Liah was slowly walking down Rashi Street, dragging the ancient chequered trolley bag after her, its flap gaping at the rare passerby like a hungry mouth of a chick in its nest. She passed the tiny playground on her right, watching a toddler throwing heaps of yellow and brown leaves at his dad, giggling all the while, as another baby in the stroller nearby struggled to reach the leaves, and failed, losing his pacifier in the process. The baby’s face was already contorted by a grimace of disappointment, when the older sibling made him smile by throwing some leaves all over the stroller. The dad laughed, and reached for his phone to take a photo.
Liah looked away. Such scenes had always upset her, but now, when her only companion was Milka, the mangy and perpetually ravenous cat she’d adopted ten years ago, those encounters became utterly intolerable. Perhaps she should wear a medical mask, and let people think she’s still afraid of the virus, and not just a ratty old woman who cannot control her scowl. “Mustn’t forget the milk!” – she mumbled, grasping the trolley harder. There had been times when she actually got back home without her shopping…
Her sneakers were still hurting her badly. Even after being stretched from the inside with wet newspapers, they were still too small, and besides – they were outrageously mismatched with her drab outfit. Those red and white stripes on blue did not go well with a worn grey skirt and a brown corduroy jacket, on which the ancient snap buttons kept on snapping open entirely on their own.
She could have told Isabella to stop giving her clothes and shoes, but then one of the very few remaining links between them would be severed forever, and Liah could not even imagine that. Since she accepted them, she felt like she had to wear them, even if they hurt. She could not abide a lack of integrity.
She arrived at her first destination for today, “Beny’s Fish”, hidden behind the bridal dresses salon. The vendetta between those two went back as far as before the Six Day War. “When brides prepare for the most important days in their lives,”- claimed the salon owner, a stout Moroccan lady called Sima, - “they should not be distracted by the stench of fish guts”. “You get married once, hopefully,” - retorted the fishmonger, a former Parisen, long and dry as a rake, and speaking through his nose, - “but you need to eat every day, and you can’t do that without buying the food! And you can’t buy the food if you can’t find the shop!” And so it went, day after day, with rotten chicken innards found under the window of the salon, and live fish choking on thread in their tub at the fishmonger’s, getting worse before every round of elections, when people were generally more on edge, and subsiding for rounds of war, when Israelis look for the shared and the common to unite them.
“There are three seasons in Israel, elections, war, and a general strike,” – Liah muttered to herself, then added, “Mustn’t forget the milk.” She bought some fish scraps for the cat and a package of cheap mince for herself. That alone would’ve lasted her a week, but she did not want to upset Isabella, who always threw a fit at the sight of Liah’s empty fridge. In Liah’s opinion, the difference between a “not full fridge” and an “empty fridge” was enormous, but Isabella would get upset, anyway. Beny threw in a slice of tuna for free, and she blessed him generously, wishing him a good old age and robust health. A little kid with a shaved head and long peyot nearly knocked her down with his bike, then sped away without a backwards glance. Many years ago, Liah could have shamed him and moralized with him, until he cried and apologized, but this generation was different. Until the accursed stroke cut her teaching career short, she could control any class, conquer any school bully. She had faced the principals and the Education Ministry officials without even a hint of cowering. Yet now… the stroke left her feeble-minded and weak-bodied, her tall frame stooping down in shame of her condition, and the miserable disability allowance that allowed her to stay alive, but not to live. She was sane enough to understand that she would never be herself again. “Mustn’t forget to buy the milk!” – she added out loud. Milk had always been the bane of her existence. She could not tolerate the stuff, to her, it smelled of the kibbutz she once volunteered at… but Isabella needed her coffee, if she ever visited. So, every week Liah bough a litre of milk, then poured it down the sink drain. Except the tiny bowl her cat could manage. Then she had to buy more, just in case. Needless to say, the only times she forgot was when Isabella actually visited.
Isabella… born when Liah had long given up on being a mother, or even finding a husband. Teaching took all of her, encompassed her entire being. From one trip to another, one parents’ evening to another, one day she looked in the mirror and noticed a strand of grey hair right in the middle of her forehead, and realized that her youth had passed. She shrugged and carried on… except that a couple of weeks later her cousin invited her to a speed-dating event, from which she walked out with a handsome young man. Too young, in fact, for them to have anything meaningful, she thought, even though their souls clicked like two pieces of Lego. Talking to him was like talking to her own self, just much better. Such purity of mind and heart, such devotion to doing the right thing… He was so gentle and kind. Liah’s heart melted, and poured down her spine right into her nether regions. Three weeks of mind-blowing romance, flowers and dancing by the full moon in the Yarkon park in Tel Aviv, letting him hold her as the waves crushed over their heads. His blond curls descending onto his suntanned back… After three weeks, she felt her womb stretching, almost like a cat after a long nap, and knew she had to set the wonderful boy free, for he had already given her all she could have hoped for in this life. She never answered the phone again, never let her mother open the door. She hid, weeping day and night, until the obsession passed. Doing the right thing that time had hurt like burning her entire being in the Lag Ba-Omer fire. But no matter what, she could not ruin his life, tying him to a woman fifteen years older, no matter what they both felt. Her colleagues – and the students! – would have been horrified. What a scandal it could have been. Almost as big as the one she’s caused by giving birth without being married… Had she been foolish, perhaps? There was no way to tell, now, and no point in thinking about it, either. She had to buy bread and milk.
