by Tammar Stein
“It’s not your fault,” my parents kept saying. They had more patience for me. They said it every day, every morning when I stumbled into the kitchen for my morning coffee. I had been excused from the rest of my military duty. I only had a few weeks left anyway. So I lived at home and did nothing. Didn’t get a job. Didn’t meet friends. Didn’t sleep. When my welcome packet from the University of Virginia arrived, I was surprised. Surprised they still expected me. But I had faxed in my acceptance an hour before Dov was killed. The welcome packet sat on my desk, unopened.
“You have to start sleeping,” my mother said. I could hear the tears in her voice. “Maya, my love, stop hurting yourself. It wasn’t your fault.”
They made me see a shrink.
“Not your fault,” the counselor said. She specialized in terror survivors. She had plenty of experience with this sort of behavior. I was surprised she even had time to squeeze me into her busy schedule. Too many survivors. “It’s typical for victims to try to take on the guilt of the perpetrator.” She spoke in a very matter-of-fact tone. No coddling here. “But don’t you do it. You’re not the one who detonated a bomb in the middle of a crowded café. You are not the terrorist. You are a person trying to live her life the best she can. Yes, a terrible tragedy happened. Don’t make it worse. Seven people already lost their lives to this bomber. Don’t let yours be the eighth.”
I sat in her sunny office and let her talk. I knew she believed what she said. Intellectually I could understand what she said. I agreed with her. It was true for most people. But it didn’t matter in my case. I didn’t even bother to explain. It was different. After he was fired from Shtut, he never got another job. He just sat at home, fuming and plotting. He was eighteen. Unemployed. Full of rage. Because of me. If I hadn’t said anything, maybe he would still be working, still bringing money home to his parents, hating the Jews, but beholden to us for his living. Once that was taken away, he didn’t need us anymore.
I created many scenarios where the ending was different. There were so many ways this could have been averted. If Dov and I had agreed to meet later. If I called to say I was running late and for Dov to come meet me. If I let Dov choose the place where we met. If that goddamn manager had handled the situation differently. If I never said anything to the manager. If that stupid Frenchwoman hadn’t brought pecorino in her bag, Hen would never have agreed to go to Shtut for lunch. If. If. If.
It didn’t matter what anyone said. If Dov and I had never met, he’d be alive today. He wouldn’t have been at the café and he’d be alive. But he did go and I had told him to meet me there, and now he was dead. Those were black-and-white facts. Meeting me, falling in love with me, was the worst thing that ever happened to him. That didn’t even take into account that I was meeting him to tell him I was leaving for four years.
My parents, my aunt, the counselor could repeat their mantra as much as they like, but I knew the truth.
Besides, I wasn’t sure Dov’s parents didn’t agree with me.
I saw them a few times after the funeral. I wondered if they hated me.
My parents drove me to the airport at the end of August. We were quiet in the car, mostly. There was not much left to say. I was going to the United States because none of us could think of anything else I could do. It was almost four months since Dov had died. My parents hoped sending me away was the right thing to do. But I knew they were scared that once I got away from them, I might do something stupid. Something harmful. I knew I wouldn’t, but nothing I said could make them believe that. I could sense their doubts, their fears, like a smell in the car. They were fighting a battle for me, trying to at least, but there wasn’t anything they could do and we all knew it. Keeping me near wasn’t working, and they were taking a chance that sending me away would help.
I said good-bye to Adam at home. I knew he was confused about the whole thing. Mad and sad about Dov, but not really understanding me. That was okay, though. I didn’t really understand me either.
“You take care, little brother,” I said. He was taller than I was now. He’d grown a lot in the past two years.
“You too, big sister.”
When he kissed me on the cheek, I noticed that his skin was rough with patches of stubble. I hadn’t even noticed that he’d started shaving. He noticed my look and rubbed his chin with sheepish pride.
“Guess it’s time for my weekly shave.”
“Adam,” I laughed. “I love you so much. I’m going to miss you.”
“I know,” he said, and his mouth twisted with something I couldn’t read. “But I’ll miss you more.”
We drove under blue skies with only a few white clouds to mar perfection. My mother sighed a bit and my father kept glancing at her.
“I’ll be fine, Ima,” I said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“If it doesn’t work out,” my father said, “just come back to us. Don’t force yourself through this if it isn’t right for you.”
He had his doubts that I should leave my support when I needed it most. But even he could see staying here wasn’t good. My mother had convinced him I should go. Maybe she was right. Maybe leaving would be better. I didn’t think it could get worse.
“I’ll be fine, Abba.”
“I know you will. I just want you to know.”
“I know,” I said. That didn’t seem like enough. “Thank you.”
“I miss you already,” my mother said in a small voice.
“Oh, Ima,” I said. “I miss you too.”
“All this missing and she hasn’t even boarded a plane yet,” my father said.
We laughed weakly.
“It’s for the best,” my mother said. “You need a break. You need some peace.”
I sat in the backseat watching the fields and orchards and towns on the side of the road whoosh by, appearing and disappearing, rolling away with ease.
