A View From Forever (Thompson Sisters Book 3) Read online

  He nods. Then he says, “My older brother had a long distance relationship like that. Really long distance.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  He nods. “They met when we were vacationing in Greece. She’s from Paris.”

  “Oh. Yeah, that’s a long way.” Longer, probably, than it is from Atlanta to San Francisco. “What happened?”

  “He ended up going to college in Paris. He proposed to her in the Louvre—they’ve been married five years now.”

  I feel a smile growing on my face. I can’t imagine any sort of dramatic proposal scene—that’s not my style. But on some level, the thought of proposing to Alex makes me very happy.

  Idiot. You haven’t even told her you love her.

  “Thanks, Amir. That’s good to hear.”

  A few minutes later we’re gathering our things to leave. Usually when we’re going to be on tour buses all day I’ll take my guitar along, but today the group is only going a short distance. We’ll be touring the Old City on foot, so they advised us to dress warm and not carry much.

  Amir and I walk to the high school. As we walk he treats me to a monologue of the state of the Israeli music scene. He goes on about punk and semi-punk bands who are all heavily influenced by the Clash, the B52s, Dirty Rotten Imbeciles, Morbid Obesity, Mooke, Shabek Samech. I’ve never heard of any of them except the Clash and Morbid Obesity. Amir feels very strongly about Morbid Obesity, and tells me that I’d made a tremendous mistake the other night.

  “Really, Dylan, if I had been your girlfriend when you said that stuff, I wouldn’t have taken you back.”

  I chuckle a little. A moment later we arrive at the high school. Amir waves and heads off to class—I join the small group of Americans in the courtyard.

  Alex is already here—she sees me and smiles, then walks over and wraps her arms around me, leaning her forehead against my chest.

  I take a deep, longing breath. She feels so warm. I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of strawberry from her hair and lilies from her perfume. Every time we kiss I die a little. What will I do without her? Over the last few days, my focus has narrowed in on that upcoming separation. With that thought, I grip her even tighter, my arms around her waist.

  She moves with the same instinct, her arms over my shoulders. She leans her head back, her eyes half closed. I can feel her breath, hot against my skin. I lean forward and our lips touch. Her mouth opens, ours tongues touching greedily, and I suck at her lip. She gives a soft moan.

  “You guys should get a room,” Mike says as he walks by. He claps me on the shoulder, harder than is necessary.

  It’s enough to pull me back to the surface. I pull back from Alex just enough to look in her green eyes, searching the depths of them as if might find answers to life’s questions in her.

  “You look beautiful this morning,” I say. The words come out rough.

  Her cheeks flash bright red. But she isn’t really fazed. In a nonchalant tone, she says, “You look acceptable.”

  I grin. “I’m relieved to hear you think so.”

  She grabs the sides of my face and aggressively plans a kiss right on my face. Then she steps back.

  The sudden distance between us is jarring, but tempered by the fact that she immediately grips one of my hands. We turn and walk together toward the rest of the group.

  “Dylan and Alex, I’m so glad the two of you could join us.” I can’t tell if Mrs. Simpson is being sarcastic or not. Her attitude toward me and Alex has become more tolerant in the last few days—I suspect because she won’t have to put up with us much longer. But moments later she gets down to business. A guide from the tourist bureau or something like that is going to be here in a moment and will walk us over to the Old City. From there, we’ll be on a guided tour.

  She lays down the rules. No wandering off alone. We’ll be allowed to shop or get something in the area overlooking the Western Wall during lunchtime. Otherwise, we have to stay with the group at all times. If we’re approached by shopkeepers (“and you will be,” interjects the guy from the tourist bureau) then simply say no-thank you and keep going.

  When she wraps up, he says, “Before we go, I must make a few more comments. It’s unlikely that anything should happen while you are in the city. But if it does—if there is any kind of altercation or violence—stay together as a group and seek the assistance of the nearest policeman or soldier. Do not go on your own.”

