Waiting Room, The Read online

  After they finished reading, he fell asleep. Dina set the book aside and turned off the lamp. Shlomi’s small face was streaked with pale, orange light that stole in from a street lamp through the half-open blinds. She wrapped her arms around him, trying to keep him warm. At around two am, Dina woke him. Those were the days she could still lift her boy. As they made their way towards his bedroom, a Spiderman nightlight glowing ahead of them through the darkness of the corridor, Shlomi turned to her, speaking softly:

  ‘Are you going to die?’

  ‘Not for a long, long time, darling.’ She tucked him into his own bed. ‘Only old people die,’ she lied.

  Yossi Benayoun, Maccabi Haifa’s star midfield attack, glared at her from a poster on the wall. Dina’s back ached as she bent over to kiss her son goodnight. Heading back to bed, she passed her mother standing in the corridor.

  ‘Your father used to sit with you every evening when you were small, you know.’

  ‘Mother, it’s the middle of the night. I’m tired. What do you want?’

  ‘He would read you all sorts of Yiddish tales about lonely calves being led to market, sick geese, village idiots, bird dealers, children lost in dark forests.’ She dragged on her cigarette. ‘I never understood why he wasted his time telling you those silly make-believe stories. Better you should hear the real ones. But no, your father was determined to feed you bubbeh maysehs instead of the truth, and you always listened to him much more than you did to me.’

  Dina stood there, shivering. Her father was a small man, with cobalt blue eyes, his smile as broad as his wife’s melancholy was deep.

  ‘You two were so alike – both so stubborn,’ her mother continued. ‘Every night, when he finished his story, you would insist he read a little from Dot and the Kangaroo. You knew the whole thing off by heart. Such narishkayten – I could never stand all that made-up nonsense. I cleared the clutter out of the house when your father died and threw that silly book straight into a box, along with your dolls and stuffed toys. I left it all on the doorstep of Josie’s Thrift Shop on Carlisle Street. It was high time you grew up.’

  Her mother dropped some ash on the floor. Dina walked past her and went back to bed.

  ‘Why did you say that?’ Eitan fixes his gaze on her.

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘That I’d buy him the missing Pokémon toy?’ He bends down to pick the photo and magnet up from the floor.

  ‘What’s the big deal?’

  ‘It’s a lie. You know I’d never do that.’ He places the photo back on the fridge. ‘He needs to learn how to deal with disappointment in life. You coddle him way too much. He’s becoming spoilt.’

  Dina’s coffee has gone cold, but she drinks it anyway. If it were Eitan’s cup he would have poured it down the sink by now and made himself a fresh one. Talk about spoilt. He is an aficionado; thinks his wife makes coffee like the Devil. He won’t touch instant. Instead, he makes a brew from hel, cardamom, which sets the heart racing. Every morning he follows the ritual of boiling up a special brew, filling the finjan with coffee grounds he buys once a week from a huge, open sack at Suidan’s grocery store downtown. Dina imagines when Eitan dies, the witches who stir the cauldrons of Hell will take one bite of him, chew on his tough skin and spit him right back out again, before they even get to his soft centre.

  Yet it was this same strength and toughness that drew Dina towards him in the first place; his broad shoulders, confident smile, the way he cracked open ripe pomegranates with his hands, their blood-red juice dripping down his wrists. And it wasn’t too long before raw attraction seeped into love.

  ‘Let me tell you about love,’ her mother interrupts Dina’s thoughts. ‘Hitler was our matchmaker,’ she says, dragging on her cigarette. ‘Women would sleep with the first man they met after the war. Handsome, ugly, short, ribs that stuck into your side, rotten teeth that fell out from his mouth as he kissed you. It didn’t matter much who it was back then, as long as it was a warm body; at least for a few moments a woman could feel as though she was alive.’ Her mother stubs out a cigarette on the kitchen floor. ‘Never confuse love with need, Dina.’

  Dina finishes her coffee. She tries to imagine her mother back in 1945, the war just having ended, a young woman with a dull look in her eyes, alone among the cloud of loss that hung in the stifling air of the Displaced Persons’ camp in Bergen-Belsen. Dina wonders if there was anyone special before her father.

