38
WHEN THEY WENT TO BED she said to Ami, I’ll bet you Maya has a fever tomorrow morning. Ronit had a sense for such things, detected an illness while it was still in the incubation period. Ami said he really hoped not, he’d left work early that day to drive Nofar to the meeting with the police, and he was hoping to make up the time tomorrow. Ronit asked again how it was with the police and he replied again it was fine, repeating exactly the same details he’d told her earlier in the kitchen. His voice was very matter of fact, and that’s how she knew he was upset. The more upset he was, the more matter of fact his voice became, and Ronit knew that if he ever planned to leave her, he would tell her in that TV-weatherman tone. They were silent for a bit, until his breathing whispered to her that he had fallen asleep. Ronit lay in bed listening to Ami’s breathing and the soothing sounds of the house. The humming of the refrigerator. The whooshing of the dishwasher. She had almost drifted off to sleep when she thought she heard Maya’s door opening. In a minute, she’d hear a faint knocking at their door and Maya would tell her she didn’t feel well. But although the footsteps stopped right outside their door, the knock didn’t come. Silence. She kept straining to hear what was happening in the hallway, but there was no sound, and in the end she fell asleep.
The next morning, as Ami was preparing to take his daughters to school, Maya said she didn’t feel well. Ronit was just about to call the doctor for an appointment when Maya looked at the car pulling away and said, “Mom, I have something to tell you.”
There were three lawyers among their friends, but Ronit didn’t plan to consult any of them. She was happy to call Noa to ask about a clause in their lease, but she wouldn’t call to ask her about the attempted rape story her daughter had fabricated. Of course, Noa would be there for her, she’d drop everything, come to take her out for coffee and give her good legal advice as she patted her shoulder. But the thought of Noa’s fingers touching her shoulder gently was precisely the reason she didn’t call. Noa has that half-nod when you tell her something bad, a sort of tilt of the head apparently meant to show that she’s totally listening to you, but the gesture made Ronit feel as if she were a frog being dissected in a biology class. And since their daughters were small, Noa had habitually reacted to all of Ronit’s stories with, “If that happened to my Ofri…” – for example, “If Ofri refused to straighten her room the way Maya does, I think I’d…” Or, “If Ofri had problems getting along with other kids like Nofar, I imagine I’d…” Or, “If Ofri accused someone of attempted rape for no reason, I’d…” Statements that made it clear to the listener that Ofri never refused to straighten her room, had absolutely no problems getting along with other kids, and definitely wouldn’t accuse anyone of attempted rape for no reason. Sometimes, a small part of Ronit wished that something would finally happen with Ofri, not hard drugs but a joint in the drawer, not bulimia but some unhealthy diet, not an abortion but, let’s say, a late period, something that would enable Ronit to place a sympathetic hand on Noa’s shoulder and say, “If that happened to Nofar, I think I…” But Ofri was an outstanding student and a very sociable girl, and she had a steady boyfriend who was madly in love with her. The only thing that bothered Noa was that, although she had been asked to join the Intelligence Corps, Ofri preferred the pilots’ course. That was why Ronit would never consult with Noa, even though it was free advice and her friend was an excellent lawyer. She was prepared to pay for the advice of a lawyer who would not put a hand on her shoulder or say a single word about his daughter, but would only explain how to persuade Nofar to confess in such a way that would cause minimum damage.
She found one on the Internet. She searched for names of lawyers who handled the worst criminals and found one who seemed especially good to her. “You’re in luck,” the secretary told her on the phone, “his morning meeting was just cancelled.” She called school to say she would be late, drove to a skyscraper downtown, took the elevator all the way up to the sixteenth floor and stood at the receptionist’s desk.
“I have an appointment at eleven.”
“Talia Shavit?”
It took a moment for Ronit to nod. When making the appointment on the phone, she’d been suddenly afraid that, despite confidentiality, the story might be leaked. Nofar was at the heart of a media frenzy, so it was better to be extra careful. Now she stood before the name she’d chosen, surprised.
