‘Meshugeneh!’ her mother snorts. She is in the back seat, filing her nails. ‘That’s a little crazy. It’s only a hair, for God’s sake, not the key to the gates of Heaven.’
Dina turns up the volume on the radio. Citizens are asked to be on the alert for any suspicious packages. A bus idles beside her at the lights, packed with kids on their way to school. The bulletin continues, warning about a possible attack in Haifa. The bus moves slowly forward. Dina’s baby kicks against the tight seatbelt. The driver is tapping the steering wheel impatiently as the engine revs loudly. A wave of nausea rises up and her lips are tingling. She wants to get away from this bus, before the blast, before the jumble of limbs and organs splatter her windshield.
A guy in the car behind honks his horn and yells out of his window, ‘Nu? Yalla!’ to let Dina know the light has changed to green. Her car lurches forward as she puts her foot down on the accelerator too fast. She brakes suddenly and the car behind is honking again. She pumps lightly on the gas and avoids looking in the rear-view mirror. She needs to get out of here. If she knew she could definitely find a parking spot right near the shuk, the open-air marketplace downtown, she would make a quick detour and stop to get her loose heel fixed at the shoemaker before work.
‘Good idea,’ her mother says. ‘Kill two birds with one stone.’
‘You’re probably right. I could pick up some apples at the fruit stall opposite the shoemaker. It wouldn’t take that long.’ Dina checks the clock. On second thought, it might be better to deal with the morning’s list of patients first, just see the ones already waiting. Maybe then she could take a lunch break and pop downtown to fix her shoe, get the apples. ‘You know what, if I’m already making compote tonight, I may as well bake an apple cake too while I’m at it. Were there enough eggs in the fridge?’
‘You should buy some more. Eggs have to be fresh.’
‘It sure would be nice to have a quiet evening at home, eat dinner together for once. I don’t remember the last time I made compote with Shlomi; he just loves helping out in the kitchen.’
‘You used to watch me bake apple cake when you were little.’
‘I remember. I wish you’d given me the recipe, though.’
‘You never asked for it.’
The traffic crawls forward.
‘I really should get home early and pull my weight tonight.’
‘Yes, Dina. Family should always come first. You can’t keep trying to save everyone else and meanwhile risk losing those closest to you. And another thing, I can’t imagine what effect your nerves are having on this unborn child of yours.’
‘So it’s better I lose my entire practice and stay home baking cakes to keep my child calm and my husband happy?’
The car in front of her grinds to a halt.
‘You know what? I’m not going to have time for all this running around today. I’m rushed off my feet as it is. Evgeni is probably already at the clinic by now.’
‘He can wait.’
‘I guess so. It’s always the same thing with him, anyway. How many times can he complain his neck hurts, his shoulders ache, he’s tired, oh, and by the way can I help him emigrate to Australia?’
Back in Russia, Evgeni was a ship engineer, but here in Haifa he sweeps the streets six days a week. When he first started coming to Dina she listened, held his hand, laughed at his jokes. She thought she could make a difference in his life. But every visit is exactly the same. He shuffles into her room, groans as he sits down in the chair next to her desk, rubs his Adam’s apple and starts his litany of complaints.
They have been going around in circles for years now. Dina can recite the consultation word by word, and deliver her own lines, all the while thinking about what to make for dinner.
‘Maybe another speshialeest will help?’ Evgeni often asks.
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘But good one, this time please.’
Evgeni is the type of patient doctors call a heartsink; someone who makes your heart sink as soon as you see them entering your waiting room yet again. Dina has a pile of letters in his file. Moshe Berman, the ear, nose and throat guy up at Rambam Hospital, wrote, I feel there is nothing much wrong with your patient, and then promptly dropped dead of a heart attack that same week. Dr Chana Gutter, chief psychiatrist at Rothschild Hospital, interviewed him for an hour and wrote a report stating, Your patient suffers from survivor’s guilt and a form of post-traumatic stress disorder. Perseveration of symptoms is classic of this type of condition and may respond well to a combination of serotonin uptake inhibitor and beta-blocker medication. But Evgeni refuses to take pills.
Dr Mohammed, deputy head of neurology at Carmel Hospital, summarised his findings eloquently: After extensive investigation, I feel there is no physical cause for your patient’s symptoms. I therefore release him back to your care and suggest he may benefit from getting a dog.
