"Oh yes you will, honey," he replied. Although his voice was quiet, his tone made it clear there was no room for debate. "Can't you see how badly we need to get away from this place? You and I are all we have left in this world and, damn it, we do things together!"
His words stabbed at my heart. I couldn't believe what was happening. I felt like I'd been dropped into a speeding car that was about to drive off the edge of a steep cliff. Suddenly, my mind started swirling with violent little snippets I'd seen on the news about Israel: bombings, uprisings, terrorism, rocket attacks. Just the thought of moving there raised a swarm of goosebumps on my arms and legs. For the past year, I'd been paranoid about dying a sudden, violent death — like it was my genetic destiny or something. And Dad wanted to move us to the Middle East? No way, we couldn't move there!
But we did. Despite all my protests, our old kitchen and our old home were sold out from under me.
And now, here we were in a new home, and Dad was looking at me anxiously.
"So, what do you think?" he asked, his voice rising with hope. It was a loaded question. From the look on his face, I knew he wasn't just asking about the apartment. He was asking what I thought about the entire deal: the country, the people, the whole new life he'd arranged for us. Spinning around on my heel, I ignored his question and wandered off to look at the rest of the apartment.
"Which room's mine?" I asked, opening up doors. The first one I tried looked like a linen closet and the second one was a bathroom, which immediately reminded me of how badly I had to go.
"Excuse me for a second," I said, shutting the door behind me. "I'll be right back."
After doing my business, I pulled up my pants, washed my hands, and turned around to flush.
"Huh?" I said, staring down at the pair of buttons on top of the toilet.
"Um … Dad … I think I need some help in here!"
He opened the door and peeked inside.
"What is it, honey?"
When he saw me standing over the toilet, a look of understanding flickered across his face and he started chuckling.
"That's okay, I read about this, too. You see, here, lots of Israeli toilets have two flushers, the smaller of which uses the lesser volume of water needed to clear out a ‘number one.' In other words, that's a half flush for urine and a full flush for …"
"Okay Dad!" I interrupted. "Thank you very much — I get the picture!"
As my face turned red, I pushed the smaller button and walked out. Dad followed behind, all the while explaining Israel's brilliant technological feats.
"They're very advanced in a lot of different areas: science, cancer research, military technology, and, naturally, water conservation, being in the desert and all. It can get extremely dry here; there are times when the very religious pray for rain."
Gee, sounds pretty technical there! Do they use voodoo dolls as well?
"Dad, you're lecturing again," I interrupted. "And it's been a long trip. I'm exhausted and I think I need to lie down."
"Of course, Mack. I don't know what I was thinking," he said, opening up the door directly across the hall from the bathroom. "I think this one's your room. You have a nice rest."
He reached out to give me a hug, but I stiffened at his touch. A look of hurt flashed across his face. I felt a small twinge of pity for him as he walked away. As wrapped up as I'd been in my own problems, I sometimes forgot that the past year had been hard for him, too. But I squashed that twinge before it got any stronger. I just couldn't feel sorry for someone who was ruining my life.
With a heavy sigh, I closed the door behind me and took a quick look around my new room. It was pretty plain. There was a wooden dresser, a mirror, and a double bed covered with an ugly flowered blanket. A wide window across from the bed offered a view of the surrounding hills and the busy intersection below.
I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the bed. Right now, all I wanted to do was rest. I couldn't remember ever feeling so exhausted. It was like a truck had run me over once and then backed up to finish the job.
As I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, images from the day passed through my mind. The bearded men in the airport … the smoker in the lobby … the head-scarved women with their babies … the soldiers. It was all so different. And yet, in a weird way, it was also kind of nice. Nobody here felt sorry for me. For the first time in a year, I didn't feel pitied.
Maybe we did need to get away for a bit, I thought with a yawn. And it's only for three months, after all.
Chapter 2
My body clock was totally messed up. I woke up the next morning before sunrise and, as hard as I tried, I couldn't get back to sleep. So instead I began to unpack my suitcase and scatter some of my personal stuff around the room. My diary, my yearbook, and my yellow stuffed Frou-frou bear — a favourite toy left over from childhood — all found a home on the little shelf next to the bed.
Ah, Frou-frou! When I was little, he had literally been my best friend. For years I'd slept with him, confided in him, and taken him everywhere I went. Now, with his fur worn and tattered and one of his ears missing, he had made the journey to Jerusalem with me. Even though I was almost fifteen now, I really couldn't imagine any house ever being a home without my Frou-frou.
The next thing I unpacked was Mom's old cashmere sweater. I hugged it close, letting the memory of her soft touch take over. I missed her so much. For the millionth time, I found myself wishing that our lives didn't have to be this way — that everything could go back to normal.
The last thing to come out of my suitcase was a framed picture of Mom taken the summer I turned thirteen. Even though her eyes were squinting slightly in the sunlight, it was a great photo. She was laughing at a joke I'd made right before I clicked the shutter. Although I couldn't remember what the joke was now, the rest of the moment was still so vivid in my mind. The two of us had been eating Popsicles and relaxing in the backyard on a hot weekend afternoon in August. I had been playing around with the new digital camera I'd gotten for my birthday and Mom had volunteered to be my model. Of all the photos I'd taken that day, I remember thinking that this one captured Mom's personality the best. Her eyes were lit up with joy, her mouth was slightly red from the cherry-flavoured Popsicle, the sun was shining through her brown hair like a halo, and the smile on her face was easy and natural and so happy.
Back home in Toronto, I'd kept the picture in my nightstand drawer, tucked under a book where I didn't have to face the pain of looking at it every day. Now, I held it tenderly in my hands while I contemplated where to put it in my new room.
Mom's eyes stared up at me from beneath the glass.
Ouch.
I folded Mom's sweater carefully around the picture, opened my new nightstand drawer, and slid them both inside. After that, I took some time to look around my new home. One by one, I examined all the books on the wicker shelf. I tried out all the appliances, making sure each one of them was in working order. I flipped on the television set, surfing the channels for something — anything — that looked familiar.
And then I walked down the hall and found the bomb shelter.
