Next Year in Israel
NEXT YEAR IN ISRAEL
by Sarah Bridgeton
Copyright © 2012 Sarah Bridgeton. All rights reserved.
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DISCLAIMER
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.
THE FIRST CLUE THAT I might have screwed it up was this light sensation on my arm.
I hadn’t expected to feel anything in the darkness. I pictured myself floating through the air, away from my body, oblivious and numb. A gust of wind howled, but I didn’t move.
Something wasn’t right. Why wasn’t I moving? Or floating? The wind swished again, fainter, as though it were vibrating a window.
Was I still in my room? I couldn’t be. If I was, I’d be able to hear the air conditioning, blowing from the vent above my bed. Something squeaked that sounded like a chair moving on top of a hard floor. I definitely wasn’t in my bedroom. My room had wall-to-wall carpeting.
Wherever I was, I could hear.
Maybe it hadn’t happened yet? That had to be it. This was my final moment, and the wind would be my last memory.
“Rebecca,” Mom’s voice cracked. She was there?
“We’re here,” Dad said. “We love you.”
I opened my eyes. Tape on my arm was holding in IV tubes.
“You’re awake!” Mom sobbed.
The room became fuzzy. Was I watching us from afar? Perhaps I was on my way, and I’d be able to watch until it was over. Dad put his hand on top of mine and squeezed tightly.
“You almost didn’t make it,” Mom sniffled.
I wanted to shut off their crying and beg them to let me die, except the words were trapped inside my head. I tried to force them out.
Speak
, I told myself.
It was no good. My throat seemed to be crippled. I looked down. It was probably better not to talk. What could I have said? ‘Leave me alone; I’d rather be dead’?
Maybe it wasn’t true. Maybe they had discovered me too late. Maybe I would be buried, and the pain that consumed my every breath would be over.
Dad blew his nose.
Thump. Thump.
No doubt, now: my heart was beating. The squares on the floor steadied, and I looked at Mom’s face. Her cheeks were streaked with black mascara. A drop of liquid trickled from the IV. It was true. My plan was ruined. Tears spilled out of my eyes.
“Drink this, please.” The nurse held up a plastic cup full of black liquid.
Why would I take it? It was obviously medication to keep me alive. What if I refused?
“Drink it,” she repeated, as if I was a problem patient. “You don’t have a choice.”
I took the cup and whimpered. I should have realized that someone might find me before I died. It would have forced me to be more meticulous. I put the cup to my lips and swallowed. It tasted bitter.
The nurse took the cup from my shaky hands. “Our intern, Nathan, will sit with you to make sure you don’t pull out the IV. You’ll be restrained if you try to hurt yourself.”
Nathan, seated on the chair across from the mini-blinds, waved at me awkwardly.
A chill went through me, and my tears changed into uncontrollable bursts. I pulled the sheets up to my chin, wishing Nathan wasn’t there to babysit me.
“We’ve never had any trouble with her at home or school,” Mom lied. “She’s a sweet girl.”
“This isn’t our Rebecca. She’s happy. Vibrant,” Dad said. “When will she be released?”
“Weren’t you listening when the doctor told us a psychiatrist has to examine her?” Mom said.
“When will she see the psychiatrist?” Dad asked in a hushed tone.
I didn’t want to be locked up with crazies. ‘I am not crazy,’ I wanted to tell them.
Don’t lock me away
.
“She’ll be examined tomorrow,” the nurse said. “I’ll be back later.”
“How did this happen?” Dad asked.
Mom crossed her arms. “I should have made them stop.”
My eyelids felt as if tons of bricks were pressing down on them. I used every ounce of energy I had to keep from fading out.
“When she’s released,” Dad said, “she needs help.”
“I won’t allow our daughter to be institutionalized,” Mom said.
“I’m not talking about a psychiatric ward.” Dad clenched his hand.
“Absolutely not.” Mom’s voice got louder. “She’ll be at home.”
My stomach rolled up and down. The thought of being at home sickened me. I hated everything about my pitiful life. Nathan picked up a horseshoe-shaped plastic tub. I had forgotten that he was watching me. My stomach swirled tighter. I opened my mouth to ask for help to the bathroom just as he put the bedpan on my lap.
“EVERYTHING WILL GET BACK TO normal soon.” Mom poured herself the last bit of coffee that had been sitting in the pot for hours, then stared at me, her hazel eyes searching my face to make sure I wasn’t about to cry. I was getting used to her
Are-you-okay?
looks, which had become routine in the two weeks since I had returned home from the hospital. We both knew she thought I was still on the verge of an emotional breakdown.
“I want it to.” I closed my eyes and wished I could change everything. The events that led up to my decision. How I did it. Being in the hospital.
As I stood there in our kitchen, I wanted her to see that I wasn’t a suicidal mess anymore, that I was doing my best to move on. Since I hadn’t died, I had no choice but to get my life back on track. Like it or not, I was alive. Breathing. Eating. Talking. Her eyes darted back to mine, and my heart filled with hope. I had to push forward.
