A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) (20 page)

I can hear half a dozen different languages being spoken. The shopkeepers ignore us, seeking fatter prey than me (I’m down to my last $20 and it must show). We keep moving forward, Alex’s hand in mine, and I can’t imagine a more perfect day.

We reach an intersection—if you could call it that—and our guide stops and turns, beckoning us to gather around him. On either side of the intersection, the street gives up any pretense of viewing the sky—the buildings arch over the street completely.
To the right, it’s obviously new—polished light-colored stone, well lit, with only a few shops. Ahead, the street continues to descend downhill. To our left, the street is also almost completely covered over by slanted awnings that meet in the center of the street. Dozens of shops, hundreds of colors, chaos leading off into the distance.

The smells are vivid. Some good—floral fragrances pouring out of a clothes store, the crisp frying of falafel at at a stand nearby—some bad—the faintest hint of garbage wafting from somewhere, along with the accumulated body odor of two thousand years of tourists who have made their way through this city.

Most of the shops are tourist goods—“I went to Jerusalem and all I got was this lousy t-shirt
”, carpets, jewelry, antique pottery. But some are more prosaic—a tiny hardware store, a corner grocery. While this city may be one of the most crowded (and certainly oldest) tourist destinations in the world, it is also home to many of the people around us. Our guide explains to us that the area to the left leads to the Christian and Muslim quarters of the city. To the right is the Jewish quarter. For centuries, different religious and ethnic groups maintained their own sections of the city. We turn left. The streets here are dark, completely covered over after a few feet, and not well-lit, though plenty of light comes from the shops—that is, those that are open. I’m surprised by just how many are shuttered, at least a third of them. Graffiti in Arabic, Hebrew and sometimes English is written on the shutters. A tremendous amount of graffiti on every surface, some of it elaborate and beautiful, much of it
ugly
.

We’re moving very slowly now, our guide leading his way through the crowded market
with all of us trailing behind. Mrs. Simpson has moved to the rear, occasionally saying, “Dylan and Alex, keep up with the group,” in a surprisingly tolerant tone.

Alex leans close to me and squeezes my hand tight and whispers, “I wish this day could last forever.”

Even though I've lived in a lot of places, I don't think I've ever been in any city quite so magical as the Old City of Jerusalem. The sights and sounds are astonishing. From everywhere, the smells of spices, the shouts of the shopkeepers, the cacophony of colors. But above all, it’s discovering the city with Dylan that makes it so wonderful

As we tour the city, we spend an hour at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, an ancient building which is controlled by a dozen different denominations of Christianity. I buy a rosary for my mother.

Outside, we are allowed to spend one hour in a very limited part of the market. Our boundaries are one street, no further than the corners. This particular street is wider than most of the others, with plenty of sunlight. Two coffee shops and a restaurant are on this street along with the expected tourist traps. At one of the shops, Dylan insists on buying us matching coffee mugs, digitally printed on the spot with a picture of the two of us.

From there we move on to the plaza in front of the western wall. The wall, once the retaining wall of one side of a Jewish temple which was destroyed 2000 years ago, is now a holy place where devout Jews come from all over the world to pray. I read that this plaza used to be known as the Moroccan quarter, but that it was leveled three days after the 1967 war ended. The residents were evicted, and the entire area was turned into a giant plaza. At the same time our tour guide tells us that the reason the Jewish quarter looks so new is that the Jordanians leveled that part of the city during the 1948 war. The competing claims and the constant justification that we hear at every stop are making me increasingly cynical about both sides of the conflict. Dylan meanwhile, has seemed almost disturbed. He's increasingly sympathetic to the Palestinians, and I think that bothers him.

At the plaza, we stop to have lunch. We have an hour here, so each of us has the opportunity to approach the wall. Dylan and I go together. And while I don't pray very often, I do find myself giving a short prayer when I'm standing at the wall. I pray for peace. And selfishly, I pray that Dylan and I will have a chance for a future.

