Beyond This Time

Tammy called in the late afternoon and asked if she could come over, so we could spend the missile attack together. She still wasn’t used to being alone and was more frightened than ever. Well, I could understand that. It hadn’t even been a year since she mustered her courage and told Danny that enough was enough—their marriage of twenty-seven years was over.

I encouraged her. I thought she was doing the right thing. She’d wasted too much of her life waiting for things to be good. The thing was, good wasn’t something Danny knew how to do, at least not when it came to other people. To him, ‘good’ was people telling him, What a badass you are, Danny, what a fantastic artist, look at this stunning exhibition you put together. Sometimes, on the days when he got a good newspaper review, he could also be good to her, dizzy with elation. But most of the time it wasn’t like that at all.

(I chuckle to myself. This story isn’t about him, and yet Danny’s presence sneaks in between the words, as stubborn as lichen even under my fingertips.) My point is that Tammy had just spent twenty-seven years living in a couple, and today, this historic day when the radio announced that Iran was launching a missile attack, she was all alone.

“It’s hard to be alone,” she said over the phone. As if I didn’t know.

I get it. Even if it was shit most of the time, at least it was shit endured with another person. And anyway, her shit was the camouflaged kind, wrapped in shiny paper. They had friends to hang out with on Saturdays in the yard, they had Danny’s exhibitions and the studio he’d rented in Haifa, and they had a life that looked kind of cool from the outside— bohemian, but also normative, exemplary even, with two great kids and a small and charming house that Tammy took care of.

Only the people who were close enough for long enough, like me, could smell the stench under the surface. Danny simply didn’t love her. He didn’t listen to her, didn’t see her. But he had personal charm and was funny, and on a night like this, with missiles expected to arrive within six, seven, or eight hours, exploding right on our heads, suddenly even just a façade seemed precious. Even the empty shell of a relationship is like a life raft for steadying one’s feet on.

She didn’t say any of that, but Tammy is like a sister to me. We’ve experienced this world together since we were thirteen years old. I can hear her thoughts even when she says nothing.

On the first few days after October 7^th, Tammy was in shock. In the months that followed, the legal battle Danny had dragged her into managed to inspire a bit of movement and pulsations of something resembling living.

She lives up north, but not northern enough to be evacuated.  “Light” north, in a small town outside of Haifa. After she and Danny broke up, she stayed in their sweet little house while he moved to the city and hired a lawyer who sent her scary letters. She tried talking to him at first. She said, “Danny, come on. We’ve lived an entire lifetime together, we’ve got two kids, the little one is still in the army. Let’s be cordial about this. Let’s seek mediation or something.” But Danny was haunted by fury and plagued with the fervor of revenge. And then there was that small apartment he’d inherited after his parents’ sudden death the year before, and I suspected that gift had dizzied him with financial fantasies. All at once he was transformed from a penniless painter living in his in-laws’ guesthouse to a property owner.

I used to come visit her a lot during those months, making the trip up north even when the sirens wailed, and saying what I had to say: “It’s going to be okay, Tammy. He’s a messed-up narcissist. You did the right thing. You’ll find love again, I’m sure of it.” But the truth is, my heart broke for her. Now, of all times? With this war going on and the smell of apocalypse in the air?

Besides, I knew the road she had ahead of her. It’s been seven years since Hanan died and I’m still not convinced I’ve fully recovered. And, unlike Tammy, I’ve always had an arsenal of good memories to warm myself with whenever things got rough. I also had my boys, of course, who took care of me even though they were already immersed in their own relationships. And on top of all that, I had this silly belief that Hanan was watching me from heaven, or wherever, keeping me safe.

Time doesn’t heal all wounds. The adage that it does is a lie. Hanan’s absence still pulsates with pain like a wound, but I must admit that in the past two years there have been more and more moments when I almost forget. And that’s a good thing.

“Of course you can come,” I told Tammy. “We’ll both be better off.”

And I meant it. I’ve lived in this country for sixty years and I’ve never seen anything like this. If Eran and Lior hadn’t left, I would have spent this night with them. That’s how nervous I was. They were great neighbors and wonderful people, but a month ago they relocated to America—which is a fancy way of saying they left Israel. They left me behind with their little garden that I water every day, with the promise that this was just a trial run, a temporary thing, and that at any rate they’d make sure their tenants would be good neighbors, too.

I don’t blame them, but I’m sad about it. We liberal Jews here will end up a persecuted, disenfranchised minority surrounded by terrorists and fascists, under constant threat of pogroms from within and without. And still, we’ll be required to send our kids into the military, and still our tax money will be demanded, and we won’t even notice the air growing thinner and more devoid of oxygen, just like on that trip Hanan and I took years ago to Ladakh, northern India.

Sometimes I think maybe Eran and Lior have the right idea and we should all leave. But I’ve got two sons who still believe the future is bright, and I don’t have the guts to burst their bubble. And besides—America? Really? When I watch the news I think we’re just a few years ahead of them, with all the division and hatred festering all over their campuses and streets, and that screwball they just elected as president. Leader of the free world, my ass. Sometimes it’s all laughable.

