Bound by Debt, page 27
I watch her as her eyes take in the room. Is there a greater beauty than the sight of my child? Her hair has grown, and her curls are thicker. Is her face paler, or am I imagining that? Surges of guilt pulse inside me. I can’t bear the thought of the ongoing separation.
“So what happened in school today?” I come up with practical question and do my best to be upbeat.
“A lot of things. We were taught how to make a family tree. Francine gave us homework to prepare a family tree, and, Mommy, I want you to write Lucille a note with the names of all your brothers and sisters and your parents and my father’s name and his brothers and sisters, so she can help me make the tree.”
“Of course, my love, no problem. Come here, sit by me.” I move heavily and pull a notepad from the side table drawer, a wave of sorrow twitching in my intestines for the child I brought into the world who has no family. I set the pad on a hard surface and draw rectangles.
Starting from the bottom, I explain patiently, “Here you are, Yuvali. And above you are two rectangles, Mother Iris and Father Eitan, and next to me,” I say, drawing seven more rectangles and filling them with names: Moshe, Malka, Naama, Hemda, Jacob, and the twins Itamar and Yossi.
“And what about Eitan’s brothers and sisters?” she asks, her eyes bright with curiosity.
“Wait,” I whisper, remembering what I have been trying to forget all these years. “There is his sister who is called Etti, and there are three other brothers and sisters.” I scribble rectangles but cannot fill them with names. “And you had grandparents.” Two more rectangles appear, placed above my rectangle. “Here are your grandfather and grandmother. My mother, Sima, and here is my father, Hezi. And here are my grandfather and grandmother. Hezi’s parents, my grandmother Salima and her husband, Maymon.” I fill the names in the rectangles. “And here are my mother Sima’s patents ho stayed in Iraq.” I continue to fill the names in the rectangles, surprised by my lucid memory.
“And Eitan, what about his parents?” Yuval examines the page with a focused look.
“Of course. Here they are.” I add two rectangles over Eitan’s box. “Eitan has parents, but I do not know them, and I do not know their names. We can scribble any names,” I say, rolling in my mind all sorts of names like Arnon and Aviva or Naomi.
“No, not just any names. Francine can check and see that I’m lying,” Yuval bursts out, sounding frightened.
“She has no way to check, and neither do I.” I sigh, knowing there is no way I can beautify the world for her.
Lucille’s approaching steps interrupt our conversation.
“Lucy, look what Mama made for us.” Yuval waves the page proudly. Lucille looks at the drawing and an embarrassed smile spreads across her face as if to say, I have not come to take your place, I’m just doing my job.
“Work on it at home,” I tell Yuval. ”You can hang the rectangles on tree branches like the teacher asked.”
“We’ll manage,” Lucille says cheerfully and collects Yuval’s backpack from the floor. “Come, Yuval, it’s getting late. You’ve had a lovely visit, and Mom needs to rest.”
Yuval wrappers her arms around my neck. “Mommy, I’ll think of some names to write in the boxes for Eitan’s family, and tomorrow I’ll show you the tree.”
Blurry rectangles float before my closed eyes, and I dive into deep sleep.
Three days later, following my usual morning sickness, while rinsing my face at the sink I hear men’s voices in the room. I open a small crack in the bathroom door and peep through. Jesus Christ, the villain is in my room! The Duke of Hell is by my bed, Ben-Lulu is there too. A cold wave stings the back of my neck. My breath catches in my chest. Before I collapse, I gently close the door, lock it, and add the security bolt. I step back and sit on the toilet lid.
The voices reach me through the door. “Iris Maor,” Ben-Lulu says. “We know she’s here.”
How did they find me? I tremble in my tiny cell, my body twisting on the toilet lid. I feel a contraction. God, I’m going to give birth here on the toilet. Someone turns off the light. I try to recover my breath, my hands grip the sides of the toilet, stabilizing my body. I recognize the head nurse’s heavy footsteps. Then more footsteps and voices I do not recognize. I’m petrified with worry and pain. Suddenly it gets quiet. A few minutes later there is a faint tap on the door.