As we walk away from the wall, I try to imagine that future and I shiver. He wants to go travel after high school for a year or more. After that, he doesn’t really have plans. That’s inconceivable to me. All I
have
is plans, whether I like them or not.

Dylan feels me shiver. I think he mistakes it, thinking it’s because of the cool breeze coming across the plaza, because he pulls me close, wrapping an arm around my waist. I lean my head on his shoulder.

“I’m gonna miss this place,” he says.

“I will too,” I reply. I’m going to miss
you.
I don’t know why he doesn’t say that. I don’t even know why I don’t say it.

The tour continues through the afternoon, away from the Western Wall toward Damascus Gate and the market there, then back to the Via Dolorosa, the road that Jesus took through the city on the way to his crucifixion. It’s getting late, and there are fewer people on the streets. I’m silent as we follow the steps up that narrow road, passing apartments and hostels, pottery and antique stores, gaudy tourist shops. We stop to look at an inscription in Latin, marking one of the stations of the Cross. I can only imagine what my mother, a devout Catholic, would have given to be here right now.

For me, as we wind up the narrow street, I feel a shadow coming over me. With the clattering sound of metal on metal, shopkeepers behind and ahead of us roll down shutters, closing business for the day. It’s late in the afternoon and their departure gives the city a forlorn, abandoned air.

Suddenly I realize that this is it. We won’t have another opportunity to be here in the Old City, and in the morning we go back to Tel Aviv.
My eyes start to water, and I blink them frantically before Dylan sees.

But he does see. He leans close and whispers, “Me too.”

I wave down Mrs. Simpson, following behind at the back of the group, and ask her to take a picture of us together. I think she senses our sadness, because she takes the picture without comment.

The streets are almost empty as Amir and I make our way to the high school. It’s Friday; the sabbath starts at sundown, and today is also the first Friday in Hanukah. Amir has explained to me that Hanukah isn’t anything like the biggest of the Jewish Holidays, but I always think of it that way because of its proximity to Christmas.

As we trudge along, he says, “You fly out tomorrow?”

“Sunday,” I say.

“Oh, right,” he replies. Tomorrow we have a lunch with our hosts from all three cities, along with Americans in the other two groups. That’s to be followed by a party (more like a wake), and then we fly out the next morning.

I’ve been feeling glum ever since we left the Old City. I finally got around to posting a status update on Facebook for the first time last night. It simply said, “Bummer to be leaving.”

Alex had posted the picture of the two of us on the Via Dolorosa.
Her eyes were watery in the picture, a little red. I maintained a pokerface. I don’t know why, except that it’s just what I do. I wish I could go back in time thirty days and live this last month over again, and over, and over even one more time. I wish I could hold her in my arms
always.

The bus, yet another tour bus, is parked in front of the school, and the driver is already loading people’s bags. I set my guitar case and backpack down and just stand there. Alex isn’t here yet.

“You take good care of yourself,” Amir says. “And tell Alex I wish her to be well.”

“I will.”

Awkwardly, he sticks out a hand to shake. I take it, and we shake hands, and then he’s gone.

A few moments later, a white station wagon which looks like it’s from the nineties stops at the curb and Alex gets out, along with her host family. They fuss over her, helping her get her bags to the bus. The mother is red-eyed and Rebekah is weeping and she and Alex hug for a long time. Then they step back, as Mrs. Simpson gives the word to get on the bus, and we all begin to pile on. I walk over and take Alex’s hand.

Rebekah, who I barely know, runs over and hugs Alex one more time. Then she wraps her arms around me and squeezes, and whispers in my ear, “Take care of her.”

Confused, I reply, “We’re going home to different places.”

She shakes her head and squeezes a little tighter. “You’ll find a way if it matters to you.” Then she lets go and steps back.

The words spear through me. I sag a little. Then I take Alex’s hand again, and we get on the bus.

