Thanks, but that isn’t quite the point, she sighs and sits down facing her, there’s a difference between a large and a small family, there’s a difference between being left alone at the age of forty-five and at the age of sixty-five, and Naomi says, of course there’s a difference, but not a substantial one, and perhaps it’s even healthier to get your life back at an early age and not at the last moment, look at me, by the time my brood grows up and leaves the house I’ll be an old woman.
The later the better, Dina insists, wiping the sweat from her face with a paper hanky, you don’t know what it’s like when you want to give and you have no one to give to, when suddenly no one needs you. Not long ago I heard about a woman who killed herself because of a mid-life crisis, and I really understand her.
Take it easy, really, you’re exaggerating so much, Naomi scolds her. Gideon needs you in his own way and you can be sure Nitzan does too. She’s barely sixteen, you’re taking too much notice of the faces she puts on, and Dina grimaces, what faces? I’ve hardly seen her in ages, her life is completely full, and I’ve no idea what’s happening to her, she doesn’t tell me anything.
Fine, so she’s a typical adolescent, Naomi declares, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t need you, you’ve just been shifted a little to the side, that’s the whole story, she says, moving the Bible and the exercise-book apart by way of demonstration, and Dina says, I know all about that, and I’ve come to terms with it, I just can’t forgive myself for not having another child, if I was like you and I had a young child like your Ro’i in the house, everything would look different.
What’s going to become of you, you’re already sounding like Hannah praying for a son, Naomi smiles. Perhaps your prayers will be answered too, but look what a price she paid, she takes a quick gulp of her coffee and gathers up her possessions, we’d better move, we’re already late, aren’t we? And Dina says, I’ve finished for today, I’ve had two hours of tuition cancelled, my class is ahead of schedule, and Naomi draws her close and into a sweaty embrace. Don’t be upset, Dini, apparently you didn’t want it enough, and you can’t judge things from a perspective of hindsight, just look at the advantages. I live in a madhouse, nothing but chaos and quarrelling all the time, and you have a quiet life, that’s not a small thing.
But I’m not looking for a quiet life, she protests, and watches her friend as she enters the classroom she just vacated, small and dumpy as a she-bear, and her four children are the same and so is her husband, a family of bears Nitzan used to call them derisively. What, are they having another cub? She was surprised when Naomi got herself pregnant again, four years ago, haven’t they ever tired of making cubs? Of course they all look exactly the same. How lucky I am to be an only daughter, she used to declare now and then, it’s more fun this way. If I get bored I can invite a friend round, and if I get tired of company I can be alone, and I have Mummikins all to myself, I can nestle against her and purr like a kitten.
Yes, that’s the way things looked, and she mustn’t forget, different rules applied in their small family in those days, this was separate territory, independent and proud; from their superior vantage point they looked down on the uncouth behaviour of other families, bowed down under the burden of complaints and quarrels. I’m enjoying bringing up Nitzan more than Naomi is enjoying all four of her offspring, she used to remind herself repeatedly, I have time for her, I have patience, I can give her so much, without feeling guilty for neglecting another child, and for Gideon this was definitely enough, his needs were modest, as was his talent, and it didn’t occur to her that all this was bound to change, nor did it occur to her that this equable state of hers depended on the assumption that she still could, if she only wanted to, bring another child into the world, but all at once, within less than a year, like a war breaking out on several fronts simultaneously, Nitzan moved away as if they had never snuggled up together in a fluffy blanket of intimacy, and instead of the warmth that the girl had bestowed on her all those years, her body was attacked by ferocious waves of heat, accompanied by bouts of giddiness that brought her close to fainting, and as she was knocking, cluelessly, on the doors of Gideon’s heart and on the doors of the fertility clinics, it became clear to her beyond any doubt that her prospects of once more attaining that harmonious fusion were nil; she would never regain the holy spark that she saw in the face of her student, that aroused her to anger and pain.