“It’s me.” I hear Tilly’s velvety voice.
I open the door carefully.
“They’re gone,” she says softly.
“What is going on here?” I ask, coming out of the bathroom.
“Two scary men came in, one with a terrible scar on his face and the other one badly in need of a shave. They asked where you were. I knew you were not expecting visitors, so I didn’t think twice and pressed the distress bell. Barbara showed up right away and asked them to identify themselves. They told her they had come to visit you, and Barbara, you know her, straight as a ruler, told them it was not visiting hours and they should leave. When they did not move, she went to the nurses’ station and called security. Minutes later two security guards came in and told the creeps to leave. The guys took off.“
“I cannot believe it,” I stammer. “Are you sure they were looking for me?”
“Are you Iris Maor?”
“Uh…” I answer, unable to formulate a coherent response.
“So, yes, they were looking for you. They said you were from Israel.” Tilly holds her belly and moves over to her bed.
I say nothing, anticipating the questions she is about to ask. I suddenly have an urgent need to share my distress and decide to confide in Tilly the stain in my past, which literally does not cease to haunt me, but Tilly does not ask anything. She stretches out in bed, her hair spreading on the pillow like a fan, and closes her eyes with a sigh. I stagger to my bed, look at the ceiling, and try to banish my fear. I thank God for Barbara’s boldness and Tilly’s common sense and quick thinking. I tell myself that these Protestants know what discretion is and are sensitive enough to know when not to interfere. I relax against my pillow without a clue that in less than an hour Tilly will understand everything.
“Hey, gorgeous, what’s going on?” Raphi pulls up a chair and sits down next to my bed.
“All sweet as honey. They came to see me. They know that I’m here.”
“Who did?”
“The bastards, Mateotti and his assistant.”
“When?”
“A few hours ago, this morning. Luckily I was in the bathroom. The nurse in charge came to send them away. When they refused to leave she called security, and when they showed up the bastards left with their tails between their legs.”
“You’re joking,” Raphi says, smiling, while his gnarled hands rattle his keys.
“Ain’t no joke. The gangsters stood in the middle of this room and asked to see me. Since then my contractions have started, and I can’t tell if it’s fear or preterm labor. Nothing will stop them, I told you. We must take the offensive, as we agreed. Hire a thug to bust their asses.”
“Not by force, sister. Like I said, we need a creative trick. Trust me, I have a plan. Right now all you should care about is your pregnancy. The first step of my plan is almost completed. Another last clarification and the name of Mateotti’s operator is in our hands. Give credit to your brother, he knows what he’s talking about.”
The mention of Mateotti’s name makes me shiver. “Someone has to catch this orangutan and his deputy, send them to Hell where they belong,” I say breathlessly, aware of the cramps in my stomach. “And how did they get in the hospital? I do not understand, they don’t check who comes in here? What if they have weapons? Knives are a routine thing for these monkeys, like wearing underwear.”
“This is not Israel, sister. In Manhattan they don’t check anything,” Raphi responds with a weak smile. “In this country, anyone who can count to ten is allowed to buy and bear arms and no one checks. The only way to protect ourselves in this place is to walk around armed, see?” He lifts up the hem of his shirt and shows me a small pistol tucked into his belt.
“This city is full of criminals,” I mutter.
“I want to remind you Iris, that you brought it on yourself. The Love Palace is a nesting site for such criminals, and you walked around there like you did not have another home.”
“Enough with that, Raphi. The last thing I need now is another lecture.” I take a look at the clock. “In less than an hour it’s time for Pierson’s daily visit, and like all his visits there it will probably be another lesson trying seduce me to be a good girl and follow the doctor’s instructions. He visits at this hour every evening and always comes with a bouquet, which I throw in the trash when he leaves. The next day at the same time he brings a new one. He’ll soon walk in, you’ll see.”
“Every day? He’s got a thing for you, this Jewish doctor, doesn’t he?” Suddenly Raphi stiffens, his neck extends out from his wrinkled shirt as if a new idea had flashed through his mind.