It was a little past ten o’clock at night. The news websites reported that the missiles had already been launched from Iran, but we still had a few hours before we would see them in our night sky.

We said nothing, instead just hugging on the doormat. Even during the past few months, with one tragedy chasing another, this night felt especially stressful, the kind that calls for a long, silent hug. I breathed her in. The perfumes she favored were always too sweet for my taste, but that’s who she was, and that was her smell. The tingling sweetness emanating from her spread a pleasant warmth through my chest.

Before I closed the door behind her, I glanced outside. I don’t know if it was just my imagination, but lately, wherever I look, life resembles a freeze frame from a horror film. I live on a small side street that never has much traffic, but tonight the place was absolutely dead. Everyone stayed in. The cars were parked, crowded, on the side of the narrow road, under a row of cypress trees. Lights shone from every window. It was a magical, terrifying sight; a dim painting of a still, nocturnal landscape.

The bougainvillea branches in Eran and Lior’s yard jerked around in the dark, throwing shadow snakes against the wall of my house. Yesterday, when I watered them, I noticed that something had been gnawing on the leaves and made a mental note to take care of that. It would be best not to wait around for tenants who would possibly, maybe, move in soon—who knows when. The branches were almost entirely naked now. If I waited any longer, the bush would die.

In spite of the late hour, the screeching of a crow sawed through the silent street, louder even than the buzzing of the helicopter that flew overhead.

Tammy was visibly shaking. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” I asked, taking the woven backpack she dragged behind her. “Come on inside.”

Tammy plopped down on the living room couch and broke into tears. “How did this happen to us, Osi? God, I feel like I’m dying… What are we going to do?”

I poured her a glass of water and sat down next to her. “It’s going to be all right, babe.”

“Aren’t you scared?” Her sad, brown eyes met mine.

“Sure I am.” I held the glass to her lips. “Drink.”

She gulped down all the water in the glass, then glanced at me. “You realize we might die tonight?”

I wanted to say, “Enough, Tammy, don’t be so dramatic.” But that didn’t feel right. Reality had long defeated all of those truisms we’d been taught. Instead, I smiled and said, “I have a fantastic safe room.”

Tammy’s pupils shifted frantically, then froze and stared at a random point through the open window in the wall over our heads. I could tell she was seeing nothing—not the branches of the dying bougainvillea spreading over the wall like witch hair, not my new pottery pieces displayed all over the house, and not me.

I could tell she was overwhelmed with anxiety, so I did the same thing I do with my patients: I assaulted her with concrete questions. How was the drive over, and was there traffic, and did the Waze app work properly? Ever since the war started, every navigation app has experienced terrible malfunctions. You can be in central Israel and the app says you’re in Beirut. That sort of thing.

“Romy’s on her way to the base,” she suddenly said. “They got a shorter leave. Why did that have to happen this weekend? I’m afraid the missiles will land when she’s on her way, and she won’t make it.”

“What time did she head out?” I was thankful for the opportunity to hang on to the hands of the clock. Anything was better than floating on the waves of anxiety that had flooded my living room.

“She left at the same time as me, but they have to make a few stops on the way.” Tammy typed something into her phone. “She isn’t online right now.”

“They’ll make it on time,” I promised. “I’m sure her commanders are taking everything into account.”

But Tammy wasn’t even listening. She held the phone close to her mouth and recorded a voice message. “Romy, it’s Mom.” Her voice steadied as she spoke. “I made it to Osi’s. Let me know where you are right now.”

What difference does it make? I asked myself. If a missile actually lands on us, what difference would it make if we’re on the way someplace or if we’re already there? And where are we even supposed to go? Where is anyone going?

“Oh,” Tammy sighed with relief, her face buried in the screen. “She says they’re almost in Tel Aviv.” For a moment, I thought she was even smiling. “That’s reassuring.” She finally leaned back, giving into the couch cushions. “Where are the boys?”

“In Tel Aviv with their girlfriends.”

“Good.”

“At least they aren’t in reserve duty anymore.”

 “Yeah.” Tammy sighed. “At least there’s that.” Her eyes wandered away from me again. “I just want her on base and near a bomb shelter, you know?”

“Sure,” I said. “Sure I know.”

 At the base where I served a million years ago, there was just one small, musty bomb shelter. We always joked about how, if a war broke, the place would barely fit the base commander and a few other officers. We quipped about who they would let in and who would have to stay out. Of course, I didn’t tell Tammy any of this. Now wasn’t the time for dumb army jokes. “Need to pee? Cup of tea?”

“Yes,” said Tammy, “both.” She disappeared down the hallway.

I went into the kitchen to boil some water. By the time I returned to the living room with two cups of herbal tea and a plate of tahini cookies, Tammy was sprawled out on the couch again, barefoot, staring at her phone. “They’re already in Tel Aviv,” she said, raising her torn eyes to me. “But they’re delayed. Romy says they’re waiting for a soldier to get there from the hospital. I don’t know what to do, I’m going crazy. Why today? This isn’t the time to wait around for anyone! It just isn’t!” Her ponytail was wild, frizzy loose hairs poking crookedly from her head, framing her face like sunrays in a child’s drawing. Her eyes were puffy, her skin ashen.

