Life in a Box Read online

  I didn’t respond.

  “She was a very, very smart woman.”

  “Thank you,” I answered.

  “I wasn’t trying to compliment you,” she said.

  I looked at her with a puzzled expression.

  “I don’t think you really knew her at all,” she said, to my surprise.

  My anger welled up inside, but I kept myself in check.

  “Your mother was a strong woman. Sometimes I think she would have preferred to be a little less strong.” She mumbled this as if to herself, brushing an imaginary crumb from her dress.

  I wanted to stop her, to tell her that she didn’t know my mother at all. Nobody knew her; my mother was alienated from the world.

  She and I were as far apart as the moon and the sun.

  “I think you are wrong about her,” I said out loud.

  She stretched her body and fixed her piercing eyes on mine.

  I turned away from her gaze and continued speaking. “My mother was a weak woman—very weak. I think you got the wrong impression about her.”

  Her face became taut and her eyes narrowed to slits.

  “She was like…like a rag doll. Anybody could do anything they wanted with her.” The train had left the station and there was no way I could stop it. “Yes, that’s who she was. She was like a bubble. She never offered her opinion or interfered with anything—she just existed. So don’t tell me that she was a smart woman, because it’s just not true!”

  My venom had been aimed at Sarah, but it changed directions and headed back toward me. It was one of the only times I had expressed my thoughts about my mother out loud, and it felt sharply painful, like an enormous weight crushing my heart. My disappointment and frustration about my mother’s personality were like dynamite that had begun to slowly detonate after her death. Up until that point, I hadn’t been aware of my rage toward her. Her shapeless presence in my life, so taken for granted, had left a huge void.

  I felt Sarah’s hand on my shoulder; an unwelcome consoling hand. I forcefully shook my body and her hand fell into her lap.

  “Eva, listen to me,” she begged.

  “Please leave,” I told her.

  Her face showed a mixture of emotions. I saw compassion, determination, great anger, and frustration. She slowly got up from the chair with a look of humiliation. Suddenly her gaze passed over the document that had been sitting on the table all this time. I snatched the piece of paper away, folded it and put it in my pocket.

  It looked like she wanted to say something, but she must have decided against it. I looked at her again and was shocked to find that the mixture of emotions shown on her face beforehand had been replaced by an inexplicable smile.

  The door closed after her.

  Sarah’s words about my mother and the realization of the amount of anger I felt toward her made me burst into tears that only intensified. Tears of self-pity and loneliness ran down my face. I trudged to my bedroom and lay down on the bed. My sobs wracked my body, but the shaking quieted down little by little, eventually becoming more of a rocking motion. I felt my body giving in to sleep and I let out a long sigh.

  I fell into a fitful sleep. Objects, words, expressions, fuzzy faces, numbers, bits of memories, landscapes, travel, funerals, my father, recurring phrases that were annoying, names… Everything in my imagination was jumbled together into one big sticky mess.

  I woke up early the next morning and was surprised to find myself in my parents’ bed. I had never slept in their bedroom before. It felt as though I was in foreign territory, but something made me want to stay there. The strangeness aroused my curiosity. Even though I could do anything I wanted in the room, it didn’t erase the fear that someone might come in and see me there.

  2

  A few weeks later, sitting by myself on the sofa wondering who might be thinking about me, I took inventory. My mother—gone. Father—gone. Brothers and sisters—none. Family—none. Maybe some neighbors? But then I thought to myself, No, they don’t know me.

  While I was wallowing in self-pity, I heard a familiar knock on my front door. I knew the sound of this particular knock. It had its own rhythm. One knock, a hesitation, and then, as if more decisive, four more knocks.

  “Hi, Roy,” I said, opening the door.

  “You haven’t been answering me,” he complained.

  “I’m not in the mood to answer you,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “Because I just don’t feel like it.”

  I saw his Adam’s apple move up and down and knew his feelings were hurt. I knew him, though, and he would repress it and move on.

  “I was worried about you,” he said.

  “I know,” I answered. “I’m OK, though.”

  “You are not!” Roy decided.

  “Roy, I don’t have the energy for this,” I sighed. “Please leave me alone.”

  Roy came in and sat down in my father’s chair.

  “Would you mind not sitting there?” I asked irritably.

  Roy got up, sat down next to me, and took my hand in his. I angrily snatched it away; I couldn’t bear anything touching my skin.

  “I called you yesterday, but there was no answer. Where were you?” he returned angrily.

  “I was home, but I didn’t feel like answering,” I said nonchalantly.

  I saw his Adam’s apple move up and down again, but this time I felt the need to apologize.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “I understand. I just want you to let me help you,” he urged me.

  “There’s nothing to help.” I was making it hard for him.

  “Eva,” he begged.

  I said, “Roy, I know you want to help. I am just not able to let anyone help me right now. I need to be by myself and try to decide how to move forward.”

  “But it’s always like that with you. You never allow me to help you.”

