The Light We Lost

by Jill Santopolo

  I held one up to my nose and sniffed it. “It’s ginger?” I asked.

  She shrugged. She hadn’t understood the word. “It helps.”

  I figured I didn’t have much to lose, so I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth. I sucked on it and actually did start to feel a bit better. “Thank you,” I told her.

  “I have five,” she said, pointing to my stomach. “I was sick always.”

  “This is my third,” I told her.

  “You are Jewish?” she asked, I guess trying to figure out why I was pregnant and on my way to Israel in the middle of a war.

  “No,” I said.

  “Your . . .”—she searched for a word and then settled on one—“man is in Yisroel?”

  I embraced her use of the word man instead of husband.

  “He is,” I said. “He’s a journalist. And he’s in the hospital. He was hurt badly in Gaza.”

  As I said it, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Other than Kate and Darren, I hadn’t talked about you, about what happened to you, with anyone.

  The next thing I knew, the woman had her arms around me and was murmuring words in Hebrew or Yiddish—a language I didn’t understand but found comforting just the same. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I cried on her shoulder, let her stroke my hair. When I finally pulled myself together, she held my hand. And then after our food came, she kept patting my arm, as if to say without words, It’s going to be okay.

  When I woke up, having fallen asleep for a few hours, I found myself covered with an airline blanket.

  “Thank you,” I said to her.

  “God has a plan,” she said. “And a child is always a blessing.”

  I’m not sure if I believe her about either of those things. I don’t like the idea that God had this plan for you. And I can think of instances where having a child may not be a blessing. But her belief and her quiet strength, they helped. There is an element of peace in believing that we’re only players on a stage, acting out stories directed by someone else.

  Is this God’s plan, Gabe? Is there even a God?

  lxxvi

  We landed in Tel Aviv just on time. I let Darren know I was safe and then took a taxi straight to the hospital. It felt strange not texting you to say I’d arrived. Or calling to ask what room you were in, how I’d find you. But there was no one to call. No one to talk to. It was just me—and the baby.

  “I’m glad you’re with me,” I muttered to my stomach. It seemed less lonely, somehow, to know there was another living being there, experiencing this alongside me.

  • • •

  AT THE HOSPITAL there were two security guards checking everyone’s bags. “I need to find a patient’s room,” I told them frantically as I handed mine over, before I could even wonder if they spoke English.

  “Information is over there. She can help you,” one of the guards said, after I went through the metal detector and got my bags back. He was pointing to a desk behind him.

  I ran to the information desk as quickly as I could, rolling my suitcase behind me.

  “Please,” I said when I got there. “I need to find a patient’s room. Gabriel Samson.” The woman behind the desk must’ve noticed how distraught I looked. The ten-and-a-half-hour flight and time change didn’t help. I’m sure my eyes were bloodshot and my hair and clothes rumpled. She found your name on a computer in no time.

  “Floor eight,” she said. “Intensive care. Room 802.” Then she pointed me toward the elevator.

  I hit 8 and tried to remember what floor your hotel room was on in the Warwick. Closing my eyes, I imagined your finger pressing the button. It was 6. Or was it 5? A tear rolled down my cheek. If you died, I realized just then, it would mean that I’d be the keeper of our memories. I’d be the only one on Earth who had experienced them. I have to do better. I can’t forget the details.

  The elevator pinged and the doors opened. I went to the woman behind the desk and told her I was there to see you. She nodded and then said I could take a seat. That the doctors would be there shortly. Then she picked up the phone and started speaking quickly in Hebrew.

  “Wait,” I said. “But I want to see Gabe. Can I see him now?”

  She covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand. “Soon,” she told me. “But the doctors want to speak first.”

  I had my suitcase and my oversized handbag from the plane. I carried them to a gray institutional-looking chair and sat. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the first time I saw you. Were you wearing a white T-shirt, or was it gray? Was there a pocket? An emblem on the left side? It had a slight V-neck, I remembered that part.

  I opened my eyes when someone cleared his throat in front of me. “Mrs. Maxwell?” the man asked. He was wearing a lab coat. It reminded me of Jason’s.

