A Room of Their Own

by Rakefet Yarden

  It took me a full decade to carry out my plan. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting pregnant, what with everything that Yochai and I had gone through. But I didn’t give up. At least I had started early, and didn’t listen to Emily, who heatedly proclaimed in my face, “What’s the rush? You’re young. You’ll find someone.”

  “I’m not looking for anyone. Don’t you get it?”

  “But that’s selfish. You’re not thinking about the child,” she insisted.

  The child isn’t here yet. I’m here, and for a change I’m thinking about myself. Who did you think about when you decided to bring children into this wonderful world? Do you really mean to tell me that you and Ehud sat down and thought about whether or not to bring children here, whether or not this place really is that grand? True, you’d still had a perfect life back then and everything had seemed different, but the least you can do is admit that it’s nothing short of a risky gamble. Even if everything were to go smoothly, the endless medical tests, the labor, the gas, the teething, school, and even getting through army service safely. Could you honestly know for certain that your child would feel good, be happy, satisfied, find a purpose and find love, or are you gambling because you simply want a cute baby to provide a reason to live, an extension of yourself, an improved mini-me?

  Obviously I didn’t tell her any of that. I have a lot conversations with Emily in my mind, and then we just end up talking about the children’s extracurricular activities. That is, we used to, before she cut off contact with me. Malka, Milly, Emily, depending on who you ask. She was named after our grandmother. Our parents may have come from Morocco and settled in Kiryat Shemona, but to this day they seem European: light-colored eyes and French-speaking. The Viking had visited Morocco, too.

  Emily galloped ahead with her high school sweetheart, and pretty quickly became Emily Elkabetz, and then Dr. Elkabetz. The gap between us grew as the years went by. But three years ago, her glorious world shattered all at once. Ehud, her husband and love of 30 years, suffered cardiac arrest in the middle of sex − not with her, but rather with another woman. What one would call “fell in the line of duty,” − no offense intended. This life is sad enough without occasional laughter being forbidden.

  What a way to find out that your husband’s cheating on you! A minute ago you loved him and believed that everything was clear and out in the open. Now you’re angry, offended, hurt to the depth of your soul. You need to feel your anger on your own, you ache, you get tested for HIV, you’re there for the children, and you tell the whole world that it’s none of their business even if they’re completely certain that they understand it much better than you do. And if all of that isn’t enough, your inadequate little sister manages to irritate you during your shiva mourning period.

  Another message from Omer beeped. He’d been trying to reach me for a few days, and I still hadn’t replied − not entirely on purpose. I kept saying that I’d get back to him and it just didn’t happen.

  “We have to meet right now. It’s about Mom.”

  “It’s 10 at night and I have a really hectic day tomorrow. Sorry.”

  Another beep.

  “Rotem . . . When can we talk?”

  “Your mother doesn’t need my help. I, too, realized that eventually.”

  “But I do. Rotem, please just hear me out.”

  “I’m already in bed. Let’s speak tomorrow, okay?”

  Dani

  It was nighttime. Yet again I put off going to sleep. Not because I like late-night hours, rather for fear of going to sleep. Fear of those moments right before falling asleep, when all of the thoughts rush up. About life, about purpose. Why do I need all that, and why am I not like everyone else? All right, I’m no longer at the age where I think that there’s such a thing as “everyone” and that there’s only one way of living and behaving, but still, I’m always so different. So lonely and misunderstood. It has a despairing and exhausting element to it.

  Putting aside those moments before falling asleep, there’s the night itself. Many nights I find myself waking up drenched in sweat, sometimes even shouting or squirming wildly − something I only realized after Miko had woken me up night after night without wanting anything specific. Not a walk, not to fill his water bowl. He just sat next to me, looking at me with his wise eyes, occasionally sneaking in a lick, and then returned to his bed. I assume that I had behaved in an abnormal manner in the minutes preceding that, which then caused him to come to my rescue.

  During my one year in the army, it often happened that one of my roommates at the base woke me up because “I was making too much noise.” One morning I woke up with the feeling that someone was staring at me. Once I’d opened my eyes, I realized that my feeling was accurate. Four girls from my room and from the one next door were standing over me, whispering and staring. That same day I went to the welfare officer and put in a request to be transferred to an open base. Again, for medical reasons. Since I was stationed at the General Headquarters and could have remained living at home if I’d wanted to, the request was immediately approved. I moved back to sleep at my parents’ home that same night, despite my father’s protests.

  And, to conclude, I hate nighttime because once it ends, a new day begins. A whole new day of questions, thoughts, and coping. Still, there’s no choice but to surrender to the exhaustion and go to sleep, so I did just that.

  Utter darkness. I must be small and someone’s grabbing me. Hard. My wrists hurt but I can’t talk. I want to talk but I can’t. I inhale deeply and try to scream until I finally feel a sound coming out of me. Something heavy is blocking my mouth. It’s a hand. It takes me a minute to realize that, and then it tightens its grip over my face and I can’t breathe.

