Light Years (5 page)

“This is the start of something,” Leah said. “Our real lives are starting now. What we do will finally make a difference.”

“Please,” Irit said. “We’re just privates. We won’t be doing anything important.”

“That’s not true. We’re a part of something important.”

“I’m going to be important,” I said dreamily. “I’m going to have adventures. We’ll have them together. I can’t wait to start.”

“Yeah,” said Leah softly. “Me too.”

We finally fell asleep on the Persian rug in the living room, and someone threw up in a potted lemon tree on the balcony. I woke up the next day with a splitting headache, compliments of my first hangover. When Irit’s parents, who had barricaded themselves in their bedroom, came into the kitchen for breakfast, they were horrified. Empty bottles and half-eaten food littered their elegant flat. We never did mop up the punch from the floor, and the soggy toilet paper had started to dry on the white marble floor, staining it pink.

It was the shouting that woke me. Irit’s parents yelling at her, at us, for the disaster we’d made. Irit, pale and slightly green, just stood there before them, stony-faced. She wouldn’t look at them or at us.

We all gathered our stuff quietly, mumbled apologies to her parents, and left.

After the party, I came home and spent the rest of the week with my parents. I hadn’t told them yet about asking to be assigned
away from home. With Irit’s parents’ yells still ringing in my ears, I dreaded telling my parents anything that might set them off. What was I thinking, I thought with self-disgust. Why in the world had I put “away from home”? My mom would be so upset. We’d never discussed it, but I knew she assumed I’d be living at home.

I took the bus from the Kineret to Haifa, and when I descended from the bus, my parents and Adam were waiting for me.

“Look at you,” Adam said, grinning from ear to ear. “You actually look like a soldier.”

“Just wait until I have my very own Uzi, then I’ll be a real soldier.” Except that I probably wouldn’t get one. Girls only got their own weapons if they were stationed at a dangerous base—like near the West Bank or Gaza, or near the border with Lebanon or Syria—or if they were combat instructors. It was always the guys that got the good weapons, a Galil or a short M-16. Girls always got the brooms, the huge rickety old M-16s that weighed a ton. I wouldn’t even really want a weapon assigned, because if you had one, then you had to carry it with you whenever you were in uniform. I wondered where you put it when you went to the bathroom. Were you supposed to lay it next to you when you went to sleep?

My mother hugged me and I sank into her softness and breathed in the smell of her perfume in the crook of her neck.

“How did it go?” my father asked. He grabbed my green duffel bag and heaved it over one shoulder as we all walked to the car.

“Just like you said,” I told him. I settled into the backseat of the car. “But you know, it’s good to be home.”

“Of course it is,” he said. He put the key in the ignition. “That’s why you’re doing this.”

I smiled at my family and felt a little more at ease. I settled into my seat with a sigh.

My mother noticed the weight loss.

“
Elohim
, dear lord,” she said when we got home and she got a good look at me. “Didn’t they feed you at boot camp?”

“They did,” I said. “But not well.”

That night, we sat down to supper, and my parents told stories about their boot-camp days. Everyone went through this in Israel; even my grandmother had served in the War of Independence, though the thought of her with a rifle in hand was absurd. I pictured her wearing high heels and an evening dress, stepping gingerly between coils of barbed wire, gritting her teeth in distress when her dress snagged. She probably argued with the platoon leader when he told her she shouldn’t wear her diamonds.

Sitting in our white kitchen with the pots and pans hanging from the wall, I found out certain things never change. The sergeant was always awful, sadistic, and stupid, clearly bent on torturing the poor innocents in her care. I laughed so hard at their stories I couldn’t breathe. To my amazement, I also had stories to tell that made them laugh. Already the tedium of it, the frustration, was fading. Adam gazed at me wistfully.

“I can’t wait to be eighteen,” he said. “It’s going to be awesome.”

That night, back in my narrow bed, I stretched under the covers and grinned. I agreed with Adam. Eighteen wasn’t so bad at all.

The next morning, I stumbled into the living room, stifling a yawn. My mother, holding a dishtowel and a dripping bowl, stood in front of the television.

“A suicide bomber,” she said, shaking her head. “Number Nine bus in Jerusalem.”

