AND THERE, IN the white waiting room, she suddenly cringes, realizing Amichai was right. Had been right all along. That two people actually could be in the very same spot, without so much as a molecule separating them. That nowadays, you could squeeze into another person’s insides, hold on tightly without letting go.
“There will always be some space left,” she’d protest whenever Amichai brought up the idea, and secretly thank whoever it was that made sure to put that space there. But Amichai was adamant. He sidled up and squashed and crushed, and she let him keep trying. And he really did try. In the bedroom, the bathroom, the car. He’d press up against her wherever he could. Before she left, she told him her skin was red from all his bizarre attempts. But he kept at it till the end.
A young woman in scrubs walks in, calls out the names of people in the waiting room. Ruthie considers her, thinks her eyebrows are nicely done. Then she turns her attention to the couples sitting around them, and realizes they’re the oldest one in the room. She tries guessing by how much. At least twenty years. Maybe even thirty?
“Ilan and Ruthie Zamir?”
“He’s Zamir, I’m Meiner,” she rushes to correct her. “I mean, as of tomorrow we’ll both be Zamir.” She glances at Ilan, worrying he might have taken offense, but he seems unperturbed.
“It’s fine, nowadays you can hyphenate after the wedding, be Zamir-Meiner,” the woman says, and Ilan replies with a smile, saying, “Too late to fix us, we’re old-fashioned.”
A few people in the room start laughing.
“Welcome to Lucid Memo,” the woman says, reminding the room that pre-wedding couples are entitled to a pampering spa treatment after the procedure. Then she explains the process. Goes over safety regulations. Hands them forms and points out that at the end of the procedure some might experience light-headedness, “especially patients of advanced years.” Ruthie wonders whether that last comment was directed at them. Before leaving the room, the woman says the couples will be called one at a time. Two men sitting to their left are holding hands and whispering to each other. One of them turns to her.
“I have to ask, are you related to Meiner the founder?”
“You don’t have to, you want to,” she replies, and Ilan quickly adds, “He’s her ex-husband. Very nice fellow.”
“Did he at least give you a discount?” the guy asks, and someone else laughs and says, “Discount? They’ll be lucky if he doesn’t plant a false memory in them.”
“He’s a decent fellow,” Ilan says, and she takes his hand and squeezes it hard, the way she always does when people talk about Amichai.
THE WOMAN LEADS them into the procedure room. Two round and wide machines stand in the middle of the room. She explains they look and operate a little like MRI machines, then hands them green hospital gowns and asks them to change in the little nook behind the curtain. Ilan goes in first. She follows. The gown is a size too small, but she doesn’t mention it.
“Excited?” the woman asks. Ilan says yes. Ruthie nods.
“So how many memories are you sharing today?”
“Two.”
“They didn’t explain when you signed up that you have to do at least five?”
“I’m not doing more than two,” Ruthie announces, and Ilan adds, “We agreed with your people on two when we spoke on the phone.”
“I apologize, we don’t even have an option for two on our price list.”
“Then we’ll pay for five and do two,” Ilan replies, and Ruthie smiles. She loves his resolve, how he doesn’t play games. How he stands behind her.
The woman makes a quick call. Inquires. “I’m sorry, they should have updated me,” she says. “Two it is.” She reminds them it’s important that the memory they share have a defined time and place, otherwise the machine will struggle to copy it, explaining they had yet to nail the abstract memories. “The whole procedure will take thirty minutes. If one of you needs to tinkle, now’s the time.”
“We went at home,” Ilan says, and the woman smiles. Handing them each a glass of a clear liquid, she explains it’s supposed to help the brain register the new memories. She stresses its blurring effect. Ilan drinks it slowly. Ruthie downs it in one gulp. It’s terribly sweet.
“Let’s begin.”
Ilan kisses Ruthie on her cheek and moves toward his machine. Ruthie approaches hers and lies down on the table. The padding is cold. Typical of Amichai not to have thought about that.
