Light Years (26 page)

“Even though peace is so far away, light years away, on some nights, when everything is quiet and we are with friends,” I touched his hand, “we can see peace in the distance.”

I realized I truly believed that. It made me glad.

“The old Bedouin who was our guide was also out there,” I said. “He said men get drunk from the night sky of the Negev. He said there is no place on earth like the Negev on a clear night.” I remembered how he smoked a pipe and the smoke wrapped around him like mist. “He had been offered a job in the city, he told me. But he would never leave the Negev. He said he would never leave it for a job in the city.”

We lay side by side with snow swirling around us. My beloved stars, the light in the distance, united us. Talking became harder as my face went numb. The snow beneath me had now melted, soaking my legs and back. We lay side by side and did not touch until finally he said we should get up. He slowly
stood and then helped me, his arms around my waist and shoulder to keep me steady and stop me from falling. More than anything we had done before, this was close to love.

It was hard to recognize him through the film of crystals on his face and hair. A drop of icy water glided down my back, and I shivered with the painful chill of it. He walked me home and snow continued to drift. I pictured the twin tracks of footprints we left behind us, slowly disappearing under new snow, and I knew they were proof we were there.

I had to keep my teeth clenched to stop them from chattering. But for the first time in so long, I felt good and clean. My soul renewed. I did not know how to thank him for this gift.

When we reached my building, I thanked him for walking with me. He didn’t speak for a moment, his breath forming a cloud around his face. Snow eddied around him like a cloak.

“Will you stay here?” he asked. I knew what he wanted to know.

“Maybe,” I said. “I don’t know.”

He nodded as if I’d said what he expected to hear.

“Call me when you go up to the observatory next time. I’ll walk you home.”

My face was frozen. I could barely speak.

“Thank you,” I managed. “I will.”

Then I caught his hand before he could turn away. I held his warm hand to my frozen cheek and I closed my eyes.

He leaned in and brushed his lips across mine.

I met his gaze and I smiled.

“
Ani ohevet otcha,
” I said very softly.

“I love you too, Greenland,” he said. “I have for months.”

I was embarrassed and surprised that he knew what I had said.

He smiled. “It’s amazing what you can learn on the Internet.”

I laughed out loud and hugged him. He hugged me back, a huge bear hug, squeezing me through all those layers of Gore-Tex and fleece and cotton.

Then he walked off into the snow, leaving a path of footsteps behind him. I climbed the stairs to my room, leaving a trail of melted snow, achingly wishing for blue skies and yellow dunes.

After that night, I slept again.

The garden was beautifully kept, with perfectly trimmed hedges. April brought blooming flowers so thick they looked like pillows, and a lawn as smooth as carpet. This was where my lovers had come. Where I still came when I wanted to be alone. But like them, I discovered this garden was not as private as it seemed.

I had come to the garden the week before. I had just finished a long night lab, rushed home, written a paper, and then run to class to hand it in to the professor. Walking home, I was so tired that as I passed the garden, I couldn’t resist that lazy sun that sapped my strength or that smooth expanse of grass. I stretched out on the soft lawn and fell asleep.

I woke up feeling funny. I sat up to find that a drawing class had come to the gardens to sketch. One of the students who entered my garden had set up her easel several feet in front of me. She was busy sketching when I sat up. We both looked at each other in surprise. Running a hand through my disheveled hair, I grabbed my jacket and backpack and fled.

I wondered if I would ever find a sketch of myself, sleeping, at some student art show on campus. If I did, I would ask to buy it and I would hang it in my room and call it “Healed.”

The year was almost over. I had already taken all my finals but one. Summer was nearly here. I could feel the weight of the heat building each day, the growing press of humidity that curled my hair and drew beads of sweat from my skin like a snake charmer.

I lay on the itchy grass now and watched the busy life of ants and little black insects among their skyscraper blades of grass. They seemed frantic to me, hurrying everywhere they went, their short lives filled with work, danger, and the struggle to find food.

And my short life? Probably similar to theirs, if astronomy could be compared to digging tunnels and bringing home crumbs, and if politics and suicide bombers were similar to the heavy tread of uncaring humans and the sharp teeth of crickets.

My birthday was in two days. I was going to be twenty-one. Legally allowed to drink alcohol in Virginia. Payton was very excited. I had a ticket to fly home the week after that. Most of
my stuff would stay at Payton’s house for the summer, and I’d pick it up when I returned. We were going to be roommates next year. In a real apartment. With a kitchen. I was looking forward to traveling without so many bags.

Summer in Israel. Payton is talking about visiting, against her parents’ wishes. They think it’s too dangerous. But I want her to come. I want to show her the Mediterranean. I want her to taste our amazing produce, nothing like the watery tomatoes and bitter cucumbers found here. I want her to float in the Dead Sea, to climb to the top of Masada, to see the Roman ruins in Caesarea, the Dome of the Rock, the Western Wall. I want her to see our orchards and our skyscrapers. I want to take her to dance clubs in Tel Aviv and the white beaches of Haifa. I want her to fall in love with Israel and find it swimming in her blood the way I do.

I want Justin to come. I want to show him the real meaning of history. The burned-out truck shells that still line the road to Jerusalem from the siege in 1948. I want him to look for Roman coins on the beach, because you can still find them, if you’re lucky. I want him to see the Turkish influence in Acre, a port Napoleon failed to breach. I want him to see the Knights’ Hall there and the little Arab boys that jump off the parapets into the turquoise waters of the Mediterranean. I want to take him to the village of al-Qantir that was founded by Seti, father of Ramses II, around 1300 BCE. I want to take him camping in the Judean Desert.

I don’t want to listen to the news.

I want to go home.

I am not afraid anymore. I am only homesick. And I smile, stretched out in Jefferson’s garden with a hot Virginia sun beaming down.

Because I’m going home.

Saying that something is “a dream come true” can be such a cliché, but of course clichés come about because sometimes they capture the essence of a situation. Publishing a novel has always been my dream, and with this book, my dream has come true. As always, no one achieves her dreams alone. It is only with the help, support, and expert knowledge of many people that I am here, living the cliché.

Thank you to my agents, Andrea Somberg and Donald Maass, and my editor, Erin Clarke, who made this experience wonderful and a whole lot of fun.

Thank you to Israeli Defense Force soldiers Shira Kravitz, Sally Maron, Hilla Revell, and Edo Schaefer. Your courage, your humor, and your adventures prove that fiction pales in comparison to life.

Thank you to dear friends Denise Grolly-Case and Sarah Leffler, whose loud and cheerful encouragement gave me the courage to continue.

Thank you to Marjorie Brody and the Monday Night Group, whose careful reading and insightful suggestions came at just the right time.

Thank you to all my family, my parents, and my brothers,
who are always in the mood to go out to dinner and celebrate. They say, “That’s unbelievable,” but they believe.

And finally, thank you, Fred. I could never have done this without you—your constant support, your patience, your tough love, and your unhesitating belief that I should be writing. This book belongs to you.