on the top floor,” he said, walking over and pushing the button for the elevator. We rode it up to the top, which didn’t take very long since there were only four floors in the building. It felt weird riding an elevator to my home; until this moment, I’d always lived in a house.
At door number 403, Dad turned the key in the lock and we stepped inside. Instantly, a feeling of relief came over me. Finally, here was something that reminded me a bit of home — Nana Pearl’s condo back in Toronto, to be specific. Like Nana’s, the furniture was a mix of modern pieces and older antiques. And, like Nana’s, the space was roomy and open — more than enough for two people to live comfortably.
I dropped my bag in the front hall and ventured further in. There was a small television set at one end of the living room and an upright piano at the other. On the wall in between, an arched wicker bookshelf housed a collection of paperbacks, which, I was relieved to find, were all in English. The floors were covered in tile instead of carpet or hardwood. Despite the dark furniture, however, the place was pleasantly bright with rays of soft evening light streaming in through the windows. And thankfully, there was air conditioning.
I wandered further and found the kitchen. The appliances looked new but there was less floor and counter space than what I’d been used to at home. And the oven was the tiniest I’d ever seen. How can anybody roast a Christmas turkey in that? I opened up the cupboards and peeked inside; they were bare but clean. I closed them up again and thought about my old kitchen in Toronto. In the past year I’d pretty much taken over the cooking duties. On Dad’s nights, we just ordered pizza. In the beginning, I hadn’t really minded. But after a year, I was sick of it. When the delivery guy starts to feel like a member of the family, you know you’ve got problems. Every time he rang our bell, it reminded me of how alone Dad and I were.
It was in that kitchen back home, three months ago almost to the day, that Dad had dropped the bombshell about Israel. I’d known something was wrong when I found him chopping vegetables for a tomato sauce.
“What are you doing? It’s my turn to do dinner tonight,” I reminded him, pointing to the calendar of household chores that hung on the fridge.
But he just smiled mysteriously and kept chopping. Actually, it was more like hacking.
“I know you’re getting tired of all those pizzas, so I thought I’d try making something myself. And actually, I have a bit of exciting news.”
News?
I sat down on the nearest chair and waited. I could tell by the tone of his voice that it was going to be big.
“I’ve been offered a prestigious honour at work,” he began. “Something I’ve been dreaming about most of my career. It’s a visiting professorship at The Hebrew University in Jerusalem for the coming school year. I’m going to be the associate director of the continuing excavation in Tiberias.”
My jaw dropped open. “Um, what exactly does it mean?” I could feel the muscles in my chest begin to tighten up — somehow I knew his answer wouldn’t be good.
Dad put down the chopping knife and reached for my hand. “Honey, it means that, as of July, we’ll be moving to Israel.”
“What?” I gasped, staring at him as if he’d just announced that we were re-locating to the moon. “Who? You and me?”
“That’s right,” he replied, his smile fading fast, “I … I was hoping you’d be surprised!”
I shut my eyes for a second and tried to make some sense out of what I was hearing. When I opened them again, I could tell by the deep frown lines on his forehead that this wasn’t a joke.
“No! We can’t go to Israel!” I said, yanking my hand away. “We’re Canadians! This is our home!”
“Of course this is our home,” he said gently, “but saying no to an honour like this would be like turning down the Nobel Prize. Anyway, travelling to a new place is an adventure. It’s only for a year. I thought this would be a great opportunity for us.”
I felt like screaming, An adventure? Are you crazy? But when I opened my mouth, no words came out. My chest was getting tighter and tighter — it was getting hard to breathe, let alone talk.
Until that moment my entire religious experience had been limited to Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and a couple visits to Christina Georgas’s Greek Orthodox Church. What on earth would we do in Israel?
“But Dad,” I finally managed to squeak out, “we’re not religious at all! We’re not even Jewish! Why do you want to go there?”
He waved away my concerns.
“You don’t have to be Jewish to live in Jerusalem. It’s considered the centre of many different religions. And the opportunities for archaeological study are tremendous! Tiberias is a fascinating place, Mack: an ancient city where Jesus preached back in Biblical times. And the team in Israel is hoping I can help them uncover signs of Herod’s palace. Just imagine … I might help to discover one of the greatest archaeological treasures in history. You can even help on the dig if you want — it’ll be exciting!”
Herod’s palace? Unearthed antiquities? Exciting?
“You can’t make me, Dad. I … I won’t go!”
He took a deep breath, as if he needed to gather his strength before continuing.
“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
