by Iddo Gefen
“I wish there was, but really, there isn’t,” he said what I knew but refused to accept. “If you want, I can lie to you that there is,” he said reluctantly.
I smiled. I told Nicolai how I’d been looking forward to going home and telling Nelly I had found a way to help Shira.
“Believe me, there’s nothing worse than being helpless with your child,” I said. “There really isn’t.”
“But maybe that’s something a person has to know how to be,” he said, and quickly qualified his statement, saying he didn’t have kids so he didn’t actually know.
We continued to talk for maybe twenty minutes, half an hour. By which I mean he talked and I nodded. I can’t really remember what he went on about. I wasn’t listening. I was trying to process the thought of having no way of helping Shira, and I didn’t know how to do that. Finally I told him I needed to get back to her.
“Want me to buy you cup of coffee for road, so you won’t fall asleep at wheel?” he suggested. I politely declined.
When I got back to my car I noticed I had a 100-shekel parking ticket and started laughing, vowing never to forget that life without parking officers had its advantages. I drove the whole way back with the radio cranked up high, trying to think as little as possible.
I parked by the B&B and stayed in the car for a few minutes, gazing out at the red hill. I felt I needed to scream, to vent all my frustration, but I didn’t want Nabil or Shira to hear me so I settled for slamming my fists against the dashboard. Then I switched off the engine and entered the B&B.
13.
NOT LONG AGO I came across a study that might explain everything that happened to me that day with Nicolai. The study showed a few people photos from their childhood and asked them to think back and remember where each photo was taken. The thing is, one of those photos was doctored. The subjects were photoshopped into a hot-air balloon—a completely fabricated experience. The first time the subjects were asked about the photo, almost all of them replied they couldn’t remember when it was taken. But when they were asked again a few days later, some had already concocted a whole story about that day in the hot-air balloon. They were so certain of their memory that even after they were told the photo was fabricated, some of them swore it was them in that balloon.
I guess I actually hadn’t heard anything about dream-sharing technology at Lucid, but I was so desperate I needed something to cling to.
I think it happened to me twice that day. In hindsight, replaying the events in my mind, I can swear that when I sat in the car, I actually did see her, walking behind the sheep. That I was so busy beating myself up, I simply hadn’t been paying enough attention. I’ll never know whether that memory is true or not, but in any event, one thing I do know—when I walked into her room, Shira was no longer there.
* * *
It took me a moment to realize she wasn’t there, and a few more moments to notice that the front door hadn’t been locked. I started running hysterically from room to room, searching for her in every corner of the B&B; in her bedroom and ours, and the bathroom and the kitchen and inside and behind the closets, but the girl wasn’t there. I kept at it for maybe five frenzied minutes before finally realizing that she simply wasn’t in the B&B. I went outside, stood in the yard, and dialed Nelly’s number, but hung up after one ring because what could Nelly possibly do about it? I ran around the B&B, but she wasn’t there. I ran toward the sheep, the road, but Shira was nowhere to be found. And the only thought resonating clearly in all that insanity made absolutely no sense. That maybe the girl had finally given up her life here and found a way to dissipate into her dreams. That she had left reality behind and dove into her worlds, far beyond our reach, without a trace in the here and now. I was growing more and more convinced of it, until I saw Shira. In front of me. She was standing alone, a tiny dot on the hilltop, pretty close to the edge. Perched on top of the red hill, gazing into the abyss. Before I could process the sight, I was already running toward her as fast as my legs would carry me. My body took charge, racing in her direction. I roared out her name, over and over again, but she didn’t turn to look at me. I was afraid I wasn’t going to make it. But then I saw someone swooping up from behind her. Lunging at her. Nabil. He gathered my child in his arms, pulling her into his chest. Then he turned around and started walking down the hill with slow, heavy steps, kicking up a trail of red dust behind him. I saw Shira calmly falling asleep in his arms. Even my jealousy couldn’t dampen my relief. I ran toward them, trying to rid myself of the sense of helplessness.
