About the Night (53 page)

“The little lady is being thoughtful and sleeping at the moment, after keeping me up all night,” Effie said with a smile, and at that moment, when two dazzling dimples appeared on her face, Nomi realized that this was Efrat, the dreamy girl from the south of the country whose soldier boyfriend had panicked at the pregnancy and run away. Efrat, whose father brought a crate of oranges to Westfried House without his wife knowing. Efrat, whose mother was a Hebrew teacher, enabling Efrat to regale the girls with stories of her mother’s perfect language skills and constant corrections, a mother who told her husband, “Either she stays in this house or I do but not both of us.” It was clear to Nomi that Efrat did not recognize her.

Her hair had been straightened and her teeth, too. Her full body was swathed in an expensive tracksuit, and she wore a Rolex on her wrist. She had shortened her name to Effie, and there were pictures all over the living room of her serious husband. “My guardian angel,” Effie called him.

Nomi knew it would be difficult for Effie to recognize her. She was no longer the gaunt filly with the bouncing ponytail and red sneakers. Over the phone, she had said she was representing Elias, Lila’s boyfriend, who wished to give a present to the baby named for her.

While Baby Lila slept, Effie brought out old photo albums that contained some of the happier moments the girls spent together: the holidays, a trip to the Negev. Here was Lila in her beautiful clothes. Here were Rita and Ezra and Uncle Mano, all of whom had given their hearts to Westfried House. Here, too, was the obituary for Helga Westfried, who died in November 1988 and donated her body to science.

Nomi pondered the notice, which said nothing of what this remarkable woman had done during the course of her life. Effie said, “The home was named for Mrs. Westfried. She was almost ninety when she died.”

“I knew her,” Nomi said. “She was amazing, and generous. My uncle Mano was her driver for more than thirty years.”

“Wait a minute,” Effie said. “Don’t tell me that you’re Lila’s Nomi.”

“I am,” Nomi said, excited.

“We all wanted to be you,” Effie said. “Thin, free, a virgin, a regular high school student. And most of all, Lila’s adopted daughter.”

Nomi was stunned into silence. She could not imagine that anyone had wanted to be like her, certainly not during that darkest period of her life.

Effie took advantage of the moment to bring Danish butter cookies in a blue tin to the table. “Just like at the home,” they said in unison.

Lila awakened and demanded her meal, unraveling their conversation. Cradled in her mother’s arms, Lila ate her meal with gusto, as though all humanity were depending on her. She had golden hair and a perfect face, her eyes lined with thick lashes.

“Do you want to hold her?” Effie asked Nomi when Lila had finished eating.

“In a little bit,” Nomi said evasively.

“We’re going to take you down for a walk in your stroller,” Effie told the baby. “Here’s your jacket and your hat. And we’ll bring your new blanket along as well.”

Down on the new street, which looked as though it had been lifted from an urban planning journal, Lila lay on her back, content. Her clever gaze tried to follow a passing bird, a velvety cloud, the flash of a camera—two photographs that Nomi snapped for Elias.

That afternoon there was a power shortage in Nomi’s neighborhood, maybe even all of Tel Aviv, and her cell phone could not be charged. She also lost use of the toaster, the television, and the heated floors, and she decided to boil water in a saucepan, pour it into a hot water bottle, and climb into bed in her pajamas and socks. She lit lavender candles beside her bed while the wind whistled outside, oblivious to all those who had no one with whom to cuddle.

The file on Ilan, the “disappearing” boy she could not find a home for, fell into her lap as if asking her to leaf through it again so that some new idea would come to mind. Lately, he had been preoccupying her a lot, and a certain measure of feeling for him had crept into her thoughts.

He was now seven years old, bright, and damaged. He and the little dog she had brought him were contentious and abusive to children and teachers alike. This was the child who had caused everyone around him to give up on him because there were always “easier” children to place. He had dark skin, a large nose and ears, a thin and pliant body, and he always wore knee-length shorts and sneakers. He had a cute lisp, even when uttering his favorite phrase: “It’th
your
problem!”

Nomi thought about what exactly he needed. Unconditional love in enormous quantities. A home with no other children so that his rehabilitation could be the entire focus, with a strong, mature mother. The psychologist who evaluated him noted that each passing day hurt his chances at leading a normal life. He wrote: “This child has never experienced success.” She tried to figure out if what she was feeling toward him was longing. Did she miss him?

She wondered if the act of mothering was something that came along with a baby, whether women were born with it or developed it. What was its source? What were its attributes? She figured that not every woman was born with motherly instincts, that with some of them only at a late age did that internal tickle develop, followed by a new, warm feeling, a mix of responsibility, worry, readiness, sacrifice, and love, none of which could ever be used up.

Nomi’s eyes grew heavy, and she let the file slip to the floor. Everything would wait for tomorrow, she consoled herself as she fell asleep. But the next morning the electricity was still off, and a storm was raging outside her window.

In the afternoon, she drove up to Jerusalem to see Elias. She brought with her blanched artichokes in a plastic container and carrots and cucumbers sliced into long sticks. She was certain that Elias could use such a healthy meal after all those weeks of substandard hospital fare. She flashed smiles at people she knew as she made her way along the corridor toward the end room, with its panoramic view and en suite bathroom.

Elias’s bed was empty, with no sign of his having spent so much time there.