She looks at Ilan who looks back at her and blows her a kiss. It embarrasses her, so she fixes her eyes on the ceiling, picking up a buzzing sound. The machine kicks into motion, sliding her into a white tunnel until it swallows her whole.
“Close your eyes,” a soothing voice announces through the speakers. “Deep breaths.”
She tries. Thinks about her and Amichai’s son. How he told her that the day he entered that machine, he realized she was wrong. That people weren’t meant to roam this world alone. Told her about the first time he and his wife, Naomi, exchanged memories. Said, “Where words fail, technology prevails.” She looked at her lovestruck child and felt happy for him. Tried not to think about the unfortunate yet inevitable distance a child must travel away from his mother.
“Doesn’t feel right to me,” she confessed to him when they talked about the machine. Said it felt a little too close, all the memories and photos and messages people share with one another all day. He rolled his eyes at her. She thought he probably told Naomi his mother was no longer “with it,” the way he spoke about other people. For a few years now—since her senior citizen card appeared in the mail—he’s been looking at her differently. Testing her whenever she forgets where she has left her keys or struggles to remember the name of some old classmate.
“Ruthie, I can see by your pulse that you’re a little stressed,” the voice said. “Don’t worry, everything’s under control.”
“I know.”
“Good. Keep focusing on your breathing. Now I’m going to ask you two to think about the first memory you want to share.”
She tries to remember. Only then does she realize she had no intention of sharing a single memory. That she had agreed to go through with this whole farce only because her son had been so adamant. For a moment, she considers backing out. Or maybe just evoking some trivial, insignificant memory. Lunch break at the office or something like that. Why not share it with Ilan? After all, it would make him so happy. Make both of them happy. She feels she’s resisting the direction the world is heading in, but doesn’t know why.
“Try to remember what was around you that moment, what you saw, what you smelled.”
She feels every muscle in her body rebelling against her. Tensing one by one.
“Try to feel the temperature where you’re at.”
Her body vetoes the request; she sees nothing but black. They’ll be onto her any moment now. They’ll ask her why she isn’t remembering, what the problem is.
“We’ll continue the procedure in a sec,” the voice says, and she knows she’s been made.
The noises from the machine die down.
“We apologize, there’s been a slight glitch. With your permission, we’ll repeat this step. Take a deep breath and think about—”
“Wait,” she says. “I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Can’t you hold it in for a bit?” the voice replies. “It won’t take much longer.”
“No, I have to go now.”
“It’s a little problematic interrupting the treatment in the middle. Could you wait another—”
“No, I can’t. I’m about to pee myself. Hello? Can you hear me?”
After a moment’s silence, the table starts sliding out, slowly. The young woman is standing to her right. “Come, we’ll do it quickly, okay?” she says with that annoying smile of hers. “I’ll walk you there.”
“I don’t need escorting.”
“Better I go with you,” she says, “it’ll be a bit difficult to walk with the sedative we gave you.”
“Everything okay, my Ruthie?”
“Yes, Ilan. Yes. Just popping into the bathroom.”
“No problem, I’ll be waiting here. Love you.”
“Be back in a sec.”
The woman helps her off the table. Ruthie approaches the changing nook, picks up her pants, and takes her phone out of the pocket. The woman tells her there’s no need to take anything with her, but Ruthie ignores her. She feels a bit wobbly and holds on to the woman as they make their way down the hallway.
“You want me to go in with you?”
“No, no, I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’ll be waiting here. Just make sure you come out through the same door.”
“No problem,” Ruthie replies, and thinks about her son. Sometimes he gives her the same look the woman’s giving her now, when he’s not sure she has understood him.
