Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

Then she says something about talking to the photographs, apologizing to the children, but I can’t really hear her. I get up, shake the sand off. Where did you get these? I ask her. I have my ways, she says, and smiles. I look her straight in the eye. Where did you get these? I ask again. Now she can see that there is no progress at all. What’s your problem? she asks; you know how much effort, not to mention money, I had to put in to get these? You think it’s easy? I don’t think it’s easy at all, I say; I think it’s fucked up. Lizzie looks at me. Are we regressing back to Resistance, she asks, is that what’s happening? I want to know how you got these, I tell her for the third time, but this time there’s more weakness than threat in my words.

The soles of my feet are numb now. I can’t stand, and I don’t want to sit back down. I need to go home, I tell Lizzie. Not before we do this, she says. I shake my head no, slowly. Then I look right at her and say, I don’t give a fuck about these kids. I didn’t make them. Get their fathers to apologize to them, not me.

There is madness in her eyes and I think she might hit me, but she says nothing and then puts the photographs back in the envelope, the envelope back in the bag.

On the drive back to the city we are silent, but when we get to my block Lizzie says, You weren’t ready; it’s my fault. All of a sudden I have the urge to ask her if she called Oz to come over the other night after the bar. I want to suggest that maybe she has problems of her own, and that maybe she should focus on those for a while. But I figure whatever I say, I’m likely to regret it in the morning. When I’m about to enter my building, Lizzie honks, and I know she wants me to turn around and smile; I walk in without looking back.

4. Grief

Two weeks later, Lizzie and I are splitting a tuna sandwich and a lemonade on St. Marks, and she’s holding the lemonade and taking fast, short sips, because she never had any siblings and isn’t good at sharing. I let her, and focus on the tuna sandwich until she says, Hey, leave some for me. I look at her and feel the itch of confession. Lizzie’s way of dealing with the bonfire night has been to pretend it went well; even without completing the evening’s full program, as far as she’s concerned, we were ultimately successful. She’s been carefully constructing her sentences around now that you’re clean. Soon, I know, if I don’t stop the charade, she will start planning my 100 Free Days Celebration. I say, These past few weeks … you don’t know the whole story. Then I ignore her face and tell her about the man on the plane. She’s taking a deep breath. And since the bonfire? she asks. I tell her there have been two men since the bonfire, even though there’s only been one; I need her to lose hope. One was a grief client, I say, the other a regular at the coffee shop I go to who told me he was getting married in three days. Lizzie says, Okay, okay, and nods slowly many times, until it gets irritating. I say, I think the worst part is, I don’t regret it. Lizzie gives me the Lizzie look. I say, I just don’t, and shrug.

* * *

A woman comes into my office. She has beautiful eyes, but where they meet the rest of her face you can see fatigue. She says, I think I’m addicted to my grief. Grief is a very addictive substance, I say. We are not supposed to say things like that, but I don’t care. She seems surprised, like she expected me to say something else entirely, or maybe just offer her a glass of water. She asks about studies, and I understand: she wants printed data, black ink on stapled paper. Everyone does. I say, Suppose some research has been conducted, suppose proof exists that grief is one of the most dangerous drugs out there, that tens of thousands of Israelis abuse it every day; do you really think the government would let that information out? She looks at me like she doesn’t understand, but I know that she does. You have to go slowly with these people; they are not always ready to know what they already know.

We are quiet for a few seconds until suddenly she says, Everyone is an addict, then. My clients often exaggerate, once they see my point. Well, not everyone , I reply. I want to focus on her personal grief now, but she repeats her statement, and there is conviction in her tone, like she has slammed some door I can’t see: Everyone is an addict. I say, Addiction is a serious matter; you are belittling it when you put it this way. If anything can be an addiction, she says, then everyone is an addict. Please stop saying “everyone is an addict,” I say. I should point out the flaws in her logic, but somehow I can’t. Instead, my brain fills with words that can hurt her, words like wrinkles and faded. She smiles and looks at the wall behind me, and I get a strange feeling, like part of me has been sleeping this whole time. I turn around to see what it is she’s looking at, but it’s all white. I say, I think our time is up.

* * *

When I leave the office I’m shaking. I call Lizzie three times. Finally she picks up and she hears the trembling and she says What’s wrong, what’s wrong. I say, I think I’m done. Lizzie says, You’ve said it before. I say, No, I mean I’m done trying. Lizzie says nothing and I say, Liz, it’s not going away and I’m spending my life trying to change my life instead of living it. But what else can you do, Lizzie says very quietly, like a secret. I don’t know yet, I say, but whatever it is, I have to do it on my own. We can figure something out, she says, just because the bonfire didn’t work it doesn’t mean— Liz, I say, that’s the whole point; no more we can figure it out. I need to figure it out. The last words come out louder than I intended. Lizzie is quiet again. I am walking faster now, and I feel like I can walk forever, all the way to Israel and back. I know that I can’t, but the thought makes me light, and when I realize Lizzie is no longer on the line I put the phone in my pocket. I am almost running now, and it stops the shaking. I look at my legs; I can see my muscles working, my feet landing neatly on the ground every time to keep me from falling. I think, We are a team, my legs and me. I think, I am strong.

In the office where we worked, a windowless kitchenette stood at the end of a hall; in it, an espresso machine proudly rose from a countertop made of cold marble. One day, we craved the coolness of the marble, the heat of bitter caffeine, at the exact same time. In the kitchenette, we reached for the knob, then for the nozzle. Our hands touched, our skins tickled. The machine roared, let out steam. Still, we laughed it off. We said Excuse me . We returned to our desks and emulated the motions of coworkers. You see, we had both offered our freedom to other people long ago, and they’d accepted.

* * *

The next day it happened again. And again.

* * *

One of us, though we are not at liberty to say who, began to suspect the presence of a powerful force.

* * *

For a while, only a few people shared our secret. After nodding at these people over glasses of stale iced tea, as they advocated for restraint and touched the tips of our shoulders, we’d often find gray spots under our skin. They looked like bruises. We knew what they were. We had no escape, the force was reminding us, lest our friends’ words fool us.

Once, we bought a special detergent, legal in our state only for the use of veterinarians with pure intentions. Over the small kitchenette faucet we hunched, as one of us tried to scrub the other clean. We squeezed grainy matter out of green tubes. It didn’t work.

* * *

What could we do? We said goodbye to our spouses, affectionately kissed them on the cheek, avoided their eyes as we reached for the door. We left many items behind. We held on to our keys. Anything else, we knew, would be too cruel.