simple fact: she now knew with raw vividness that her world could be turned upside down. It was indeed possible for her happiness to be stripped away. If she allowed herself to be happy, she had to learn to live with the risk that she might someday lose it once more.
And beneath it all, hidden in the dark shadows of a sorrow she had struggled to release and yet clenched tightly to her soul, was yet another truth. She was terrified of becoming pregnant again. Not of losing the little one. Of everything. The risks involved loomed about her on all sides.
Somewhere in the distance an infant wailed and Amanda shivered with genuine terror. That could so easily be her own baby in pain. If she let herself have a next time.
Miriam stepped up beside her and asked softly, “Do you want to speak of it?”
Amanda started as though she had been jerked awake. “Excuse me?”
“Come, child. You will sit with me. No, no, not here. We have no appointment and no emergency. The doctors do not want to see us, so they will punish us for coming by taking our time. It is the way.”
Miriam led her back outside. The clinic opened onto a stubby road, too broad to be called an alley, and barred at the end so that only two ancient ambulances were parked along its length. The result was a sort of plaza for the clinic’s visitors. Benches lined both sides. Those within the shade cast by the building to their left were all taken. A pair of men, swarthy and with the biggest moustaches Amanda had ever seen, rose and waved them over. The gesture was very Mediterranean, the underhanded sweep, the half bow toward the older woman. They spoke in halting Hebrew and gestured again, both of them as polite as courtiers.
Miriam thanked them with the ease of one who was long accustomed to such treatment and asked Amanda, “Do you mind sitting in the sunlight?”
“Not at all.”
“We will find it more private.” Only when they were seated themselves did the men return to their bench and their quiet conversation. “Back on the road, you grew so very sad.”
Amanda knew it was an invitation to speak. She knew also that if she did not respond, Miriam would not press. It was very strange, this level of understanding with a woman who was so totally a stranger. They had nothing in common
, and yet they shared a bond forged while standing before a wall from beyond the reach of time. Amanda said, “I’m so afraid.”
Miriam folded her hands in her lap and waited.
Amanda started with the conversation with Chris that morning and worked backward, then returned to the present. And her fears.
When she went silent, Miriam waited a time, making sure she was done. Then she said, “Do you know what is nice? You do not need to ask me why I am not with my sons. In America. So beautiful, there. And they are rich. And they tell me to come. Every time they phone, they beg and they plead. Come. Live here. You have a room, a place that is yours. Why you are staying there all alone? Why you do not live with us, your family? On and on the questions and the quarreling.”
The clinic doors opened, emitting a cloud of astringent odors. Amanda only noticed them now, when she was outside in the sunlight. It was often that way back home. After a day on the wards she only smelled the difference when she stepped outside and breathed air that was not clogged with hospital smells. Through the open doorway she could see Nechama standing by the counter, arguing with the receptionist. Alathea stood beside her, with Rochele using her mother’s hair as a veil to hide behind.
Miriam went on, “I do not tell them the reasons, because my sons would not understand, and the truth would hurt them. So I remain silent and I wait for them to stop with their arguments. But here is the truth, the reason I remain in Bet Jola.” The old woman turned so as to face Amanda full on. “Because I was born to be a mother. Do you understand what I say?”
“I’m not . . . I don’t . . .”
“My one son, the doctor in Chicago, he has married a lovely American woman from a good family. She does not like me. She tries hard to hide this truth. But how could I not know? She has a woman from Ecuador who lives in their house and cares for the children. She is afraid that I will come and try to take this woman’s place. She thinks I am old-fashioned. She thinks I will make the children not fit in her modern world.” Miriam stared over Amanda’s shoulder, the rheumy eyes studying the unseen. She shrugged. “Nu, who is to say, perhaps she is correct in her thinking.”
Amanda asked gently, “And your other son?”
“Ah, the other. Such a gentle spirit. Such a lovely boy. He lives in San Francisco. With his partner.” She drew out that last word. “You understand?”
“I do.”
“For this and only this I am glad my beloved husband rests with the angels.” Miriam dismissed it with a wave of one arthritic hand. “I was born in that house. I raised my children there. I watched them grow and I watched them leave. And I lost my husband. All the hollow emptiness. And I prayed for an answer, even though I did not know the question to ask. You understand what I am saying, yes?”
Amanda nodded. “All too well.”
“I watched the little village I knew as a child become swallowed by a new Israel. Emigrant Jews from places I had never heard of, Ethiopia and Casablanca and Tunis and Alexandria and Sana. Remnants of the Diaspora, all coming home to a land they had never known. Their children, they are lost and frightened and need a haven. First I take in one child. Neighbors who work long hours, husband and wife both. They bring another family. And this family brings a third. And suddenly I have thirty-two children, and two helpers, and a home that is filled with life. And here now is the wonder. My arms and my heart. They are no longer empty.”
Miriam’s fingers did not quite straighten. The joints kept them slightly curled, even as she reached over and poked Amanda’s leg. “Why am I telling you this? Because I understand your fears. I have walked a different path and arrived at the same place. And here is the answer, the only answer I have found. If you are open, the Almighty will find a way. But only if you are open.”
