Housebroken (40 page)

35

Alona, I said, my name's Alona, and she said: I know. She was standing there in the corridor and she looked so alone that I felt sorry for her and went up to her and said: I've seen you here before. I know, I said, it was stupid of me not to introduce myself, but I didn't have the nerve. I told her that I understood, that it was hard for all of us, and I asked if she wanted to go in and see him, because there wasn't much time left. I don't know, I said. You think he'll recognize me? No, I said, I don't, because he doesn't recognize me anymore. And I thought: What's one thing got to do with the other? Because I don't know what's worse, I said—and looked at her short hair, so soft and spiky that I wanted to touch it—if he recognized me or if he didn't.

So you're Alona, she said and smiled. I'm Alona, I said, like it was a confession or a sudden sigh of relief. I heard about you, I said and thought how intimidating that statement was, and I looked at her face, which was long and soft-featured, and said to myself that she has a good complexion. It was hard for me to look her in the eye and she took off her glasses and wiped them with the tissue she had in her hand, a tissue soaked with tears. I think you should go in anyway, I said, because you won't forgive yourself if you don't. And I thought: How does she know what I'll forgive myself for and what I won't, but I knew she was right. Because you've been hanging around here for two weeks trying to make up your mind, and I wanted to tell you long ago: I'm Mira. I'm his wife. But I didn't have the nerve. Yes, I said, I understand. It's an awful situation.

For all of us, I said, to console her a little, because after all she was the outsider and she wasn't part of the family, but at least he's not suffering like before, or so the doctors say. And you believe them? I asked and regretted it immediately, because what did I want from her and why put her through more torture, and I said: No. I don't believe them. Do I have any other choice?

And the boys? I asked. Where are they? At home, I said. They haven't seen him for two weeks. There's no point. No, I said, there's no point. You're right. But my mother's with them. She's an angel, my mother. Mine too, I said, maybe all mothers are when you need them. Yes, I said. You're right. How long have you been in the country? A month and a half, I said. I came back a month and half ago. Five years in Boston were enough. It's a pretty boring place when you think of it. Yes, I said, like here. And you're not married yet? I asked and immediately regretted it, because what right did I have to pry into her personal life? No, I said. I haven't found anyone. And are you interested in meeting someone? I asked, and I thought what the hell am I doing playing matchmaker in this corridor, and who am I going to introduce her to anyway, when the man who loved her most in the world, who's going to die still loving her, is lying there in the room next to his neighbor's empty bed.

I'm not exactly looking, I said, surprised at the conversation we were having, but I'm open to suggestions. You're still young, I said, there's no rush. I got married when I was thirty-one. I wondered what would have happened if Matti and I had been the same age when we met. If anything would have happened at all. If it was me or my age that he wanted. So you haven't seen him in ten years? No, I said. I can't believe ten years have passed already. It's really a long time. So you must be twenty-six now, I said, and I felt old and bitter just because I said it. Yes, I said, I'm an old maid. And I said: How can you call yourself old? You still have plenty of time to find someone. As if I was telling her: Leave my dead husband alone.

Yes, I said, I'm not in a rush. So you think I should go in? I think you should, I said. If you like I'll wait outside, and I thought that I was actually glad that she was here, because I'd been so alone lately. And I didn't know if I wanted her with me in the room or not. Which was more intimate? And I saw her hesitating, so I said, whatever you prefer, Alona, and suddenly my hand touched hers, and her hand was very cold, but still a hand, so I grabbed it and squeezed it hard and she said: You're right, Mira, I really should go in. Or else I'll never forgive myself. But what I really wanted to say was: And you, do you forgive me?

Because there was really something touching about her. Sexy and sad and touching, and it was obvious that she'd been through a lot since she was fifteen, but I had the feeling that something in her hadn't changed, the same something that he saw in her then, maybe the look in her eyes, which is something that never changes. I thought about the way she dressed, so neat and clean-cut, and how thin she was, and what beautiful hands she had. Not like mine. And that reminded me of his hands and how they had once hypnotized me. So are you going in? I asked and glanced at the room which seemed deserted, as if there were nobody in there anymore. Yes, I said, I think so, and I was sorry that she suddenly pulled her hand out of mine. So do you want me to go in with you, or would you rather I wait out here? And I didn't know what to say, so I said, maybe I'll go in for a few minutes, and you'll come afterward. But she went on standing there as if she was waiting for me to push her inside. And what I really wanted was for her to hold my hand again and take me away from there.

