We didn’t talk on the way to the car. As a Hapoel fan, I know how you feel after a loss: you have no strength for anything, especially not a conversation with a fan of the winning team. But when we started driving, I said to Yotam, don’t worry, it’s not over yet. There are still seven more rounds to go. He said, yes, but we’re really awful. And I agreed, yes, you really are pretty bad. Then he imitated me, why?! Why?! why?! Why are they so awful?! We both laughed hysterically while we drove. My nose started running and my eyes were so full of tears that I could hardly see the road. And every time I thought I was calming down, he started again: Why?! Why?! Why?! And I started bellowing all over again. God, that was funny, I said when we stopped at a light. Yes, he said, I can’t wait to tell … and he stopped.
Gidi? I asked, and all the laughter drained out of me like water in a bath after you pull out the plug.
Yes, he said. I tell him things sometimes. I go to the empty lot and talk to him, but it’s OK, you don’t have to tell me he’s dead and doesn’t hear me. I know.
Do you miss him? I asked, realising that this was the first direct question I’d asked him about his brother.
Sometimes, he answered, pressing a finger against the window as if he wanted to leave a print on the glass.
I almost asked, when do you miss him especially? but I wasn’t sure it was a good idea to draw him into that kind of conversation, as if he were a repressed adult who needed help opening up. If he wanted to talk, he would.
He kept his finger pressed against the glass, and we drove the rest of the way home like that, in silence. I parked the car, then turned and looked at him. He looked exhausted. His hair was all messed up, the front of his yellow t-shirt was stained, probably from the ice lolly, and instead of opening the door, he sank deeper and deeper into the seat.
Everything OK? I asked.
He nodded. Too slowly.
Is it because we talked about Gidi?
No.
Because Beitar lost?
No.
So what happened?!
He played with the seatbelt, tightening it and loosening it. Tightening and loosening. I took mine off and reached for the door — not so I could get out, just to open the window and let a little air in — but then he said, literally shooting out the words: I don’t feel like going home.
He looked apprehensively at my hand to make sure I wasn’t running away. I put my hand back on the wheel and asked: why?
He didn’t say anything. A few months ago, when Noa and I were still having idle conversations, she told me that when people hesitate about what to say, if you look carefully you can see the words rising and falling in their throats. Sometimes a word can get to the tip of their tongue, and then at the last minute, it slides all the way back. I looked at Yotam’s throat and thought: when I was his age, I didn’t want to go home either, but if someone had asked me why, I wouldn’t have known what to say.
It hasn’t been very happy in your house for the last year, I said, and a picture rose in my mind: dozens of lighted memorial candles in the living room.
Yotam nodded, or just moved his head slightly.
And your parents aren’t the way they used to be, I went on. Before Gidi was killed, I mean.
Now it was a nod. No doubt about it.
And they don’t have time for you, I said. They barely notice what’s happening with you. You could disappear for half a day and they wouldn’t even care.
Yes, he said, and like a relay race runner who’d just been handed the baton by his team-mate, he took off on his own run:
My mother doesn’t do anything all day, she just sits and looks at his pictures, and if you walk past her in the living room, she asks you to come and look with her, but how many times can you look at the same album, you get sick of it in the end. And my father stays at work till late, on purpose, and when he comes home, he doesn’t whistle like he used to, he just closes the door behind him, quietly, like he’s ashamed to come in. Then he eats a bit, usually alone, and watches the news on channel two and on channel one, and gives his opinion out loud, even though no one’s listening. Then he turns off the TV and goes straight to bed. He hardly says a word to me and he doesn’t come to sit on my bed. Once, he used to come and talk to me every night before I went to sleep, ask me how things were in school. And Mum too. She used to come in and cover me even if I was covered already, and now neither one of them comes. They don’t care about me.
I’m sure they care about you, I said, hearing how hollow and formal I sounded. I know they care about you, I said, trying again. I was at your house last week while you were at school and your mother told me that she’s very worried about your behaviour at school.
Yotam looked up in amazement. That’s what she told you? And before I could confirm it, the spark in his eyes died and he continued, I bet she’s worried. That’s the only thing they care about. My behaviour at school. All week I’m invisible, like that Dannydin in the book Gidi used to read to me, and the minute I bring a note home from school, they put on this good-parent act, look up from the albums, call me over and talk to me in a serious tone.
A bus thundered over to the stop across from where we were parked. It emitted a single passenger, like the whale spitting out Jonah. I waited until the passenger disappeared into the darkness and thought about how to put into words the thought that had been nagging at me since my conversation with his mother.
I chose to be direct and said: so that’s why you’re acting up in school, Yotam? So your mother and father will pay attention to you?
No, don’t be silly, he said with a smile that was too cynical for a child, I do it so they’ll pay attention to each other.
*
Moments when Noa is glad to be Noaandamir:
When he thinks she’s asleep and can’t hear, and he whispers words of love in her ear. She fakes deep breaths of sleep and in the morning says she slept like a log all night. And when he takes Yotam to a football match, or patiently explains which chess move would be right. Then she has a thought that makes her glad: he’ll make such a good father. And after another bad conversation with her mother on the phone, he looks at her in a way that makes her feel she’s not alone. She’s also happy when they play the new Nirvana disc, Unplugged, at full volume. She feels so good, so free, when they scream together with Kurt, ‘Come as you are, as a friend, as I want you to be.’ And when guys flirt with her at the café, she can tell them she has a boyfriend and it’s not a lie. And when he surprises her and comes to pick her up from college the day after a big fight, all the girls are so jealous they could cry.
*
Moments when Noa is sick of being Noaandamir:
After her shift, when a guy holding a bouquet of flowers is waiting for her in the street. And unlike the other men who always come on to her, he has a smile that’s very sweet. After five minutes of conversation, she knows that with this guy, unlike Amir, what you see is what you get. With him, it would be light and airy, simple and healthy, no sweat. In short, she didn’t have to be herself, he was no threat. So when can I see you? he asks, and she replies, trying to end the conversation: maybe in my next reincarnation. I think you’re very pretty, he says with a smile. Thank you, she says, blushing. He puts his hands together in a plea, and for a minute she’s almost tempted to say yes. But something shaky yet strong still clings to Amir. Even though they’re not having a very good year. Something inside her is curious about how this love will end. Without the interference of another boyfriend. Sorry, she says, I can’t. I’m involved with someone. And even though he smells so sweet, she walks away, leaving him standing there on the street.