On leaving the college car park she sees her waiting at the bus-stop, still ungainly in the aftermath of pregnancy, holding with an unpractised hand a pram, a briefcase and a baby, and an extra blanket draped over her arm, and she pulls up, somewhat shamefaced, just short of the stop. Like a lift, Abigail? Come with me and I can take you wherever you need to be, I have time, but her student shakes her head, there’s no need, my bus will be here in a moment, and Dina tries again, I’m sorry, it was upsetting my concentration, even if he wasn’t actually crying, and Abigail clutches the baby to her breast. No problem, she says, forgiving her loftily, I won’t bring him into class again.
But even when forgiven she can’t let it go, feeling an obligation to accommodate the mother and baby if only for a short time in the void of the enclosed car, holding them prisoner. Let me make it up to you, she flashes her a smile and Abigail gives in finally, loading her heavy and copious gear in the boot, as if she were a refugee fleeing from a war zone.
With the baby asleep in her arms she sits down in the back and fiddles with the safety belts, and Dina watches her in the mirror while putting on speed, hypnotised by the clumsy movements, the neglect and the slovenliness, how well groomed she was just a few months ago, with fitted clothes and high heels, but now she’s many times more beautiful, because there’s a higher purpose to all her actions: when she eats her eating is designed to satisfy her baby, and when she sleeps her sleep is for the benefit of her baby, and this purpose, which has been gradually eroded over the years, will any substitute ever be found for it?
Where do you live? she asks, in fact ready to take her anywhere just to draw into herself this agonising experience; previously she couldn’t endure it and now she can’t endure the idea of separation from it. No problem, my mother lives there, and I was going to visit her today anyway, she says hurriedly, secretly despising herself. Why not be her driver, offer her your services as a nanny, and not only her, you should put up a sign in the street, responsible and experienced childminder, academic with a doctorate, almost, college lecturer, a glittering career awaits you, and as she drives down the streets with their sparse traffic, scraped by the noonday sun, watching her prisoner in the mirror, her face radiant and her breasts full and the baby asleep in her arms, an idea comes into her head, cruel but not without appeal, how she will rid herself of the young mother, throw her out of the car in the middle of the desert and be left alone with the baby, surprise the others when they come home, new baby, new life. Nitzan will coo around him in great excitement, extending warm and emotional contact to her as well, and Gideon will smile his restrained smile and raise the camera that’s a permanent fixture on his chest, and they’ll be so close together one kiss will be enough, and she shakes her head again and again, trying to dislodge the hum of the malign fantasy. Yes, in a corner of the mirror happiness dwells, unbearably close and distant, and she doesn’t dare address it with words; what will she say to the young mother, saturated as she is in that sublime state of individuality and unity, will she ask how old the baby is, and what is his name, and how does he sleep at night? A croak of envy will escape from her throat if she opens her mouth, and how paltry are these minor details which will be forgotten anyway, does she remember the precise history of Nitzan’s infancy? Only their love, when it was born and when it expired.
The lids are covering her eyes, and soon drowsiness will overtake her, it seems the baby doesn’t sleep that well at night after all, this is the time to pick up speed, the desert is close by and the heat is blazing. Left at the next corner, Abigail says in a small voice, and Dina clamps her lips,
feeling cheated as she stops outside the crowded apartment block, only recently built and already showing signs of decay, and she gets out, pulls the pram from the boot, like a genuine taxi driver, and hands her the rest of the gear. Thanks very much, really, Abigail says, and where did you say your mother lives? A last attempt at striking up a conversation with her unpredictable teacher, and Dina mutters, not far from here, and drives away abruptly, leaving her standing at the side of the road, watching the car receding with a grateful expression. She has no idea of the danger she has been spared.
Everyone gets the baby he deserves, she smiles bitterly into the broad face of her mother; from under the pale shadow of the brows red eyes peep out like open wounds. Shall I cradle you in my arms, mother dearest, tickle your tummy, stick a dummy in your mouth, cover you with a blanket and leave the room on tiptoe, returning very quietly a few minutes later to watch you sleeping? How can it be that you’re the only one left to me, you never were mine and anyway you’re only the relic of a person. A twitch of a smile appears on the clenched lips and it seems to Dina that her mother, immersed in one of her fantasies, isn’t even trying to hide her malicious joy. All these years she has looked askance at her devotion to Nitzan, as if it was all aimed at her, with the object of showing her: you see, this is how you bring up a daughter, this is how you love a daughter, and how happy she will be to discover that her self-righteous daughter has gone off the rails too, even though she doesn’t know exactly how. And now the carer has taken advantage of Dina’s arrival to go shopping; she’s entrusted her into her hands as if her hands were the safest.