“You’re Talia Shavit?”
“Yes.”
She had never used an alias before, and she was visibly tense as the secretary verified the details of the meeting on the computer. She thought that, at any moment, the woman would look up from the screen and reprimand her loudly, “Ronit Shalev! You should be ashamed of yourself!” But the secretary merely smiled and offered her an espresso from the machine. The language teacher wasn’t used to such treats, there was only instant coffee and UHT milk in the teachers’ room. Ronit thanked the secretary and sank into a black leather armchair. She had noticed quite a while ago that lawyers’ armchairs in TV series were always black, perhaps because clients’ sins could be absorbed into the upholstery and remain unnoticed. Ronit went over the list of the lawyer’s clients in her mind. She had read about them on the Internet, and though they seemed quite guilty to her, all of them, amazingly enough, were acquitted. They too had sat on this armchair, which was so black that nothing could stain it. They too had sipped espresso across from the abstract painting that apparently had been very expensive. But their legs hadn’t trembled the way Talia Shavit’s did.
I wonder where she is now, Talia Shavit. The last time Ronit saw her, she was giving a speech at the graduation ceremony of the education faculty. Talia Shavit had been a wonderful student, a wonderful dancer and a wonderful friend, and Ronit couldn’t wait for college to end so she wouldn’t have to see her any more. Her wonderfulness was so comprehensive that it made her absolutely awful. With Noa, for example, only Ofri was totally wonderful. Everything else was deficient to some degree or other – her job paid well but was boring, her husband was sweet but not sexy – and it was those things that made it possible to love her. Perhaps that was why Ronit had chosen Talia’s name, so that once in her life, when the lawyer’s door opened, someone would call her “Talia Shavit?” and she could say, “Yes.”
She had already drunk three cups of coffee when the door finally opened, and as she sat across from the lawyer her leg jumped like a hyperactive grasshopper. She told him about her daughter – Nofar Shavit – a very lovely girl, an excellent student who helped at home, was kind to the elderly, didn’t leave a single kitten in the neighbourhood hungry. Only, she was a bit confused, had accused someone of a rape that didn’t exactly, well, happen.
The lawyer asked several questions and then promised her that she had no cause to worry. Nofar Shavit would recant her false accusation and the case would be closed quickly. As a minor, her daughter did not bear criminal responsibility. Even a suit for damages, if there were one, could be easily dismissed – no one had heard of the case, so the damage caused to the accused was definitely minimal. “Not like that Avishai Milner. If it were him, it would be another story entirely…”
“Another story?”
Ronit’s voice shook slightly, but the lawyer didn’t notice. “The whole country is talking about Avishai Milner’s case. If it turns out that the girl is lying, he can ask for millions in a libel suit.” Ronit shrank in her chair as the lawyer added, “And just think about the media scandal. All the papers that bought the story will stand in line to crucify the liar who sold it to them. In short, Talia, you can thank God that isn’t the situation with your daughter.”
When she returned to the shady street, her wallet was 2,000 shekels lighter and her heart even heavier than before. She sat down on a wooden bench and took a used tissue out of her bag.
You carry a child inside your body, and after she comes out you still carry her in your heart. And your daughter doesn’t know that she was once inside your body. She knows, of course, but
not really. She will never know exactly what it was like when she was inside, and what it was like when she emerged because when it comes to those things, people are as stupid as goats. You know her body better than she does because you nursed it and diapered it and stroked it when it hurt, and when she grew up you watched over her even when she already needed a bra. You know her body better than she does, but you don’t know her. You ask, “How are you?” and she replies, “Fine,” and every “fine” is another small door slammed in your face. You sit and wait like a beggar at the door, maybe your daughter will be kind enough to open it and toss out a coin. And gradually, you understand: your daughter is a stranger.
