* * *
The baby is staring at me. I smile at him or her. It is still staring. The mother is making ridiculous sounds, trying to get its attention. It won’t stop staring at me. You know, she says finally, studies show that babies tend to focus on beautiful people. Thank you, I say.
Is she flirting with me?
You want to look at the beautiful girl, don’t you, don’t you now. You’re already a little man, aren’t you. Yes, you are, oh yes, you are.
* * *
Score! the man’s son shouts out. Way to go, Oren, the man says, and winks at me, letting me know he didn’t really lose to a five-year-old. He’s just being a good father. High five, he says, and raises his hand. But you lost, the boy says, keeping his hands to himself. It’s okay to be happy for somebody else’s victory, Oren, the man says, glancing at me to make sure I’m listening. He obviously has the whole fatherhood thing nailed down. Nobody says high five anyway, the boy says, only old people. The man looks sad. Or amused.
* * *
There’s some confusion as to who should go in first, the woman with the baby or a woman in a dress that looks like a blanket. What about you, blanket woman says to the man with the son. It’s all good, my knight says. Take it easy, ladies, that’s what Fridays are for; we’ll all get in at some point. He’s clearly not the typical Israeli; there is no aggressiveness in him, no sense of urgency. I think, That should be interesting in bed.
* * *
I’m not a baby, but I focus on beautiful people too, he tells me on his way out. It’s not a great line, but I smile anyway. The son is right there. He seems to be concentrating on his cards. Is he okay? I ask the man. Minor infection, he says, and pats the boy’s hair. Right, big guy? The child doesn’t seem to hear his father’s question. Life, to him, is very much about those cards. The man isn’t wearing a wedding ring, and I’m trying to fool myself, like this: Maybe he’s divorced, he could be divorced. But the truth is that Israeli men often don’t wear their wedding rings, and I know that he is in fact married, the way I always know immediately when I look at a man. It’s a feeling that comes over me, a tickle of excitement that never lies. It starts behind my belly button, then spreads. I think, Be strong be strong be strong. But I am not strong. He hands me the doctor’s business card, and I write my number on the back, smiling. Better not waste time, I tell him, handing him back the card; I live in New York and am here for only two more days.
2. Going Back
He takes me to an area outside of Tel Aviv where signs claim a beautiful mall will soon dazzle every passerby; for now, there is nothing but sand dunes. His car is an old Subaru; he parks it and tries to recline, but the seat screeches its resistance. When he wins this small battle, I see clearly that he’s a man who can’t leave his wife behind; I know the type, and I’m disappointed. Invisible wives make men’s bodies seek only a sense of accomplishment, not pleasure. When he climaxes, I am a magician halfway through her show, with a passed-out audience. Then he sighs, relieved that it’s behind us. Reaching for the Kleenex on the tiny dashboard, he asks, Did you come? but doesn’t seem to expect a response. I roll down the window and let the sandy Israeli air tickle my nostrils until I sneeze.
* * *
I call Lizzie right when I get back; it’s a transatlantic call, but I tell myself my parents must not mind the charge, judging by how often they call me when I’m in New York. I say, Liz, I fell off the wagon. She says, I knew it. She’s upset, and probably disappointed, which is sort of why I called; this way I don’t have to be. I can hear one of the Lizzies thinking: She’s really hopeless, this one. That’s always the scariest moment, and it stretches out like a whole life, a life in which I’m alone with my problems. I know better, I know Lizzie would never give up on me, I know to wait for the other Lizzie; but there’s always that moment, and that voice that says, But what if. Finally she says, Are you ready to work hard. It doesn’t sound like a question, and her voice is gruff. I say, Of course, of course. But the truth is, I can’t feel it. I can’t feel my readiness to work hard. When are you coming home? she asks, although she knows the answer.
* * *
On the plane, on the way back, a man is sitting next to me. His wedding ring flickers. I think, By now, what’s the difference if I do or don’t? Then I think, Be strong be strong be strong. And he’s not even good-looking. But then I look at the ring again and think, This has gotten so bad that clearly I’m going to clean up when I get back, and so what’s the difference, really, if I have a little fun right now? It doesn’t matter, when you think about it. I close my eyes and imagine us in the tiny lavatory, a voice-over announcing impending turbulence. Ooh, he says. Apparently, the turbulence turns him on. Ooh, I say to his neck, and then fake another one, ooh.
* * *
Back in New York, the world speeds up again and I’m left behind. I sleep for two days, and then it’s time for work. I am a grief counselor. Israelis consult me about their grief, and I offer efficient ways of coping. The Israeli government pays me to tell Israelis Living Abroad that if their son died in a suicide bombing they should stick to a rigid sleep regimen and drink green tea every morning. When I moved to New York to run away from my addiction (I was under the impression then that my drug was exclusively Israeli married men), the counseling job was supposed to be temporary, until I figured out what I wanted to do; but it turned out not to be temporary at all, maybe because, like Lizzie says, nothing ever is. I get a lot of death-related grief, but sometimes more interesting cases, too, like people who don’t feel at home in New York but don’t want to go back, or like that woman whose cats kept dying; she adopted a new kitty every time as an affirmation of her trust in the universe, and every time the universe failed her. Any grieving person who proves their grief to be related to the situation in Israel is entitled to twelve hours of free counseling. Put the word free in the title and you’re guaranteed long lines of eager Israelis.
* * *
Every visit takes a few weeks to shake off, and this one isn’t any different; skipping back and forth between my two worlds feels like some maniac kid keeps pushing Reset on a computer that controls my behavior. I’m more aggressive, more impatient with my clients. I find it impossible to hold the door for the person behind me, or to smile at a stranger on the street just because we are both human beings. People don’t do these things in Israel, and it takes me several weeks every time to remember why I should. Americans say New Yorkers are rude, but I think it all depends on your point of reference. Another difference: pacing. There is rage and rudeness in Israel, but they move around confidently, knowing nothing is ever going to change. In New York people run and run and run, because change is absolutely possible, if only they run fast enough to catch it.
* * *
On my fifth day back, Lizzie and I go out. At the bar, she follows my eyes to a man in a gray sweater. He’s alone, and we can’t see his left hand from where we sit, but I feel the tickle and know, and because of me Lizzie knows, too. Lizzie is an addiction expert; she’s helped many people and even invented her own method for adults whose addiction is not 12-steps compatible. There’s a clinic in Vermont that practices her method, and they call it the Brinn Method, because Brinn is Lizzie’s last name. Mention the word clinic, or method, or Vermont, and there’s no escaping a ten-minute lecture titled Why I Am Great, by Lizzie Brinn.