“Okay?” the woman asked me in heavily accented English, when I sat down again. My face must’ve been pale.
“Pregnant,” I told her, placing my hand low on my stomach. Then added, “A baby.” I wasn’t sure how much English she knew.
She nodded and rummaged around in her purse. Then she handed me a bag of candy with Hebrew writing on it. “This helps,” she said. “I eat it on the airplane.”
I held one up to my nose and sniffed it. “It’s ginger?” I asked.
She shrugged. She hadn’t understood the word. “It helps.”
I figured I didn’t have much to lose, so I unwrapped the candy and popped it into my mouth. I sucked on it and actually did start to feel a bit better. “Thank you,” I told her.
“I have five,” she said, pointing to my stomach. “I was sick always.”
“This is my third,” I told her.
“You are Jewish?” she asked, I guess trying to figure out why I was pregnant and on my way to Israel in the middle of a war.
“No,” I said.
“Your . . .”—she searched for a word and then settled on one—“man is in Yisroel?”
I embraced her use of the word man instead of husband.
“He is,” I said. “He’s a journalist. And he’s in the hospital. He was hurt badly in Gaza.”
As I said it, I felt tears welling up in my eyes. Other than Kate and Darren, I hadn’t talked about you, about what happened to you, with anyone.
The next thing I knew, the woman had her arms around me and was murmuring words in Hebrew or Yiddish—a language I didn’t understand but found comforting just the same. It’s embarrassing to admit, but I cried on her shoulder, let her stroke my hair. When I finally pulled myself together, she held my hand. And then after our food came, she kept patting my arm, as if to say without words, It’s going to be okay.
When I woke up, having fallen asleep for a few hours, I found myself covered with an airline blanket.
“Thank you,” I said to her.
“God has a plan,” she said. “And a child is always a blessing.”
I’m not sure if I believe her about either of those things. I don’t like the idea that God had this plan for you. And I can think of instances where having a child may not be a blessing. But her belief and her quiet strength, they helped. There is an element of peace in believing that we’re only players on a stage, acting out stories directed by someone else.
Is this God’s plan, Gabe? Is there even a God?
lxxvi
We landed in Tel Aviv just on time. I let Darren know I was safe and then took a taxi straight to the hospital. It felt strange not texting you to say I’d arrived. Or calling to ask what room you were in, how I’d find you. But there was no one to call. No one to talk to. It was just me—and the baby.
“I’m glad you’re with me,” I muttered to my stomach. It seemed less lonely, somehow, to know there was another living being there, experiencing this alongside me.
? ? ?
AT THE HOSPITAL there were two security guards checking everyone’s bags. “I need to find a patient’s room,” I told them frantically as I handed mine over, before I could even wonder if they spoke English.
“Information is over there. She can help you,” one of the guards said, after I went through the metal detector and got my bags back. He was pointing to a desk behind him.
I ran to the information desk as quickly as I could, rolling my suitcase behind me.
“Please,” I said when I got there. “I need to find a patient’s room. Gabriel Samson.” The woman behind the desk must’ve noticed how distraught I looked. The ten-and-a-half-hour flight and time change didn’t help. I’m sure my eyes were bloodshot and my hair and clothes rumpled. She found your name on a computer in no time.
“Floor eight,” she said. “Intensive care. Room 802.” Then she pointed me toward the elevator.
I hit 8 and tried to remember what floor your hotel room was on in the Warwick. Closing my eyes, I imagined your finger pressing the button. It was 6. Or was it 5? A tear rolled down my cheek. If you died, I realized just then, it would mean that I’d be the keeper of our memories. I’d be the only one on Earth who had experienced them. I have to do better. I can’t forget the details.
The elevator pinged and the doors opened. I went to the woman behind the desk and told her I was there to see you. She nodded and then said I could take a seat. That the doctors would be there shortly. Then she picked up the phone and started speaking quickly in Hebrew.
“Wait,” I said. “But I want to see Gabe. Can I see him now?”
She covered the mouthpiece of the phone with her hand. “Soon,” she told me. “But the doctors want to speak first.”
I had my suitcase and my oversized handbag from the plane. I carried them to a gray institutional-looking chair and sat. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the first time I saw you. Were you wearing a white T-shirt, or was it gray? Was there a pocket? An emblem on the left side? It had a slight V-neck, I remembered that part.
I opened my eyes when someone cleared his throat in front of me. “Mrs. Maxwell?” the man asked. He was wearing a lab coat. It reminded me of Jason’s.
I nodded and stood. “I’m Lucy Maxwell,” I said, holding out my hand.
The man shook it. “I’m Yoav Shamir,” he said. “Mr. Samson’s neurologist.” His English sounded nearly perfect, except for the way he swallowed the letter r.
“Thank you for caring for him,” I said.
Two women standing a bit behind Dr. Shamir stepped forward.
“I’m Dafna Mizrahi,” the taller one said, her accent more pronounced. “I’m the intensive-care doctor.”
I shook her hand too. “Nice to meet you,” I said inanely.