  I nodded and stood. “I’m Lucy Maxwell,” I said, holding out my hand.

  The man shook it. “I’m Yoav Shamir,” he said. “Mr. Samson’s neurologist.” His English sounded nearly perfect, except for the way he swallowed the letter r.

  “Thank you for caring for him,” I said.

  Two women standing a bit behind Dr. Shamir stepped forward.

  “I’m Dafna Mizrahi,” the taller one said, her accent more pronounced. “I’m the intensive-care doctor.”

  I shook her hand too. “Nice to meet you,” I said inanely.

  Then the third woman introduced herself. She wasn’t wearing a lab coat. Instead she had on a bright summer dress. There was a scarf draped across her shoulders. “I’m Shoshana. Shoshana Ben-Ami,” she said. “I’m a social worker here. I’ve reserved a room for the four of us—shall we head over?” She sounded British. I wondered if she’d been raised there and moved to Israel recently, or perhaps one of her parents had and she’d grown up speaking both languages.

  “Okay,” I said, following all three of them. Between the flight and the time difference and the surreality of the situation, I felt like I was floating, like this whole thing was happening in a dream world, where sound was traveling through cotton wool to make its way to me.

  “Do you know what happened?” Dr. Mizrahi asked me, as we all sat down in a small, quiet room. There was a table, a few chairs, a telephone.

  “Some,” I answered, putting my handbag at my feet.

  “Do you want to know more?” she asked. “I have the medic’s notes.”

  Usually, I want to know everything. Usually the more information I have, the more I feel in control. But this time I said no. “I just want to see him,” I said.

  She nodded. “You will, very soon, but we want to give you some information first.”

  Dr. Shamir had sat down across from me. “As you know,” he said, “your friend had a very significant, traumatic injury to his brain. Would you like me to go through the test results?”

  I took a deep breath. “Just tell me this,” I said, “what are the chances that he’ll recover? How long will it take?”

  A look passed between the two doctors. “The lower portion of his brain was affected,” Dr. Shamir said. “That’s the part that performs essential life functions.”

  “Swallowing, breathing,” Dr. Mizrahi clarified.

  “But could he gain those back?” I asked. Hope, it had perched in my soul. It was singing a tune without words. Did you take that class at Columbia? The one on Dickinson? I can’t remember. I wish I could remember.

  They looked at each other again. Dr. Mizrahi started this time. “Dr. Shamir and I both performed the test for brain death,” she said. “And your friend’s brain . . . it doesn’t function.”

  “But will it again?” I asked. “Like a broken leg, or a sore throat. Can he get better?” As I rode in the cab from Tel Aviv, I’d imagined you hearing my voice and waking up. I’d imagined you whole and happy in my arms.

  Dr. Shamir looked straight at me. His brown eyes were magnifie
d through his glasses. “Mr. Samson is brain-dead,” he said. “That means he will never breathe again on his own, he’ll never swallow, he’ll never speak, he’ll never walk. I’m so sorry.”

  Mr. Samson is brain-dead. A powerful wave of nausea swept through me. I looked frantically around the room for a garbage pail and lunged toward the one in the corner, just as I started to dry heave. Brain-dead. Brain is dead. Dead. You were gone. Forever. My body was rejecting that, rejecting everything.

  My stomach muscles contracted in waves, trying to rid my body of anything it could.

  Dr. Mizrahi came over and knelt beside me. “Take a deep breath,” she said. “Through your nose.”

  I tried and stopped gagging.

  “Now another.” She helped me off my knees and back into my chair. I wasn’t crying. I was numb. I felt like my consciousness had split in two. The part that felt things had detached itself from the rest of me. It was on the ceiling, watching the meeting.

  Shoshana left the room and came back with a cup of water. “Do you need some time?” she asked.

  I shook my head. I felt like a robot. Like my body and mouth were moving mechanically. “I’m sorry,” I said to all of them.

  “No need to apologize,” Shoshana told me, patting my hand with hers.