Dina’s mobile phone rings.
‘Nu? Where the hell are you?’ Yael shouts through the speaker.
‘I’m stuck in traffic.’
‘Well, you’d better get here soon, motek,’ she says. Dina imagines her receptionist seated behind the front desk, swivelling around on her chair to face the wall, her hand covering her mouth. ‘Evgeni was hanging around the entrance when I arrived,’ Yael says, lowering her voice. ‘He says it’s urgent. Why doesn’t he ever make an appointment, that man? He’s already pacing up and down. And that stinking dog of his outside is driving me nuts with its barking. Sousanne should be here any minute with the girls – they’re overdue for shots. Oh, and that guy from Tamra is supposed to come and fix the broken tile this morning.’ Yael keeps hammering at Dina through the phone. ‘Davka, to spite me, the only time he can make it has to be first thing in the morning. Wouldn’t you know it? He’s going to be chiselling away right in the middle of the waiting room,’ she says.
‘It shouldn’t take me much longer,’ Dina says.
‘You know what, to hell with the lot of them today. Is there any way you could stop on the way and pick up some milk? We’ve run out and I haven’t had my coffee yet. I’m dying here.’
‘Moriah Avenue is pretty much bumper to bumper right now, but I’ll see what I can do.’
The traffic is crazy. Dina decides she might as well duck into the supermarket after all. She can get some apples too. Maybe by the time she’s finished, the roads will have cleared a little. She turns down a small side street and weaves her way back up to Weller’s car park. As she grabs her bag and is about to lock the car door, she sees the old abacus Eitan had as a child, lying in the back seat. Shlomi must have left it there. He took it down from the shelf in the study over the weekend, asking his father to show him how it worked. Eitan wiped the dust from its wooden frame and sat down with Shlomi on the rug. He flicked the coloured beads across the wires from left to right. The child hugged his knees as his father explained the contraption to him.
‘These are heavenly ones,’ Eitan said, pointing to one row. He counted them, one by one.
Dina stood by the door and watched, imagining Eitan marking off each of his friends killed on the battlefield fighting a reluctant war in Lebanon.
He handed the abacus to Shlomi, spinning the beads at the bottom of the frame with one finger. ‘And the earthly are down here.’
CHAPTER 4
A bent twig of a woman is hobbling down aisle four, leaning heavily on a cane. Dina spots her immediately. It’s her neighbour and patient, Mrs Susskind. Early each morning when Dina leaves for work she sees her walking in the middle of the road, carrying her shopping bag as she struggles up a slight incline. At the end of their street a canopy of tall pine trees ends abruptly, and shady, luxuriant green gives way to harsh Middle Eastern sun. Last week Dina watched as a pine cone dropped, landing right in front of Mrs Susskind like a grenade, rocking her off balance for a moment. Jane, the young Filipina live-in carer, caught her by the elbow. Jane helps the old lady hobble along now. She is a paid replacement for both Mr Suss
kind, long dead, and a son who lives overseas.
Dina figures that today Mrs Susskind probably set out at dawn, just so she could be here in time to finish shuffling up and down the aisles and stand in line at the cashier’s counter a moment before Dina gets there. And it has to be today of all days that Mrs Susskind, out of the depths of her handbag, produces a discount voucher torn from a newspaper. She clasps the coupon between her forefinger and thumb, waving it in front of Ludmilla’s nose. Ludmilla has worked at Weller’s since she came from Odessa ten years ago. She knows Mrs Susskind quite well.
‘Lo, lo, giveret!’ shouts Ludmilla. Mrs Susskind is going deaf, but refuses to wear her hearing aid. ‘No, madam, we cannot swap this over for cash. It is a voucher for Pokémon trading cards.’
‘You don’t have to yell.’ Mrs Susskind’s cheeks are turning red. ‘I can hear, you know. I’m not that old yet. And I’m not stupid, either! What I am trying to explain is that I don’t need any cards. I just want you to give me the money instead. What will I do with cards?’
‘Giveret Susskind,’ Ludmilla remains pokerfaced, filing her nails which are painted in a leopard-skin pattern. ‘What about your grandchildren?’