  Her mother leans against the fridge and gives a little laugh. ‘What do you mean special? People married then just so they could warm their feet at night. But since you asked, as a matter of fact, there could have easily been someone else.’ Her white fingers crawl across the front of her chest, reaching up to claw at her necklace. ‘I met a man who was tall and handsome, not short and bony like your father. I knew right from the start he would be the kind of man to make me suffer. But then your father came along and he was so kind to me – a good, honest man. He bought me nylon stockings and cigarettes.’

  Looking at her now, it’s hard to believe that Dina’s mother was once such a beauty. Granted, death hasn’t done much to enhance her appearance: the unkempt bleached hair, grey roots showing, her pink nightie peeking out from under her quilted dressing-gown, orange slippers on her feet. Her mother hasn’t changed clothes since the evening she died. No Fashion Police in the afterlife, it seems.

  ‘The dead were the lucky ones, you know.’ Her mother smoothes a few strands of hair back from her forehead. ‘After we were liberated, there was silence for a while.’

  Dina imagines a soft sighing seeping up from the earth, melting into windless air. The murmuring of the dead. Their voices becoming a steady whisper that followed her mother everywhere.

  Her mother lights up another cigarette. ‘Ach. What does it matter? It’s all just history now.’

  The tap splutters violently as Eitan fills Shlomi’s drink bottle with water. Dina gets up from the table. She places her cup in the sink.

  ‘Why don’t you use the filter?’ she asks. ‘The tap water tastes awful.’

  ‘It’s not so bad. I’ve been drinking it all my life and I’m not dead yet.’

  Shlomi’s soccer ball shoots into the kitchen, bouncing off the fridge, next to where Dina’s mother is standing.

  ‘Shlomi!’ Dina yells, but quickly switches to what Eitan calls her Anglo marshmallow voice. ‘Go grab your reader from your room; you’ve got English class with Jennifer after school.’

  ‘I need to go to the toilet.’

  ‘Okay, darling. Just get a move on, will you?’

  She waits for the sound of Shlomi’s footsteps to disappear down the corridor again, before turning to Eitan.

  ‘Did you hear what he asked me a minute ago?’

  Eitan is busy with the dishwasher, stacking plates and fitting cups as close together as he can, reorganising everything that had been dumped in there by Dina.

  ‘Have you heard the news lately?’ Eitan asks, standing with his back towards her.

  Dina isn’t sure what to expect, but she knows it isn’t going to be a love song because Eitan has flipped into speaking Hebrew, something he does automatically when they argue.

  ‘The Sea of Galilee is at its all-time lowest this year,’ he continues.

  ‘And your point is?’ She stabs at him.

  ‘Well, it’s just that we need to be careful not to waste too much water. You took so long in the bathroom.’

  Dina did take extra time in the shower this morning. She knows she shouldn’t have, but the warm water caressing her back lulled her into a reverie. It assuaged any guilt over squandering the country’s scarcest resource. Even though the longer shower made her run a little late, at least she felt cleansed. And the gnawing ache in her side that kept her up last night disappeared. Lately the shower has become her private realm, a place where nothing is expected from her, where she doesn’t have to give anything to anyone. There, her body is her own. She soaped her belly, rubbing her hands over the taut
skin, imagining her baby floating quietly in its tiny, inner sea. Smoothing some lather onto her legs, she slid a razor carefully along her shins.

  ‘You shouldn’t be shaving while you’re pregnant,’ her mother’s voice suddenly penetrated her solitude.

  Dina looked up through the steam to see her peering around the edge of the shower curtain.

  ‘If you cut yourself you might get an infection. It’s dangerous.’

  Her mother’s presence is the phantom pain in a limb long gone. The loss is still so deep, so palpable. After her mother died, people offered platitudes like ‘you have your whole life ahead of you’ or ‘your sorrow will ease with time’. But with each passing year Dina’s pain feels magnified; she ought to have graduated with a Master’s degree from the Through-the-Looking-Glass International School of Grief by now. She seems to be passing through the classic stages of grief in reverse: Hope. Acceptance. Depression. Bargaining. Anger. Denial and Isolation.