There had been another bombing that morning. They didn’t want me to know about it, but I heard the news during breakfast. It was in Jerusalem. They kept thinking I was going to fall apart every time there was another attack. Everyone thought so. They tried to keep it from me. My mother even canceled our newspaper subscription. They never turned on the television when I was around.
“It won’t always feel like this,” my mother said. “And going to the States, it’s so exciting. You’ll have such a good education, make new friends.”
“Getting away from Israel is the only reason I’m doing this,” I said. I hated myself for saying mean things. It just hurt them more. But the words seemed to spill out. “You know it and I know it. It has nothing to do with friends or adventures or even learning anything. I just have to get out of here.”
We didn’t say much after that. There were so many things I wanted to say. Bitter words. But it wasn’t their fault. It wasn’t fair for me to hurt them more. I managed to keep silent and they kept quiet too. My parents insisted on coming in the terminal with me, and they stood beside me until I went through passport control, where only ticketed passengers could go. My father nearly crushed me in his hug, and I felt my mother’s soft lips on my face, near my eye. Once I was past the metal detectors, I turned back and waved at them.
“Shalom,” my mother called out. A few people looked at her. It was an old-fashioned way to say good-bye. It meant hello and peace as well.
“Be safe,” my father said.
“I love you,” my mother said.
I waved one last time and walked away.
I left them standing so close to each other they were nearly touching.
I left Israel, flying away in a 747, leaving only a fading contrail to mark my passing. I told myself, in a litany on the plane, that it was for the best.
The plane trip was uneventful. A large, dark group of Hasidic men took up the back half of the El-Al flight. They would get up at certain mysterious intervals and pray in the back of the plane, near the bathrooms. I wondered how they knew which time zone to pray by—t
he one they came from, the one they were headed toward, the one they were currently flying through, or some combination of all three. I was sure they had debated this for many hours back in Israel and that they reached a logical, Torah-based conclusion. I was vaguely curious about what they decided and the rationale behind it, but not enough to ask any of them. I always felt uneasy around the Hasidic community, the men with their thick beards and thicker black coats, the women with their styled wigs and long skirts.
On this trip, however, I enjoyed the sound of their deep, prayerful murmurs from the back of the plane, rising above the hum of the engines. I leaned my forehead against the cold plastic window and gazed out at nothing.
I tried not to think of my last night in Haifa as a bad omen. I had cramps and the room was too hot. I was covered in a sticky sheen of sweat. It took me a moment before I realized what the wetness between my legs was. My period had started early. I turned on the light by my bed and saw dark blood, almost black, smeared on the sheets and my shorts. It was three in the morning. I stripped the bed, stripped off my shorts, and after cleaning myself, I spent nearly half an hour scrubbing out the blood from my pajamas and my mother’s sheets.
The murmurs of prayers from the back of the plane had faded, and there was only the hum of the engines for company. The sun had set, and my reflection in the window stared back at me. I was headed someplace new and different. I was going there alone. I prayed then, something I rarely did. I prayed on the plane for God to help me and keep me and make me whole again.
Chapter Thirteen
VIRGINIA
By January, the start of my second semester, my body was wasting into air, becoming air. I began to ache at night. I dreamed of kissing Dov, of brushing my lips over his, of him kissing my forehead, my nose, my face, my neck, my shoulders. I dreamed of tracing that delicate pale path from tan wrist to ivory shoulder. I could feel his mouth on mine, his warmth, and I let my fingers glide along the hills and valleys of his stomach and his back, felt his weight on top of me, inside me. I would cry out in my dream, so happy he was back, that it had all been a nightmare, his death, my guilt. He was back with me, touching me, loving me, and everything was all right. I would wake up crying, alone, tangled in my bedsheets.
On mornings after nights like that, I functioned a little slower and my temper came a little faster. I was raw and unable to deal with the eccentricities of the people around me.
My parents and Adam had come during winter break, and we’d spent two weeks together. We spent the first few days in Charlottesville, so they could see the university and where I lived, and then a week and a half in Florida, where everything was sunny and bright and warm.
When I was with them in Miami, it seemed like everything was going to be fine. It felt like we were back in Israel, hanging out by the water on a Friday afternoon. We ate ice cream every day, went to see an alligator farm, spent a day at Disney World and got our picture taken with Goofy. I laughed at Adam’s jokes, and my parents lost that tight look around their eyes. At the airport, we said good-bye. They were flying to Israel. I was flying back to Virginia.
“Well,” my mother said, stroking my hair. “I guess things are working out fine.”
“Yes, they are,” I said, and I meant it. At least for that moment, everything seemed fine.
But after they left, I was back, living in the gloom. The days were short and gray. The nights were long and cold. I began to really regret coming to Virginia. I missed them so much and I ached to be warm, to be home again and not so far away.
I hadn’t spoken with Justin since our fight in the library. I had switched out of his section—a bureaucratic mess—and I didn’t have a class with him this semester. I didn’t walk by the history department at night anymore. If I could run away from my homeland, it was a simple matter to retreat from one human being.
One night, Tiffany, my hallmate and sometime friend, was getting ready for yet another party. She stopped by my room and invited me to come.
