Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

Only once, I thought, during the shivah , by mistake, but I said: no.

Then we went inside and my blood curdled.

Dozens of memorial candles flickered in the living room. Not a single lamp was lit. A picture of a soldier wearing a beret hung on the wall opposite the door. The picture was the size of the posters they put up at bus stops. There were another three pictures of Gidi: one on the TV of him saluting someone; the second one on the cabinet, next to the bowl of artificial flowers, showing him carrying Yotam on his shoulders, and in the third, he looked younger. From the yarmulke he wore and the way his hair was parted on the side, it was probably his bar mitzvah.

How many sugars do you take? Yotam’s mother asked from the kitchen. Two, I answered, and continued walking around with my hands behind my back, as if I were at an exhibition.

*

No one answered, but I remembered that Amir once told me that the key was under the flowerpot on the right and that if I feel like it, I can stay there even when they’re not home. It was weird going in like that, without Amir giving me a hug or Noa giving me a kiss, but I said to myself that this was better than seeing my mother now and telling her that I got kicked out of lessons again. It’d be better to tell her that at supper, when Dad’s there too. Maybe it’ll make them talk to each other. I closed the door behind me and started walking around the apartment looking for interesting things to do. I found an old tennis ball. I threw it against the wall a few times and caught it, but then it accidentally hit that picture of the sad man and I stopped. I went into the kitchen to look for something good to eat, but the only thing in the fridge was a jar of mayonnaise, and there’s nothing you can do with mayonnaise by itself. I looked at the noticeboard across from the fridge, trying to find something interesting, secret. But the only things there were electric and water bills, a picture that Noa must have taken of a place with a lot of clouds, a sticker that said ‘Create or Stagnate’, a few drawing pins without papers, and a drawing of a couple sleeping in bed — he’s trying to pull the blanket to his side and she’s nailing it to the bed so he can’t — and under the drawing was a small piece of paper and someone, maybe Amir, had written on it, ‘My love is sometimes a hot baguette and sometimes a broken baguette’, and next to that was another piece of paper that said, in different handwriting, ‘My love is chocolate I’m allowed to eat, and sometimes chocolate I’m not allowed to eat.’ In other words, nothing interesting. I went back to the living room, sat down on the sofa and turned on the TV. That’s when I noticed the letter on the table.

The first words of the letter were, ‘Amir my love’.

This is wrong! I told myself, but my eyes darted back to read it. I turned my head in the other direction on purpose, but my eyes darted back to peek.

Amir my love ,

Lately, our words get tangled up .

Why can’t it all be simple?

I love. You love. It should stop, shouldn’t it?

Have a wonderful, simple morning .

Kisses and hugs ,

Your Noa

*

I have mamoulim if you want, she said and put the little plate of filled biscuits down next to the coffee. Thank you, I said, and remembered that I hadn’t eaten anything all morning. She sat down on the chair next to me and looked me over silently. Her eyes moved over my body, slipped away to the ceiling, the walls, then came back to study my face. I wanted to break the ice, to compliment her on how nice the house looked, the way people do in situations like this, but it seemed strange to compliment her on the armchairs or the curtains when the whole house looked like a memorial site. It’s warm here, I finally said, and that was a lie too. Somehow, despite the candles and the humming heaters, the air I inhaled between sips was dark and chilly.

Yotam spends a lot of time at your house, doesn’t he? she said, ignoring my dubious compliment and getting straight to the point. Yes, I admitted. How is he? she asked, making me swallow the apology that was on the tip of my tongue. I took one of the biscuits, and while I was taking little bites, I thought about how to answer her. He’s a great kid, I finally said. Sensitive, sweet, smart. I taught him to play chess two months ago, and now he’s beating me.

Yes, she said, an almost unnoticeable bit of maternal pride in her voice. But what I’m asking is, what’s happening to him? What is he feeling? He doesn’t talk to me at all, you know?

I took another biscuit and crumbled it with my fingers. He doesn’t talk to me about Gidi either, I admitted. It probably hurts too much. Or he still hasn’t taken it in. He’s only a boy and …

So you don’t talk about him? she said, interrupting me. Her chin dropped in disbelief.

No, I confirmed. And a second later, I added: not yet.

She stroked an embroidered cushion that was lying next to her and looked at one of the pictures of Gidi, the one on the TV. They were very close, she said, Yotam and Gidi. They were nine years apart, but very close. Gidi was like a father to him, she whispered, and a shadow crossed her eyes, as if she were remembering a bad dream. Yotam’s father spends a lot of hours at work every day, you know? So Gidi actually raised him.

I nodded, but only once. Two or more nods is Nava.

She picked up the cushion and held it against her stomach. The whole week, Yotam would ask me if Gidi was coming home for the weekend, and if I said yes, he’d go outside on Friday morning and sit on the steps to watch the bus stop for hours, waiting for him to finally get here. Every time a bus came down the street, he’d call out to me: Mummy, the bus is coming! And he’d stand on tiptoe so he could see. In summer and in winter. He’d sit and wait.

Like I used to wait for Noa, I thought.

Once, Yotam’s mother went on, there was a hailstorm and I made him come into the house so he wouldn’t catch cold, God forbid. So he pretended to do what I asked and then went out the window and sat in the bus stop shelter without my knowing it.

That’s just like him.

You should have seen them. She released the cushion slightly and looked encouraged by my smile: Yotam would jump on him and hang from his shoulder, like a handbag. And Gidi would peel him off gently and stroke his head and let him drag one handle of his duffle bag — he never let him touch his gun, never! — and that’s how they walked to the house, a big boy and a little boy, and when I hugged Gidi at the door, Yotam would wrap his little arms around us and hug us hugging each other.

She put a hand on her waist, as if she were trying to feel that touch again. I held my cup with both hands and tried to inhale the last vestiges of heat from it.

More coffee? she asked. No, thanks, I said. Biscuits? she asked, pointing to the plate, which had only a few crumbs left on it. No thanks, they were delicious, I said, and she rubbed her hands together in embarrassment, as if she’d hoped I’d give her an errand to do so she could take a minute’s rest from herself. Or from the conversation. Or maybe she wanted to postpone the minute she’d have to ask me something she wanted to know, but was afraid to ask.

You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? she finally said, looking straight at me.

No, I said. I mean, yes. I’m studying psychology, but I’m only working for my B.Sc., so you can’t say I’m a psychologist. I mean, I’m not. Her eyes moved away from me again and started wandering around the walls. Her face, which had brightened a little when she talked about Gidi, fell again, and her cheeks dropped over her mouth.

Probably the fact that I wasn’t a psychologist really disappointed her.