The clinic doors creaked once again, and Nechama called to them, “The doctor will see us now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
But of course the doctor did not see them. Their turn had simply come to shift from the waiting area to one of the inspection rooms. The cubicles were open-fronted, with thick drapes hanging from metal poles. The rings rattled each time drapes were opened and shut. Amanda saw Rochele jerk with fear each time the sound came in from somewhere down the long concrete corridor. The smells were pungent, the noise unsettling for everyone but Amanda. Nechama clearly disliked being shuffled along a medical assembly line. She spoke in an angry hiss to Miriam, clearly trying to tone down her outrage so as to not spook the child further. But Amanda knew there was nothing to be gained from pressing. She tried to divert Nechama’s attention with a question. “What is it you do?”
“Do? Do?”
“I mean, professionally.”
“I am, how you say . . .” Nechama spoke to Miriam in Hebrew. Miriam shrugged in reply.
A deep male voice from beyond the curtains said, “She is an office manager.”
“Thank you,” Amanda said. There was no response.
“No, no, is not correct. I do not just manage. I maintain. Five lawyers and three secretaries and eleven aides. They are . . . mishugga.”
This word Amanda had heard enough to be able to translate herself. “Crazy.”
“Yes. Like this medical system. A mess. A wreck. To make a baby wait like this, how is it possible?”
“It’s fine,” Amanda said. “How can you take time to help us?”
“Because I am also a mother,” Nechama replied heatedly. “A mother who knows how this system works. Or fails to work. That is why.”
“It is very good of you both to come,” Miriam said. “For you both to help us as you do.”
“Yes, of course, Grandmother speaks the truth. I help because you, the tourist, take time from your holiday. To do what?” Nechama raised her voice. “To stand in this place and wait all day for a doctor who does not come!”
Before Amanda could respond, the drapes swept back. The deep male voice they had heard before said, “Nu, observe. A miracle. The doctor, he is here.”
Nechama’s retort was stifled by the ringing of her phone. She pulled it from her jacket pocket and sniffed. “One of the crazies needs me.”
The doctor was surprisingly slight for the depth of his voice. He had the slender build of a violinist. She suspected that he was only a few years older than she, but weariness and strain had aged him.
Rochele scrunched herself up tightly to her mother’s neck, refusing to even look the doctor’s way. He grimaced at the sound of the child’s whimper and touched the place where soft hairs met the nape of her neck. She whimpered once more.
He softly greeted the two other women, then said to Amanda, “This child, I am knowing. Her mother, I am knowing. And Miss Miriam, guardian of many young lives, I am knowing her as well. You, I am not knowing.”
“My name is Amanda Vance.”
“And why are you here?”
“I was wondering, well . . .” Amanda hesitated. She had no idea how to proceed. “I am a nurse.”
The man shrugged his unconcern and rubbed tired eyes. “Nurses we have.”
“I wanted to ask if you would please check the child’s medical records.”
“Of course we have records. What, you think because you are in Israel you will find no records?”
“I mean no disrespect.”
“You are suggesting that you can come and question my work here, this means no insult?” He crossed his arms. “How is this possible? Please tell me.”
Before Amanda could respond, the doctor sighed, flipped back the drapes, and stepped outside. The curtain blocking out the corridor had been washed until the original color was lost. The doctor returned, causing Rochele to flinch once more as he swept the curtains shut. He carried a manila folder so crammed with pages it had accordioned out to a full eight inches thick. The file represented a tragic history of treatments and tests and specialists and discussions. For a little girl just two years old.
The doctor must have seen something in her face, for his irritated tone diminished somewhat. “Nu. The
file. Now ask your question.”
“Has Rochele ever been treated with sulfa drugs? And if so, what was the response?”
The doctor cocked his head. “The symptoms have been with her since birth or soon after.”
“I understand.”
“They were not caused by our treatment.”
“I am not asking in regard to the origins of her illness. I am looking for the patient’s response to one specific issue.”
“A symptom.”
“Actually, a causal link.”
The doctor used both hands to settle the file on the examining table and started leafing through the pages. “I am sure we have tried the sulfas. We have tried everything when the fevers strike. You know about the fevers?”
Amanda nodded. She watched him turn page after page. Hoping.
“Yes. Here. We tried. Eight months ago.”
“Her response?”
“We thought we had lost her. I remember the night. I was not here, but I heard the next day. The fever spiked so high she entered spasms. They put her on IV and ice bath. Constant supervision for eighteen hours. Then it vanished.”
Amanda felt a soft humming race through her body, a faint trill of hope. “Has her blood work suggested a fairly constant jaundice?”
The doctor squinted at her. “You know the answer.”
Amanda nodded as Nechama returned to stand beside Miriam. “I think so. Yes.”
“So tell me what says the file.”
“Severe anemia is one of the outcomes of every fever. You treat the jaundice with blood strengtheners. They help. But if you keep her on them, they seem to make other symptoms worse.”
He looked at her a long moment. Turned the pages. Nodded more to himself than to her. But it was enough to cause Amanda’s tremors to strengthen.
“There is more to your question, yes?”
“Just two more parts. Is she allergic to chickpeas?”
“To . . .” He turned and spoke to the mother. Alathea gave Amanda a look of wide-eyed wonder and spoke what was such a clear affirmative the doctor did not even translate. Even Nechama’s fierce readiness to do battle was shaken.