“It’s a frat mixer and I think you’ll really like it. There’re some really cool guys there and you’ve never really met my sisters. A bunch of them will be there.” Tiffany had rushed at the same time that Payton had and been inducted into a sorority, though not the same one. Payton was gone for the weekend, on some sort of retreat, and I had the room to myself. But for once, I wasn’t looking forward to solitude.
“I don’t know,” I told her, rubbing my face. “I’m pretty busy.”
“Oh, just come. If you’ve never been to a frat party before, you have to give it a chance. It’s part of the college experience.”
I had been feeling low that day, and the thought of spending the evening alone with my stars and galaxies wasn’t a cheering one. I missed Dov at the oddest times. Not exactly grieving for him, just missing him. I missed my boyfriend, who was funny and smart and knew me so well.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll come.” She cheered and I smiled. “What do I need to wear?”
I went to my first fraternity party in tight black pants and a skimpy, shimmering shirt, walking quickly and shivering in the cold January night. On Tiffany’s advice I didn’t bring a coat, because it’d be hot inside the party and there’d be no place to leave it. When we got there, the party was well under way. The house almost shook under the blast of music, and the smell of spilled beer greeted us before we got to the door. I followed Tiffany as she pushed and maneuvered past the press of bodies at the door.
“First things first,” she yelled at me through the music. Her streaked brown hair looked gray in the flashing lights. “Beer.”
I nodded and followed as she made her way to the beer line. I stood there, slightly swaying to the earsplitting music, waiting for her to come back. A few minutes later, she was there with my beer. We clinked the red plastic cups together.
“Cheers,” she yelled.
“Cheers.” I forced myself to match her grin.
I swallowed the beer in quick gulps for courage, for oblivion, and because it didn’t taste very good. It helped me feel reckless. I wanted to forget everything.
Tiffany started dancing to the beat, swaying and undulating her arms above her head.
“Where can I get another beer?” I yelled in her ear.
She whooped a cry of encouragement and pointed to a crowded corner in the rear. I didn’t get very far before a guy wearing a tattered baseball cap asked me if I needed more beer. I nodded and off he went, gamely pushing his way through the crowd. He made his way back to me, a triumphant beer held up like the Olympic torch. Tiffany had moved over and was huddled with a group of her sorority sisters, eyeing a nearby group of guys.
“Thanks,” I told him. I figured he’d be off to find another thirsty damsel in distress, but he stayed with me and we sort of danced, each holding a large plastic cup of lukewarm beer, not really bothering to talk above the ear-blasting music. He was taller than I was, narrow and thin. In the dim light I could not tell the color of his hair or eyes.
I finished the beer in my hand and he offered to get me another one.
“I’m fine,” I yelled. “Thanks.”
“Aw, come on,” he shouted. “How about I bring you one, but you don’t have to drink it if you don’t want to?”
I smiled at him, and off he went into the crowd for more beer. He was so friendly and he stood so close. When he leaned to talk into my ear, he touched my face lightly. It felt good to be close and to touch him effortlessly on the arm as I leaned in to hear what he was saying. I ended up drinking the beer he brought me and the one after that. The music was loud and the deafening bass of the anonymous song the speakers were blaring vibrated pleasantly in my stomach. It was dim in the frat house. As the night wore on, faces blended into one another. At one point, Tiffany tapped my shoulder.
“We’re going to Saint Elmo’s,” she yelled in my ear. “Are you coming?”
“No,” I yelled. “I’m staying.”
“See you later, girlie!” She winked at me, gave
a thumbs-up to the guy I was dancing with, and left.
We kept dancing, a little closer now. He smelled good, like soap. I closed my eyes and leaned into his shoulder.
When I told him I was too hot to dance anymore, he suggested we go upstairs.
“I’m a brother here,” he said with some pride. “I have a room upstairs.”
I can’t say that I didn’t know what he meant or what it would lead to. It wasn’t that I’d had too much to drink or that I didn’t know what I was doing. I did. I wanted to. I thought, a little viciously, that this is what Justin meant, right? A one-night stand with a stranger. I’d never done it before. Might as well give that a try, since nothing else seemed to work. So I jogged up the steps, following him.
It was a little cleaner upstairs; the floor wasn’t slick and sticky with spilled beer, but it was grimy with dirt and dust. I could feel tiny pieces of what seemed like sand, but couldn’t have been, grind under the thin soles of my shoes. He unlocked his room, but he didn’t turn on the lights.
I thought I could make out a desk, a pile of clothes on a chair, and a bed only slightly rumpled. We sat down on the bed. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair.
“You’re really pretty,” he tried. “Um, your eyes are so amazing.”
“Don’t,” I said, touching his arm. “Don’t talk.”
He leaned over and kissed me tentatively on the lips. After a moment, his tongue edged inside. I kissed him back. I could feel his heart racing. The sounds from the party below were coming in muted but clear. The room was very dark, with stripes of light from a street lamp seeping in through the blinds. We lay down on his bed. I closed my eyes.
I woke up at five in the morning, not tangled in sheets but lying side by side with a boy whose name I didn’t know. I eased off his narrow bed as quietly as I could, taking care not to touch him as I slipped out from under the covers. I had a headache from the beer and my mouth felt coated in fuzzy lint.