A light autumn breeze whipped up her hair, and
for some reason made her feel strangely comforted, in peace with her life, at
last. As if an angel flew by and hugged her. But of course, that could not be.
Not even in Jerusalem.
Deep in thought, Liah hadn’t realized she’s reached the bakery. Slowly, leaning on her trolley, she’s climbed the five stairs to the door – only to find that it was barred by a huge crate, filled with sacks of flour. “Mustn’t forget the milk”, - she reminded herself again, as she stared at the man standing in front of her. There was something vaguely familiar about him. A neighbour? That accursed brain damage. She knew she was not the same, and this was one of the signs. Her memory… she was not yet old enough to begin losing it. So unfair.
She settled to wait for the workers to let them in. It was early in the morning, after all.
The man had noticed her, and she wished he hadn’t. His face looked like someone had taken a chisel to it, leaving deep groves running from his eyes to his chin, and across his forehead. A layer of grey stubble made them look even deeper. Yet, he wasn’t as stooped as her, even though he was clearly much older. His eyes were grey, deep and piercing, and blazing with rage.
“Hey, you!” – he yelled suddenly towards someone inside the shop. “Open the bloody door! We’ve waited long enough!”
“Oh no”, Liah thought. One of those types. People who felt so entitled that they just yelled to get their way. She turned around, and began climbing down the stairs awkwardly, clinging onto the railing with her right hand, and suspending the heavy trolley in the claw of her ruined left hand. It was heavy, and she nearly lost her balance. There was another bakery across the street, and she would rather not listen to the unpleasant man yelling.
He turned around. “Where are you going, geveret? They will let us in now, see if they don’t! Do you need help?”- Before she could answer, he grabbed her trolley and forcefully returned her to the top step, pulling her up by the hand.
Terrified, Liah leaned onto the wall, hoping he would forget about her. This did not feel safe at all, he was clearly mad as a hatter.
“You!” – he shouted again. “There is a disabled woman over here! Open the door right now! How dare you! I will file a complaint at the municipality! The whole city will know how you treat people! The whole country! Shame on you!”
Two more customers had stepped up, an older lady dragging a ten-year-old girl, who was staring into her phone and ignoring the world.
A teenager with a black kipa peeked out of the shop, took in the situation, and vanished again.
“And take off the kipa, you unworthy son-of-a-dog! You fake-religious, you scum, all of you!” – the man thundered. “Every man who eats bread in this country will know how Angel’s bakery treats its customers!” The grandma pulled the phone-bound girl away in an instant, heading for the other bakery, free to go, unlike Liah. The girl still had not looked up from the blaring screen.
“Just a minute! I need the hand truck!” – The boy called from inside the shop. – “I don’t know where they put it!” – His voice grew more distant as he went searching. “I’m here alone…” – he was barely audible, but Liah heard him.
“If you don’t open it right now, I’ll crush these crates on your head, you piece of fake scum!”
Liah leaned onto the wall even more, because her legs refused to support her. She had recognized the voice.
Dani. From the times when men still carried that name. So long ago.
What had life done to him? Gone were the blond curls. He was nearly bald, and what was left, was totally grey. And where was his charming personality? Had it all been fake? Oy, Dani…so nasty now.
She did not remember calling him by name, and did not remember fainting by the still obstructed door of the shop. She woke up in a hospital bed, two pairs of identical grey eyes staring at her from above. Isabella… and Dani. Accusing… angry.
“So, apparently, I do have a father? He’s not a dead hero, is he?” – her smile was crooked, as always, but more sincere than Liah had received in many years. Isabella’s purple hair and dozens of metal studs all over her face made her almost terrifying to look at. An armour, fortified with leather and more metal, but of course, with a cup of cappuccino in her hand. “Better late then never!”
Liah wished she could go back to oblivion. She closed her eyes again. Her head hurt… she must have hit it on that railing.
“And curse me if I don’t get the whole story out of you two, right now!” – Isabella thundered.
A doctor peeked in. “Peace… you mustn’t yell at your mother, she’s still quite fragile…” – His head disappeared behind the curtain, then popped back in. – “By the way, I can hear everything.”
“Isabella… I’ve again forgotten to buy the milk…” – she whispered. The monitor beeped, punctuating the silence. She just could not face them.
“Did you name her after that TV show? Seriously? But I think it was Bella…”
“I am Bella, but of you call me that… daddy… we’ll never speak again.”
Dani shrugged. In front of his eyes, as always, a tank burned in a muddy field in Lebanon, obscuring everything else. But now, for the first time in twenty years, it was slightly faded, and beyond it he saw a young woman in a black leather vest, with his eyes and the same crooked smile. She raised her coffee, as if to make a toast, then tipped the cup up to her mouth.
“I’m sorry…” – they said at the same time, as Liah opened her eyes again, to look at something she never thought she'd see again, and he didn't know he still had. His smile.
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