I first met Tammy at an eighth grade Scouts trip and fell for her instantly. Her fair hair was in two braids and her eyes burned with passion and light. She was always the one who got everybody singing on the bus with her natural cheerfulness, clapping along with an energy I was not familiar with. I was celebrated for my good grades, but Tammy was beloved. When I saw her in the backseat of the bus, singing with her whole chest, I felt as if I already knew her from a previous life. I knew right away that I could trust her. She made me laugh and sing along. That night, to my surprise, she laid down her sleeping bag next to mine and whispered to me the name of the boy she was in love with. We’ve been inseparable ever since.

“Want a massage-and-cleanse?”

“Sure,” she said now, her face lighting up. “But let’s wait a bit, just until they leave the train station. I’ll be calmer then.”

I knew that wasn’t true. She wouldn’t be calmer. But I said nothing. Why should she be? Even after they leave the train station, the missiles would continue in their trajectory, hovering over our heads. The possibility of death had already broken through the barrier of our consciousness, and it would continue cutting into us, having its way with us even after Romy and the others left the train station. “Come on,” I said. “Give me your feet.” I spread the kitchen towel over my lap and patted her ankles. I knew she’d give in.

We’d started our massage-and-cleanse tradition back in high school. Tammy would stretch out her legs, rest her feet on me, and shove into my hands a tube of lotion she always kept in her bag.  It was our ritual. Hours of summer vacation, military leave, or maternity leave were spent this way: long days together that always began with me massaging her legs while she indulged in the feeling, chattering away, telling me I’m wonderful. After the massage, she would rummage through her bag again, pull tweezers out of a tattered makeup kit, and hand them over wordlessly. I would pull on her feet so she scooted down a bit and pluck hair from her calves. It was so satisfying—the simple focus, the instant satisfaction. The power of the present moment.

Hanan and Danny would gag whenever they caught us doing it. “Gross,” they’d heckle. “Monkeys,” they’d taunt. I took it as a compliment. What could be lovelier than a pair of female monkeys sitting together in the jungle, at a distance from the rest of their pack, picking lice from each other’s backs, gripped in intimacy?

“Should we turn on the news?” Tammy asked, opening her eyes and pulling me out of the reveries that had been carrying me away lately, like a gust of wind.

“No.” I dared defy her anxiety. “No news.”

“Ugh.” She leaned over to grab her phone from the table, letting herself get sucked into the white light that illuminated her face. “It says they launched cruise missiles, too,” she said, looking up at me, fear in her eyes.

“Meaning?” I paused in the monotonous plucking.

“They’re faster. Not nine hours like the drones. Just two hours. God… where’s Romy?”

It was almost 11:30 pm.

“At least now we have this crucial information,” I tried to joke. “Did you ever think you’d be able to explain the difference between a drone and a cruise missile?”

Tammy wasn’t amused. I’m not sure she even heard me. She tapped her fingers on the screen, then held the phone to her ear, waiting. “Romy,” she said in a voice that managed to sound normal and held together. “Where are you? When are you getting there?” She shook her head with desperation as she listened to the response. “Okay, sweetie. Call me when you get there. We’ll wait up.”

“So?” I asked. “Where is she?”

“They’re supposed to get to the base in an hour and a half.”

“Good,” I said. “Let it go for now, Tammy. She’ll get there when she gets there. We can’t control anything anyway.”

My eyelids were growing heavy, but I kept plucking her leg hair, satisfied at the sight of the smooth patch of skin revealed under my fingers. Maybe, once upon a time, we really were two little gorilla-sisters. Maybe we will be again someday. I hope so.

The hands of the wall clock kept moving at an even pace. Weighty fatigue filled my limbs. I felt my vision blurring. I put the tweezers down on the table and rubbed her feet again. A few minutes later, I dared ask, “What do you think about calling it a night?”

Tammy looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Are you crazy? The missiles are on their way and you want to go to sleep? Would you even be able to sleep?”

“I don’t know,” I murmured. “I think I would be. I’m so tired…”

Tammy stared at me, frozen for a moment, then shook herself out of it. “You know what? It’s fine. Go to sleep. I’ll stay out here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said. “I mean it. If a siren goes off you’ll wake up, and if not—I’ll wake you.”

“I’m just beat,” I apologized.

It took me a long time to fall asleep. I lay in bed in the dim quiet, listening to the crickets outside and the soft sounds from the living room, as comforting as a lullaby. I was glad Tammy was there. It was good to be together, even in separate rooms. Even if one was shockingly awake and the other shut down.

I think I slept soundly. I didn’t hear any sirens, nor did I hear Tammy, who stayed up in the living room all night, waiting for the hundreds of missiles that were intercepted in midair, and for Romy, who beat them to base, and for many other things we have yet to even guess. Things that are beyond this time.

I blinked at the brightness of the new morning filling the room. I’d dreamt of two little gorillas floating through the sky. They landed on a distant planet and planted their flag in its soil.