Deja Vu (5 page)

The fireworks began and we looked up at the crackling sky. Amir was holding Nofar, who pointed at in amazement at the colorful flashes of light. Roy began to cry hysterically, and Daria took him inside. I looked at David and Inbal. They stood and watched the sky intently. David's muscular arm was resting on Inbal’s shoulder. They looked so calm and relaxed. My old jealousy returned and overwhelmed me. David was a man's man, a charming firefighter who protected his loving wife with his body. I looked back at Amir. He was a tall, handsome man, but his stomach had begun to expand and his hair was thinning. As a computer engineer in a software company, he didn’t move his body as much as David did, and as the years passed, he looked older than David. Amir wasn’t a romantic and protective man like David, and I loved him because of his practical nature, but, like many women, in my heart I longed for a charming man who would sweep me up in ecstasy. A few minutes later, the fireworks ended and we settled down around the dinner table on the terrace to eat the steaks Asi had cooked.

“Excellent,” Inbal said with pleasure.

“Thank you,” Asi smiled. Daria didn’t compliment him often. She didn’t touch the steak he’d prepared for her. Until she lost the extra couple of pounds from her pregnancy, she had no intention of risking any additional weight gain.

“Enjoy,” Daria smiled at Inbal with a starving look.

“I am enjoying myself!” Inbal said through a mouthful of steak, with a secretive, self-assured look.

“You’re looking good,” Daria looked at Inbal carefully and suddenly noticed the halo surrounding her.

“Thank you,” she smiled and poured herself a glass of juice.

“Did you do something with your hair?” Daria frowned. “Are you wearing makeup? There's something different about you.”

“Nope,” she shrugged.

Asi returned from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and started to pour everyone a glass. When he reached Inbal, she signaled with her hand that she didn’t want any, and she raised her glass of juice. “I'll settle for juice for now,” she said.

“You're pregnant?” Daria blurted out tactlessly.

Inbal took a deep breath, took a sip from her glass of juice and put it back on the table. We all looked at her, and she whispered with a delighted smile, “Yes!”

“Wow! Inbali!” Daria jumped up and hugged Inbal. “That’s great. Get up so we can see you better.” I was surprised to see Daria demonstrate such happiness. I watched her closely and discovered, to my amazement, that she was genuinely happy for Inbal. Daria was genuinely happy for her, or maybe happy to finally have a friend to share motherhood with, since I hadn’t really cooperated with her.

Inbal stood up and patted her stomach. “I’m not showing yet,” she apologized. “Early days…”

“What week?” I inquired.

“Tenth,” she smiled at me. I put down the wine glass I was holding and went to her. We hugged in a long and affectionate embrace. Despite my envy, I was still really glad for her. She’d waited a long time for this.

“I'm so happy for you,” I said quietly as we pulled apart from one another.

“I know,” she whispered back, and my heart ached. She had such faith in me. It didn’t even occur to her that I envied her.

We clinked five glasses of wine and a glass of juice in honor of Israel’s sixty years of independence and Inbal’s auspicious pregnancy. She tried to calm our joy, saying she’d already had three miscarriages, but this time all indications showed that the pregnancy was going to end with a baby.

I had trouble sleeping that night. Nofar, for once, fell asleep easily and slept soundly. Amir was snoring lightly next to me, but my thoughts wouldn’t let me sleep. I felt stuck. I’d always felt like the strongest of our trio. I was the best student. I wasn’t drop dead gorgeous like Daria, but I was very pretty and, in addition, I had a fascinating life story because of the accident and the amnesia. Inbal and Daria also had their own strengths, but, all in all, my advantages were stronger. I’d always gone around with the feeling that I’d achieve much in life, but suddenly I felt left behind. Daria was beautiful and rich and Inbal was in love and radiant from her pregnancy, while I was a desperate mother with a sinking career. 