  “I’m pregnant,” I said, trying to explain. “I’ve been feeling sick anyway. I think—”

  “How far along?” Dr. Mizrahi asked.

  “Just over eight weeks,” I said.

  She nodded and sat in the empty seat right next to me.

  “You can keep him on life support,” Dr. Mizrahi told me. “We can talk about the length of time and what risks there are. But I always tell the families and friends to consider what their loved one would want. How would he want to live the rest of his life?” She reached across the table for a file, then shuffled through it for a piece of paper. “This is a copy of the DNR that the Associated Press sent to us.”

  I took the paper and looked at your signature, so familiar—all angles where one expected curves. It was dated October 3rd, 2004. I began to read the form, but stopped. I knew what it meant. I still felt numb, robotic, like I wasn’t all there. I wasn’t sure what to say next. I wished I weren’t so alone. I wished you were there with me.

  “When can I see him?” I asked.

  “Dr. Mizrahi can take us now,” Shoshana said. “Or you and I can stay, and we can talk. About anything you’d like.” She handed me a plastic bag. “I have Mr. Samson’s camera for you—and his cell phone and wallet. His house keys as well. And a hotel key. That’s what he had on him.” I looked inside the bag. Your phone was shattered. Your camera looked surprisingly intact, but I could see splatters of mud—or was it blood—dried onto the lens.

  I took a shaky breath. This was all too much. My fogged-up mind jumped to all the things you left behind. Would I have to deal with them too? For a moment I wished Darren were there with me; he’d know what to do. Or Kate. I decided I’d call Kate. But first I needed to see you. That was why I’d come. That was why I’d traveled so far.

  “Thank you,” I said to the social worker. “But I just want to see him. Can I see him now?”

  “Of course,” she said, standing and picking up my suitcase.

  “We’ve got to be strong,” I muttered to the baby. Or maybe to myself. I followed Shoshana and Dr. Mizrahi out the door. Dr. Shamir turned in the other direction, saying he was available if I wanted to talk further.

  I nodded and he left.

  Then I stopped walking. “There is one thing,” I said, in the hallway.

  Shoshana paused and looked at me. “Yes?”

  I took another deep breath. I couldn’t believe I was asking this. “How far along does a pregnancy have to be before you can do a paternity test?”

  Dr. Mizrahi had stopped too. Her gaze dropped briefly to my stomach before it returned to my face. “There’s a blood test that can be performed as early as eight weeks,” she said. “It can also tell the baby’s sex.”

  I clutched the plastic bag tighter. The things you’d left behind. “Thank you,” I said.

  And then Dr. Mizrahi led us in to see you.

  lxxvii

  I walked into your room and had to steady myself against the door frame. The nausea returned and I battled it back.

  There was a breathing tube jammed down your throat. Your lips were dry and cracked around it. Your head was bandaged, and the soft area below your closed eyes was bruised purple. Someone had wrapped your left arm in a splint, from elbow to wrist. There were tubes and machines beeping everywhere. But it was you. You were there. Your chest was rising and falling. You were alive. I knew what the doctors had just said, but I ignored it.

  “Gabe,” I breathed. The room smelled metallic and medicinal, like antiseptic mixed with sweat and blood. I knelt next to your bed and took your hand. Your fingers felt reassuringly warm. I held them to my face, wishing you would trace my lips with your thumb, wishing I could hear your voice.

  I thought about the last conversation we had. The one where we said we loved each other. The one where I told you to stay in Jerusalem, not to make me choose. “I take it back,” I said to you. “I didn’t mean it. Just come back. Come back, Gabe. Please. Don’t leave me.”

  Nothing happened. You didn’t move. Not a twitch, not a blink.

  A sob escaped my chest and then I couldn’t stop them from coming. My throat constricted. My ribs ached. My body shook. I collapsed onto the floor.

  I don’t know when she’d entered the room, but Shoshana was at my side, her hand on my shoulder. “Mrs. Maxwell,” she said. “Lucy.”

  I looked at her instead of at you. I tried to stop the body-racking sobs. She lifted me up off the floor.

