The Last Interview

She had so much space: A small jump over the low stone fence, and she was free to run in any direction and bark at the moon. When I think about it, it was only when we moved to the new house, trapped between other houses, with no view to speak of, that she began to deteriorate. As if old age had assaulted her all at once.

The vet we knew wasn’t in his clinic. The night-shift vet was there instead.

Usually, we went to the clinic with Luna to get her vaccinated, and she used to bark and try to run away. This time, she didn’t have the strength even to protest.

We placed her on the examination table, with her wound facing up.

The vet said: Wow. And asked: Did you see the car that hit her?

We said no.

She lightly touched the area close to the wound and Luna whimpered. My daughter’s voice broke as she asked: Can you…bandage it?

I can, but…the vet replied in an ominous tone.

—

How do I look? Rachel asked.

She had been checking herself in the mirror for a few minutes now, rummaging through a small makeup case, and at some point, she even took out a hairbrush. And brushed her hair.

Sorry, Rachel, I’m driving now. I can’t look.

So look when we get to a light. Please.

I looked when we got to a light.

Straight black hair with one blond streak. An eyebrow ring. Large dark eyes. A Jewish nose. Thin lips covered in very red lipstick. A blush of excitement on her cheeks.

You’re lovely, Rachel, I said truthfully. But—

You think Adi will be glad to see me?

Rachel, listen, for years I’ve been looking all over the world for a friend who disappeared on me, and the chances that—

My heart tells me she’ll be there, Rachel said with conviction.

“My heart tells me.” I repeated her words silently, sarcastically. And thought: These Americans. They think that life is Hollywood.

—

Then I called Dikla and told her to meet us. I knew that when it came to Luna, I didn’t have the right to decide alone. After all, she was originally Dikla’s dog. She’d found her wandering around the streets during one of our separations, and when we got back together, she said: I won’t go back to living with you without the dog.

I couldn’t stand dogs until Luna. The first dog I ever knew in my life was the crazy bulldog in Haifa that used to leap onto the fence with bared teeth whenever anyone passed. And once, on a path below the house on Einstein Street, it bit me, not to mention that an army tracker dog on weekend leave that, mistaking me for a terrorist, tore a piece of flesh off my back. Years later, I would still get chills on the back of my neck every time a dog barked near me. But Luna was small and pacifistic, and never jumped on anyone with her teeth bared. Just the opposite: Our first night together, she climbed onto the bed and put her head on my chest. Slowly. As if asking for permission. And so she and I became bosom buddies, as she did with the kids.

—

Dikla arrived and listened to the vet’s detailed explanation, one we had already received. I knew that slow nod of hers very well, the “digesting bad news” nod. She had nodded exactly that way when she was told that, even after a recount, she hadn’t been elected head of the movement.

—

There she is, man!

No way. Where?

There! And, in fact, standing on the sidewalk in front of McDonald’s was a girl soldier. With an American ice-cream cone in her hand. And a Golani Brigade beret under her epaulette.

You’re sure that—

Yes, stop the car already.

I stopped the car already. Rachel hurried out, leaving her bag behind. I watched what was happening through the window. Her back was to me, so I didn’t see her face, but I did see the girl soldier. Her first reaction was to tense up. Almost recoil. She even put a hand on her rifle stock. It took her a fraction of a second to realize who was approaching her. And then—there was a lovely moment of recognition. Her face was illuminated by a new light and her large body, which had been slightly stooped, straightened up. They hugged briefly. The soldier was still holding the American ice cream, so she hugged Rachel with only one hand. Then they moved away from each other and Rachel spoke. I didn’t hear a word, but I saw her embarrassed, excited hand movements, and I saw the effect of her words on the soldier. I saw her eyes soften and her lips open slightly, in amazement. I saw the ice cream fall from her hand and land upside down on the sidewalk. Then they hugged again. And the hug was so warm and intimate that I should have looked away. But I couldn’t.

After a long moment, they broke away from each other and walked hand in hand toward my car.

I thought: What a tender sight it is, two women walking hand in hand.

Before I realized what was happening, Rachel bent down quickly and, through the window, planted a warm kiss on my cheek.

Thank you for everything you did for me, she said, and gestured for me to give her her bag. I’ll read all your books! Even the awful ones! I promise!

A moment before the two girls disappeared into the bookstore, my phone rang.

It was Ron, from Birthright. The Project with a Purpose.

I wanted to thank you for the lecture, he said. I had good feedback on it.

Great, I said. I enjoyed it too.

We’ll talk longer next week, he said. Right now, I have to cut it short, the truth is that we’re in a bit of a mess here, one of the girls is missing. And their flight is leaving tomorrow morning.

Wow.

A problematic kind of girl, a little unstable. With a family history of…we’re afraid she might…

Of course.

We’re scouring Tel