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

The two toddlers press their foreheads together and giggle; then Naama joins them and they all laugh with big, gaping mouths, and I think to myself: this is a dream. This has to be a dream, because I never saw Naama laughing with her daughters like that. I’ll never forget that look she’d get in her eyes whenever one of them called her “Mum.”

And now, pull yourself together and tidy up the place for Micha.

Part of me wonders, why bother? If he’s the one who searched my place earlier, then he already saw the mess, all the spots and stains I’m now trying to hide. But another, more adamant part of me wants him to find the house spick and span and lemony-fresh. A mother’s house.

And herein lies the problem. In my day-to-day life, I try to steer clear of responsibility, commitment and order, but every time a new relationship starts, or I even just sense I see one coming, the “mummy” immediately emerges from within me. Like with Maor, when picking up his socks or surprising him with a new dish became the highlight of my day.

And the strangest part of it all is that I actually enjoy it. The housework, even the most tedious of chores, even the kind that ruin your delicate hands, suddenly take on meaning, become an important part of the package deal that defines a budding relationship. But you don’t really know how to be a mummy, so your kids feel cheated.

My body is still tense, my stomach pulsing with strange, muffled beats.

I stretch out, whirling around the house like a spinning top, looking to release all that pent-up energy, washing dishes with rubber gloves, protect the skin on your hands, combatting stubborn stains with Dettol wipes, dusting sooty surfaces. But I keep dropping everything, from the small, filthy scouring pad to the “Best Mum in the World” mug. I pick up the pieces, careful not to nick myself, my hands heavy and weak. Your body’s talking to you, listen.

My lower abdomen is so bloated it feels like the waistband of my pants might snap, but there’s nothing left for me to do but wait. Gone are the days when you could set a watch by my period, now I just have to wait patiently for whenever it comes. And hope it decides to visit again. The pesky voice in the back of my mind is whispering something else to me, but I tell it to shut up. The only thing I care about right now are the dynamics soon to be established between me and Micha here in my living room, which will hopefully be clean and tidy by then. You can’t underestimate the importance of the first encounter after a first fling, and it can go either way.

I try to come up with opening lines, possible topics of conversation that will cast me in a flattering light, oh, come on, you big baby, you’re past that stage, I even zero in on the exact angle I’ll be sitting at when I call out, “It’s open!” and he’ll walk through the door – my head ever so slightly tilted, hair casually but seductively pouring down my shoulder. But deep down I know everything will rise and fall on the first “hello.”

He doesn’t bother to say hello.

He just barges in and makes a beeline for the bedroom, or at least that’s how it appears. I immediately wonder how I should react to this rush of desire, when he pauses in the hallway in front of the painting of the Witch of Endor.

“Did Naama have one of these paintings too?” he asks.

I approach him, trying to sense his magnetic field, but all he gives off is the smell of sweat. Unlike the other times, the scent makes me take a step back, and I wonder if it’s because I’m sensing imminent rejection and trying to protect myself.

“She had a small reproduction when we were in college,” I reply, “but I don’t think she kept it.”

“Why not?”

Because.

“She got married senior year, Micha, that’s why. The painting wasn’t relevant to her life any more, maybe it even annoyed her.”

But not as much as she annoyed us during those confusing, early days of her relationship with Avihu. I remember the acid that crept up my throat after every good date she had, and the moment of realization that this was it, she’s going to marry him. I also remember Dina’s complete disbelief. But I knew it was going to happen, felt it in my bones. My envy was visceral, and the signs were in the air. It’s a miracle we managed to get over it and stay friends. That’s because you weren’t jealous of her for the usual reasons.

But Dina wouldn’t relent. “You’re marrying him because you’re pregnant, aren’t you?” she asked her, to which Naama calmly replied, “I’m not. Not yet. But I will be soon.”

No, that wasn’t the right thing to say to Dina Kaminer.

Micha continues to study the painting, and I’m wondering whether it’s because he doesn’t want to look me in the eye.

“If the killer had wanted to mark Naama as the character from her costume, what would he have done to her?”

I can’t remember ever seeing him this focused. His face is so close to the painting it looks like he’s going to kiss it. And, boy, is he good at that.

“Well?” He takes a step closer to me. Now I can pick up his energy. I like the way his T-shirt clings to his body, which I can now describe in intimate detail. I inch towards him, but he doesn’t notice, or at least pretends not to.

“You said you have photos from that Purim party, where are they? They might tell us something about her costume.”

His gaze scours the living room, knowing just where to look. You won’t find them, Mister Detective!

He keeps studying the living room with his expert gaze, sifting and surveying, and