“You’ll be surprised what makes you happy when you go back home. That chocolate you used to eat, that cereal you used to bribe yourself with when you were studying, some cheap brand of shampoo . . . none of them feel particularly important until you’re thousands of miles away and they remind you of sunshine on rooftops and grandmas telling you to put on a coat, sweetie, it’s so cold outside. And it will make you so happy to have a connection back, even if it’s just cheap shampoo.”
—V.O.
I MANAGE TO beat the storm to New York by a day and a half. Snow falls outside, sticking to the ground in storybook piles of clean and white. It feels like we’re in a snow globe for the first day, as snow falls and falls and falls, and cars haven’t blackened the snow yet.
School is canceled for two days, and for two days I keep telling myself that I could still be in Israel if I hadn’t decided to leave early.
My mom says it’s me being responsible.
Riva and Salome agree with her, but also agree with me that it stinks.
They ask what happened to that chayal I met by the bus stop that day. Did I see him again after? Did I talk to him?
I don’t know what to answer. Part of me feels like the time I spent with Avi was some sort of dream, or something. A fairy tale, of sorts.
Without the living happily ever after. Like some sort of deranged Cinderella tale without evil stepsiblings or balls, but dancing, and leaving way too early.
I did see him a bunch of times after that, I finally text them. I don’t want to lie. I just don’t want to tell the whole truth.
And? Riva demands.
And I left. He was really sweet, though. And funny. And kind. And compassionate, and smart, and, and, and.
Shame that you had to leave so quickly, Salome types.
It is, I reply.
I go back to school, and Sophia, who sits next to me, tells me I look great, but I look sad.
“What happened?” she asks gently.
“I think I lost my heart somewhere,” I tell her.
She hugs me. “I hope you find it. Or it finds you.”
“Oh God, the adjustment period when I moved back to the U.S. was so bizarre. I tried speaking Hebrew with the taxi driver at the airport, who was super confused. And for the next three months, any time I bumped into anyone I would apologize in Hebrew. If someone asked me for directions in a language that wasn’t English, I would answer in Hebrew. It took a while to retrain myself to make my default language in public English again, instead of Hebrew. But every time I hear Hebrew on a city bus, I am immeasurably happy.”
—D.N.
“TAMAR, GO GET the door!” my sister yells. “It’s probably Chani returning the baking soda!”
It’s Friday afternoon, and I’m cleaning the first floor bathroom and trying not to mope.
“You get it!” I yell. “I’m cleaning the bathroom.”
“I can’t, I’m making chicken!”
Ughhh. Raw chicken outweighs Fantastik and bleach. I strip off my cleaning gloves, give my hair a halfhearted shove off my forehead, and go to answer the door.
The Shabbos CD my sister loves is blaring, and I don’t bother to even check who’s at the door before swinging it open.
“Hey Chani—” I look up. My jaw drops. “Avi?” I whisper.
Because unless I’ve inhaled a little too much bleach and I’m hallucinating, I’m pretty sure Avi is standing at my front door.
Wearing a coat. And a scarf. His hair is windblown, and he’s grinning, and I don’t think I’ve seen something so beautiful as this. “I’m looking for this girl I met a few weeks ago,” he says. “It’s kinda funny, actually. I met her at a bus stop.”
“That’s a funny place to meet someone,” I manage, clutching the doorway. What is he doing here?
“I know,” he says. “But we were both waiting for the same bus. Seems God wanted us to meet, and He decided that the bus stop was a good place.”
“There are worse places,” I manage.
“Yeah, I liked it. And then we hung out almost every day until she had to go home. Went on field trips, ate sufganiyot, went on a scavenger hunt . . . lots of stuff.” He shrugs. “It was really nice. And I got to hang out with her, which was the best part.”
He toes a pile of snow on the front porch. “But then she had to leave a little earlier than she was supposed to, and I didn’t have time to tell her how I felt about her before she left.”
“So what did you do?” I ask, a lump forming in my throat.
“Well, I found out the day that she left that my job was being switched to something a little less patrol and a little more office related.”
“Really?”
“So finally my months spent in Kenya come in handy,” he says. “And my Swahili. Which means I’ve somehow managed to go from random chayal patrolling by Me’arat HaMachpeila to traveling for the Israeli government about foreign aid and other stuff that I can’t necessarily talk about with people. But I’m in New York for the next three weeks, and the first thing I thought of when I was told about it was this girl I met. She lives here.”
“I don’t get it,” I say. “I can’t process anything.”
Avi smiles, and shoves his hands into his pockets. “I didn’t want to say anything,” he says quietly. “I was scared that everything I was feeling was one-sided. And then you left early, and I thought it was too late. I wanted to call you, but I didn’t want to get anyone’s hopes up for things that may be a little too crazy to work.” He pauses and looks at me, and I melt into a puddle of feelings. “But I wanted it to work. So badly. And so the minute they told me what was happening, I asked Chaim for your address.” He spreads his hands. “And so here I am.”
I may be full out crying now, but I will not admit it. “Hi, Avi,” I whisper, which makes his face light up. “You’re here.”
“I’m here,” he agrees.
“I have never wanted to hug someone so much in my life,” I say.
“I know the feeling.”
“I thought I was hallucinating on bleach fumes.”
“I’m not a bleach dream, Tamar.”
“You’re real,” I say, knowing I sound like an idiot, but not caring. Avi’s here. He’s here. He’s here.
“I hope so,” he says. “It would be really awkward if I wasn’t real, wouldn’t it?”
“Super awkward,” I agree. “Here’s the funny part, though. I started looking to see if there was a way for me to transfer my scholarship to an Israeli school. I decided I wanted to do something for me. Just for me, even if I never saw you again.” I shrug, and smile slow. “Not that I would be okay never seeing you again.”
“I’m glad. Because that wasn’t a reality I wanted to have to live in.” Avi laughs. “Other people can have my alternate reality. I like this one.”
“I’m kinda into it, too.”
“I brought you a present,” Avi says, handing me a bag.
“You brought me you,” I say. “That’s enough of a present for me.”
“Look before you say that.”
I open the bag. Inside there are two T-shirts. “What the . . .” I pull out one of them: WELL, I AM AN AMERICAN, with a picture of a round of cheese.
“I cannot believe you,” I say, laughing. He had laughed when I told him about it, one day at the bus stop. And even better, he remembered. “I love it.”
“There’s more.”
I unfold the other T-shirt. I WENT TO ISRAEL AND MET A CHAYAL BY A BUS STOP, AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS T-SHIRT (BECAUSE HE THOUGHT A RING WOULD FREAK ME OUT).
I’m silent.
Avi shifts from foot to foot.
“So here’s the thing,” I say. “I don’t know if a ring would really freak me out.”
Avi smiles, smiles, smiles. “That’s good to know.”
“I thought it might be.”