  He was right. We had met in high school. It was my second day at school. I was wandering around alone during recess; not knowing anyone, lacking the courage to introduce myself to a stranger, I passively waited for someone to address me first. I was sitting in the schoolyard, in a lonely corner in the shade. My head was buried in the Jane Austen book Pride and Prejudice in an effort to cut myself off from everything around me.

  “Hi, I’m Roy,” a boyish voice suddenly said, interrupting the meeting between Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy. I lifted my head reluctantly and saw a boy who was too tall for my tastes.

  “Did you hear me?” he said insistently. “I said my name is Roy.”

  “Yeah, I heard you,” I answered.

  I wanted him to go away, to let me go back to the intricate exploits of Elizabeth, who had just gotten angry with the wrong person.

  Instead of being offended and walking away, this boy sat down next to me and continued. “I saw you yesterday. You’re new at school,” he said decisively.

  “Brand spanking new,” I said, mustering up some cynicism for assistance.

  His blue eyes met mine and stayed there until I looked down.

  “So, what are you going to do, keep pushing people away and being mean to them?”

  His words embarrassed me. I loosened up, saying, “I’m sorry. That’s how I react under pressure.”

  “It’s OK,” he comforted me. “When I’m under pressure, I don’t stop talking.”

  We became friends over time. I can’t say we were close friends, since my father didn’t approve of our relationship and I had to play it down. But Roy became a familiar landscape to me.

  When Roy left my house that evening feeling disappointed, I continued to sit on the sofa and contemplate my life. The house was silent. The leaves on the branches danced around slowly on the walls of the house in a caressing motion. It was dusk; the sun had already retired and left this side of the world dimming in the fading light. The street was practically deserted. The clatter of dishes could be heard, indicating that dinner was being served to tables filled with families: giggling chil
dren, parents exchanging looks, a mother looking at everyone with love.

  The loneliness I felt during the months following my parents’ funerals grew stronger. It turned into a feeling of such total isolation that even my breathing became slow and difficult. Is this the way it is going to be from now on? I asked myself. Will the house remain dark and empty forever?

  The silence and my loneliness opened the door to new thoughts. Why didn’t my mother ever join us? Why was she on the fringes of our world and not a part of it? Why did she choose such a narrow existence, bounded by the kitchen and her bedroom? I tried to picture her in my memories, but it was difficult. My father’s clear and dominant image didn’t leave any room for her. Every time I struggled to ignore him and think of her, he closed the curtain on her and took over. I had probably thought about her more since her death than the entire time she was alive. I asked out loud, “Mom, who were you? What was I to you? Did you even love me?”

  I was so absorbed in my own misery that I didn’t notice what was happening outside. The calm weather had turned into a storm, making the tree branches thrash around. I leaped up from the sofa to check the windows; the window across from the sofa shattered, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. The tip of a tree branch jutted into the room. The floor was dotted with pieces of glass and the wind rushed in. If I hadn’t gotten up from the sofa at that precise moment, I would have been injured. Turning on the light, I walked carefully toward the kitchen.

  It was one o’clock in the morning by the time I finished cleaning up the splinters of glass. I hung a blanket over the open window and got into my still-unmade bed.

  How lucky. What if I had gotten hurt? Who would have known? Nobody has even checked to see if I am all right. Nobody is worried about me. Up until my parents’ deaths, I took my life for granted. My father took care of me and protected me; my home was my shelter. The loneliness that followed their deaths created a tiny crack in the vault that had thus far been locked tight.

  3

  Having woken up earlier than usual the next day, I decided to clean and organize the house. First, bed-making, with flowered sheets that hadn’t been used in a while. Next, kitchen cleaning: I washed the dishes that had piled up in the sink, washed the counters, put the chairs up and washed the floor—trying to wash away the remnants of loneliness left in the kitchen last night. Afterward, vacuuming the sofas and the carpet in the living room, listening to the soft tinkle of the remaining glass shards being sucked up by the vacuum cleaner. My parents’ bedroom remained untouched, but I opened the windows to introduce a bit of life into the house. I decided to go into town to order a new window for the living room after finishing up the cleaning.

  I finished all my chores, took a shower and put on clean clothes. I brushed my hair, which had become an unruly mess of tangles, and left the house.

  My father’s yellow car was parked in the driveway like an obedient soldier. It was about ten years old but looked like it just rolled off the showroom floor. My father polished the seats by hand at the end of every day, and they looked brand new. The steering wheel had a leather covering that had been replaced once a year. The car floors were spotless—not a single speck of dirt. My father was very proud of his car and took care of it as if it were a rare diamond. Nobody was allowed to drive it except for him. I don’t know if my mother even had a driver’s license. But if she had, it would have been useless. I had only driven it a few times with my father sitting next to me. I was never allowed to drive it by myself.

  I drove through the streets of the city as if it was my first time, passing the local pizzeria, which was crowded with hungry patrons, and slowing down a bit. The familiar smell of melted cheese and fresh dough wafted in through the open window. With uncharacteristic spontaneity, I decided to stop. I got out of the car, walked into the restaurant, ordered a pizza with my favorite toppings, sat down at a corner table to watch the people passing by.

