Pain

by Zeruya Shalev

  Alma shakes her head, an expression of horror on her beautiful, made-up face as she looks at the wounds. “Never mind,” he says, “in the army we managed without bandages. Do you have a shirt you don’t need?” She looks in the closet and reluctantly hands him a black tricot shirt, her slave uniform, and Iris is mesmerized by his movements as he tears it into strips with his huge hands. Isn’t this the same as the ritual of tearing the clothes at a funeral, a symbol of the family’s pain and sorrow? She pictures Eitan’s torn shirt, the tear so long that his chest was exposed when he knelt down at the pile of earth and cried out, Come back to me.

  But now, in her living present, this tear might signify hope, not mourning, and she finds herself mumbling a prayer, “May you be torn away from him, may you be torn away from him in the same way, amen.”

  This is how I dreamed of binding you to me so it would hurt less, she wants to tell Alma, as he winds the black strip around her hand, pressing her fingers together and lessening her pain. After he ties several strips tightly together and hangs it around her neck as a sling for her hand, Alma smiles, “It’s so funny that everything’s black! She looks like a dominatrix—all she needs is a whip!”

  Sasha, studying Iris with satisfaction, also laughs. “Yes, it’s kinky.” Iris likes the way he keeps a certain distance from her daughter. The moment they seem to be getting closer, he says quickly, “Okay, I’m gone, call me in the morning, Iris.” He leaves without even glancing at Alma. He is so huge that his absence makes the room seem larger.

  “Who’s that? Where’d you find him?” Alma asks, unable to control her curiosity.

  “He was my pupil once, I bumped into him by accident on the street.” Iris hopes that her vagueness will allow some flexibility about the sequence of events, making it appear that she met him after she fell, but her daughter insists on knowing exact details.

  “So you sent him to the bar?” Alma leans on the doorframe, her tight dress exposing her back, and looks at her with suspicion in her eyes, which emphasizes their intense blackness.

  In an effort to change the subject, Iris asks, “Do you happen to have any painkillers?”

  “No, I don’t have painkillers,” she replies hostilely, her voice growing louder. “Why should I have painkillers? Did I know you’d come here? Did I know you’d fall? Why can’t you be careful?”

  Iris absorbs the hurtful words and says quietly, “Why are you attacking me like this?”

  “I’m attacking you? You’re attacking me! Did anyone ask you to move in here all of a sudden? Why don’t you take care of yourself? I can’t stand to see you like this, with all those bandages!”

  “I completely understand you,” Iris says, trying to hide the sorrow, the humiliation. “You don’t have to see me, I’ll ask Dad to come tomorrow and take me home.”

  To her surprise, her daughter stamps her foot and bursts into tears, sits down on the edge of the bed and covers her face with her hands, her bare back shaking. “Sure, this gives you an excuse to run away! Is that why you keep hurting yourself, so you can run away from us?”

  Iris listens in shock, it has been years since she saw her cry this way, like a baby having a tantrum. “Alma, what do you want? Help me to help you!”

  “I don’t need your help,” her daughter sobs, “I have other people who help me, I have a teacher who teaches me how to live! You were right, I wasted my life in front of the TV, you’re always right, but you have nothing to offer me and he does!”

  “Calm down, Alma,” she says, desperately seeking the right words. “You barely slept at night, come on, eat something and go to sleep. We’ll talk some more tomorrow, okay?”

  But her daughter leaps up and screams, “I won’t be here tomorrow!” The makeup running from her eyes in crooked black streams makes her face look cracked. “I’m leaving, I can’t bear to see you lying in bed like that again! Why don’t you watch where you’re going? I’m going back to work, my shift isn’t over.”

  Iris tries to sit up, to take her hand. “You’re not going!” she says in her most authoritative voice, but her daughter jerks her hand away. How can she reach the door before her and block it with her body if she can’t even stand on her feet and feels crushed under the weight of the pain? With tears welling up, she pleads, “Alma, don’t go, I need you here now, I can’t stay alone.”

  “What do you need?” She turns around and walks back suspiciously, eyes averted, both of them breathing heavily.

  “Maybe I have some painkillers left in my bag,” Iris says. “Can you please look?”

  Alma shoves things around in the bag, hands her a few stray pills she finds on the bottom. As a child, she loved searching through her mother’s bag for surprises, gum, candy, a new lipstick. She and Omer used to squabble about who would do the foraging, and then left it sticky and messy. Now, however, she drops it in the middle of the room because her phone begins ringing in her own bag and she goes into Noa’s room and closes the door, but Iris can hear her voice, trembling and agitated.

  Is he demanding that she come back? What will she do? She has no more ammunition against him now, if Alma decides to go, she can’t do a thing. She tries helplessly to eavesdrop, how can she leave her here until morning? She hears the door open and her daughter come out, upset, though she still doesn’t look as if she’s planning to leave. “Alma, bring me a glass of water,” she asks. And if you’re hungry, there’s lots of food.” It seems that only now does her daughter notice the changes in the small apartment, still undecided about how to react. Will she rebuke her for violating her privacy, or will she enjoy the change, because after all, she always loved cleanliness and order, soft sheets and fragrant towels.

