The Others, Sarah Blau [hardest books to read txt] 📗

bother to look at the name flashing on the screen, but when I pick up, it’s Gali, and she’s so upset I can barely understand a word she’s saying.

“Jezebel’s giving birth,” she says, “and I think there’s a problem.”

The distress in her voice is so palpable that I immediately ask if she wants me to come over, even though I have no doubt it’s going to be disgusting, and bloody. All that goopy slime that is the miracle of birth.

“Yes,” she whimpers, “please come.”

She quickly opens the door, flustered and bleary-eyed. The house is quiet, and there’s no sign of Avihu. With such clear signs of new life, is it any wonder the widower has disappeared?

As soon as I open the door to her room, the smell smacks me in the face, red and metallic. I turn my gaze in the direction of the cage but can hardly see a thing; it’s all stuffed with wads of torn toilet paper.

“I followed all the instructions,” Gali says, “come, look.”

I approach the cage and see Jezebel with two red, moist lumps by her side. Only one of them is moving.

“It said not to touch them,” she says, “I think they’ll be okay, but look at Jezebel.”

The hamster isn’t moving. A grey, eyeless blob, she looks like a taxidermied gremlin. “It isn’t supposed to be like this after the birth, I saw a video on YouTube.”

“Is it over?” I ask.

“I’m not sure, there might be one still stuck inside.”

“Can’t you check? Maybe call a vet?”

“I don’t know… I wasn’t thinking straight,” she falters, “I just called you. I don’t know why I’m being such an idiot.”

I know why. And I want to hug her, but I don’t dare. And how would you?

“Look at them, they’re so tiny, they might not even make it. They might die. She might die…” Her voice trails off, and just then Jezebel opens her eyes. She isn’t moving, but seems aware of what’s happening in the room.

“I barely remember Mali.” Gali’s voice is so quiet, I have to move closer to hear her. “I remember my mum well, and also think about her a lot, but I barely have any memories of Mali. Isn’t that weird? Twins are supposed to be so close…”

Gali is still facing the cage, with me behind her, my hand on her shoulder, how is your hand not bursting into flames? Both of us silent, I can sense her tears before she lets out the first sob.

“You know that if Jezebel doesn’t die, there’s a chance she might eat her babies? That’s how it is with hamsters.” Her voice is wet, and I know what she’s going to say next, and freeze. “And not just with hamsters, apparently.”

“Oh, Gali, honey, don’t,” I tell her, and just then, I hear a sharp, scary squeal and the cage starts to shake. I try to see what’s going on, but Gali is blocking my view of Jezebel, and I don’t dare move, not a millimetre. She’s crying her eyes out now, these are old tears.

“They say Mali was the first, that Mum strangled her first, and then when she got to me, she ran out of strength in the middle. But how hard could it be to strangle a two-and-a-half-year-old?”

Naama’s face drifts into my mind, a small crown sparkling on her head; she’s trying to tell me something but can’t get the words out. When Gali turns to me, her face is red and contorted, she doesn’t look like her, she doesn’t. I hug her, feel her small head on my shoulder and so want to cry along with her, but I know I don’t have the right.

“There, there, little munchkin, shh…” I try soothing her as if she were a little girl. She never was a little girl, never got the chance.

“She had enough strength to hang herself afterwards, had enough strength for that,” she says with a muffled voice, head still pressed into my shoulder. “They said I was a medical miracle, that I was lucky to come out of it without brain damage…”

“Sweetheart…” I rock her back and forth but her body is stiff and unyielding, or maybe you just don’t know how to do this? Maybe you don’t know how to calm an upset child?

“You see, Sheila? A mum who tries to choke you to death, who strangles your twin sister and commits suicide, but I’m lucky because I don’t have brain damage…”

And finally, she breaks down in my arms and I hug her tighter, pressing her against me, my shirt wet with tears, or saliva, or snot, and I’m surprised to find myself undeterred and undisgusted, maybe even the opposite. From deep within me the old sing-songy call rises, Little munchkin, pretty little munchkin, who wants a hug? Who? Here she is, coming to her Auntie Sheila… Gali’s sobs become louder, blending with the tiny shrieks coming from cage, and then there’s nothing but silence.

19

I DREAM ABOUT NAAMA.

I know it’s a dream, because I can hear my own voice saying, “This isn’t a bad dream, Sheila, you could have had nightmares, but this isn’t a bad dream.” I see the red-headed girl, her face round and cherubic, without even a single tiny freckle to mar the skin, and she’s prancing towards me, her steps light and breezy despite the black rope wrapped around her neck, dragging behind her on the grass. She approaches me and almost touches my face, don’t touch my face! But the rope stops her short. That’s when I wake up.

And there’s the other dream. The red hair shorter, the face not so cherubic any more. She’s sitting on a swing, holding the chains, knuckles white with effort, the chains black. She’s swinging back and forth with momentum. Two little girls are sitting at her feet, and I know it’s Gali and Mali, even though they look like a weird, squished version of themselves. Gali has no feet and Mali is transparent, I can