The camera showed the Red Star of David crew running with stretchers and the police shouting for people to step back.

“How many dead?” I rubbed sleep from the corner of my eye. Kipi walked by. I picked her up and stroked the top of her head. She squirmed to get down.

“They’re not sure yet. Twelve, maybe more.”

I winced. That was a bad one. I let Kipi down and she scampered away.

“The bus was packed, kids going to school, people going to work,” my mom said.

I glanced at the clock on the wall. The bomb had gone off fifteen minutes earlier, at the height of the morning rush.

We watched the news together for a while, but there was nothing more the anchor could say and the clips were repeating. The suicide bomber was dead, the bus was a blackened shell, its top popped up like a sardine can’s.

“Come on, honey.” My mother rose from the couch but left the television on. “Let’s get you some breakfast.”

“I want a cheese omelet and salad.” My favorite breakfast.

I tried to shake off the uneasy feeling I had from watching the news. What a great way to start your day. You kiss your kids good-bye, send them to school, and ten minutes later your world blows apart. Every time I heard about a bombing I tried to think who I knew living in the area. Even if I hadn’t thought about her in months, I’d suddenly remember that a kid I hadn’t seen since junior high lived in that part of town. I could almost count on the fact that someone I knew would know someone who was hurt or killed in the blast. A friend’s cousin, a neighbor’s former high school teacher. The country was too small. You always knew someone who knew someone.

Irit called me later that day. In an unusually subdued voice, she told me how furious her parents were.

“They saved most of the yelling until everyone left. I don’t think I ever saw them so pissed off.”

“Oh, honey,” I said. “That must have been awful.”

“Yeah, no more parties at my place, okay?”

I called Leah after we hung up.

“I don’t blame them,” she said. “We were out of control, it wasn’t right.”

“What do you mean?” I protested. “We just got out of boot camp, we’re allowed to let off some steam. It’s practically a requirement.”

“It was wrong, Maya, and you know it.”

“No one was hurt,” I grumbled.

“Irit’s parents were, and I bet Irit is sorry now too.”

We ended up agreeing to send Irit’s parents a bouquet of sunflowers with an apology for the party.

I still hadn’t told my parents about living away from home. But knowing that Leah would disapprove of that too, and since I needed to report for my course in six days, I decided to take responsibility for my actions. I told my mom. She already knew I hadn’t gotten the type of job I’d wanted. I’d called nearly in tears when I first found out they were sending me to an administrator’s course (basically, how to be a secretary), but now I told her I’d asked for a faraway assignment.

“Yeah,” I said, and tried not to fidget. “Do you mind terribly? I just wanted to give it a try.”

“Maybe you’ll get Rishon Lezion,” she said, naming a large base outside Tel Aviv. “That way you could live with Aunt Hen.”

It was exactly what I’d been thinking when I signed up. I looked at her in surprise. She smiled.

“I think it’ll be great,” she said. She could tell I was amazed by her easy acceptance and it amused her. “Hen knows a lot of people,” she said. “Maybe she can help out.”

Two days later, Hen came to visit.

It was a hot and blindingly bright Friday afternoon. My parents and I were sitting on our balcony in the shade, sipping ice water with lemon and mint. The sky was eggshell blue, and from our fourth-story apartment I could make out the Mediterranean in the distance. I had to keep my eyes half-shut because I’d left my sunglasses at Irit’s house. There was so much light in the air that it was nearly painful.

Aunt Hen came and joined us from inside.

“Oh, Michalle, what a sweet little place, it’s so adorable, like a doll’s house.”

My mother smiled. We’d lived in this apartment for almost two years, but Hen always said that when she visited. Hen settled down, careful of her linen trousers, and sipped her drink.

If my mother was built like an apple, then Aunt Hen was an asparagus stalk, long and lean. There was only a slight family resemblance in their forehead and nose. Otherwise they looked completely different. Hen turned her green eyes on me.

“So you think you can make do in my little place?” Her place in Tel Aviv was huge. Until this new apartment, Hen, who lived alone, had a bigger place than us.

“Do you really think you can get me assigned there?” I’d called her two days ago to drop the bomb.

