maybe two, trying to imagine what it would be like if I were forced to stare at this ceiling for my entire life. What type of details would I notice? I ask myself, and the voice in my head sounds suddenly like that of Mira the history teacher, Avishag’s mom, and then it is my mom, and she is in my room. Her teeth are stained with nicotine and her back is hunched forward.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says. “I need some help.”
I don’t answer.
I
need some help. If she wanted to, she could know that I want an empty house to have a party I can invite Dan to tonight. But she only wants to know what she wants to know.
Last Monday she asked me if I was sure I didn’t want to try adding turkey to my sandwich.
“I have been screaming at you to pick up the phone for five minutes,” she says, and hands me the phone. “I can’t live in this house and be treated like a maid anymore.”
“Are you there?” Avishag asks through the phone.
“Did Nina’s mom finally give permission for a party?” I ask.
“Listen,” she says. “Dan fell down and hit his head.”
And They Say Russian Roulette
I was on the landline the whole night talking to Avishag. All of the other girls stayed at Lea’s party. She made people stay, even after they heard something was up with Dan. I didn’t care about that. And I didn’t care that my mom could hear me or that my sister could hear me or that my dad could hear me. At first the thing that was up was that Dan hit his head so Avishag was worried, and then the thing was that he was badly injured in the head and in the hospital but Avishag’s mom told her not to go, and then the thing was that he was accidentally shot in the head, and then the final thing was that he and a couple classmates went to the cellular tower hill and they called this girl, or that, but then they played Russian roulette because no one answered. I mean, no one but those in the town had cell reception and almost everyone was at Lea’s party, and that was the thing. At six in the morning the thing was that Dan had died.
But I don’t believe any of these rumors. I think he just went up that hill and blew his fucking brains out all by himself.
Mothers Disappeared
At seven in the morning I walk over to Avishag’s. She lives in Jerusalem Street 3 and I live in 12, and that’s why we became friends. I pass by one nearly identical house after another. I pass Lea’s house, the olive grove, then the house of the British Miller family. The houses look exactly alike except Avishag’shouse has a red roof and the rest are green. Also, when you walk into her house there are seven bookshelves, because her mom, Mira, is an intellectual, because she is a teacher or because she is originally from Jerusalem the city, not the street.
Avishag’s eyes are closed, so I hold her nose to make her wake up. That’s how I always used to wake her up when we were little, but when I do it now I realize I can’t wake her up like that anymore. Not now. Not ever. She doesn’t shout at me when she wakes up; she doesn’t say a word.
I remove the pillow from under her black, damp hair. I put it on the floor and I put my head on it and I close my eyes.
But after about an hour I wake up. I go downstairs to the kitchen expecting to find the chocolate milk and cereal waiting on the table, but there is nothing on the table at all. Even the chocolate milk and chocolate-spread sandwich Mira has out on the table for her youngest girl every morning are not there.
I expected them. I swear, of all things, this is the most shocking.
In my house my mother organizes a tomato and tea for me and tomato and bread and tea for my sister in the morning. When we wake up she is always gone because her work starts at seven. Work used to start at eight, so she used to be able to drive us to school, but in tenth grade the town started a bus service to ease morning traffic and make it so that moms can come to work an hour early. Now there is always
“I can’t do this anymore,” she says. “I need some help.”
I don’t answer.
I
need some help. If she wanted to, she could know that I want an empty house to have a party I can invite Dan to tonight. But she only wants to know what she wants to know.
Last Monday she asked me if I was sure I didn’t want to try adding turkey to my sandwich.
“I have been screaming at you to pick up the phone for five minutes,” she says, and hands me the phone. “I can’t live in this house and be treated like a maid anymore.”
“Are you there?” Avishag asks through the phone.
“Did Nina’s mom finally give permission for a party?” I ask.
“Listen,” she says. “Dan fell down and hit his head.”
And They Say Russian Roulette
I was on the landline the whole night talking to Avishag. All of the other girls stayed at Lea’s party. She made people stay, even after they heard something was up with Dan. I didn’t care about that. And I didn’t care that my mom could hear me or that my sister could hear me or that my dad could hear me. At first the thing that was up was that Dan hit his head so Avishag was worried, and then the thing was that he was badly injured in the head and in the hospital but Avishag’s mom told her not to go, and then the thing was that he was accidentally shot in the head, and then the final thing was that he and a couple classmates went to the cellular tower hill and they called this girl, or that, but then they played Russian roulette because no one answered. I mean, no one but those in the town had cell reception and almost everyone was at Lea’s party, and that was the thing. At six in the morning the thing was that Dan had died.
But I don’t believe any of these rumors. I think he just went up that hill and blew his fucking brains out all by himself.
Mothers Disappeared
At seven in the morning I walk over to Avishag’s. She lives in Jerusalem Street 3 and I live in 12, and that’s why we became friends. I pass by one nearly identical house after another. I pass Lea’s house, the olive grove, then the house of the British Miller family. The houses look exactly alike except Avishag’shouse has a red roof and the rest are green. Also, when you walk into her house there are seven bookshelves, because her mom, Mira, is an intellectual, because she is a teacher or because she is originally from Jerusalem the city, not the street.
Avishag’s eyes are closed, so I hold her nose to make her wake up. That’s how I always used to wake her up when we were little, but when I do it now I realize I can’t wake her up like that anymore. Not now. Not ever. She doesn’t shout at me when she wakes up; she doesn’t say a word.
I remove the pillow from under her black, damp hair. I put it on the floor and I put my head on it and I close my eyes.
But after about an hour I wake up. I go downstairs to the kitchen expecting to find the chocolate milk and cereal waiting on the table, but there is nothing on the table at all. Even the chocolate milk and chocolate-spread sandwich Mira has out on the table for her youngest girl every morning are not there.
I expected them. I swear, of all things, this is the most shocking.
In my house my mother organizes a tomato and tea for me and tomato and bread and tea for my sister in the morning. When we wake up she is always gone because her work starts at seven. Work used to start at eight, so she used to be able to drive us to school, but in tenth grade the town started a bus service to ease morning traffic and make it so that moms can come to work an hour early. Now there is always
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