The Others by Sarah Blau (best ereader for academics TXT) 📗

I didn’t think much of it, still unaware of what the evening had in store for me.

I move slowly, my back starting to ache again, but it didn’t last night. I sit down – carefully – with my coffee and replay the images in my mind.

More than anything, it was the tenderness that surprised me, and the intimacy. There was no mother–child or teacher–student dynamics, nothing that even resembled it. Although there was something there, lurking beneath the surface, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. And there was also that moment, in the middle of the night, when I woke up and found him staring at me with an intense look in his eyes. He looked like a big cat and reminded me of the time I housesat for a friend and woke up in the middle of the night to a giant cat sitting on the pillow next to mine, watching me. I screamed so loud he ran far, far away. Thankfully, the cleaner came the next day and found him.

You didn’t scream last night, but maybe you should have.

The images keep playing like a slow-motion reel in my mind, fragmented seconds and sounds, and those warm hands. I let the memories have their way with me, and enjoy every moment of it. I extend a lazy hand to my mug, the one with the “To the Best Mum in the World” inscription, Maor and his insipid jokes, Who’s laughing now, huh, child? I take a sip of coffee and pause.

You dumb woman.

My hand starts shaking, but I manage to lower the mug onto the table without shattering it.

Dumb, dumb idiot.

I start calculating the days, the timeline! When exactly did my last period start? When?

Mother of all dumb fucks!

I flip through my diary with trembling hands, find my special marks (my periods aren’t as regular as they used to be, but they still appear once every month or so with dogged persistence), and there it is, the date, which now serves as an all-clear siren. Thank God, I wasn’t ovulating yesterday. Or at least I don’t think I was.

I lean back with a sense of relief, like a woman who just dodged a bullet.

And now back to the usual waiting game.

It’s truly amazing how it never changes. Same stage, same play. In the starring role, the phone, now resting in my lap like a purring cat, only this cat ain’t purring, which is precisely the problem; it’s quiet as a corpse. And I’m waiting for it to come to life, because they have to be the ones to show the first sign of life. Always them.

It takes him an entire day, but in the evening I finally hear the beep of the incoming text. That was fun. I stare at the three words for a few long moments, and only then realize it’s not the fun text I was hoping to get. It’s an “I don’t want you to think I’m a jerk” text, and nothing more.

Lighten up, Sheila! Stop being such a Debbie Downer, you did have fun together, right? Fun shmun. That text implies that it’s going to be not-so-fun very soon. I read texts like the blind read Braille; I feel the text, I read the text behind the text, which is why I reply to this one with the exhaustive and profound detail it deserves: a winking smiley.

What can I say, we’re the Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir of text messaging.

At least my conversation with Eli is more substantial. It’s the one thing we were always good at.

To be honest, the bulk of our relationship consists of stories and interpretation, what-ifs and the advice we give each other. (My advice to him will never be one hundred per cent honest, given my secret desire to see his romantic relationships tank. Although considering my romantic track record, even my most honest advice probably wouldn’t prove too useful.) When I tell him about last night and remember how he poked fun at me the last time we talked about Micha, I can’t help but feel a little proud. But he’s no fool, Eli.

“That’s not a very encouraging text. And also, that was yesterday and he hasn’t sent another one since.”

“Thanks for pointing out the obvious.”

“I’ve sent that text to a few women myself, and it was always when I wanted to be as nice as possible without leading them on.”

“You’re a real saint,” I say, and my eyes wander back to my phone.

“Sheila, you’re not going to obsess about this, you hear me? I won’t be able to take it,” he says, because he could barely take it last time. “And next time, if you’d be so kind, try to do without the pregnancy scares.”

The only words my mind registers are “next time.”

“So you think there’ll be a next time?” I ask, and he sighs. “Don’t worry, you don’t get pregnant so easily at my age.” It’s the only instance in which the phrase “at my age” gives me a tingle of satisfaction, instead of making me gag.

“And if you did get pregnant?”

The question catches me off guard, it’s not something he’s supposed to ask. I start reciting the usual answer, but somewhere in the back of my mind, a black door opens to a staircase leading to the unknown… and bam! The door slams shut.

“Eli, I’m not pregnant.”

You’re sure?

“So you want me to start vilifying him now, or should we wait a bit longer?”

“Let’s wait.”

“Sure thing,” he replies and winks.

I have no intention of sitting around waiting. Nope, not this time. This time I’ve got things to do, things and then some! I pick up my mute phone, call Gali and tell her I’m on my way.

Turns out she’s still living at her aunt’s, the same one who took her into her home after what happened.

I walk up the staircase slowly, each step awakening another memory – how desperately I wanted to go see the two-and-a-half-year-old Gali. How I missed