“Got a thing for me?” I say in disgust. “The baby in my womb is what he has got a thing for. He comes here like a chimpanzee who is keeping an eye on his female’s pregnancy.”
“Think about Iris, what kind of person hires a surrogate and comes to see her every day? If what worries him is the fetus, he can call the gynecologist and ask him about fetal development. Listen, I’ve gotta go, we’ll talk soon, the money in the meter must be over.” Raphi runs his fingers through his hair, puts on his cap, kisses my cheek twice and leaves.
In bed, all worked up for a visit, I wait, but at the appointed time nothing happens. Pierson does not arrive. To my surprise this is so on the next day and the next. The rest of the week, in fact. He does not call or come. He does not respond to my calls, does not respond to my text messages. Evaporated, dissolved, and leaving no sign of life behind.
In the last two weeks of pregnancy time crawls. Minutes and hours and days drag along so slowly I think they will never end. I can’t read, it’s too hard to concentrate. My entire body is swollen with the accumulation of extra fluid. The world buzzes around me like a cloud of gnats on a hot day. Every once in a while, I force my heavy body to vomit in the bathroom then stretch out exhausted on my bed. Dr. Ringer warns me sternly that I must lie down and take my medication religiously. Barbara is conscientious about bringing the drugs on time and always stands by me watching me like a hawk as I swallow them all in front of her.
Where did my energy disappear to? I’ve lost enthusiasm for everything. I’m an elephant in a cage. Even visits from Yuval and Raphi do not succeed in distracting me from the world that is closing in on me. Raphi’s reports about closing a deal with the Italians don’t interest me. I do not care anymore. I am no longer afraid. I’m just a human incubator for the offspring of a man who has apparently lost interest in me.
Chapter 39
My water is breaking. Cascades down my thighs. I issue a huge sigh of relief. The warm liquid spreads between my thighs, over my buttocks, up my back. The almost sweet smell of amniotic fluid fills the air. The thought that soon a screaming little creature will enter the world makes me smile. But then a sharp contraction hits me and I gasp.
“I’m in labor!” I shout in a tight voice between contractions and press the call bell.
Pretty soon I’m on a movable bed heading to a delivery room.
A nurse instructs me to extend my right arm and says, “Just a slight prick,” while inserting a needle into my vein.
The cold fluid spreading through my blood feels pleasant. My contractions are getting less and less painful. I’m carried on the wings of grace, and the panic that flooded me before disappears. Looking up at the face hovering over me, I see golden sparks erupting from the grooves between the wrinkles, they shine, flutter for a while, and fade away. The light descending from the lamp warms my face. I hear the silence. A spectacular kaleidoscopic vision plays inside the lamp’s dome. Thousands of tiny orange and yellow mirrors jittering around are making me drowsy. Fatigue wins, and I close my eyes. Snatches of conversation reach my ears, “Eighty milligrams of pethidine…a twenty-three needle.” Total serenity.
I lay in an endless field of fresh grass stretching from my parents’ home to the pine grove. I roll and roll and roll and sink into a narcotic lull. Silence.
I open my eyes in the recovery room. A nurse in a blue uniform checks my pulse, blood pressure, she counts my respirations, accelerates the flow of solution into my vein, rearranges the IV line, with admirable efficiency moving around the room.
The first sentence I utter before I answer the nurse’s question of how I feel is, “I have to pee. Need to go to the toilet,” I mutter while conducting a fierce battle with my pelvic muscles.
The nurse answers briefly, “You have a catheter; that’s just a feeling” and continues about her business.
My exploding bladder dominates every lucid thought. “If you don’t bring a pot right now, it will be…” An all-consuming exhaustion takes over, and I fall asleep again.
I wake up in a pink room with three other beds, in each a happy mother. Next to each mother a crib. Next to my bed, nothing. I try to sit up. It hurts, so I lie down, envying the new mothers. They have been blessed with pregnancies that produced babies, while mine only produced an ugly wound from a cesarean section.