It takes almost ten more minutes before everyone is seated. We’re quiet, sitting in our seat, holding hands. Alex leans against me. Finally, everyone is on board. Mrs. Simpson stands up and does a head count. Everyone’s here.

She nods to the bus driver, who closes the door. He starts the engine, a whine followed by a low tumbling. Then he begins to drive, slowly at first, pulling out onto the almost empty street. Sundown is here, it’s the sabbath in Jerusalem, and the streets are empty.
When we drive away, I see a menorah in a window, candles blazing.

The bus is silent as we drive away.

It’s well past nightfall when the bus makes its way into Tel Aviv. You can see the city from a long way off, of course—unlike Jerusalem, which is fairly dark in the evening, the
light pollution
from the towers and high rises here is intense. The bus fights traffic, and those of us who stayed awake in the bus talk quietly, partly because several people went to sleep, and partly
just… because
. There’s something a little sobering and sad about this ride.

The bus is just getting off the highway and onto the streets of Tel Aviv when Alex, who has been reading her email on her iPhone, suddenly gasps. Her eyes are wide when she looks up at me.

“Dylan…” she says, shaking.

“What? What is it?”

She hands me the phone.

It takes me a second to orient myself to her phone—I’ve never actually looked at email on her phone (or on any phone for that matter). Then it takes a second more before it settles in that the Julia the email is from is her sister Julia Wilson,

But it’s the subject of the email that stuns me.

To: Alexandra

From: Julia

Subject: Progress

Dear Alex,

Our detective, Bill Nancy, called me this evening with progress. Over the last few days he’s been visiting homeless shelters and camps in the Atlanta area. He had the picture you sent me of Dylan, and when he finally met some people who knew Dylan, he started asking about his friend. Social security, police and newspaper records turned up nothing about anyone named Spot, of course, but yesterday we got a hit.

A girl named Rachel Grace Bell from Norcross, Georgia was arrested by the Atlanta police last year and charged with misdemeanor possession of marijuana. Bill spoke with the arresting officer. Rachel Bell went by the street name Spot. She spent one month at the Metro Regional Youth Detention Center in Atlanta. The officer remembered her well.

Unfortunately, he’s not sure what happened to her after that. But now that he has her name and other information, there’s a better chance of finding out what happened.

I’ve attached a picture. Ask Dylan to verify if this is the girl he’s looking for.

Love you,

Julia

As I read the email my heart is racing. I can’t quite figure out my reaction, because I’ve got this crazy stupid mix of anticipation, of fear, even of anger at Alex.
I’m confused how her sister Julia became involved.

I tell myself to not be an asshole. She was trying to help.

The attachment to the email is a mug shot. It’s Spot. Or rather, it’s
Rachel.
Crazy, that in the time I knew her, she never said her name. In the picture, she doesn’t look good at all. She had a nasty shiner, and her hair had that flat, dull look people get when they haven’t been eating or sleeping well enough. I take a deep breath.

Alex grabs my arm. “Are you okay?”

I nod. “Yeah. Yeah I am. That’s… that’s her. Can you send me that email?”

She nods. “Of course.”

I almost don’t want to know what happened to her. I’m afraid I’ll find out it was something horrible. I shake my head. “She was a good friend,” I say.

“I know,” Alex whispers.

I failed her.
Why didn’t I just bring her home with me when I went back to school? Mom would have taken her in. I’m sure of it.

Rachel Grace Bell. What happened to you? I stare out of the bus into the darkness, trying to imagine what might have happened to her. Maybe that asshole who was beating her up at the Masquerade that night finally caught up with her and killed her. Or one of the predators. Every once in a while you’d see them, cruising around in the bad neighborhoods and homeless camps. Looking for girls like Rachel, because they could be forced into prostitution.

I’d break someone’s fucking neck.

I swallow. The pain of failing her hurts my chest. I was never able to protect anyone—not my mother, when that bastard used to beat her up, not Spot.
It kills me. I wish I could just be … better somehow.