  “Let’s take a walk,” she said. “Is there anyone who can be here with you?”

  I shook my head. “No one,” I choked out. I thought about Kate, about asking her if she could get on a plane that night. She would come if I asked. I took a quivering breath.

  “It’s going to be okay,” Shoshana said, as she steered me out of your room and back down the hall. “Visiting hours are almost over. Why don’t you try to get some rest? You don’t have to make any decisions today.”

  “Okay,” I said, my voice as shaky as I felt.

  “Do you need a car to take you to a hotel? Or to Mr. Samson’s apartment?” Shoshana asked.

  I’d booked a hotel, but I thought about the keys to your apartment in the plastic bag. I had your address in my contacts, where you typed it while we were in bed together. I felt like I had to go there. “A car,” I said. “That would be great.”

  Shoshana nodded and came back a few minutes later with my suitcase. “Let me take you outside to meet the driver.” She handed me a card. “I don’t usually do this, but here’s my private line. If you need anything, please call. I’ve added my mobile number on the back.”

  “Thank you,” I said, slipping the card into my handbag.

  She picked my suitcase back up and I followed her through a revolving gate to the parking lot. A thought flashed through my mind quickly, gone as fast as it entered: If this was fate’s way of granting my wish, making me not have to choose between you and Darren, then I didn’t want to live in this world either.

  What do you think, Gabe? Was it your choice to report from Gaza? To take those pictures when you did, where you did, how you did? Did your choices lead you here? Or was this preordained? Your fated end? Our fated end? I have my own thoughts about this, but I wish I could hear yours.

  lxxviii

  The taxi driver took me down some winding streets, trying to give me a bit of a tour as we went. It was the first time I’d ever been to Israel, and I knew I should have been paying more attention, appreciating the significance of where I was, but I was still in a fog. Images of you in that hospital bed flared in my brain. Dr. Shamir saying the words
“Mr. Samson is brain-dead.” Don’t think about it, I told myself. Focus on what you’re doing now. Stay strong. Think about his apartment. Would it seem familiar? Would it feel like home? Would I find something out about you that I didn’t know before—and wouldn’t want to know now? For a moment, I wondered if I should go to the hotel after all, but we were already on the way. And to be honest, I wanted to see where you’d lived. I wanted to surround myself with you.

  “Ah, Rehavia,” the taxi driver had said, when I gave him your address. “Very nice.”

  He was right. Your neighborhood was lovely—inviting and calm. I concentrated on the buildings we passed instead of what I’d just seen and heard at the hospital. I imagined what it would have been like if I’d said, Yes, I’ll come to Jerusalem with you. Would I have shopped at that market? Had coffee at that little store? Would we have enjoyed being together, or would everything have been tainted? Through the fog and numbness, I felt a pang for Violet and Liam. I’d been gone for less than a day, and I missed them already. I wished I could hold them, feel their little bodies warm against mine, their arms wrapped around my neck. I never would have been able to leave them.

  When we stopped in front of your building, I took my bags and stood at the entrance. There was a wooden door behind a metal gate, both set into a beautiful stone archway. I would’ve chosen a building like this too. It looked solid, comforting, like it had protected families, kept them safe, for centuries. I fumbled in the plastic bag for your keys, and then tried a few before I found the one that opened the gate and then the door. I took the stairs to the third floor, and then struggled again to find the right key.

  Inside, by myself, all of a sudden I felt like an intruder. I’d forgotten that you’d only been in Jerusalem briefly before you were in Gaza. And that even when you were here, you were working like crazy. Your apartment hadn’t really been set up yet. There were boxes of books opened but not unpacked. A few photographs framed and leaning against walls, but not hung. There were rugs patterned in bold colors, like I’d seen at the bazaars in Turkey. A brown couch. A wooden desk piled with electronics and wires. A chair. I imagined you working in that chair, at your computer, cropping, adjusting color saturation, increasing contrast, the way you did when we lived together. I did my best to think of you here, and not in the hospital. You were alive, you were doing what you loved, you were smiling. In my mind at least.