  Dina flicks leftover crusts from her plate into the bin. ‘I asked if you heard what your son just said.’

  Eitan picks up a cereal bowl and tries to squeeze it into the top rack, which is already full of dirty glasses. ‘Why can’t you ever load the dishwasher properly?’

  ‘Really? That’s what’s important to you right now?’ she raises her voice. ‘Maybe you should pay more attention to how your son has been playing with his Power Rangers lately. He straps plasticine dynamite onto the red one and cheers as it lands on top of a pile of super-heroes. For goodness sake, he’s only six years old.’

  Eitan rattles cutlery.

  ‘Don’t put the sharp knives in like that. It’s dangerous.’ Dina lowers her voice, checking to make sure Shlomi isn’t within earshot. ‘Maybe we should take him to see a psychologist.’

  Eitan leaves the dishes and picks up a knife, holding it poised above a loaf of bread that rests on the counter-top. Turning around to face Dina, he rubs his chin with his free hand. He is smiling, but it is not the broad smile she fell in love with years ago.

  ‘I think you’re the one who needs a shrink, Dina.’

  She bites a hangnail off her pinkie.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You are such a galutnik.’

  Galutnik: a Diaspora Jew. To many Israelis, the word also means coward, an eternal victim as opposed to the strong sabra Jew born in Israel.

  ‘There are hundreds of warnings every day in this country,’ he says. ‘The kids get used to it; life goes on. You’re the doctor. You should know how people can adapt to even the most grinding of pains. It’s simply a matter of attitude.’

  She twirls her hair and pins it up into a topknot. ‘You know it’s different this time, Eitan. It might be easy to ignore things that are happening somewhere else, but this warning is right here on top of us today. There’s a lunatic terrorist running around Haifa.’ She glances through the open window, out onto the garden. ‘Maybe even here in our own backyard, where your son plays.’

  ‘Yeah, for sure.’

  Dina looks back at her husband. ‘Are you serious?’ The words hiss out from between her teeth.

  Eitan softens his tone a little. ‘Really, Dina, this whole country’s been a war zone from the get-go. We’ve been through far worse than this. People forget how many battles we’ve fought. Israeli mothers are brave; they accept it as just a part of life here.’ He takes a small step towards her, reaching out to touch her belly. ‘The kid feels your overreaction. If anything, you’re the one making him nervous.’

  Dina steps backwards.

  Eitan lowers his hand. ‘Well, what do you suggest then? What would you like to do? Run back to your so-called peaceful Australia and hide? You know what? One suicide bombing right in the middle of Melbourne is all they need there to wake them up.’

  ‘What the hell are you trying to tell me with this lecture? That you’re not scared?’

  ‘Of course I’m worried. Don’t start that shtick with me.’

  ‘And you think Israeli mothers are so courageous? Well, I’ve got news for you. I’ve had mothers come in with panic attacks, their stomachs torn up from ulcers, and when I press them, sometimes they tell me the real reasons for their symptoms. They’re scared to death for their children. So, how the hell would you know what Israeli women are feeling? Or Palestinian women, for that matter? All you ever do is sit in your office and contemplate The “Lock-in” Effect on Monetary Policy in the Middle East.’

  ‘Oh, cut the “you’re-just-an-academic” crap, will you, Dina? You’re the one who won’t give up your Australian passport.’

  The door of the dishwasher gapes open beside him.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘You’ve always wanted to have a rear-exit plan, just in case. I gave up a brilliant offer of tenure at Hebrew University because you thought it was too dangerous to raise a family in Jerusalem. You were the one who pushed for us to stay in Haifa because you felt safer here, or have you conveniently forgotten that?’

  ‘Is it so damn weird that I just can’t believe this city’s suddenly become a target for terrorists?’

  ‘Well, I tried to tell you years ago that no place is safe.’ He bends over to sprinkle powder into the machine, accidentally spilling some on the floor. ‘Anywhere can turn into a frontline in an instant. But you weren’t willing to listen. It’s always the same old story with you: “I gave up everything to be with you in Israel. Melbourne is such a peaceful place. Blah, blah, blah.” We agreed on Haifa, remember? And Haifa’s it. This is the safest city you get in this country.’