“It’s a large base, they always need people.” Aunt Hen gave her little cat smile, which I took to be a positive sign.

Hen was my mother’s younger sister and she’d never married, although knowing Hen, it was probably by choice. I wondered if my parents minded her dig at their place. My mother seemed to have made peace with her sister long ago. I never saw her upset by any of the sharp cracks Aunt Hen tossed out as casually as breathing. My father was frequently annoyed by her and often stayed away when she came to visit. Part of the problem was that Hen believed Haifa, despite being the third-largest city in Israel, was a backwater province. Only Tel Aviv existed on her map of success. She’d criticized my father in the past for not opening an office there.

“It’ll be fun having you with me,” she finally said to me. “I can take you to all my parties and you can meet cabinet ministers and actors and journalists.” She gave a little laugh. “I can’t wait to show you around. Maybe you’ll even meet someone and thank me at your wedding.”

My father shifted in annoyance and my mother glanced his way.

“Maya’s a little young to be dating politicians,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything about dating politicians. But let’s face it, Yakov, no matter what Maya decides to do after getting out, knowing the right people won’t hurt.” She nudged me with her toe and I smiled. “You’ll love Tel Aviv, Maya, it’s where everything happens.”

In my eagerness to leave Israel, I had brushed aside the difficulties of thinking and living in another language. By the time evening came around, my brain would cry out to stop thinking in English. It would short-circuit in Hebrew and I would stand there, gaping like a fish out of water, struggling to find that elusive slippery English word.

I spoke with my parents almost every morning. I could feel Payton looking at me curiously as I chatted with them in Hebrew on the phone. My parents wanted to know about everything—the food, the weather, Payton, my professors. I spent hours talking to them. I always felt a little hollow by the time I got off the phone, as if I’d just emptied out all the experiences of the day, leaving me with nothing. I missed my parents and Israel fiercely.

Just as I hadn’t thought of the drain of speaking in English all the time, I also never realized how that seven-hour time difference could make me feel so far away. I could never just pick up the phone to call anyone back home. By the time I started my day, theirs was half over. By the time nightfall came to Virginia, it was nearly time for the sun to rise in Israel. It made everyone seem disconnected. I was sleepy when they were wide
awake. They were settling in for bed when I left for my afternoon classes. I always had to pause for a moment when I picked up the phone to do the math. Could I call them right then? Did I have to wait until tomorrow?

My father called the morning after Payton moved in, wanting to know how things had gone.

“Things are good,” I told him. Payton was out and the room was blessedly all mine. “Classes start in a few days. My roommate’s parents took us out for dinner last night.”

“And? Do you think you’ll get along?”

I thought for a moment. “I feel like I could be her mother. She seems so young,
Abba
, you can’t believe it. She told me last night she was scared to come here. She thinks it’s dangerous to walk home alone at night from the library.” I rolled my eyes and waited for him to chuckle, to shake his head at this child’s silly fears.

He didn’t say anything.

“This town is small,” I clarified. “She grew up here.”

My dad was quiet.

“What?”

“Maya, not everyone has had the experiences you’ve had.” I could hear how carefully he chose his words. “For most people, going to college is a big change. Remember how you felt before boot camp? Leaving her home, sharing a room, needing to make new friends—those things are always difficult. And if she’s always lived in one place and never been away—that just makes things harder for her, not easier. You shouldn’t be so harsh.”

“But—”

“You know I’m glad you’re there. I think going to school is the right thing for you. I don’t want to see you ruin it by being so judgmental. I can hear it in your voice that you’re feeling superior.” I gritted my teeth. I wanted to say that I had lived through and seen things these children couldn’t even dream of, but I bit my tongue. “Just try to be patient with her,” he said. “Try to view it from her perspective, not yours.”

I didn’t answer him.

“I don’t want to fight over this.” He sighed. “It’ll be easier for you if you go easy on her. Don’t push people away.”

“Fine.”

“Just remember you wanted to come to the States to be with people who haven’t been through what you’ve been through. If you wanted hardened survivors, you could have joined Tikkun Olam and volunteered in Nepal. They have teenagers there who’ve lived through poverty and cruelty. But you wanted someplace safe, someplace soft. You can’t be upset when that’s what you find.”