“Thank god you found her!” I shouted, and from twenty meters away already launched into a defensive monologue. That I had gone out for a meeting only because I had no other choice. And had locked the house. I was sure I had. And I couldn’t understand how she had gotten out, I really couldn’t. And that I know, I was an idiot for not telling him I had left the girl alone. Nabil nodded, and when I finally stood next to them, I fell silent. The whole world had been whittled down to her little body. Shira was the only thing I cared about. I hugged her as tightly as possible. Nabil let go, and I gathered her into me, shielding her.
Nabil opened the door to the B&B and we walked in, dirtying the floor with our dusty shoes. I put Shira into bed. Her eyes were closed. I covered her with the blanket. Nabil looked at me and then walked out of the room, leaving me alone with Shira. Her bed suddenly seemed too big for her body. As if the girl had suddenly shrunk into a bite-size version of herself. There was a mind-boggling dissonance between what had just happened and her small, delicate breaths. I studied her for a few more minutes, making sure she truly existed. Only then did I notice my phone vibrating. Nelly had called three times, but I was too tired to answer.
After making sure there was no way the girl could escape from the window, I left her room. Nabil was sitting at the kitchen table, his hands in the air. He didn’t want to dirty the table. We sat together silently for what felt like forever. Finally Nabil put his hand on my back, giving it a gentle pat. He didn’t say a word. He got up, went to Shira’s room to check on her, and walked out of the B&B. I sat there alone for a few minutes, trying to make sense of what had happened, and failing. Then I dragged my chair into Shira’s room, sitting not even an inch from her bed. I don’t know when exactly I fell asleep, but when I woke up the next morning, Shira was standing in front of me.
She was smiling.
14.
MAYBE ONE DAY I’ll tell Nelly what happened that day. I can’t just yet. Nor do I think it would help. Nabil didn’t say a word about it. When Nelly returned from the conference she asked him with a playful smile if I had done a good job taking care of the girl. “He’s a schmuck,” Nabil said, “but a decent father.”
A few days later, Shira began showing signs of improvement. She jotted down fewer and fewer words in her notebook each morning, and at the same time, clear descriptions began to appear. She was also more responsive to Nelly and me, her empty gazes gradually replaced by long, intelligible sentences, by smiles and bright notes of laughter, alongside petulant glares and fits of prepubescent rage I’d never thought I’d be so happy to witness. Two and a half months after they had first emerged, Shira’s dreams began to disappear. Dr. Mendelson thought perhaps Shira’s mind had managed to fix itself. In her opinion, the girl had suffered from a disorder that made her remember every detail of her dreams. That it was very likely Shira was still dreaming as before—years every night—she simply didn’t remember it anymore. But she added that it was equally likely that everything she was saying was “a bunch of hooey.” That she could come up with a few other interpretations but had no way of proving any of them. She suggested we continue to bring Shira to the sleep lab so they could further explore the problem, but we refused. Nelly said the child’s rehabilitation was more important right now than the sleep lab’s chance of winning a Nobel Prize, and I agreed, although I wouldn’t mind a family trip to Stockholm.
Even though Dr. Mendelson’s theories sounded very convincing,
I couldn’t stop thinking that Nelly had been right all along. There was no medical mystery here; the whole story was actually pretty simple: One day Shira had decided to escape into her dream, and the next, she got tired of it and decided to come back to us. I shared my theory with Nelly but she ruled it out, saying that she never really believed the whole “escaping into her dreams,” that it was just something she had said in a moment of despair. I think that if she knew what had happened there, with Nabil, she might have thought differently. It made no sense that one day the girl almost falls off a cliff and the next starts to get better. Maybe at that moment something had occurred to bring her back to reality. Anyway, I decided to leave well enough alone. To make peace with the fact that not all mysteries in life have a clear answer.
* * *
Yesterday, Shira came home from school for the first time since getting better. She burst through the door and announced, “The teacher said Mitzpe was the best place in the world to see stars!” She went on and on about it the whole afternoon, and Nelly and I suggested that all three of us go out that evening to the top of the red hill with head flashlights and the old telescope. Shira got all excited, took a detailed list of the constellations she wanted to see, and demanded we stay out until we found Orion and the Great Bear. Nelly and I couldn’t spot anything so we made up the Blue Goose and the Little Lamp and the Anthill of the North. The whole way down we kept telling her it was really weird she didn’t see them, and Nelly whispered in my ear that it would take the girl at least three more years to realize there wasn’t actually a constellation called Aunt Leah’s Hip.