I wanted to be the strong one in our trio again, and after hours of thought and reflection, I realized that the way to restore my confidence and joy in life was to succeed where I thought I had the edge. I was determined to further my career. I believed that if I succeeded as an accountant, my frustrating envy of my friends would fade away. Every time I felt that jealousy burning inside of me, I was disgusted with myself. Jealousy was pushing me away from my friends, to the extent that I refrained from meeting and talking to them, because I didn’t want to feel it. I didn’t want the others to recognize it. The only one who knew about it was Amir, who also tried to minimize its effect in my life. I hoped that if I succeeded professionally, if others had reason to envy me, I could destroy my tormenting jealousy.

After Independence Day and Inbal’s announcement, I started an intensive search for a new job. I went to numerous interviews and screening tests, and in some cases I reached an advanced stage of the interview process, but I never got an offer. I blamed the fact that I was a mother on my failure to achieve a managerial position. It wasn’t just a feeling; it was an understanding of reality. Interviewers weren’t allowed to ask me questions about my parenting or my thoughts on expanding my family, but in every interview, as we reviewed my résumé together, I felt that nod; it simultaneously expressed their understanding of my delicate situation as a mother, and yet disqualified me.

After months of searching, I realized that I should lower my expectations of the coveted job, or just continue working where I was, but the work seemed boring and unrewarding. I soon realized that the even the less glamorous jobs on the market were not just sitting waiting for me. Despair began to gnaw at me. Every day I returned home in the early afternoon to my failing attempts to be a ‘normal’ mother. I tried to play with Nofar, but babyish games bored me, and her sharp instincts told her that I had no real desire to play and stay with her.

To pass the hours until Amir arrived home, I started going down to the park near our apartment. My encounters with other mothers of toddlers only made my utter failure as a mother clearer. Every day, I found myself trying to imitate other mothers. Over time, I learned to look less and less abnormal. I learned to sing and smile falsely at Nofar while pushing her on the swing. I learned that as long as she wasn’t yet walking, I needed to bring a small blanket for her and spread it on the grass with some toys. I often looked around at the other women. They seemed to genuinely love and enjoy playing with their children; their sincere smiles and hugs were full of love and warmth. It was clear to me that not all of it was real, and that everyone wears a mask away from home, but others’ efforts seemed more natural to me. Other mothers sat together, talking, sharing diaper stories and recipes for toddlers, but I found it hard to fit in. I couldn’t fake interest in the conversation on topics that bored me terribly. I wondered at times whether there were more mothers like me. Although I felt abnormal, I imagined I wasn’t the only mother in the world who found a conversation about breast milk supplements extremely uninteresting. Despite all my attempts to blend in with the other mothers, occasionally my real lack of interest revealed itself in public. One torrid afternoon, I sat on the grass with Nofar near several other mothers I knew from kindergarten. If it hadn’t been so hot, I’d probably have chosen to sit somewhere else, but there was no other shady spot. I spread out my usual blanket and took out the usual toys. One of the mothers admired Nofar’s new dress that my mother had bought for her. I smiled with satisfaction. After a few minutes, I took out a bag of Bamba and gave Nofar one to nibble on happily.

“How old is she?” one mother asked with a worried look when she saw Nofar holding the yellow snack.

“A little more than ten months.” I smiled. The other mothers wouldn’t usually talk to me so I was glad for the opportunity.

“And you’re already giving her Bamba?” another mother asked in surprise.

“Why not?” I was surprised at the question. “It’s very soft and she’s just sucking it.”

“It’s a peanut snack!” the first mother almost shouted. “You can’t give that to her before she turns one.”

“She’s nearly a year old.” I tried to calm things down. To be honest, I had no idea you weren’t supposed to give children under a year peanuts.

“They didn’t tell you this at the children’s clinic?”

“No,” I said and smiled. I was ashamed to admit that I’d never been to the children’s clinic. Amir always took her to get the necessary shots, but I decided to pass on the developmental tests. The child seemed well developed and the pediatrician who’d seen her several times didn’t think she had any problems.