She walks into the bathroom. There are only two stalls, both unoccupied. She chooses the left one, locks the door behind her, and carefully lines the seat with a few squares of toilet paper. She sits down, reaches out to put her phone somewhere but can’t find a single flat surface. The phone bleeps with an incoming text message. She tries to open it but can’t. She hates this smartphone, wanted to stay with her old dumb one but her son saddled her with a new iPhone. He had bought it for her as a gift and two months later discovered she’d been walking around with the battery switched off and the old dumb phone hidden in her pocket. He refused to talk to her for three days, until she surrendered the old phone to him and was left to battle the touch screen on her own.
She somehow finds herself on her contact list. When she tries to go back, it scrolls down the list instead. She stops at Amichai’s name. Stares at the letters. She tries to return to the home screen, but accidentally dials him. She tries to press END, but nothing happens. The screen turns black, the phone still dialing.
“Damnit,” she hisses when she hears Amichai’s voice mail message.
“Hey there, you’re welcome to leave a message.”
A man of his stature with such a simple message? Nice. She doesn’t utter a word, hoping the line will disconnect on its own. She knows him, after ten seconds of silence he’ll hang up, she knows he will. And if he doesn’t? He’ll think she’s stalking him. He won’t understand why she’s calling him a day before her wedding. Better she say something so there won’t be any misunderstandings.
“Hi, it’s me. You won’t believe where I am,” she says, hesitating whether to continue. “In your building. The company building. Sharing memories with Ilan. Can you believe it? Our son, that little devil, managed to talk me into it.”
She hears the bathroom door open. “Everything okay?” the woman asks.
“Yes,” she replies from inside the stall and covers the screen with her hand. “It’ll take me a few more minutes.”
“Okay, try to hurry. Give me a shout if you need any help.”
“Thank you,” she says, and wonders what help she could possibly need. She hears the door shutting and turns back to the unresponsive screen. “Well, anyway, I thought you might be here. But we’re almost done, so never mind. See you tomorrow at the wedding. Okay, bye now.”
She tries to hang up, but doesn’t know if she succeeded. She gets up, sweeps the paper squares into the toilet bowl and flushes. Standing in front of the sink, she feels her legs slacken. Good thing the woman’s waiting outside. She looks in the mirror, thinking Ilan must be getting worried. Sticking her hands under the hand dryer, she comforts herself with the hot air. Then she opens the door and it comes gushing down.
Cold water washes all over her. Cascades off her shoulders. Everything shrinks inside her; she tries to protect herself but doesn’t know how. Where is it coming from? Her body feels different, stiff. Soaked and freezing. She looks at her hands, baffled. She’s completely dry. There’s no water. And as quickly as the sensation appeared, it subsides.
She pauses, then stretches, trying to get her bearings. But she can’t shake off the confusion. “Say, what was in that sedative you gave me?” she asks the woman, but the woman isn’t there. Neither is she herself there. It isn’t the same hallway she came from. Black tiles, hazy daylight filters in through the dark windows. She tries to open the bathroom door. It’s locked. She notices a silver digital door lock on the wall. Doesn’t know the code. Wants to call someone but doesn’t know who. She tries Ilan, but he doesn’t pick up.
“Hello, I’m stuck,” she yells. “Hello?”
Nothing. She starts staggering along the hallway, trusting herself less with each step.
“Anyone here?”
No answer. She reaches out with her left hand and supports herself against the wall, wandering through the hallways, stumbling in and out of rooms. She has no idea where she is. Or how to get back.
And for the second time, all at once, water pours over her without leaving a trace. This time a gentle drizzle. And it’s no longer ice cold. It feels pleasant, almost caressing. The sensation is accompanied by a vague image. She sees her son in front of her, standing shirtless under a big waterfall, laughing and shivering in his gray underwear. It’s been years since she saw him like this, exposed.
She understands.
This isn’t her memory. It’s Ilan’s, the memory he had wanted to share with her, from the trip he and her son took two months ago. Only the two of them, to the Judaean Desert. She tries to fast-forward and rewind the image in her head, but can’t. All she feels is Ilan’s body emerging from within her, bent and stiff. She remembers what her son had told her about the day he entered Naomi’s body. How he felt her like he’d never felt her before. “It was like we were both in the exact same spot.”