The nurse bustles back and forth attending to the new mothers. She takes their temperature, distributes pads, and talks them into breastfeeding. I watch her movements in frustration, the squeaking of her shoes as she moves between the beds irritates me. When is my turn?
Finally she comes over to me. Her message is blunt. “Everything went well, a healthy baby was born and his parents took him.”
Actually, everything has gone according to the plan. So why am I so sad? I cast hollow glances around. On the cabinet near my bed is an envelope with my name on it. Must have the check inside, I tell myself confidently. Excited to get the payoff for the ordeal that is still not over, I grab the knife from my meal tray and slit open the envelope. I pull out a sheet of paper and read in shock:
‘The hundred thousand dollars we agreed upon will be forwarded within one year once we are sure our baby has not suffered any harm from the early delivery. Eleanora and Ted Pierson.’
“Damn it. Son of a bitch.” I take a ragged breath and curse out loud. How could I not have thought of such a possibility? What do I do now? A tear of insult rolls down my cheek. Burning with rage, I tear the paper into small pieces.
The next day I call Julieta.
“They have moved me to a ward with real patients. I guess someone in this hostile hospital was sensitive to a lonely woman who gave birth and doesn’t have a baby.”
“I’m on my way, wait for me there.” Julieta’s voice sounds firm.
A young nurse’s aide removes the tray of food that I pushed aside with no interest. A quick glance at my phone shows that it’s only six thirty, but it’s already dark. I decide to get up and take a walk around the ward. With my hands supporting the bandages over the cut in my belly, I take small steps. Everyone around me is really sick. Elderly patients are lying in their beds. Slumped-over patients are wheelchaired around. Concerned visitors wait at the nurses’ station. Other patients slowly trudge in half-open gowns with their butts exposed, dragging IV poles beside them.
I return to my room. From my seat in the armchair I look out the window. The end of May and still no signs of spring? The stiches in my belly are incredibly painful. The nurse says that in twenty minutes the pain medication will kick in. I lean back and close my eyes. Within minutes the backyard of my parents’ house appears before my eyes with astonishing clarity. The cypress branches caress our red tile roof. Below it the wildflowers of spring perfume the air. The palm tree fronds are shadowing my granny’s herb garden where she grows mint and parsley and sage and basil. She too is in the shade, sitting by the front door conducting a loud conversation with our next-door neighbor, chattering meaningless words, smoking. I see sparrows take flight as my brother Moshe shoots at them with small stones flying out of his improvised slingshot.
Suddenly, a ringtone scream.
“Like I told you, they opened a casino on my street.” Julieta’s irritated voice reaches me. “Cannot get the car out of the driveway. Someone in a black Cadillac is blocking me. I only wish the gambler who is driving it has lost all his money, and in case he earned some, let the bastard have it for medications. I’m on my way to you, sis, as soon as the fat cat moves his car.”
“No problem, I’m not going anywhere,” I grumble, then I press the screen to disconnect and let the visions of my childhood return.
In our kitchen Granny lowers the flame. She takes a spoon and tastes the stew. She draws a deep breath of the scent with satisfaction and adds parsley, cumin, and garlic, sprinkling slowly, tasting, and sprinkling, tasting until it pleases her. She slices cucumbers, chops green onions, cuts tomatoes into cubes, all with amazing speed, then sets the vegetables into a bowl and adds olive oil. Her face content, she is singing her favorite melody, “We have sinned before you, have mercy on us...” The table is already set. Granny calls us to eat. My sisters, Malka and Hemda and Naama, are there at once. The boys arrive separately. Father comes last. Only Mom does not join. Sick? Pissed off? Granny slices bread for everyone.
The sound of my name disrupts the enchanted scenery. Julieta, bouncy and jolly, stands in the doorway, pressing her hands together under her chin like she’s praying. “I’m sorry, the gambler’s car kept blocking the street, so I left my car parked in its spot. You know what it’s like trying to catch a cab on a rainy day in Manhattan. Took forever.”