How naïve Rachela must be, thinking I can be relied on, she chuckles, there’s no person in the world who’s angrier with her than I am. Any intruder getting into her miserable apartment to hunt for ornaments or money to buy drugs would be more merciful to her than I would, but I suppose she is safe after all, because she has nothing that I want to steal.
Again a smile rises to her mother’s lips, an almost pleading smile which ratchets up the tension, and she rolls up the shutter; a strong southern light dominates the room, and she shakes the old woman’s shoulder. Mum, wake up, she urges her, you’ll have plenty of time to sleep afterwards, I need to ask you something, since it seems to her suddenly this is her last opportunity, as lucidity is rapidly fading, perhaps now her luck will hold. The sight of her face, locked into sleep, reminds her how she once came to her parents’ room at the regular visiting time and found her in her bed, and she was so unaccustomed to seeing her asleep she thought she was dead, and shook her tearfully. Mum, you’re alive, you’re alive, she shouted in her ear, and Hemda opened astonished eyes and shouted back at her, of course I’m alive, why are you making such a fuss? I’ve got a touch of flu, that’s all, and Dina was pushed away, chastened, from under the blanket. How strange and rare was the physical contact, and she remembers how little by little her mother’s aversion towards her seeped into her consciousness. This was a faint physical sensation of unwillingness that she was unable to hide, although she put an arm around her, and Dina was filled with compassion for her mother, being forced to endure her company, and sometimes it seems to her she feels this echo breaking out from Gideon’s body under the blanket, and she turns her back to him and cringes as if she’s been hit.
In the light that floods the room, her mother’s withered features look like dried fruit, windfalls from the tree, stained and cracked, but her vision is clearing and Dina sits by her bed solicitously. Are you all right, Mum? she asks with a strange intonation, lifting the blanket and climbing into the bed that was once hers, in the room that was once hers, huddled as before beside the body that has diminished beyond recognition. Mummikins, she whispers, do you remember Nitzan used to call me that? Perhaps you’d like to have this nickname too. I need help, Mum, she clutches at the body that exudes warmth, low but steady, as indifferent as a corpse and yet alive, I’m so lonely, this must be the way you felt when Dad died and we left the house; Gideon isn’t dead and Nitzan hasn’t moved out, but still I’m left alone. You were right and I was wrong. I should have had another baby and now it’s too late. I know there are worse troubles than this, but I feel my life is over, and cautiously she moves her mother’s arm and places it under the nape of her neck in a forced embrace.
Do you hear me, Mum, I want to hurry away to the kindergarten now to pick up my little boy, I want to see the happiness in his face when I come in, I want to hug him and take him to the zoo, I want to play with him and read him stories. You see, I have so much to give him, I have time and I have patience and I have love but I don’t have a little boy, and I see him in the form of the child who was nearly born to me, Nitzan’s twin brother, I see him so clearly, and all this time that she’s pressed against her mother she avoids looking into her face lest she be repelled by a stray smile, a flat look, and so when her voice is suddenly heard she’s startled, as if a third, external party has joined them, so accustomed is she to the silence of the old woman, who mumbles something indistinct, sounding like, you will find the child.
What did you say? She turns over on her stomach and moves her face closer to her mother’s, despite the rank smell of the breath that she’s exhaling, what child? How will I find him? He died in my womb after all, and again the voice is heard, you’ll find yourself a child, but her eyes have already closed, and there’s no knowing if the words were directed at her, or perhaps this was a random interlocking of their consciousnesses; ever since her return from the hospital her mother has been asleep most of the time, and hardly responding to anything, and it seems she’s stopped recognising her children, although there are moments when a look of acute discontent appears on her face, apparently directed at them.