And she feels it too. The stones needling Ilan’s feet, the dull back pain he’s been complaining about for the past year.
Her phone rings. Pulls her away from the body. The screen goes black again. She fights with the phone, pressing buttons until the ringing stops.
“Hello. Hello? Can you hear me? I got stuck. Can you hear?”
“Ruthie?”
She recoils.
“It’s Amichai. Where are you stuck?”
She takes a deep breath. “Oh, no, I’m just, I was just talking to someone here, how—how are you?”
“Good. Heard your message. You and Ilan still in the building?”
“Yes, actually,” she says and presses her head against the wall. It’s cold, reminds her of the water.
“Good, happy to hear. They’re treating you well?”
“Yup. Everyone’s real nice.”
“Wonderful. You want to pop into my office for coffee?”
She closes her eyes. Her son is standing in front of her, under the waterfall, drenched. The image slowly clears, she sees every part of his body becoming sharper.
“Actually we’re still in the middle of the procedure.”
“Got it. You’re welcome to pop by afterward if you feel like it. My office is on the fourteenth floor.”
She feels the oily moss beneath her feet.
“Okay, Ruthie?”
“Sure, okay. I’ll see how it goes here, I can’t promise.”
“No pressure, we’re seeing each other tomorrow,” he says, and she tries to picture Amichai’s face. Recalls the wrinkled white shirt he wore on their wedding day. The line disconnects. She drops the phone to the floor, stares at the tiles, sees the water swirling beneath her. Reaching her knees. She closes her eyes, feels the memory starting to stir inside her like a movie, the water rippling around her in a veil of mist. A slow breeze blows against the back of her neck. Out of the corner of her eye she sees children playing, but they’re a blur. She can’t zero in on them. She’s focused entirely on her son. His laughing body. A healthy, deep laughter. He’s yelling something. Shouting with a big smile. But she can’t hear him. Can’t read his lips either; the water is obscuring the image. She feels Ilan’s body answering, telling him something, but she can’t make out the words.
Ilan must have been thinking about her, she’s sure of it. He knew how she longed for such moments with her son. How she wished for more of him. She realizes Ilan had only good intentions, but the more she thinks about those intentions, the angrier she gets. For showing her what’s missing, letting her see it with her own eyes. She stays there a few more minutes, trying to delve deeper into the memory. Now she can smell the desert too, reminding her of the two years she worked in Mitzpe Ramon. Everything becomes sharper, more lucid. But she can’t pick up a single sound. Her son is standing in front of her, still yelling words she can’t hear.
She stares at the ceiling. Can’t understand what she’s doing here. She never even wanted the treatment. She holds her head in her hands, hoping to extract the foreign memory that’s been planted inside her. It’s no use. She looks both ways, making sure the hallway is clear, and lets out a feeble cry. She wants to scream, but doesn’t want anyone to hear. Then she starts walking down the hallway, makes it to the elevator exhausted and presses the button, feeling the dizziness has slightly abated. The elevator door slides open and she walks in. Glancing at the buttons, she presses both the fourteenth and first floor, still undecided.
SHE MAKES HER way up to Amichai’s office on her own. When the door opens, she is standing before a beautiful parquet floor and marble walls. They don’t notice her at first, but halfway to the receptionist’s desk, she sees several of the employees already staring at her.
“Everything okay, ma’am?” the secretary asks. “You look a little pale.”
“I’m absolutely fine,” she says, making sure to smile, hoping the smile will make up for the green gown and the tired body. “I’m here to see Amichai. Where is his office?” she asks, and thinks about Ilan. About the sadness he’d feel if he found out they’d met. When he finds out they’d met. The receptionist peers at his computer screen.
“I’m sorry, I don’t see any appointments in his schedule.”