When we got home Shira jumped up and down on her bed all fired up, until she exhausted herself and collapsed onto the mattress. Nelly went to take a shower and I stayed with Shira, watching her yawn nonstop.
“Shirush, are you sure you don’t remember anything from your time at the hospital?” I asked her.
“I already said I don’t!” she yelled, saying I had already asked her a hundred times.
“Yes, I know, it’s just that your mom and I had a weird thought,” I said, gently stroking her face.
“What thought?” she asked and closed her eyes, stretching her small arms. I told her that because she was such a special girl, we thought maybe she had found a way to live inside her dreams; to spend some time there, exploring all the different worlds inside her head. Shira opened one gray eye, looked at me and gave a small, mischievous smile. She didn’t say anything, and I felt that maybe I had finally caught her. That maybe even now, she was still playing us. Before I managed to ask her anything else, Shira put her head on my shoulder, nestled against me for a few moments, and fell asleep.
The Jerusalem Beach
THEY WENT LOOKING FOR HER first memory, snow on the beach in Jerusalem. Tomorrow he would turn her in, but at that moment they were still riding the 480 bus together, second seat from the back. Lilian had fallen asleep, and Sammy was looking out the window, stroking his frayed leather satchel. There was only one thing he could say with absolute certainty—the world had changed since he last went out in it. She hadn’t left their small apartment in Ramat Gan for years, and he wouldn’t leave without her. He gazed at the forested hills along the way, remembered them more jagged, and told himself that time ate into everything.
“Remember the big fire?” he asked her, and her neck moved stiffly, clinching to her sleep.
Three boys in the back row burst into roaring laughter, interrupting his yearning thoughts. One of them was playing music from his cell phone, which gradually took over the rear of the bus. Sammy tried to parse the words but failed. He wasn’t keen on confrontations, but fearing the noise would wake Lilian, he turned and shot them a look.
“How about being quiet?” he asked, hoping they didn’t notice the slight tremor in his voice. The boy with the cell phone turned off the music, then broke into a defiant hum. Sammy went back to gazing out the window, but couldn’t calm down.
The bus weaved into the city that used to be their home and passed by the white bridge. Sammy, who had prepared himself for this moment, took a yellow disposable camera out of his pocket and tried to capture the large structure in its lens. But only three days later, when the photos were finally developed, would he discover that the bridge had eluded him, and in its place appeared the congested intersection at the entrance of the city, and the reflection of a yawning man who sat in front of them.
The bus entered the central station; the passengers began to pile out, among them the teenagers who patted Sammy on the back and wished him a good day. The bustle of passengers woke Lilian and she opened her eyes slowly. Her eyes were a chestnut brown, and Sammy often wondered if they hadn’t grown bigger over the years. Her hair and dark skin were also painted shades of brown, and he once told her that it was only because of her that he learned how much depth could be found in one color.
“Where are we, Sammy?” she asked; he didn’t answer. She rose slowly, revealing a small bald patch in the middle of her scalp. Sammy quickly tousled her hair and hoped no one on the emptying bus had noticed.
Only when she asked again did he tell her they had reached Jerusalem, adding in an undertone that he couldn’t keep reminding her over and over.
* * *
They hobbled off the bus. A young woman in a Bnei Akiva shirt offered assistance, but Sammy waved her away. Sammy and Lilian had shrunk over the years and were now nearly swallowed up by the masses. Pressed against each other they traversed the station, overcoming stairs, elevators, and slippery tiles until they reached the entrance to Jaffa Road. They inched toward the door and all at once the early August sun caught Lilian off guard.
“I’m cold, Sammy,” she said, and sidled up against him. “The snow must be coming.”
“It’s summer now,” he insisted, but Lilian wouldn’t relent. She wrapped her arms around her body and started trembling. Even the hottest day couldn’t stifle her snowy memory. Sammy let out a sigh and placed his satchel on the floor. He sluggishly reached into the satchel and took out the white coat he had once bought her. By now it was two sizes too big, but she insisted on wearing it with pride. She raised her hands like a girl waiting to be wrapped after a shower, and wouldn’t move until Sammy also tied a scarf around her neck. Only then did she take her first step out of the station and followed him toward the light-rail.