  Alex looks troubled, as do many of the students. “Is it that dangerous?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Statistically, it’s probably far safer than cities in America. But the streets of Jerusalem were laid out three thousand years ago. It’s extremely easy for you to get lost. Should that happen, you must ask for assistance getting back to the plaza in front of the Western Wall. That is where we shall meet.”

  Five minutes later we move out as a group. Alex and I trail along behind the rest of the group—not far behind, but in the back of the crowd—holding hands and walking together. It’s only a few blocks from the school to Jaffa Gate. But before we reach the gate, we’re walking down a long, long sidewalk, the high walls of the city towering over us. Tan stone, fifty feet high and topped with battlements, the outer wall of the Old City is fascinating. I’ve never travelled anywhere before, and this place is utterly alien, but also incredibly fascinating. Alex seems to be feeling some of the same emotions, the grip of her hands growing stronger. We’re moving faster now, trying to hear the guide from the tourist bureau as he begins to detail the history of the walls—some of which have been standing here since Jesus’s time or earlier.

  And then we are there, walking through the massive gate with its pointed stone arches. Around us, a melange of tourists, soldiers, Arabs, Jews, more. Two men in black suits with wide-brimmed black hats, long full beards and locks of hair growing in curls in front of their ears—Hasidic Jews—enter the gates in front of us. Our guide stops and faces us, telling a story about the recapture of the city by Israel during the 1967 war. I’ve heard a great deal about this particular war since I arrived in Israel—far more than I ever wanted to, to be honest.

  Once inside the walls, we’re faced with a seemingly-chaotic scene, a broad plaza with dozens of people in every direction. It takes me a few moments to make sense of the scene. On the left are several buildings,with shops, the Tourism Bureau, money changers, and a coffee shop. To the right is a limited amount of parking, no more than a dozen Mercedes Benz taxis backed up against the thousand-year-old-wall. As we move forward, we crowd around the guide. My eyes are on the signs, written in multiple languages. The St. Michel Cafeteria. Versavee Bistro Bar & Cafe. The Franciscan Book Shop. A street sign in three languages points to Greek Catholic Patriarchate Street. The Franciscan Corner (no idea what is inside the building) next to a wide open clothing store next to a shop advertising stamps, film and tattoos. In large black letters, the SWEDISH CHRISTIAN STUDY CENTER is one floor above Petra Souvenirs and Money Changers.

  Quickly, though, our guide leads us to a narrow street—by street, I mean an alley, maybe twelve feet wide, moving slightly downhill with occasional steps. No cars move on this street—it’s strictly pedestrian only. On both sides, we’re crowded by dozens of shops selling everything from tourist goods to brass candlesticks. Men stand inside or just at the front of each shop—the shops are tiny, few of them with even enough space to sit down. Awnings block out most of the sky, and the tourists are everywhere. But not just tourists. Soldiers. Children. It’s hard to tell whether the tourists are here for the city or if the city is here for the tourists. After all, Jerusalem has been a place of pilgrimage for centuries.

  “Keep moving, keep moving,” our guide says. It’s hard to listen. I’m craning my neck everywhere, and Alex has taken out her camera and is shooting pictures of everything. And seriously, she’s lived in China and Russia and God only knows where else. If she finds this fascinating and a little magical, then it must really be.

  I can hear half a dozen different lan
guages being spoken. The shopkeepers ignore us, seeking fatter prey than me (I’m down to my last $20 and it must show). We keep moving forward, Alex’s hand in mine, and I can’t imagine a more perfect day.

  We reach an intersection—if you could call it that—and our guide stops and turns, beckoning us to gather around him. On either side of the intersection, the street gives up any pretense of viewing the sky—the buildings arch over the street completely. To the right, it’s obviously new—polished light-colored stone, well lit, with only a few shops. Ahead, the street continues to descend downhill. To our left, the street is also almost completely covered over by slanted awnings that meet in the center of the street. Dozens of shops, hundreds of colors, chaos leading off into the distance.