“I used to be his wife,” she says.
The receptionist hesitates, signals to the girl sitting next to him, whispers something in her ear. She gets up and scurries toward one of the doors, knocks, and enters.
“Is that Amichai’s office?”
“Just one moment, ma’am.”
The girl walks out and whispers something to the receptionist.
“He’s in the middle of an important meeting,” they tell her. “It’ll take at least half an hour.”
“I just want to say hi, may I?”
“I apologize, we’re being instructed not to disturb him.”
“I see,” Ruthie replies, and lets out a sigh. “No problem, some other time.”
“I’m sure. Would you like us to escort you back to your treatment, Mrs. Zamir?” The receptionist smiles, and she knows they’re onto her. They know.
“Yes,” she replies submissively. “Perhaps if you could just tell me first where the bathroom is?”
“Of course. Here on your left.”
Ruthie nods in gratitude and takes a left, then backtracks toward Amichai’s door, opening it. The receptionist yells out something, but she ignores him. She enters in big strides, sits down on a soft white armchair, and fixes her gaze to the floor.
“Close the door, it’s fine.” She hears Amichai’s decisive tone, followed by the sound of the door shutting. She looks up, meeting his eyes.
HE LOOKS ALMOST OLD, and yet barely changed. Most of his hair has turned white, but his skin is still smooth and taut. She’s never seen him in a suit before, but his posture is as steady and calm as she remembers. He looks at her and says into the receiver, “I have to take care of something here, I’ll get back to you in a sec.” He hangs up and stares at her.
“Been a while,” he says.
“Indeed.”
He asks how she’s been doing. She says well.
“Tea or coffee?”
“Nothing,” she replies.
“How was the treatment?”
“What can I say, all this technology of yours is very impressive,” she says and wavers, biting her bottom lip.
“Everything all right, Ruthie?”
“I’m tired, Amichai,” she sighs. “I can’t.”
“You can’t what?” he asks, leaning forward and extending his hand to the middle of the table. She recalls that strange ability of his, to express empathy and aloofness at the same time.
“I don’t know what I’m doing here,” she says, turning her focus to a bookcase. Neat and tidy. She thinks about the house they shared in Haifa, in the early days of their relationship. How they slept on the floor for nearly a month because the mover disappeared along with their boxes.
“Ruthie, I’m not sure I’m following.”
She thinks about the house they moved into afterward in Ramat Gan. And their trip to Jordan. Thinks about their son, who’s still stuck in her head, under the waterfall. She tries to stop all these memories from resurfacing, and can’t.
“Get it out of me,” she says.
“Get what out?”
“The memory you planted inside me. Erase it.”
“What memory, Ruthie? From the treatment just now?”
She nods.
“What’s in it?”
“What difference does it make? I don’t want anything in my head. Don’t want anyone poking around there.”
She sees he doesn’t know what to make of her. That he’s sure she’s gone mad. She knows him too well. “It’s not that simple, Ruthie. We can’t just erase it, the technology still—”
“But I don’t want it,” she shouts. “Enough, I don’t want it.”
He scratches his head, takes a piece of paper out of the desk drawer, and starts scribbling on it. She knows that shtick of his. To appear busy until things work themselves out. She won’t let him.
“I’ll sue you,” she says, gripping the armrests.
“What?” He looks up at her, baffled.
“You heard me, I’ll sue. I’ll hire the best lawyer I can find and sue you. The whole country will hear about it.”
Amichai leans back, considers her with a stern expression. Slides a finger across his chin. Something has changed in him. Now she sees he’s different. Not the Amichai she first stumbled upon in the Turkish market, but the serious, authoritative CEO everyone’s talking about.
“Why are you here, Ruthie?”
“I don’t know,” she confesses, lowering her gaze. “I honestly don’t.”
“Money? Is that it?”
“Are you crazy?” she exclaims, stroking her arms.
“How much?” he asks.