  Miko was licking my face. Another nightmare halted by silent licks. I wiped my sweaty forehead and reached my hand over to my chest, under my breasts, sensing a cold wetness. I wiped myself with a shirt, turned onto my side and went back to sleep.

  A ray of sunshine woke me up. I was angry at myself for not having shut the blinds the night before, and then I remembered that I had two new clients waiting for me to take them out that morning. I stumbled out of bed as though I hadn’t slept a wink. Miko looked tired, too. Loyal Miko, who made sure to wake me up from my recurrent nightmares.

  My new-old clients were a two-year-old brown, unneutered poodle, and an elderly golden retriever with a piercing stare. They both belong to a woman who was abroad and had left her darling dogs in my care. Toto and Libby are veteran clients of mine whose owner often attends conferences and events or takes vacations, and I often take them back home with me, even for the night, if possible. Libby is a very special dog, like a wise old woman who always knows how to say the right thing at the right time. And Toto is a good friend of Miko’s. Those two sometimes play and mess around, while Libby and I exchange mature and amused looks. That morning, I returned them to their apartment after an hour’s walk on the beach. I was supposed to go back there in the evening for dinner and a walk, and if I felt up for it, I’d take them back home with me for the night. In the meantime, I decided not to decide just yet.

  I have another little regular client, a 15-year-old Pinscher who simply refuses to leave this world. His elderly loving owner, the friendly Mrs. Adler, is house-bound. Every morning she lets him out and waits for him at the entrance to the building until he finishes his business, and I take him out for one long walk each day, at her request.

  “The regular walk keeps him young and strong,” she tells me every day, and adds, “Thank you, my dear.” Sometimes I stick around to have herbal tea with her and refuse to taste the cookies she offers me.

  “That’s a shame, sweetie. They’re delicious and you’re so skinny.” I smile without replying, and then just continue to listen to her stories about Tel Aviv of yesteryear. She tells me about the school where she taught for years and later on became the principal, and about the pride i
n her work. I know the names of all her children and grandchildren, who visit her a few times a week. The rest of the time, she’s alone in her apartment. Sometimes she meets a friend or goes outside, helped by an aide who comes for a few hours a day.

  It’s sad to age, I think to myself each time I leave her apartment.

  Mrs. Adler used to be a well-known and respected person, and now 10-year-olds bump into her on the street as though she is invisible, as she’d recently told me. “The world belongs to the young, sweetie. Take advantage of this precious time.”

  But I don’t feel like time belongs to me at all. I don’t feel young either. Deep down, I feel old and haggard, yet also like a little kid who just wants to lie down angrily on the sidewalk and kick her feet until I get what’s been promised to me.

  And I also want a woman who is older than me to hug me tightly, so that I’ll sink deep into her arms and know that from now on, everything will be better.

  By the time I returned to my apartment it was nearly 4 p.m. The phone rang; the caller I.D. showed that it was “Tal, My Beloved Sister.” Yes, that’s how Tal had saved her own number on my phone during a bout of affection a few months ago.

  “Hi, Dani. What’s up?”

  Strange, I thought to myself. She never calls just to see how I’m doing. She always has to announce something. Update, coordinate. And even that doesn’t happen very often.

  “I thought that maybe you’d like to get together sometime,” Tal eventually asked after a moment of silence.

  “Oh . . . … Okay. We can. Sometime,” I answered.

  “So when do you think you’ll be free?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t know. In a couple of weeks, maybe?” I answered, surprised. I didn’t think it was a genuine invitation to meet.

  “A couple of weeks? Why, what are you doing up until then?” There, now that’s the Tal that I know. Condescending, dismissive.

  Yes, I’m the unemployed and idle Dani who does nothing meaningful with her life. How could it be that I can’t meet with you the moment you squawk about it? “Nothing, nothing special. Just a suggestion,” I tried to explain.

  “Then how about tomorrow morning?” she asked. “How about 9;00?”

  I thought for a moment. I have a session with that Rotem Golan therapist tomorrow at nine. “I can meet you at 10:30,” I finally answered without elaborating or apologizing, unlike my usual self.

  “Okay. Want to meet at the mall? Café Tamar?”

  Third Meeting

  It was five minutes to four, third session with Dani. Yoni had returned from his trip and asked for his usual time slot, so Dani and I agreed on Tuesday at 4 p.m. I hoped it would be easier for her to talk in the afternoon, since she’d hardly let out a single word during our two previous morning sessions. Dani walked in alone this time.

  “I left Miko at home to rest. He’s already cased the joint, so I can come here on my own.”

  She really did seem to be a bit lighter at that hour, as though she’d finally managed to recuperate from the night. It was still difficult for her to talk, and she hardly made any eye contact with me, but she shared a little bit more, enabling the bigger picture to become clearer. Provisional diagnosis: Adjustment Disorder, which is the therapist’s adjustment regarding the system’s need to put the client into categories.

  Intake: Dani Freedman

  Dani is 25, the middle child of three. Her parents are married. No suicidal tendencies or aggression. I’ve clarified that this document is part of the mental health records, and that her family doctor will be able to read the diagnosis. Her father is a doctor, head of an ob-gyn department; her mother owns a law firm. Older sister is a 27-year-old medical student. Younger brother is 20, in the army. She claims to have estranged relationships with them. Started economics and computers at Tel Aviv University but dropped out after two weeks. Now works as a dog-sitter, and is looking for an occupational direction.