  The smells are vivid. Some good—floral fragrances pouring out of a clothes store, the crisp frying of falafel at at a stand nearby—some bad—the faintest hint of garbage wafting from somewhere, along with the accumulated body odor of two thousand years of tourists who have made their way through this city.

  Most of the shops are tourist goods—“I went to Jerusalem and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”, carpets, jewelry, antique pottery. But some are more prosaic—a tiny hardware store, a corner grocery. While this city may be one of the most crowded (and certainly oldest) tourist destinations in the world, it is also home to many of the people around us. Our guide explains to us that the area to the left leads to the Christian and Muslim quarters of the city. To the right is the Jewish quarter. For centuries, different religious and ethnic groups maintained their own sections of the city. We turn left. The streets here are dark, completely covered over after a few feet, and not well-lit, though plenty of light comes from the shops—that is, those that are open. I’m surprised by just how many are shuttered, at least a third of them. Graffiti in Arabic, Hebrew and sometimes English is written on the shutters. A tremendous amount of graffiti on every surface, some of it elaborate and beautiful, much of it ugly.

  We’re moving very slowly now, our guide leading his way through the crowded market with all of us trailing behind. Mrs. Simpson has moved to the rear, occasionally saying, “Dylan and Alex, keep up with the group,” in a surprisingly tolerant tone.

  Alex leans close to me and squeezes my hand tight and whispers, “I wish this day could last forever.”

  Via Dolorosa (Alex)

  Even though I've lived in a lot of places, I don't think I've ever been in any city quite so magical as the Old City of Jerusalem. The sights and sounds are astonishing. From everywhere, the smells of spices, the shouts of the shopkeepers, the cacophony of colors. But above all, it’s discovering the city with Dylan that makes it so wonderful

  As we tour the city, we spend an hour at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, an ancient building which is controlled by a dozen different denominations of Christianity. I buy a rosary for my mother.

  Outside, we are allowed to spend one hour in a very limited part of the market. Our boundaries are one street, no further than the corners. This particular street is wider than most of the others, with plenty of sunlight. Two coffee shops and a restaurant are on this street along with the expected tourist traps. At one of the shops, Dylan insists on buying us matching coffee mugs, digitally printed on the spot with a picture of the two of us.

  From there we move on to the plaza in front of the western wall. The wall, once the retaining wall of one side of a Jewish temple which was destroyed 2000 years ago, is now a holy place where devout Jews come from all over the world to pray. I read that this plaza used to be known as the Moroccan quarter, but that it was leveled three days after the 1967 war ended. The residents were evicted, and the entire area was turned into a giant plaza. At the same time our tour guide tells us that the reason the Jewish quarter looks so new is that the Jordanians leveled that part of the city during the 1948 war. The competing claims and the constant justification that we hear at every stop are making me increasingly cynical about both sides of the conflict. Dylan meanwhile, has seemed almost disturbed. He's increasingly sympathetic to the Palestinians, and I think that bothers him.

  At the plaza, we stop to have lunch. We have an hour here, so each of us has the opportunity to approach the wall. Dylan and I go together. And while I don't pray very often, I do find myself giving a short prayer when I'm standing at the wall. I pray for peace. And selfishly, I pray that Dylan and I will have a chance for a future.

  As we walk away from the wall, I try to imagine that future and I shiver. He wants to go travel after high school for a year or more. After that, he doesn’t really have plans. That’s inconceivable to me. All I have is plans, whether I like them or not.

  Dylan feels me shiver. I think he mistakes it, thinking it’s because of the cool breeze coming across the plaza, because he pulls me close, wrapping an arm around my waist. I lean my head on his shoulder.

  “I’m gonna miss this place,” he says.

  “I will too,” I reply. I’m going to miss you. I don’t know why he doesn’t say that. I don’t even know why I don’t say it.

  The tour continues through the afternoon, away from the Western Wall toward Damascus Gate and the market there, then back to the Via Dolorosa, the road that Jesus took through the city on the way to his crucifixion. It’s getting late, and there are fewer people on the streets. I’m silent as we follow the steps up that narrow road, passing apartments and hostels, pottery and antique stores, gaudy tourist shops. We stop to look at an inscription in Latin, marking one of the stations of the Cross. I can only imagine what my mother, a devout Catholic, would have given to be here right now.