Mum, explain to me what you meant, she urges her, how shall I find him, where do you find children? But a sound of snoring trills from her throat and Dina lays her head on the pillow beside her. When Gideon snores her sleep is disrupted for hours, but her mother’s snoring is somehow comforting, a last symbol of the life that still remains in her. You know, Mum, I’m so cold now that even your meagre warmth is comforting, she whispers in her big ears, the ears of an elderly elephant hanging on her skull with its sparse hair, but sometimes I’m so hot it’s your cold that I need, and sometimes I think I’m going out of my mind. Not long ago I heard about a woman of my age who took her own life for no discernible reason, and although I don’t know anything about her I understand her completely. I think she hanged herself, the way you hang a shirt in the closet after ironing, have you ever thought of hanging yourself? And when her mother responds with a faint gurgle she whispers, it’s OK, Mum, no need for you to feel uncomfortable, it seems to me we’ve never had such a good conversation, I’ve never before got so much from you.
Despite the warm breeze blowing in from the window her teeth are chattering, and she presses against the body beside her until drowsiness overtakes her. It seems to her that her mother is whispering to her, sleep, sleep, like that afternoon when she found her sick. Sleep, sleep, she urged her in the hope of hushing her, and Dina lay down beside her and watched her as she slept, her face flushed from the illness, her thick hair strewn about her head, and she caressed it again and again until she saw her father peering in from the doorway. Dina-le, get out of that bed and hurry up, you don’t want to catch something from Mum, she’s running a high temperature, and he pulled her out from under the blankets, and Dina was surprised, if she was running a high temperature why was she so cold, and even now he’s standing in the doorway, disrupting her sleep, did he have some hidden intention back then, when he extricated her from her mother’s bed as if this were the danger zone? After all she was his in a sense; in an accord that was never openly acknowledged between the partners, Dina belonged to the father and Avner to the mother, a bad deal on both sides, and now it seems he’s risen from the dead to separate them again. What’s up, Dad? Is old age infectious too, is death infectious?
Oh, here you are, Rachela answers her, I was just thinking,
why has she gone out and left Mum alone, and when Dina sits up in the bed a little flustered from sleep, she shows off her purchases. I’ve got some lovely tomatoes. I’ll grate them really fine for your mother, with a little salt and olive oil, would you like some too? And Dina says, no, thank you, I really should be going, and she rises heavily, her bones aching, as if she’s just caught a dose of that flu from forty years ago.
Have something to drink, you don’t look well, Rachela urges her, I’ll make you tea with lemon, and Dina wonders how this woman, of about her own age, could take on herself the role of her mother as she understands it, as her mother has never understood it, and already she’s accepting the treatment on offer, sitting in the kitchen and watching the nimble fingers as they brew tea, squeeze a lemon and move a tomato back and forth over the grater, in a moment she’ll tie a bib around the old woman’s neck and feed her with a spoon like a little child. Who knows how many mouths she has already fed with these efficient fingers, which manipulate the kitchen utensils the way a pianist plays the keys, how many children she has swaddled and bathed and groomed and hugged, and for a moment she wishes she could be the child of this woman, about whom she really knows nothing; it was her sister-in-law Shlomit who heard about her from a friend and brought her to their mother the day she came out of hospital.
How many children do you have, Rachela? she asks, the appreciative smile poised on her lips, ready to hear the answer she’s expecting: five? six? – perhaps even more, but the fingers freeze for a moment over the grater and then resume at a redoubled pace, rejecting the ripe tomato and starting immediately on the next in line. I have no children, she admits with taut lips, and Dina is taken aback, that’s all right, she mumbles, feeling like a judge pardoning the defendant, and prays that her question will fade away. To her dismay, the shouts of the neighbourhood children returning from school suddenly filter in through the kitchen window, as if all the children they could have had, the pair of them, have gathered together for a surprise party in their honour, and Rachela sits facing her, wiping her fingers on an apron. I did have a little boy, she corrects herself in a low voice, but they took him away from me, gave him away for adoption. I couldn’t care for him, I was deep into drugs at the time, and they took him away from me.
The Remains of Love Page 13