Nomi’s eyes scanned the room. Gone were the medical charts and the infusions. The nightstand had been cleaned out; the bed was stripped. His books, his belongings, his shoes, his robe—everything had been removed. Nomi’s breathing grew uneven. Her eyes sought out an answer from his hapless roommates, but they were sleeping. She began to tremble, and a trickle of sweat slipped down her back. As Nomi ran through the corridor, it seemed that no one was willing to look her in the eye, that all the residents of the ward who knew her were avoiding her gaze, even the foreign caregivers.

The only person at the nurse’s station was Dassy, who was preoccupied with a phone call. “It was an accident,” Dassy said over the phone, her eyes on a piece of paper she was holding. “What can I do? We’re only humans here. We make mistakes.”

Nomi tried to calm herself as she stood facing beleaguered Dassy.

“All right,” Dassy was saying, “you’re welcome to register a complaint.”

Nomi thought she might explode, her legs barely supporting her through this waiting, and her nerves were frayed. She tried catching Dassy’s attention, to no avail. It seemed Nurse Dassy would be on the phone for quite some time.

He’s dead, Nomi thought. He died alone. I wasn’t here. His bed has already been emptied and disinfected and awaits a new patient. Elias might already be in the morgue.

Phones rang and went unanswered. The ward was standing still, Dassy was unavailable, and there was no one else to speak with Nomi about what had happened, or how. An eternity passed before Dassy put the receiver down, and Nomi, who could not wait another moment, stormed her diverted attention.

“Elias Riani?” she said, impatient.

“What about him?” Dassy said, not quite up to speed.

“What do you mean, what about him?” Nomi erupted. “What happened to him?”

“What happened to him?” Dassy repeated.

“His bed is empty,” Nomi said, nearly crazed.

The phones continued ringing. Dassy said, “We’re having a drill today, you know, preparation in case of attack during a war. Their timing is always impeccable.”

Nomi thought that if Dassy answered the phone she would grab the receiver from her, but Dassy let it ring, and after what seemed like a thousand years, she raised her eyes from the paper and said, “Mr. Riani . . . was released this morning.”

All at once, like a building collapsing, Nomi’s internal organs melted so that she had the feeling she was dissolving. She ran to the bathroom, emptied her stomach, splashed water on herself, and caught sight in the mirror of how pale she had turned.

“I see that they tried to notify you,” Dassy told her when she returned to the nurse’s station, trying to make up for those terrible moments.

“How is it that he was suddenly released?” Nomi asked.

“Yesterday and this morning he felt well,” Dassy said. “He was up and around. It says here that the doctor told him if he feels worse, then he should check in again.”

Nomi was about to leave, but she realized she should part from Dassy properly, in the hopes that they would not meet again. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for him,” she said. “I’ll never forget it.”

“It was nothing,” Dassy said. “He’s a very special man. Mr. Riani was a real VIP with us.”

In the car, Nomi turned off the heater and lowered the volume on the Eric Clapton CD she was listening to. Her feeling of panic was preoccupying her, the horror she had felt staring at his empty bed. She had not considered any other possibility than that he had died. If only, during such times of anxiety, she could consider every option, instead of focusing on the worst of them. In a single moment, she had parted from him forever, and then he had returned to her as though risen from the dead, reviving in her something as well. She saw that she could actually overcome the fear—of being close to someone, of loving, of being hurt and vulnerable.

Jerusalem drivers, who always crawled along in front of her, suddenly made way for her as if showing solidarity with the small miracle that had taken place. It was lucky, she thought, that she had taken Munir home all those times, so that now her car knew the way. She sailed along Agron Street, then down Sultan Suleiman Street, past the American Colony Hotel and into the Sheikh Jarrah neighborhood. Up the hill, past the greengrocer, and right to Elias’s house, to which he had returned after Lila’s death and from which he had emerged to spend long weeks in the hospital.

She shut off the engine and remained sitting for another moment in the quiet street in order to feel the longing and the joy at the fact that he was still alive. A pleasant sun escorted her on her way into his house. The gate opened, and her heels on the stone floors echoed in a welcoming manner. No one was in the house, but she could hear voices from the backyard.

Elias and Munir were sitting under a lemon tree, one in the sun, the other in the shade, enjoying a cup of tea together. She saw the tray, the teapot, two mugs. Nomi stood at the edge of the garden, watching unseen, charmed by the view and overwhelmed by her emotions.

Elias noticed her, and his eyes sparkled. Nomi drew near, and he rose to his feet, still slightly weak, and they enjoyed their first embrace outside the hospital, an embrace of relief mingled with the wonderful smell of rain-drenched trees.

Munir hastened to the kitchen to prepare fresh tea.

Elias made use of his absence to hand her an envelope. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of a young man and woman in light clothing, their hair wild, a motorcycle in the background.

“That is us,” Elias said, glowing. “In the Kaçkar Mountains in Turkey. I want you to have this photograph.”

Nomi understood that she was holding the only proof of the early years of their love.

“Top Leaf tea,” Munir said as he returned from the kitchen and poured her a cup. “It’s the rarest, taken from the top leaves of the bush.”

It was as though she had spent her entire life in that garden sipping tea steeped in a porcelain teapot. Nomi let time pass, time for hoping. Elias seemed calm and content. On the small tiled table were photographs of Baby Lila that she had brought him.

“What a beautiful baby,” Elias said.

“Sweet, don’t you think?” Nomi said as proudly as if she were the newest member of her tribe.

“She’s as beautiful as Lila,” Elias said.

“When she gets a little sun,” Nomi predicted, “I think she’ll have freckles.”