I think I'll go downstairs for a few minutes first, I said. I need a cigarette. What do you smoke? I asked. “Marlboro,” I said. He smoked Nelson. Yes, I said, I know. He always smoked Nelson. And you? I wanted to ask, were you already smoking when you met him? You were so young. It's a terrible habit, I said, I wish I could quit. Have you tried? I asked because he tried so many times, because of me. For the sake of the children. No, I said, I never tried. So are you going downstairs? I asked and I saw that her hands were trembling. I don't know. I'm confused. I'm afraid to leave. I'm afraid that when I come back they'll tell me, you'll tell me. Go downstairs, Alona, I said. There's still some time left. It could take another few days. Go and smoke your cigarette. I'm here.

She's here. And, as usual, I'm running away from him. And both of us are adults now. She more than me. Almost old, in many ways. With her silver hair and glasses and slender neck and pearl necklace. Don't worry, I said. I'll wait for you here. Go downstairs and smoke. No, Mira, I'll go in and see him, because if I go downstairs I won't come back. I'll lose my nerve. But in a minute. Give me a second. Maybe I'll sit down for a minute. Did you get those here, the shoes, or are they from the States? These? I asked. From the States. They're nice, I said though they weren't. They look comfortable, too. Yes, I said, and I looked at my shoes, clumsy hiking boots, they're really comfortable. My feet are too narrow for shoes like that, I said, yes, I said, mine are really very wide, and suddenly I was ashamed of my feet.

And it's sort of difficult driving in them, because they're so heavy that you don't feel the pedal. Never mind the gas, I said and thought of my own driving, and how nervous and reckless I was these days, what's important is the brakes. Right, I laughed, at least it's an automatic so there's no clutch. Did you buy a car yet? I asked. No, I said. It belongs to my parents. I don't have money yet. Just do me a favor, don't buy one like ours whatever you do. No, I said, what car do you have? As if I didn't know.

Was it you who scratched my car in the parking lot? I asked, because the day before yesterday someone left a big scratch on the driver's side, and she always parked next to me. It wasn't me, but I felt like confessing something, so I said: Yes. I wanted to leave a note. So that was your car? Yes, I said, it was our car. I'm sorry, I said. I'm a criminal. Tell me how much it'll cost to fix it and I'll give you a check right now, but I said: Forget it. It isn't too bad, even though the damage was pretty serious, but I felt sorry for her. I think I'll go in now, I said. Look how your hands are shaking. Yes, I said and looked at my hands, they are shaking a little, maybe because I haven't eaten all day. I have some gum, I said, if that will help. No thanks, I said, I'm going in, but first tell me how he looks. So I shouldn't be shocked. Terrible, I said, you won't recognize him, and suddenly I felt good saying this to her. Is he thin? I asked. Very, I said, but he's swollen from the medications, it's going to be difficult for you, Alona. I'm warning you. I know, I said, I probably won't recognize him. No, I said, nobody would. As if she were nobody.

She was nicer than I'd expected her to be, though I never thought of her as the enemy, because it wasn't he who left, but me. And I hated her less than I thought I would, though it didn't seem fair to me that I was the one who'd been with him all these years, and she was the one who got all the love. And was he your first? The question burst out of me without any warning. Yes, I said, and they say that you never forget the first. No, I said, you never forget. I tried to remember my first time, and that winter night in the dorms, and all I could remember was a face hovering over me with closed eyes, and me staring at the space heater.

And I think I was lucky that he was the first, because someone else might have taken advantage of me, you know, broken my heart. No, I said, Matti's not like that. You really were lucky. And your parents, did they know? No, I said, to this day they don't. My mother suspected, but she never asked. Yes, I said, mothers are like that. They're afraid to know. True, I said. And his mother, does she know? No. She died a few months after we got married. Oh, I said, what a pity. Yes, but it's better this way, because imagine what she would have to go through now seeing him like this. Just imagine.

So she knows exactly what I know, the same body with minor changes due to age. Maybe she doesn't know the little paunch, which is new, but she surely remembers the pimples on his back. And I've been with so many men since then, that I don't remember what his body looks like, only that he had a little fuzz on his chest, a strange little patch of hair, as if someone tried to plant grass there and failed. And what else does she know about him? And does she know our secrets? What did he teach her in a year? And what secrets did we have anyway? So this is the girl he held in his sleep? Is he conscious? I asked. No, I said, he's been unconscious for two days now.

