I’ll tell you what you want to know, she said.
What do I want to know?
What’s keeping me here now that Boaz is gone? Why don’t I take the kids and just leave? Right? I’ll tell you why. In your opinion, how long does the official mourning period last?
Ah…seven days, no?
In Ma’ale Meir, it continues for three hundred and sixty-five days. You are surrounded on all sides by love and caring for a whole year.
That’s very nice.
In my case, it wasn’t just nice, it was crucial.
Why?
For the first month or two, my body reacted as if Boaz and I had just separated again. My body knew how to deal with that. It was kid stuff. But then, after about three months, it hit me. I couldn’t drag myself out of bed in the morning. It would take time for the antidepressants to kick in, and meanwhile, someone had to take care of the kids. People here took turns around the clock. And they didn’t care that I didn’t wear a head covering. They took the children home from school. They brought me a doctor. They shopped for me. They gave me reflexology treatments. There’s someone here who does Watsu in a huge tub he has on his lawn. Everyone gave what they could, do you see? After that year, an unbreakable bond was forged between me and this settlement.
I can imagine.
No, you can’t. Because you don’t know what a community is. I can see that in your books, too. Everyone is always alone. And if you created those characters, then you must be a loner as well. So imagine that there is no loneliness in your life anymore. That people never let you feel alone. Because you are always surrounded by warmth and support. Do you understand how much that gives you?
We sat on the roof a while longer, until even the lights of Tel Aviv began to dim. And the coffee grew cold. And the wind shifted from cool to cold.
Shall we go inside? she asked.
I nodded. And stood up after her.
When we passed her bedroom, she lingered briefly, as if trying to decide whether to invite me in or not, and then shook her head, seeming to shake off the thought, and continued walking down the stairs.
I followed her down. We reached the living room.
We stood facing each other. As if we were about to part. Or embrace. I clasped my hands together, behind my back. Like a diligent student. Or someone afraid that his hands might move of their own accord.
Do you have kids? she asked.
Two girls, I replied, and told her their names and ages.
And these are yours? I asked, pointing to the paintings.
Yes, and don’t say they’re beautiful. First of all, they’re not. Second, I don’t care whether other people think they’re beautiful or not. I started painting them for myself. A month after Boaz died. Does it…happen to you, sometimes? Just writing something for yourself?
Less and less.
You should.
I nodded.
She took a step back.
If that’s the case, I thought to myself, then a parting, not an embrace. It’s better this way. I leaned back and put a hand on the back of the couch.
Do you want another blanket?
No thanks.
Great—she reached out suddenly (it really was sudden, there was no sign that it was about to happen) and stroked my cheek slowly, gently, the way you caress a child. And brushed her fingers across my chin.
And then, all at once, she pulled her hand back and said: I’ll wake you at six and we’ll drive to the checkpoint. The alert will definitely be over by then.
I tried to sleep in my pants and button-down shirt. But after an hour of tossing and turning in an effort to get comfortable, I gave up. I undressed in the dark and put on Boaz’s tracksuit and shirt. They fit me really well. But sleep continued to evade me. I could still feel the touch of Iris’s hand stroking my cheek. And fragments of all kinds of memories began to run through my mind, searching restlessly for meaning.
Then I heard footsteps, a sort of light patter.
I didn’t move. I kept my eyes closed. I was afraid that if I made a movement that was too sharp or too eager, she might be alarmed and change her mind.
The footsteps came closer.
I deliberately breathed slowly. As if I were sleeping.
I maintained that rhythm of breathing even after I felt a hand supporting a body on the mattress close to my waist.
But the body that spooned against my back a moment later was not Iris’s but a smaller one, with smaller arms.
I remained facing the wall. The small arms tightened around my body.
We lay like that for a while until I could no longer restrain myself and turned around slowly to see. The boy moved slightly but didn’t wake up, and now I could see his face. He didn’t look like Iris. He must have gotten those features from his father: A dominant nose. Long lashes. Lips that turned downward a bit. Giving him a slightly offended look.
He put his arms around me again. He was absolutely not willing to end our embrace.
I gave him a little more room on the couch, turned him slightly. And now I could hug him from the back, pull him close to me.
I thought: I’ve never hugged a little boy. It’s difficult to explain. More muscular? Not exactly. And no less clinging. Maybe an echo of the memory of holding your own body when you were little.
We fell asleep, clinging to each other.
I woke up to the gentle touch of a hand on my shoulder. Iris was standing at the head of the couch, watching us with glistening eyes, and she whispered: The alert has been lifted.
I was afraid to move, I didn’t want to wake the boy to discover that he had slept