“Either way, it's written in quite a few articles and books.” A third mother jumped in, trying to shame me and my ignorance. “Peanuts are allergenic… you mustn’t expose babies to allergenic foods. It could end in disaster.”

“I don’t think she's allergic to peanuts.” I continued to smile, but I was burning with anger. I was angry at the audacity of these women who barely know me, yet felt comfortable enough to judge me. Mostly, though, I was angry with myself for not caring enough to read up on toddler foods.

I often wondered if I was looking for a demanding administrative job in order to realize myself, or rather to find an excuse not to have to take care of my daughter every day.

Across the globe, rumors began to circulate about a deepening economic crisis. Articles about banks closing and firms collapsing were published daily. The crisis began to seep slowly into the Israeli economy and the supply of jobs just dwindled, and with it my dream of a management career withered. The firm I worked for decided to avoid layoffs, despite the severe crisis, and chose to cut all employee wages. I now worked in the same dull, hateful job for lower wages.

In December of that year, I realized that most of the interns who’d started working at the same time I had were now in various senior positions in accounting and management. Even interns who had received their license a year or more after me had begun to find their place in the field. I had been left behind. Amir couldn’t understand my unrest. I had a steady job; I had job security and wages that were slightly higher than the average. Although I’d said more than once that a managerial position would be more interesting, I didn’t know that for sure. I’d never worked in a management position. Amir didn’t understand the pressure on interns to move up the ranks. He wasn’t sure why there should be such pressure. I’d worked for my accounting firm for a total of four years, four months of which I’d been on maternity leave. “Aren’t there people in your office who’ve been there many more years?” he asked me more than once. There were veteran employees in the office, but in my eyes they seemed dull and uninspired. I wanted to thrive.

Amir had worked for years as a software engineer. His job description and his rank in the company never interested him. He thought that, as long as I enjoyed the work and was getting paid better than before, the job description shouldn’t matter at all. He, of course, didn’t understand the meaning of job descriptions in my field of work.

At Hanukkah, Inbal and David’s baby girl was born. Inbal was radiant while I’d never felt more drained. I knew that in order to return to my old self, I’d have to find another job. I couldn’t stand that searing jealousy that ate at me every time a friend from school or work got promoted. I hated myself for gloating every time I heard about a company closing and someone I knew got fired. Inbal's happiness blinded me completely. I couldn’t look at her and her idyllic family. I had to prove to everyone that I could fulfill my dreams.

While preparing the annual reports for one of my clients, I learned that the company was looking for a new chief bookkeeper. The title startled me. I was a Certified Public Accountant (CPA), not a bookkeeper. The fact that they added ‘chief’ to the title didn’t make it any more attractive to me. The woman who was leaving was a bookkeeper by profession, although with the highest qualification in the field, but not a CPA like me. My reluctance to try for it disappeared when I realized that the job offered a salary that was higher by almost fifty percent than my current salary in the accounts office.

Two years after I became a CPA, I’d finally found a new job. Smart Green, which engaged in the development and production of ecological goods for industry, was a stable company, and the work was very interesting. Shoshana, the chief bookkeeper I was replacing, was retiring, but sat with me for a month and patiently shared the secrets of the role. The accounts department included two other employees: the bookkeeper who worked with the customers and the bookkeeper who worked with the suppliers. My job was to supervise them, to work with the banks, make adjustments and prepare salaries.

I’d found a job that was fun and challenging, and my salary jumped significantly. I should have been happy, but I was ashamed to tell people that I was employed as a bookkeeper (a chief, mind you) and not as an accountant. When friends or family members took an interest in my new job, I told them I was employed as head of the accounts department, and sometimes I just lied and said I was the accountant or even the CFO. I didn’t want them to know that the woman who had been on the Dean's List, who was sure she would become a senior manager by the age of thirty, was actually a bookkeeper, although a chief bookkeeper.