She cried. The tears of someone for whom crying is part of a daily routine, and I envied her, because I haven't cried even once since I found out. I'm sorry, I said, I'm just stressed out. And I quickly put my hand on her shoulder, and at first she recoiled, and then she just stood there crying with my hand on her shoulder, like a blanket. You have no idea what I've been through, I said to her, hating myself for the self-pitying tone. I can imagine, I said, and I looked at my hand, which was big and ugly with bitten fingernails, compared to her tiny shoulder. It must have been awful for you. Yes, I said, awful. Do you know what it's like to see your husband dying in front of your eyes? Your family coming apart in your hands? No, I said, but I can see how devoted you are to him, and I thought of this shoulder, if it had been the support he deserved, because he was good, good to me, a good man, and he deserved someone who'd be good to him too. Yes, I said, and she blew her nose, and when she bent down to throw the tissue away her shoulder slipped from under my hand, so I quickly put my arm around her waist, which was narrow, like her feet, and I could feel her bones under my fingers, just as he must have felt when he held her, if he held her, and I said: Come, Mira, let's sit down.

We stared at the TV that was standing on a shelf suspended from the ceiling and soundlessly broadcasting the news, and the ward was empty, and the big ashtray was full of Styrofoam cups and soda cans and candy wrappers and plastic bags and newspapers and a few lipstick-stained cigarette butts though smoking was forbidden, so I also lit a cigarette and offered her one, and she said: No thanks. I don't smoke. And I remembered that she said that she was always asking him to quit, and that he tried and couldn't.

So now he won't smoke anymore either, I said, and again I burst out crying, because I remembered when they came to take him in the ambulance and he was lying on the stretcher covered with a sheet he suddenly woke up and said: Don't forget my cigarettes, and without thinking I took two packs from the kitchen drawer and threw them into the bag I packed for him, but he hadn't smoked a single one since then.

And we sat for a while in silence, with her sniffing and deftly drying her eyes with the edge of the crumpled tissue, and me taking deep puffs on my cigarette and blowing the smoke out straight ahead, so as not to bother her, and seeing out of the corner of my eye the pearl-colored stockings she was wearing matched her necklace, she was now stroking with one hand while the other was clutching her purse.

And I wanted her to come home with me, so that at least she would see the children, what he's leaving behind, and so that the shadow he brought into our home wouldn't completely vanish, because suddenly I started missing the shadow too, but I didn't dare ask her, because what was I to her, other than the dull wife of her great childhood adventure.

And I wanted to ask her if we could stay in touch. Be friends or something. But I hesitated, because I knew it would sound unnatural, because what did we have in common aside from this strange temporary intimacy, and an unconscious man lying a few feet away, who was more hers than mine, because she had his children who were now tucked away in bed in their pajamas, and suddenly I felt so single and barren, and I wanted to cry too, but the tears wouldn't come.

Look at the time, I said. I've been here all day. You lose all sense of time in a place like this. Maybe I should call home to see how the children are. And I thought: Who can I call? Maybe I'll wait a few more minutes, I said, my mother must be putting them to bed now. Aren't they asleep by now? I asked. No, she smiled, they're naughty. Especially the little one. What's the little one's name? Shahar, I said, and it was soothing, to say my son's name. And the older one? Uri, I said. That's a nice mane. Yes. I laughed. I always liked that name. Matti too. He chose it, actually. He's very attached to him. And Shahar? I asked. To him too, to both of them, but he has a special bond with Uri, and I wanted to say to her, it's because of you, but I didn't know how she'd react, if she'd see it as an accusation, and suddenly I didn't know if it was true or just a theory I'd developed to protect myself from the depression I sank into after I gave birth to Uri. What kind of a bond? I asked, and what I really wanted to know was: What kind of a father is he? Something that would never even have occurred to me to think about when I knew him. They're a lot alike, I said, the spitting image of each other, and I remembered what I was thinking at his circumcision, after I recovered from all the festivities, that giving birth ruined my chances of ever remaining as young as she did for him. Does he have green eyes, too? I asked. Exactly the same eyes, and eyebrows, you wouldn't believe it, and the hair, even though Matti doesn't have too much left, and the smile, Alona, if you could just see his smile.