  For me, as we wind up the narrow street, I feel a shadow coming over me. With the clattering sound of metal on metal, shopkeepers behind and ahead of us roll down shutters, closing business for the day. It’s late in the afternoon and their departure gives the city a forlorn, abandoned air.

  Suddenly I realize that this is it. We won’t have another opportunity to be here in the Old City, and in the morning we go back to Tel Aviv. My eyes start to water, and I blink them frantically before Dylan sees.

  But he does see. He leans close and whispers, “Me too.”

  I wave down Mrs. Simpson, following behind at the back of the group, and ask her to take a picture of us together. I think she senses our sadness, because she takes the picture without comment.

  You’ll find a way (Dylan)

  The streets are almost empty as Amir and I make our way to the high school. It’s Friday; the sabbath starts at sundown, and today is also the first Friday in Hanukah. Amir has explained to me that Hanukah isn’t anything like the biggest of the Jewish Holidays, but I always think of it that way because of its proximity to Christmas.

  As we trudge along, he says, “You fly out tomorrow?”

  “Sunday,” I say.

  “Oh, right,” he replies. Tomorrow we have a lunch with our hosts from all three cities, along with Americans in the other two groups. That’s to be followed by a party (more like a wake), and then we fly out the next morning.

  I’ve been feeling glum ever since we left the Old City. I finally got around to posting a status update on Facebook for the first time last night. It simply said, “Bummer to be leaving.”

  Alex had posted the picture of the two of us on the Via Dolorosa. Her eyes were watery in the picture, a little red. I maintained a pokerface. I don’t know why, except that it’s just what I do. I wish I could go back in time thirty days and live this last month over again, and over, and over even one more time. I wish I could hold her in my arms always.

  The bus, yet another tour bus, is parked in front of the school, and the driver is already loading people’s bags. I set my guitar case and backpack down and just stand there. Alex isn’t here yet.

  “You take good care of yourself,” Amir says. “And tell Alex I wish her to be well.”

  “I will.”

  Awkwardly, he sticks out a hand to shake. I take it, and we shake hands, and then he’s gone.

  A few moments l
ater, a white station wagon which looks like it’s from the nineties stops at the curb and Alex gets out, along with her host family. They fuss over her, helping her get her bags to the bus. The mother is red-eyed and Rebekah is weeping and she and Alex hug for a long time. Then they step back, as Mrs. Simpson gives the word to get on the bus, and we all begin to pile on. I walk over and take Alex’s hand.

  Rebekah, who I barely know, runs over and hugs Alex one more time. Then she wraps her arms around me and squeezes, and whispers in my ear, “Take care of her.”

  Confused, I reply, “We’re going home to different places.”

  She shakes her head and squeezes a little tighter. “You’ll find a way if it matters to you.” Then she lets go and steps back.

  The words spear through me. I sag a little. Then I take Alex’s hand again, and we get on the bus.

  It takes almost ten more minutes before everyone is seated. We’re quiet, sitting in our seat, holding hands. Alex leans against me. Finally, everyone is on board. Mrs. Simpson stands up and does a head count. Everyone’s here.

  She nods to the bus driver, who closes the door. He starts the engine, a whine followed by a low tumbling. Then he begins to drive, slowly at first, pulling out onto the almost empty street. Sundown is here, it’s the sabbath in Jerusalem, and the streets are empty. When we drive away, I see a menorah in a window, candles blazing.

  The bus is silent as we drive away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rachel Grace (Dylan)

  It’s well past nightfall when the bus makes its way into Tel Aviv. You can see the city from a long way off, of course—unlike Jerusalem, which is fairly dark in the evening, the light pollution from the towers and high rises here is intense. The bus fights traffic, and those of us who stayed awake in the bus talk quietly, partly because several people went to sleep, and partly just… because. There’s something a little sobering and sad about this ride.