  What can she say? It’s true that, unlike Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, Haifa has always prided itself on being a model of coexistence, a city where everyone lives in harmony: Muslims, Christians, Jews, Baha’is, Druze. Up until this morning, Dina has felt like some kind of exotic fish, swimming around inside the safety of an aquarium, staring out at a distorted, blurry world.

  Slamming the dishwasher door shut, Eitan presses the start button. Dina stands there watching him, hands folded across her belly. The dishwasher grunts loudly, then clicks into the wash cycle as he turns to face her.

  ‘And don’t think just because you stop Shlomi from watching the news, or listening to the radio, he doesn’t hear about the killings from his friends at school. It’s a fact of life here. It’s something we’ve all grown up with and the more you make of it, the more neurotic the kid will be. Children can take it all in their stride.’

  She stares down at the granules of powder scattered on the floor, trying to avoid Eitan’s gaze. He picks up the breadboard and brushes crumbs into the sink.

  ‘Listen, Dina. Why don’t you take the morning off?’ he says. ‘I heard you tossing and turning last night. You hardly slept. Call Yael and tell her to rearrange some of your appointments. You can rest up a bit and maybe we can grab some lunch together later – I have to give a lecture at eleven, but I’m free after that. We could do with some time to talk.’

  What is left to talk about? She is a coward, according to her husband. He’s just said as much with the words he hurled at her. As if, she thinks. Simply living in this place is an act of fucking courage.

  ‘Maybe all we need is a holiday,’ she says. ‘Let’s go home for a couple of weeks, get away from all this for a while. Shlomi’s never even seen a kangaroo. We could spend a few days down at Wilsons Prom. Just hang out and relax.’

  He looks at her. She smiles feebly.

  ‘We are home,’ he says. ‘Besides, you know I can’t leave my job now. Oh, and by the way, you’re eight months pregnant. Or did you forget that?’

  Dina rubs her belly, trying to think of something smart to say. Eitan gets in first.

  ‘Do you honestly think Melbourne is that much safer? At least here in Israel people know how to live their lives as proud Jews; they don’t shut themselves up and hide away from the world in comfortable, suburban ghettos.’

  Eitan digs the knife into the bread and saws it back and forth. The
serrated edge cuts through Dina’s nerves. She knows she should back off, but instead, she goes for the jugular.

  ‘Oh,’ she snarls, ‘I almost forgot. Israelis don’t do relaxed. They’re too addicted to their own adrenaline.’

  He throws a slice of bread into the toaster.

  ‘Well, I for one can’t stand it anymore. I need a break. I’ve had it with this place.’ She burns him with her words.

  ‘It’s not this country that’s the problem,’ he says, pulling a plate out of the cupboard. ‘It’s us.’

  There you have it. Who needs a real bomb today? she thinks. He’s just dropped one right in the middle of their kitchen.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got time for all this now. It’s getting late.’ She grabs her bag from the counter. ‘It’ll have to wait till tonight.’

  Dina picks up a dishcloth to wipe up some crumbs, accidentally sweeping the breadknife onto the floor. It lands right next to Eitan’s foot. She storms out of the kitchen, fed up with his tough sabra image. She is tired of this country and its new breed of Jew, outwardly strong and so in-your-face. But more than that, she’s sick of herself: the clichéd, cowering Diaspora Jew, always waiting for some catastrophe. Up until now, desire and pain have been the bedfellows that held their marriage together. Eitan knows better than most that his wife was raised to fear the worst. Her mother survived Bergen-Belsen, one of the most brutal concentration camps, fleeing Germany as soon as she could after the war.

  ‘You know, I chose the furthest place I could go,’ her mother says, following Dina out into the hallway.

  Dina stands in front of the mirror, her hand trembling as she applies some lipstick. She glances at the reflection of a wedding photo hanging on the wall behind her. In it she is smiling, almost laughing, as she stands beside Eitan. Dina circled him seven times under the traditional wedding canopy, an ancient symbolic ritual of a woman encompassing a man.