“I don’t want anything from you,” she retorts, noticing his hand holding the pen is shaking. He notices it too, and hides it under the table. He glances at the computer screen, then back at her.
“It was all your idea.”
“What?”
“This whole company.”
Now he’s the one who seems a little off.
“What on earth are you talking about? I was never into all those experiments of yours,” she replies, and knows he understands what she means perfectly well.
“Right, and that’s why you said what you said.”
“Said what, Amichai? What are you talking about?”
She sees a tremor of hesitation shoot through him, as if he’s holding back from telling her. He doesn’t trust her anymore. “You said I have to find another way, because it won’t work through the body alone.”
She can’t understand what he’s talking about. She tries, but fails. But it’s written all over his suddenly pale face—he’s not lying. “I don’t remember saying anything like that,” she replies quietly.
“Memory is a strange thing,” he replies, and starts elaborating on the technical process. Explains how a memory is imprinted into the brain, and how his machine works.
“What are you rambling on about? How do you remember a desert?” she cuts him off, and he says something about the neurons in the brain. Clarifies that a memory can’t simply be erased. He explains all these things she has no interest in knowing. She’s looking at him, but her entire being is underneath that waterfall.
Then, a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he says, and she already knows.
SHE HOLDS ILAN’S hand the entire ride home. Clasping it tightly. Waiting for him to say something.
“I don’t know what I was looking for up there.”
“I do,” he replies in a soft, gentle tone despite himself. They turn off the highway and into the city.
“You know, one memory did transfer to me,” she says, looking out the window.
“I know.”
“The problem is—”
“It had no sound.”
“How did you know?”
“They told me. Explained they didn’t burn the memory well.”
She glances at him through the rearview mirror, hoping he’ll look back, but his eyes are fixed on the road.
“Is it from the trip you took two months ago?”
“Yup. In the desert.”
“You were cold,” she says, and laughs.
“Yup,” he replies, trying to suppress a chuckle. She notices, and grasps his other hand in hers.
“Was there sound in the memory I shared with you?”
“You didn’t share a single memory.”
“What?”
“You didn’t share anything with me.”
Her legs tense. She presses them together.
“That’s what they told you?”
“No. I know you.”
She takes a deep breath and turns on the radio, hoping to find a song she likes. She doesn’t.
“What did you talk about?”
“Who?”
“You and him. What did he say to you over there, under the waterfall?”
Ilan shoots her a quick glance before turning back to the road. They continue to ride in silence. Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.
“He shouted that it was a shame you weren’t there. That you could stand under the water for a whole hour,” he finally says with a smile. “And I told him he was right.”
Ruthie lets go of his hand.
“I don’t get it, I thought you’d be happy.”
She takes big gulps of air, feeling as if she’s suffocating.
“Pull over,” she demands.
“What?”
“Pull over. Now.”
“There’s nowhere to pull over, Ruthie. We’ll be home in a minute, we’ll talk it all over.”
“You can pull over from the other lane,” she asserts, pointing at it with her entire body.
“I can’t switch lanes, it’s a solid yellow line.”
Ruthie leans in, making sure the road is clear, and jerks the wheel left.
“Ruthie, enough!” he shouts, pushing her off. The car swerves, almost crashing into a parked car. Ilan manages to brake in time. The front fender almost grazes the rear fender of the car in front of them. The alarm goes off.
“You’ve lost it completely,” he says, shifting into reverse. He wants to get out of the middle lane but she won’t let him. She raises her arms and throws herself over and into him, pressing up against him as closely as possible. At first he still tries to continue driving, but soon realizes he doesn’t stand a chance. The car behind them keeps honking at them, but they don’t move. She sidles up to him even closer, and he caves. Wraps his arms around her.
“I can’t breathe,” he says.
“You’re doing fine,” she replies.
He presses her against him with big, merciful arms, and she continues to squeeze herself into him. Clinging on as tightly as she can without letting go.