A sudden smile lights up Mrs Susskind’s eyes.
‘Ah! Good, you reminded me,’ she says, and starts rummaging in her handbag again. ‘I have some photos to show you. They arrived in the mail yesterday.’
Jane stands patiently beside Mrs Susskind, fingering gum packets on a stand beside the register. She has probably left her family behind in some poor village and come miles away from home to look after a garrulous, old lady twenty-four hours a day, six days a week for the next five years, on a salary of $500 a month. This is typical for many Filipinas. A woman will pay thousands of dollars to a dodgy agent in order to secure a visa so she can come to Israel to work, sending most of the money back to her parents, who look after her young children. Mrs Susskind pulls out an envelope from her bag. A pile of photographs spill out onto the counter, beside a block of Blue Band margarine and a tub of Strauss cottage cheese. None of the other check-outs are open at this hour. This might take a while.
Ludmilla puts down her nailfile and picks up the snapshots, asking Mrs Susskind how old her grandchildren are now. Mrs Susskind points to Moshiko and Liad on holiday in Rome, sitting on the Spanish Steps.
‘And here is my Arik standing at the top of the Empire State Building. He is a banker in New York. He visits me every year. Such a good boy. And look, this is one of the twin girls. Aren’t they gorgeous?’
‘So why don’t you send these cards to them?’ asks Ludmilla, pulling some packets out from under the counter and handing them to Mrs Susskind.
‘What? Send these to New York?’ Mrs Susskind picks up the cards and almost throws them back at Ludmilla. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You think they don’t have shmontses like this in New York? Ludmilluchka, they have everything in America. But I tell you what – I have an idea. Forget about the money. Why don’t you take the cards yourself and send a present from me to your family in Russia? I’m sure they don’t have such things there. What do I need them for? Between me and you, what I need is a new leg.’
It is already eight-fifteen, and just as Dina is about to gently interrupt and remind them there are other people waiting, a stocky man behind her pushes to the front of the line. He is wearing a dirty blue T-shirt, beige shorts and dusty workboots. His fingers are stubby and blackened and he is chewing gum. Slamming a packet of Marlboro Lights down in front of Ludmilla, he hands her some coins.
‘Nu. Yalla. Hurry up! I don’t have time for your nonsense. What is this, a supermarket or an old people’s home? Come on, let us all get to work.’
Mrs Susskind turns on him:
‘Sheket! Be quiet. Have some respect for an old lady, you vilde chayeh. Did your mother teach you to behave like such a wild animal?’
Ludmilla throws the coins into her till. Her face remains blank, as if smiling might crack her heavy make-up. The man edges his way past them and walks off, swearing to himself.
Yael is probably dying for her coffee by now. Most days feel like a drawn-out wrestling match, Dina versus the waiting room, with Yael as referee. She made Yael promise to be her receptionist until the day they carry them both out of the clinic on stretchers.
‘Slicha, Mrs Susskind,’ Dina says, interrupting the old lady who is now foraging around in her purse, intent on finding something. ‘I’m in a bit of a rush today.’
‘Ah! Doktorsha Dina!’ she beams. ‘It’s you! Shalom! I didn’t see you standing there. How are you? And how is that little Shlomi of yours? I sometimes see him feeding my cats, you know. What a good boy. And he is growing up to be so tall, just like his father.’ She lifts her hand and points her red manicured finger into the middle of Dina’s belly. ‘And what about this little one here? Is she kicking a lot? I’m sure she is going to be just as clever as her mother.’
Dina takes a step back, clutching a carton of milk in front of her.
‘Oy, you know something, Dr Dina? It’s good you are here. I actually have an appointment to see you later today, but maybe you can look at my foot right now. It will save me having to shlep all the way up to the clinic.’
Mrs Susskind starts taking off her shoe in the middle of Weller’s, determination deepening the lines in her face.
‘Mrs Susskind, I think it’s better if you make an appointment to see me at work,’ Dina says as she tries to stop the woman from unravelling her bandage. ‘Or if you prefer I can pop in to your place after work this evening.’
Too late. Mrs Susskind peels the gauze off like a layer of snakeskin.
‘Look at this!’ She raises her voice. ‘You call this a dressing?’
