Shelly Oria - New York 1, Tel Aviv 0

* * *

You flew in from New York when your sister was enlisted — of course you did — and her new olive uniform could have fit two of her. The induction center you were all escorting her to was attached to your old base, and in the car on the way over you waited for that familiar right turn onto a winding road. It’s all straight after that, you remembered — straight through treeless, browngray streets with no U-turn. Your dad joked about how excited you must be. You put your hand on your sister’s knee and pretended not to notice the shaking. Then: the waiting area that looked like a parking lot, your sister small like the drive had shrunk her, and a giant billboard of names blinking red. Your father was the first to notice when her name came up, and you felt angry at him for seeing.

* * *

When the sun comes down on Tel Aviv, it comes down hard, and on the days when people try to remember, it comes down even harder. In Israel, there are days devoted to the task of remembering. Once a year: remembering the Holocaust. Once a year: remembering fallen soldiers. This is how a nation achieves collective remembrance: it freezes to the sound of a wailing siren for the duration of one minute, or two. Cars stop mid-road, screaming babies go unattended, and if you turn on the television or radio you hear nothing but the soundtrack of grief.

* * *

Now here’s the confusing thing: remembrance sirens sound exactly like wartime sirens. In Tel Aviv, this can get especially confusing if you are someone who currently lives abroad. If Tel Aviv is your hometown but on this Day of Remembrance you are merely visiting, this is what will happen to you: You’ll be brushing your teeth, when suddenly you’ll hear a gentle cry growing into something violent, the roar of a man-made wailing machine. You will think that maybe a new war is starting, or an old one returning, because the Gulf War is something that your body remembers, and sirens are part of that memory.

* * *

You were twelve, and for a while your family moved from city to city in an attempt to avoid danger, but the Scud missiles seemed to follow you. Finally you settled in a town called Raanana that seemed far enough from peril and close enough to routine: school for you, day care for your sister, work for your parents, every morning all of you clutching your boxed gas masks like purses. You got your first period in that temporary home, and in the bathroom which was not your bathroom you stared at the blood for a long time. Then: the siren; another missile was on its way.

* * *

Brushing your teeth, you will think about that war and say to yourself, This is probably nothing. A few seconds later you will open the bathroom door and shout to your sister, What’s going on? But she will not hear you over the piercing sound of her music; on this Day of Remembrance, she is a soldier on her day off, trying hard to forget . You’ll spit, and with toothpaste on your lips like foam you’ll shout again, you’ll shout loud. Your sister will hear you. She will step out of her room and gasp. This is what she will scream: Tzfirah! In Hebrew, the siren that reminds people to remember has a special name — Tzfirah.

* * *

You will want to laugh at the absurdity of the moment, but you will not. You will want to hug your sister with too much force and whisper, Don’t go back to your base , but you will not. Let’s pretend we can’t hear it , you will want to say; let’s walk over to the kitchen, toast some bread, fry some eggs. But you will not. For the remaining twenty seconds, this is what you will do: stand still alongside your sister, listen to the siren, and think about death, about darkness that takes over a city in a flash when the sun comes down hard.

Everyone knows Thursdays are wacky. It was a Thursday when the new shopping center opened, when, thrilled by its proximity to my apartment, I spent some money on ceramic pots I didn’t need. Also, a few books I already had but couldn’t resist rebuying. I came home carrying bags of purchased happiness, but no one was there to share my excitement. And then I heard the beep.

I looked for the source of the beep everywhere: nothing. Under the blankets, behind the TV, inside the refrigerator: nothing. Every time I thought it was gone, it would beep again. I counted the seconds. My discovery: inconsistency. Five seconds, eight, two, twelve. Beep, beep, beep, beep. I stopped counting. I tried to convince myself it was one of those things that happen on Thursdays, no big deal. I wasn’t buying it.

Jojo got home around seven. Hi, honey, I said, how was your day? I was waiting for the first beep we could share. I was waiting for him to go crazy trying to figure out where it came from. Jojo was the kind of guy who would. I waited: no beep. More than eleven minutes: no beep.

Hungry, babe? Jojo asked, and went in the kitchen to fix dinner. No thanks, I said. And it beeped. Hear that, Jojo? Hear that? I shouted. I was excited. Hear what, babe? he shouted back. The beep, the beep, there was a beep, didn’t you hear? I was mad at him for missing it.

Then I thought: Maybe it’s my own private beep. Maybe it won’t beep when Jojo’s around. Weird, I thought — everybody usually liked Jojo. Then dinnertime came and refuted my theory. My beep was beeping all through dinner. Jojo was right there. He couldn’t hear it. I asked, almost every time: he couldn’t hear it.

* * *

Then: the particles. They were small at first, so I didn’t mind them. Small particles flying through the air can be distracting, yes, but I’ve seen worse.

We were at a restaurant. Jojo, I said, did you see that? Then I asked the waiter, and a woman sitting at the next table. I was thinking there might be something wrong with Jojo. There wasn’t. They couldn’t see the particles either.

Then the particles got bigger, and then even bigger. Soon there were things flying in the air that could potentially be hazardous. For example: the stop sign that got knocked down by the storm the other day; an equestrian. Despite the danger, I felt relieved; my particles were part of something larger. I kept dodging: I had to. Jojo thought it was a twitch. He made an appointment for me to see a neurologist. Jojo, I said, there are fucking horses flying around in here. Babe, he said, you crack me up.

* * *

Then the strangest thing happened. Jojo came home from work one day, and he wasn’t Jojo. He was Dora. He had breasts and everything. He didn’t even look like Jojo, or sound like him. For three days, he denied it. Denied the breasts, denied the voice, denied the blond hair. Finally, she cracked. You’re right, she said, I’m not even sure who Jojo is. That’s it, I said to myself. Jojo’s gone. I’d always known that one day he would leave me.

Dora couldn’t see or hear any of it either.

One day Dora came home from work and said, We gotta talk. Babe, she said, you’re seeing things, you’re hearing things, I’m worried. Aren’t you, I said, hearing things, seeing things? I gave examples. Babe, she said, it’s not the same, it’s stuff that’s real. My stuff’s real, too, I said. Who’s to say what’s real and what’s not, I said. You’re not being supportive, I said.

Dora said nothing.

Then I said: If that’s really how you feel, I don’t see this relationship going anywhere.

Dora said nothing once again.

We both said nothing for a very long time. Then the beep started beeping, Victorian chariots were flying in the air, and the ceiling was going up and down.

I forgot to say that sometimes the ceiling would go up and down.

Maybe you can try to see it, Dor, I said. My voice was very sweet. Loving.