  “It doesn’t suit you to be earth mother,” Alma says wryly, but comes from the kitchen with a glass of water for her and a full plate for herself, and sits down beside her on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t have time to eat today,” she says as she chews hungrily.

  Iris asks cautiously, “You girls don’t eat at work?”

  “Usually yes,” Alma replies with her mouth full. “But I left early today, because I saw your message, you wrote that you were waiting for me.” Iris is surprised by the simple words, which belong to a totally different reality. What’s happened to us, my sweet little girl, if the most normal words sound so incongruous, but she doesn’t dare say anything. She was barely able to keep her from leaving the house and she’s afraid of another flare-up, so she just looks at her daughter quietly. She seems to be pleased with the way the apartment looks, but chooses to hide her satisfaction, and Iris hides her own satisfaction at the fact that she’s here, beside her, chewing and swallowing.

  “Is he angry at you for leaving early?” she asks, cautiously choosing her words, and Alma gives her a quick glance as if trying to understand whether it’s a simple question or a jibe.

  “Of course he’s angry,” she replies candidly, “he said that I’ve given in to my ego again, but it felt right to come home. I didn’t give in to my ego, I just didn’t want you to wait for me, I know you hate to go to sleep late.”

  Iris listens to her, her lips trembling with emotion, but she won’t tell her that the behavior she is working so hard to justify is taken for granted in the other reality that isn’t theirs. “I’m glad you came back,” she says, “you must be tired. I’m sorry I took your bed, but there’s room here for both of us.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’ll sleep in Noa’s bed.”

  But Iris coaxes her, “Why? You should sleep here so you won’t wake up when she comes,” and she shifts her aching body toward the wall. To her happiness, her daughter is too tired to argue, and she turns off the light and lies down beside her without changing clothes, without washing her face or brushing her teeth. How quickly she has adopted the lifestyle of a survivor, but Iris doesn’t say anything. She makes herself small and tries not to move, a fly on the wall of her life tonight, a mother on
the wall, and from there she listens to Alma’s rapid breathing, to the sound of her own phone ringing. Despite the pain in her wrist, fingers, and knee, she feels the beginnings of such intense satisfaction that she doesn’t know which is stronger, the pain or her satisfaction at Alma’s choice that night, which might signify the beginning of recovery. That would turn this pain almost into joy, a miraculous gift that we must suffer to attain. What other gifts come with both pain and joy apart from giving birth to a child—even when you’re screaming in agony, you don’t forget for a moment that you are giving life.

  Sometimes once is not enough, sometimes we have to give our children their lives over and over again, to keep the fire of life burning within them, help them over and over again to choose life, the gift we gave them, though they never asked for it. That is what she is trying to do now, that is why she is in so much pain, just as she was during her daughter’s birth that cold night when her young body split open in torment to part from the creature that was living peacefully inside her. Even though they were reunited, that parting was so difficult, as are all the predetermined partings imposed by nature, which dictates the duration of pregnancy and child rearing, of life itself, sometimes even of love. Yes, the pain of being ripped apart from each other was stronger than the joy of their reunion that night. Her torn, emptied body mourned the primal connection it had lost and the baby cried constantly, mourning in Mickey’s arms as he rocked her gently and sang her the melancholy childhood songs his mother had sung to him in Arabic.

  That was, of course, the first of many partings and reunions life placed in their paths, and for them, the sorrow of the parting has always been greater than the joy of the reunion, which was usually elusive and tentative. But now, as they lie in the same bed for the first time in many years, she feels the full power of this reunion, even though her daughter is sleeping and she herself is drifting off.

  Waves of pain encircle them, drawing the map of their lives that overlaps only partially where her pain cast its shadow over Alma’s life and Alma’s pain cast a shadow over hers. So many partings still await them. Oh, Eitan, she sighs, how terrible the absence of choice was when you doomed me to a whole life without you, and how difficult the choice is now, when there is no longer a whole life left, there will never be a whole life anymore, not even with you. She tries to pull herself together, in dreadful situations, one must not think that far ahead, at the most she’ll think about tomorrow morning. She’ll need an x-ray, which may lead to a cast, or even worse, surgery. She’ll have to tell Mickey to come and pick her up, Alma’s away all day and she’ll need help. But even that future is too far away for her, only the present moment exists, this moment when she closes her eyes and falls asleep despite the pain. She isn’t even sure she has really fallen asleep when the front door squeaks open and intense yellow light floods the room, accompanied by a shriek.

  “Alma, get up fast, you’re really in trouble, honey! Call Boaz, he is so pissed off at you.” She opens her eyes and sees Noa standing in the doorway, also wearing a short dress and heavily made-up. Although she sees Iris, Noa persists, now in a lower voice, “I have to wake up Alma. believe me it’s for her own good.”

