by Tammar Stein
After that night, I slept again.
The garden was beautifully kept, with perfectly trimmed hedges. April brought blooming flowers so thick they looked like pillows, and a lawn as smooth as carpet. This was where my lovers had come. Where I still came when I wanted to be alone. But like them, I discovered this garden was not as private as it seemed.
I had come to the garden the week before. I had just finished a long night lab, rushed home, written a paper, and then run to class to hand it in to the professor. Walking home, I was so tired that as I passed the garden, I couldn’t resist that lazy sun that sapped my strength or that smooth expanse of grass. I stretched out on the soft lawn and fell asleep.
I woke up feeling funny. I sat up to find that a drawing class had come to the gardens to sketch. One of the students who entered my garden had set up her easel several feet in front of me. She was busy sketching when I sat up. We both looked at each other in surprise. Running a hand through my disheveled hair, I grabbed my jacket and backpack and fled.
I wondered if I would ever find a sketch of myself, sleeping, at some student art show on campus. If I did, I would ask to buy it and I would hang it in my room and call it “Healed.”
The year was almost over. I had already taken all my finals but one. Summer was nearly here. I could feel the weight of the heat building each day, the growing press of humidity that curled my hair and drew beads of sweat from my skin like a snake charmer.
I lay on the itchy grass now and watched the busy life of ants and little black insects among their skyscraper blades of grass. They seemed frantic to me, hurrying everywhere they went, their short lives filled with work, danger, and the struggle to find food.
And my short life? Probably similar to theirs, if astronomy could be compared to digging tunnels and bringing home crumbs, and if politics and suicide bombers were similar to the heavy tread of uncaring humans and the sharp teeth of crickets.
My birthday was in two days. I was going to be twenty-one. Legally allowed to drink alcohol in Virginia. Payton was very excited. I had a ticket to fly home the week after that. Most of my stuff would stay at Payton’s house for the summer, and I’d pick it up when I returned. We were going to be roommates next year. In a real apartment. With a kitchen. I was looking forward to traveling without so many bags.
Summer in Israel. Payton is talking about visiting, against her parents’ wishes. They think it’s too dangerous. But I want her to come. I want to show her the Mediterranean. I want her to taste our amazing produce, nothing like the watery tomatoes and bitter cucumbers found here. I want her to float in the Dead Sea, to climb to the top of Masada, to see the Roman ruins in Caesarea, the Dome of the Rock, the Western Wall. I want her to see our orchards and our skyscrapers. I want to take her to dance clubs in Tel Aviv and the white beaches of Haifa. I want her to fall in love with Israel and find it swimming in her blood the way I do.
I want Justin to come. I want to show him the real meaning of history. The burned-out truck shells that still line the road to Jerusalem from the siege in 1948. I want him to look for Roman coins on the beach, because you can still find them, if you’re lucky. I want him to see the Turkish influence in Acre, a port Napoleon failed to breach. I want him to see the Knights’ Hall there and the little Arab boys that jump off the parapets into the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. I want to take him to the village of al-Qantir that was founded by Seti, father of Ramses II, around 1300 BCE. I want to take him camping in the Judean Desert.
I don’t want to listen to the news.
I want to go home.
I am not afraid anymore. I am only homesick. And I smile, stretched out in Jefferson’s garden with a hot Virginia sun beaming down.
Because I’m going home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Saying that something is “a dream come true” can be such a cliché, but of course clichés come about because sometimes they capture the essence of a situation. Publishing a novel has always been my dream, and with this book, my dream has come true. As always, no one achieves her dreams alone. It is only with the help, support, and expert knowledge of many people that I am here, living the cliché.
Thank you to my agents, Andrea Somberg and Donald Maass, and my editor, Erin Clarke, who made this experience wonderful and a whole lot of fun.
Thank you to Israeli Defense Force soldiers Shira Kravitz, Sally Maron, Hilla Revell, and Edo Schaefer. Your courage, your humor, and your adventures prove that fiction pales in comparison to life.
Thank you to dear friends Denise Grolly-Case and Sarah Leffler, whose loud and cheerful encouragement gave me the courage to continue.
Thank you to Marjorie Brody and the Monday Night Group, whose careful reading and insightful suggestions came at just the right time.
Thank you to all my family, my parents, and my brothers, who are always in the mood to go out to dinner and celebrate. They say, “That’s unbelievable,” but they believe.
And finally, thank you, Fred. I could never have done this without you—your constant support, your patience, your tough love, and your unhesitating belief that I should be writing. This book belongs to you.