  Dani dresses plainly, is skinny and tall, speaks slowly and quietly, has difficulty sharing her inner world. Already undergone numerous treatments with various therapists. Her past includes a number of hospitalizations due to depression and eating disorders that had disrupted her daily life. Attributes that to the reason for her reduced current social life.

  Had taken prescribed medication in the past, claims that she no longer needs it, that she’s recuperated and that it’s been behind her for a few years, and that it’s just difficult for her to find her place because what’s expected of her is different from what she wants to achieve in life, and says she has difficulty withstanding the great pressure from her parents.

  Her paternal grandfather passed away two months ago. She claims to be surprised by the influence this has had on her, and tells of troubling thoughts experienced since his passing. She doesn’t recall much from her childhood. She didn’t have a good time at school, only a few friends. Studied practical subjects because she was good at them and it was considered prestigious, while she was actually more attracted to studying literature and art. Was released early from the army for medical reasons. Says that she’s currently in a relatively calm period, except for acute stomach aches. Medical test results came back normal, then was referred by her family doctor to assess mental state. Also reports trouble falling asleep as well as early awakening. Sleep lab report rules out organic difficulties and recommends CBT. She wants help but is ambivalent about the treatment and my ability to help her.

  Provisional diagnosis: F43.2 - Adjustment Disorder

  Treatment plan: Single weekly sessions in order to transform beliefs, become familiarized with the conflicts running her life, increase her sense of control via emotional regulation skills, and if necessary possibly have a joint session with her and her parents in the future.

  Dani

  I woke up to the sounds of Miko’s cries and his leg scratching the edge of my bed.

  I realized that I’d dreamed it again. A nightmare. I couldn’t remember it, and Miko must have woken me up before the alarm.

  I looked at my phone and saw that it was 7:40. Five minutes earlier than my alarm.

  I quickly got dressed and grabbed the leash. Miko was already sitting by the door in anticipation, and I opened it for him. The second it opened, Miko leaped out as though he’d been caged. While walking down the stairs, I debated whether or not to leave him at home. I was worried that Tal wouldn’t approve of his presence. I continued anyway towards Rotem Golan’s clinic on Rehov Ahad Ha’am, not before attaching him to his leash. Miko’s used to running around freely on our little street, but I always make sure to tie him up on busier streets. Not because he’s aggressive or would run away, but rather because of his strange appearance that scares passersby.

  On the way there, I thought about Tal.

  Tal, my successful older sister. The sister who never has any problems, who always knows what she wants and what she needs − and gets it, too.

  Tal is the perfect daughter. Supposedly. I know that there’s no such thing as “perfect,” but Tal really does project that perfect image. She always helps everyone. Always knows what to say and what to do. Stands out with excellence in every stage of her life. But I’ve known for years that deep down she’s unhappy. The reason for it isn’t entirely clear to me. Maybe it’s just the kind of thing that only sisters can tell about each other.

  Furthermore, Tal is beautiful. She’s impressively tall, but not as brazenly as me. Her hair has a golden hue, especially during the summer or in the sunshine. Her eyes are disproportionately large and slanted, and her appearance is in general much more sophisticated than mine.

  Of course she’s way more successful socially, too. Always surrounded by friends. Always with a trail of suitors after her. Only, no one’s gotten to be the “chosen” one.

  Actually, I don’t think she’s ever had a boyfriend. At least not a serious one.

  I was looking forward to my session
with her, but I was also dreading it. I wondered why she was so anxious to see me. I was worried that Dad put her up to it, which then reduced my excitement. The thought that I was still of interest to her. That she does want to spend time with me. Maybe even grow closer to me. If Dad’s behind it, then it would all be fake. Almost like her.

  Fourth Meeting

  Miko was standing at my feet, ready and willing to see his sweetheart. I thought that he was being a traitor just like before, but then she opened the door with that smile of hers, and I walked in hesitantly again. I didn’t want to sit down, but she tried nonetheless, and after a few seconds I sat down on the armchair in blatant discontent, only after she sat down, of course. I kept quiet. Rotem looked at me in a way that made me feel uneasy. I wondered if Dad had told her something about me. I felt as though she knew things about me, which is probably why I stayed quiet.

  I didn’t say a word for a while, and Rotem kept looking at me. Another intense stare that, although I wasn’t looking, I could sense very distinctly.

  I lifted my eyes. “What?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “What are you listening to if I’m not talking?” I pounced.

  “I listen to everything you bring with you, even silences. I believe that in your own time, and at your own pace, you’ll find the right words to tell me whatever you want, and perhaps even share your troubling thoughts with me.”

  I remained silent for a moment.

  “I’ve got something,” I began. I looked up at her briefly, then went back to staring at my shoes.

  “Sometimes I have strange dreams. That’s one example of something very bad in my life. There are times when it happens more frequently, and times when it’s less. I hate it.”