  “Eva, I don’t believe it! You left the house!” Roy appeared out of nowhere.

  “Yes, Roy, I am out,” I answered with indifference.

  He sat down next to me, moved his chair closer to mine, and said, “If I had known, I would have made a date with you in advance.”

  “It was spontaneous. I wasn’t planning on coming here.”

  “Spontaneous? Since when are you and spontaneity on good terms?”

  “OK, now you’re just making fun of me.”

  “I am not! I’m just surprised.”

  I noticed lots of girls glancing over at Roy, but he ignored them. He was handsome though. He was a tall boy with eyes the color of sky on a clear day. When a rare smile spread across his face, tiny wrinkles appeared, giving him the appearance of someone older. For years, I had taken him for granted.

  “What are you thinking about?” He snapped me out of my ruminations.

  “About us,” I answered without thinking. Roy said nothing, only smiled. I noticed his cheeks had slightly changed color. I also remained silent; I didn’t usually give such direct answers.

  “What were you thinking about us?” he finally asked.

  I mumbled something, got up from my seat, and muttered “See you later.” I left.

  When I started the car, my cheeks were burning. My foot slammed down on the gas pedal. I didn’t notice how fast the car was going until it was too late. Almost too late. Another car was coming in my direction and my car was racing toward it. Only about an inch before certain impact, my hands twisted the steering wheel and returned to my lane. I stopped the car on the side of the road with my whole body trembling, my stomach extremely nauseated. My rapid breathing refused to slow down; the vomit spewed out from my throat and defiled the shiny leather seats; people came up to me and spoke, but I couldn’t understand them. I sat in the car in complete shock.

  When I had calmed down a bit, I looked around and replayed what had just happened a few minutes earlier. Something happened—something beyond the near accident. It was clear as day that this accident was about to happen.

  I returned home without ordering a new window.

  The next day, I was still shaken up from my terrifying experience when the telephone rang. There was an unfamiliar woman’s voice on the line. “Is this the home of Sonia Schwartz?” she asked.

  “Who is this?” I asked, confused.

  “This is Keren Tesser, from Golding Helman Investigations.”

  I kept quiet and she repeated the question. “Have I reached the home of Sonia Schwartz?”

  “No,” I answered.

  There was a brief silence on the other end and then she asked, “Is your address 12 Marker Street?”

  “Yes,” I answered, “but there is no Sonia here.”

  Another silence, and then the woman said, “Excuse me, I must have made a mistake.” She hung up.

  I sat on the sofa in the living room, not really knowing what to do with myself. I wouldn’t dare drive into the city again, there was no one for me to call, and I had no plans. I thought about the events of recent weeks and once again sank into self-pity.

  The feelings of loneliness were like a ping-pong game between two different voices in my head. “I’m alone. I have nobody in this world,” said one voice, whining in my ear. The other voice pushed me, saying, “Enough! Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Keep on living. You are a grown woman now.” This is how my thoughts ran through my head, and I wavered between believing one voice and then the other—one minute, the first voice was convincing; immediately thereafter, the second voice made more sense.

  ***

  In the two years before the accident, I worked as a secretary in a company that specialized in surveillance equipment. These were miniature devices that were used mostly by the army, but that were also available to the general public. Most of the employees were engineers, people in their thirties with families, who dropped whatever they were holding as soon as the clock struck five p.m. At five thirty the building was empty of its inhabitants; the secretaries would organize our desks an
d leave the building around six o’clock. It was my fallback job.

  A year earlier, I had begun to study at an out-of-town college. My father convinced me to study engineering. I agreed, of course. I remember my mother trying to interfere during the conversation between us, suggesting that perhaps I would like to weigh other possibilities. But I didn’t give her the chance—she didn’t even warrant a glance.

  After I was accepted to college, my father suggested I work at an engineering company to gain experience and knowledge as I studied. My father knew the company manager, and he agreed to hire me at my father’s behest. I worked at the company three times a week.

  But for the last two months, since the accident, school had been put on hold, and I decided to discontinue my studies. I couldn’t drag myself to do even the most mundane routine things, or to concentrate on anything, not even to read a book. Instead, my efforts went into maintaining a dull routine. To keep myself from thinking too much, I spent most of my time cleaning the house, but since no one else ever walked through it, it was spotless. The house was immaculate, and I was stuck.

  Roy would visit every once in a while, but at some point, it was clear that he was tired of my somber moods; his visits became more and more rare. Sarah, my neighbor, came over a few times a week with a cooked dish of some kind and left it on the kitchen table. During every visit, she repeated the same question: “So, Eva, are you going back to living now or next week?”

  “Next week,” was always my answer. I think, although I didn’t admit it, her visits created a strange bond between us, and in time I began to get used to her, and even look forward to them.

  When a whole week went by without my hearing from her, I considered going over to her house to see why. But that action might be construed as an admission of my need for her to visit me, and this thought prevented me from crossing the street. After another four days, I couldn’t refrain any more. I walked across the street and gave a timid knock on the door. She opened the door, looking surprised, and invited me in.