I told Daria and Inbal that I was an accountant, a job I considered more prestigious. I knew they wouldn’t check, and for all they, or anyone else not in the field, knew there was no difference between a bookkeeper or an accountant or a chief accountant. Most people didn’t understand the difference between a CPA and a bookkeeper, so I didn’t bother to be precise and say that I was chief bookkeeper and not an accountant. I wanted to be considered the successful one in our little group, as I’d always considered myself to be.

I wanted to be envied too. I was tired of being jealous.

Within a few months, I’d established myself in the company. The CEO, the two bookkeepers who worked under me and many other workers had come to know me and my abilities. I often stayed in the office until late in the evening to finish another special report for the managers or to complete other tasks. I enjoyed taking the initiative, and I loved the appreciation I got from the CEO and the looks of respect other employees sent my way when they saw me still sitting in my office while they waved goodbye on their way home. I knew, however, that not everyone appreciated the sacrifice I had supposedly made as a young mother. One morning, when I arrived at the office, I was so pressed to use the bathroom that I went straight there without stopping at my desk. Rina, the company secretary and Deganit, the bookkeeper who handled the suppliers, entered the bathroom after me without knowing that I was in one of the stalls.

“The chief’s not in yet?” Rina asked sarcastically, and I realized immediately that she was referring to me. I was aware from the very beginning that Rina couldn’t stand me. It was hard for her to face the fact that a girl ten years her junior was her manager.

“I haven’t seen her yet.”

“Aaron told me she was here till ten o'clock yesterday evening.”

“Then she’s probably late because of that.”

“What work could she possibly do until ten o'clock at night?”

“I have no idea,” Deganit replied. “She asked me for some data yesterday before I left.”

“Just trying to make an impression.”

“Well, that’s her right. She's a young woman, and she wants to prove herself.” Deganit won a few more credit points in my book.

“She has a really small baby at home. Doesn’t she want to see her? Doesn’t she need to take care of her?”

“What are you talking about? She doesn’t have a little baby.” Deganit pondered. “I'm pretty sure her daughter’s almost two years old.”

“That picture on her desk,” Rina persisted, “is of a cute, smiling baby.”

“That’s not a current picture. She showed me a different one a few days ago on her cellphone.”

“Does it seem normal to you for a mother not to have a recent photo of her child on her desk?”

“Yes,” Deganit replied in a dry tone, which only made me appreciate her more.

“Well, I think it’s a little weird. I mean, even if we put the picture issue aside, a two-year-old girl needs her mother. She often works late. You'd think she manages the entire world from here.”

“You might be right.”

“I’m definitely right. I told you from the very first moment – she’s as cold as ice. Be careful around her.”

Rina and Deganit’s conversation aroused mixed feelings in me. On the one hand, it definitely didn’t feel good to hear my parenting criticized. I was already so critical of myself to begin with. Although I didn’t consider myself friends with Rina and Deganit - their age and status in the company didn’t suit me and I aimed for higher social connections - it's never nice to hear that someone’s so disgusted with you. On the other hand, I liked that they thought of me as an assertive and forceful woman. I knew that you couldn’t get very far at work if you were nice all the time. 

To look a little less abnormal, I asked Amir to take some more recent pictures of Nofar and a few weeks later, I put them on my desk in my office. Rina thought they were very nice.

I’d been with Smart Green for a year when, in January, Inbal and David had their second daughter, Adi, a little sister for Coral, who was a little more than a year old. During Inbal’s first pregnancy, I’d had trouble coping with her happiness. This time, I was too busy with my new job for her happiness to bother me. Mesmerized, I watched Adi hungrily sucking at Inbal’s plump breast, and I remembered how Nofar refused to nurse from mine. Coral entered the room with the clumsy run of a fourteen-month-old toddler and wrapped herself around Inbal.

“I think she’s jealous,” I smiled. “She probably wants some too.”

“She’ll get some soon.”

“What will she get?” I asked, surprised.

“A breast.” Inbal looked at me quizzically. She didn’t understand why I was surprised.

“She's a year and two months old, and she still gets breast milk?”