Ludmilla cranes over the counter, staring at the woman’s foot. Jamal the delivery boy stops unpacking the crates of bottled water and saunters over to see what all the commotion is about. Dina smiles feebly and places her carton of milk next to Ludmilla, kneeling down carefully to deal with Mrs Susskind’s wound. She has been dressing the recalcitrant ulcer twice a week for the past six months.
Just then Dina’s mobile phone rings. It’s Yael again.
‘I wanted to let you know Tahirih told me she had to walk all the way up from Hillel Street because of the traffic coming up around the Baha’i gardens. You heard the news about the warning?’
‘Yes,’ Dina mumbles into the phone as she looks at Mrs Susskind’s swollen foot.
There is an awkward pause as Yael stays on the line.
‘Is something wrong?’ she asks.
‘No.’
‘I know you, Dina. You sound nervous.’
‘I’m fine, Yael. Just having a bad day.’
‘Ha! Don’t I know it? Story of my life: yom assal, yom bassal.’
‘Which means?’
‘One day you get honey, the next – onions. Which one do you reckon it will be today? Honey or onions?’
Dina tucks the phone between her chin and shoulder as she finishes removing Mrs Susskind’s dressing. The wound is covered in purulent ooze.
‘Onions,’ Dina says. ‘Definitely onions.’
CHAPTER 5
Taxis and buses sound their horns incessantly, as if they are trumpeting shofars in announcement of the Judgement Day. The gridlock through Central Carmel shopping centre has eased a little. A pack of yapping dogs race wildly across the road, headed towards the zoo. Dina changes lanes abruptly to avoid hitting them. She weaves her way along tree-lined Hanassi Avenue, slamming on the brakes in front of the Panorama Center, as a teenager rollerblades across the pedestrian crossing. Mannequins in designer clothing smile at her benignly. The sun reflects off the store windows into the kitchens of old ladies brewing cups of tea in the low-rise apartment blocks opposite.
‘You nearly here?’ It’s Yael on the phone again. ‘Did you manage to buy milk?’
Shit. Dina stifles the word behind clenched teeth. She must have left the carton on the counter at the supermarket in her hurry to
escape Mrs Susskind. She can’t turn up without milk: her own life’s not worth living if Yael doesn’t get her morning coffee. Maybe she should just pop into Mary’s Place and grab a couple of takeaway lattes. Cafe hafuch they call it here. Upside-down coffee: a reverse latte where the coffee is added to steamed milk. Israelis are determined to do things their own way.
‘Good you called,’ Dina avoids answering Yael’s question. ‘I just bumped into Mrs Susskind.’
‘I have her down for later today.’
‘Well, let’s just say you can cancel. I’ve already checked her ulcer.’
‘Where?’ Yael bellows down the phone. ‘In the middle of the goddamn street?’
‘Yes,’ she says. She leaves out the part about the supermarket. ‘I promised I’ll visit after work to change the dressing. Will you please remind me?’
‘Dina. Wouldn’t you rather get home on time for once? Let the stupid hag come up to the clinic.’
‘She’s an old woman.’
‘And you’re too good to her. When are you going to learn that the only person Mrs Susskind cares about is herself? Why do you think her family never visits?’ Yael probably knows more about most of the patients than Dina does. They confide in her while they wait; besides, a receptionist can’t help overhearing things. ‘Why do you let her manipulate you?’
Dina doesn’t answer. Doctors mustn’t judge their patients, shouldn’t indulge in bias. She should love, or, perhaps when it comes to Mrs Susskind, dread all of her patients equally.
Yael clears her throat, reading from her notepad as she briefs Dina on the day ahead. ‘First up, we have Sousanne.’
Dina loves Yael’s ‘we’.
‘By the way, she’s hoping for a boy this time.’ Yael is fishing for gossip, but Dina refuses to take the bait. ‘Well, I damn well hope it’s a boy, for her sake. Basim sure won’t want another girl.’
She can hear Yael’s pen scratching forcefully as she crosses something off her list.
‘You know what?’ Yael continues. ‘You should take Tahirih in first. She’s always quick and it will leave you more time for Sousanne.’ Picking up on Dina’s silence, she hesitates. ‘Are you sure you’re okay, Dina?’
Waiting Room, The Page 4