  “Over my dead body,” Iris says firmly. “Tell Boaz that I wouldn’t let you wake her up.”

  But Noa pleads, “Alma will be angry at you when she finds out, she’s not allowed to sleep when he needs her, it’s for her own good!”

  “You should go to sleep too, Noa’le,” Iris says.

  Noa steps back hesitantly, “I don’t know,” she mumbles.

  Iris cuts her short. “But I do know, everything is fine. Turn off the light and go to sleep. By the way, I spoke to your mother earlier and she said she really misses you. She’d be happy if you came home soon.”

  Noa freezes in the doorway and says dubiously, “She said that? That’s not her style.”

  “You’d be surprised, people change. Especially mothers.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Has the big bad wolf taken advantage of the time she slept to steal her little lamb, her beloved, lost little lamb, who lay close to her all night, quiet and warm? If there was any progress, no sign of it remains, because now the bed is empty, the apartment is empty. How quickly she has grown accustomed to the noise of the bustling street. It’s almost noon when she gets out of bed, walking heavily, holding on to the furniture and walls. The short distance to the kettle, the toilet, her bag, her phone, her medication is so long and agonizing. Every movement drills into her bones and she already longs to return to the bed, but there is no relief when she lies down again. Her fingers are swollen and black-and-blue under the black bandage, her knee is throbbing, and her ribs shudder at every breath.

  Anxiously, she checks her messages, but there is nothing from Alma. Did she erase whatever they achieved as she slept? For one happy moment, she thought she had managed to get him out of Alma’s way, to bring her closer to her, but that was only an illusion. She went back there, went back to her evil ways and left her here, betrayed, with her unnecessary pain. She has never felt so powerless, not even after the injury, because then, her primary mission in life was to recover, while now, it is to save Alma, and she can’t do that while lying uselessly in her bed. Dejected, she checks her other messages: Mickey, her secretary, Sasha, and one of her teachers, nothing from Pain. Has he given up on her? Will she try to reach him now that she has failed anyway, will she let him bandage her wounds? I only understand incurable diseases, he said, and they both laughed like children. Is Alma incurable?

  A strong sense of foreboding paralyzes her once again, her fingers were injured for a reason, and she calls Mickey instead. His voice is warm and devoted, as it usually is when they aren’t under the same roof. “I’ve been worried about you, Irissi, Alma told me you fell.” And she is momentarily surprised that he even knows Alma, so alone did she feel at night, as if she were a single parent.

  “When did you talk to her?” she asks. “How did she sound?”

  “About an hour ago. She sounded fine. A little confused, but less hostile. How are you?”

  “Not great. You should come this evening to take me home, okay? I can’t be here alone, I’m almost completely bedridden again. Mickey, this must be my karma.”

  After a brief hesitation, he says, “I actually think you should stay there. I had the impression that she’s happy to take care of you. Let her take care of you, why not?”

  “But she’s always at work, or whatever you call it. You don’t want me at home?”

  “At work? She told me she would stay home to take care of you. I thought that was a really positive development.”

  “So what if she said it? Lying also seems to be part of her spiritual work,” Iris grumbled miserably. “She didn’t stay here, but if it’s hard for you to come, I’ll take a taxi, and if you don’t want me at home, I’ll find a hotel.”

  “What am I going to do with you, Iris? Isn’t it about time to let go of your fear of being abandoned?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know very well what I’m talking about. I have no problem driving there tonight. I just thought it would be good for her to take care of you, good for both of you.”

  “So what if you thought that?” she grumbles.

  Just as she is searching for a way to redeem the conversation, the door opens and her daughter comes in, her hands full, wearing the same dress but no makeup. “I brought you painkillers,” she announces.

  “Thank you,” Iris says, her voice melting with gratitude. “You didn’t go to work?”

  “No, you said you couldn’t stay here alone.”

  “Sorry, Mickey, you’re right,” Iris whispers into the phone, but he has already hung up, and he is right about that as well.

  Alma really does seem happy to take care of her, even if she makes an effort to hide it, but Iris is still worried about her. Her voice is strident, her ge
stures exaggerated, and she bought grapes even though the small apartment is full of grapes. She asks her mother over and over again if she wants coffee but forgets to bring the glass of water she asks for. She wanders around the apartment aimlessly, and when her phone rings, she goes into Noa’s room and closes the door, avoiding Iris’s eyes when she comes out.

  “Alma, come and sit here for a minute,” she finally calls out to her.

  “In a minute, I’m making us breakfast.” She hears her frantically opening and closing the fridge, cutting vegetables. She was never enthusiastic about cooking, but she has accumulated experience as a waitress, and now she appears in the doorway with an enticing tray of sliced bread, cheese, vegetables, grapes of course, and coffee. Iris praises her as if she has performed a miracle, and makes room on the bed for her and the tray.

  “You know what I just remembered?” Alma says, seated beside her, leaning against the wall and filling her mouth with grapes.

  Iris looks expectantly at her rapidly moving jaws. “What did you remember?”