The used tissue began to shred in her hand. Passers-by looked at her red eyes, slowed down a bit, then continued walking. She had to tell Ami. She should have told him in the morning right after Maya spoke to her, but she had decided not to, for Nofar’s sake. It would be better if Nofar knew that Ami had no part in it. That way, when her older daughter refused to speak to her any more after Ronit forced her to go to the police, she would still have her father to speak to.
Instead of returning to work, she went home and found Maya in bed. She hugged her younger daughter and said, “Everything’s fine, Maya’le,” and felt her young body shake with sobs. “You did the right thing,” Ronit told her, and was surprised to discover that she felt more than an iota of resentment for the girl she was embracing. When Maya finally calmed down, she gave her 100 shekels and sent her to the shopping centre to spend it. When Nofar returned, she would sit her down for a very serious talk. You’re still my daughter, she would tell her, but you have to take responsibility. And now we’re going to the police together. It will be terrible, but it will pass. Like a root-canal treatment. If Nofar refused to go, she would drag her by force. The way she had dragged her when she was two years old and ran into the road. Get over here, because I say so, because I’m the mother and you’re the child, and I know.
But what do you know? Do you know how long it will take until the story passes? Nofar will change schools, that was clear, but even in the new school everyone will know who she is. The entire country knows her. The mere thought of Nofar going into the army, beginning university, while everyone around her is looking and whispering, “Is that the girl who…” “Yes, that’s her.” “Maniac!” If being a parent means protecting your child in every way you can, Ronit still needs to know what she’s protecting her daughter from – from the outside world? From the damage Nofar was doing to her own soul?
Ronit suddenly had the comforting thought that Maya was making up that whole story of the notebook. Maybe her younger daughter was simply jealous of the attention her big sister was getting. Ronit gave herself over completely to that pleasant idea, she hid inside it the way she had hid in her parents’ wardrobe when she was a child, until her mother reached inside and pulled her out. Her mother had died four years ago, a combination of bad genes and cartons of L&M Lights, but her voice was exactly the same when she said to Ronit, “You should be ashamed of yourself! Distracting yourself with futile dreams while your home is rotting from so many lies! The roof is about to fall on all of you!” Her mother had been a Bible teacher. Her favourite part of the curriculum had been the prophecies.
“Don’t you plan to answer your mother?”
“You’re dead. I’m not talking to you.”
“Everyone talks to their dead parents. It’s completely normal.”
Ronit grew silent. Her mother sighed. “So don’t talk to me, talk to your daughter. Tell her she has to go to the police and confess. Or you’ll do it instead.”
“And if the humiliation crushes her? If she…”
“People aren’t so quick to commit suicide.”
Ronit made herself a cup of coffee with a lot of sugar, even though she knew exactly what her mother thought about women who drank it with a lot of sugar. “Ronit’i, I know it’s difficult. But the fact that something is difficult doesn’t mean you can just not do it.”
“But think about it, Mom, if it were me, Ronit at seventeen, could you do it?”
“Without thinking twice.”
Ronit took a big sip of her coffee, even though it was much too sweet. “So maybe that’s why, Mom, maybe that’s why I am actually thinking twice.”
Her mother was silent. From the window overlooking the street came the mewling of a peevish cat. Ronit poured her coffee into the sink and asked, almost in a whisper, “What sort of mother turns in her own daughter?” And her mother’s voice was calm and confident as it gave the reply she knew it would give: “What sort of mother allows her daughter to imprison an innocent man?”
Suddenly, she was upset about all the hours she had already wasted. The very fact of the delay seemed offensive to her now, as if every additional minute of waiting sullied Nofar even more. There was only one option. Ronit rediscovered inside herself the same firm decision that had taken shape when Maya first told her. And although the lawyer’s words had shaken her resolve slightly, now it was as solid as concrete.