* * *
Sammy grabbed Lilian’s hand and demanded: “Don’t let go,” even though he wasn’t sure whether she heard him over the clamor of the street. “Where are we?” she asked over and over; he didn’t answer. He turned his gaze toward the steel-gray tracks, his ears anticipating the gravelly sound of the engine. For years he had been following the newspaper reports about the miraculous train that crosses the city streets, and was now eager to see it with his own eyes. Once again he pulled out his camera, but immediately placed it back in the satchel, deciding not to waste film.
Slow and heavy, the train pulled into the station. It was as big and silvery as Sammy had imagined, like the steel beast from Daniel’s prophecy. He took a step forward to stand on the platform ledge. Lilian remained hidden behind him.
“Would you believe it, Lilian? A train in Jerusalem again,” he said.
The doors opened. Sammy pulled Lilian forward. He wanted them to step into the car together, but he was assailed by an incessant stream of people. Sammy and Lilian’s shriveled hands detached from each other, and for long moments the two elderly orphans ambled like a torn page, until they finally reunited and melded (became one). Only on their third attempt did they manage to board, pressing against each other and fighting for their place. A young man with a yarmulke whispered loudly to his wife, “Her coat alone takes up all the space.” Sammy didn’t say a word. He was too busy struggling to keep himself steady. Lilian didn’t notice anything going on around her. The train set off and she stared at the city’s buildings; Sammy thought to himself that she was looking at them as if at an old acquaintance she hadn’t seen for many years—she knew the
y were familiar, but couldn’t remember from where.
They stepped off the train at the Machane Yehuda Station.
“Are we at the beach yet?” Lilian asked. He didn’t answer. The Jaffa Road he once knew had disappeared along with the train tracks, leaving him lost in time and space.
They wandered back and forth under the rays of the Jerusalem sun, which were hotter than those etched in his memory. How he wanted her to stop him as she had done so many times in the past. To tell him to quit fooling around, and then solve their predicament herself by asking a passerby for directions. But she didn’t say anything, only wiped the sweat trickling down her forehead and struggled to keep up with him as he picked up his pace. They were utterly exhausted by the time Sammy noticed the flow of people coming in and out of one of the alleyways. He dragged Lilian after him, and they found themselves standing in front of stalls laden with vegetables, breads, and nuts. Sammy smiled contentedly and quickly looked at her with anticipation. After a few moments, as he had hoped, Lilian closed her eyes without knowing why.
When they were young, she had remarked that the market-goers let their senses deceive them. They think the experience boils down to a few colors and smells and don’t know that it’s all about finding a sense of quiet within the great noise. Afterward, to illustrate her point, she would take him to the most crowded spot in the market, next to the spice seller with the painted eyebrows, and make him close his eyes; to try to feel the motion of the people passing by, through, and over them like living water. Now he tried to close his eyes again, but just as back then, he was still too afraid.
He hadn’t visited the market in over sixty years. On his twenty-third birthday, they left Jerusalem, and he hadn’t been back since. He couldn’t imagine himself wandering the market like a tourist, like a foreigner. As a child he had worked every summer at Dudu’s bakery, and vividly remembered those florid, sweaty tourists who passed by the stalls with their wide straw hats and fancy Italian shirts, their anthropological gazes announcing the brevity of their visit. Sammy wondered whether they had made the long, winding journey to Jerusalem only to remind themselves who they were not. Lilian, on the other hand, had returned to the market several times as a teacher, chaperoning field trips. On those occasions, he would close the welding shop earlier than usual and dart home, eagerly awaiting her return by the wooden kitchen table. When she walked in, even before managing to put down her bag, he would bombard her with questions about the prices of tomatoes and eggplant and potatoes and cauliflower, and about Dudu’s stall, although Dudu had long since passed away, and about the new goods that had appeared and those that were gone. She would answer slowly; words upon words upon words, knowing he needed to hear about the market like a man of faith hankering after a prayer’s melody.