39
LATE AT NIGHT, she sat in the dark living room and waited for her daughter to come home. On Thursdays Nofar worked at the ice-cream parlour until closing time, she wouldn’t be home until midnight. Nonetheless, Ronit sat on the couch and waited, she didn’t turn on the TV, didn’t open a book, just sat on the couch even though the sink was full of dishes and there was a pile of laundry to fold. The dishes would wait. The laundry would wait. At nine-thirty Ami came out of the study, asked why she was sitting in the dark and was she coming to bed. She said she was dozing, even though her eyes were as wide open as possible. Ami shrugged and said, “So good night, Rontchi,” adding apologetically that he had a long day tomorrow. You have no idea how long, Ronit thought, and knew that tomorrow morning he would hate her when she woke him up and told him they were going to the police now. Why didn’t you tell me, he would say, why did you face her alone, and she would tell him he was right, because he really was right, but in her heart she would know he was slightly wrong as well.
On the other side of the wall, the neighbour’s grandfather clock rang out twelve times. Ronit counted silently. She knew Nofar had arrived a split second before she heard the sound of the key in the lock because she recognized the sound the elevator made when it stopped on their floor. That’s how it was, everything familiar and nothing known. The door opened, the sound of her older daughter’s footsteps in the hallway stopped suddenly when she saw her mother sitting in the living room. “Mom? Why are you still up?”
Nofar turned on the lamp and the living room was instantly illuminated by bright light, blinding them both. Here was the carpet, the couch, the armchair. Here was the mother. Here was the daughter.
“Nofar, I want to see your notebook.”
The sudden tension in her daughter’s body did not escape Ronit’s attention. Nor did the mild shudder that ran through her at the mention of the notebook.
“My notebook? Why do you want my notebook?” Nofar’s voice was shriller than usual, and it slipped under the couch in an attempt to hide.
Ronit’s voice sounded metallic to her when she said, “I asked you to bring it to me.”
Nofar didn’t move. “But why do you want my notebook?”
Ronit, without answering the question, said “Now.”
“But it’s personal!”
“Now.”
“But Mom…”
“Nofar!”
She didn’t shout, she didn’t want to wake Ami, but her whisper echoed through the house as if someone had broken all the dishes in the sink. Nofar was crying quietly now, but Ronit had no intention of taking pity on her. It didn’t occur to her to use force, just as it didn’t occur to her to search Nofar’s room herself when she wasn’t home. Twenty years in high-school corridors had taught the language teacher to get what she wanted by speaking in an authoritative tone. And it worked now too, because a moment later her daughter broke. With tears in her eyes, she went to her room.
> When she came back, she handed Ronit the notebook in defeat. In a complaining tone she said, “I wanted to give it to you when it was finished. I didn’t want you to snatch it from me,” and dropped onto the couch.
Ronit opened the notebook, scanned the pages with the same speed-reading technique she used when marking language exam papers. Her astonishment grew from paragraph to paragraph. She didn’t realize that her mouth was wide open. It had never entered her mind that such a young girl was capable of doing something like this. Although the style was quite immature, it was distinct. In crowded handwriting, the entire story was spread out before her. She called her heroine Jennifer. Ronit vaguely remembered the name from a TV series Nofar had loved, and when Jennifer was thrown off the cheerleading squad, she decided to accuse the team captain of making her pregnant. Ronit read the descriptions that filled the notebook and came to the confession Jennifer made to her friend Amy, the same first-person confession that had upset Maya so much. “It’s not true. Everything I said. I made it all up. And he’s the one paying the price.”
But it was clear that Maya had not read the pages that preceded that confession, how the captain slept with Jennifer and then left her for his ex, the bitch, and how Jennifer decided to hold on to him by faking a pregnancy. If Maya had read it, she would have understood that it was an immature draft of a fictional plot. In the pages following the confession, the fake pregnancy was abandoned for a description of the love developing between Jennifer and Josh. A story filled with pathos written by an adolescent girl, no different from the stories the language teacher had written herself at the same age.
Liar Page 19