“I know how difficult this is.” She took a sip while I paced in front of our sink. I was doing everything I could to get back into a routine. It was my eighth day of getting out of bed before her alarm went off. That morning I had even dressed and finished a glass of orange juice by the time she came downstairs for breakfast.
Our grandfather clock chimed. It wasn’t even lunchtime yet. I needed to get outside and do something. I had been cooped up inside most of the time I had been home. “I’m going out for the mail.”
Mom walked toward me. “You stay here and rest. I’ll get it.”
“I’ll do it.” She didn’t need to hover over me. I always got the mail unless I was sick or at Dad’s house. There was no reason why I couldn’t do it. I hadn’t had a crying fit in the last twenty hours, and according to my therapist, I was healing as I should.
I opened the front door, and a burst of sunshine spilled into the hallway. This was just the beginning. My missed schoolwork was done; I was ready to go back to school next week for my final exams, even though Derrick would be there. I’d pretend he wasn’t there. I was moving on with my life, and the only way to do it was to have nothing to do with him or his friends.
Our driveway was wet from an earlier thunderstorm that had knocked out the power. Mom had been annoyed. She had spreadsheets to do for work. The power outage hadn’t bothered me. I had been sitting on my bed reading
Suicide: Your Steps to Recovery.
I pulled down the mailbox lid carefully; it was wet from the rain too. It felt good to be outside, taking care of an ordinary chore. A jeep flew around the corner and stopped short several inches from the curb.
“Hey, Pugly.” The driver pointed at me and tossed his spiky hair. “Did you really try to kill yourself?”
A shiver of panic shot through me. How did he know?
“Psycho,” a girl from the backseat yelled. “It’s a cruel world. Too bad you’re still in it.”
“Stop,” said the crater-faced boy from the passenger seat. He turned his head to the girl in the backseat and smirked.
The driver smacked his hand over his friend’s baseball cap. “Shut the fuck up.”
My eyes welled up. The entire school was talking about me.
Did you hear? How’d she do it? Who found her? What a freak.
“Nark again,” the driver said, “and it’ll be Hell.”
My bottom lip began to quiver. This was retaliation for the harassment complaint Mom had filed against Derrick. What would his posse do next? Show up at Dad’s? Beat me up?
“Bastards. Get off our property,” Mom yelled, running down the driveway.
“Mommy’s upset.” The driver laughed and sped away.
I was never gonna live down being in the hospital or the complaint. Derrick and his friends weren’t gonna let me forget it. Not ever!
“TMA-450,” Mom said. “I got their license plate.”
I sucked in my breath. I told her not to follow me.
“They think they can come here and harass you.”
“Where have
you
been?” I said. “They’ve been doing it for years.” Seven, to be exact. In third grade, Derrick called me Dog Face, and it evolved into the nickname Pugly.
I was taunted everywhere: in class, in the halls, at lunch, and the bus stop. “Pugly,” Derrick would say, pointing at me; then his friends would laugh and make noises and bark like a dog as many times as they could.
They thought it was hilarious. I didn’t. I just wished they would stop. Every year when school started, I hoped the nickname would be left behind, but it wasn’t. Eventually, the taunts spread to nasty notes, funny-cruel posts on social websites, and other humiliations. All because of that stupid nickname. I hated it. I hated Derrick. And I hated his friends.
“What are their names?” Mom said.
“I—I don’t know,” I stammered. There were eight hundred students at school. I really didn’t know them. “Derrick has a posse. Everybody wants to be in on it.”
“Suzie’s got connections at the DMV,” Mom said. “I’m finding out who they are.”
“Don’t include Suzie in this.” I had plenty to worry about. I didn’t need Suzie’s daughters to start more rumors. I didn’t need whoever was in that jeep to be pissed off because I ratted on them.
“Calm down,” Mom said.
Calm down? They had vowed to make it worse. Why couldn’t I have died? It was so twisted. I was always gonna be the nark, the loser. Pugly. It was a waste of time to try and change it.
“You shouldn’t have filed that complaint.” I had been afraid to, but Mom insisted, and my therapist thought it was a step in the right direction.
She stared at me, her face anxious. “Yes, I should have. I should have been more aware of how bad school was for you. Let me fix it.”
My heart shriveled. I knew she didn’t want to irritate the situation further. She had promised to do “everything possible” to take care of school. “Derrick will be expelled,” she had told me confidently, the day she filed the complaint. Honestly, I was grateful she had done it. Sometimes, everybody left me alone when Derrick was absent. Those were good days. Not that I became popular or anything, but being able to walk down the hallway and eat lunch humiliation-free was pretty awesome.
She wrapped her arm around me, pulled me inside, and led me to the living room couch. “This will blow over once he’s expelled. Stay strong.”
I dropped the mail on the floor, and tears began to stream down my face. Derrick wasn’t even in the jeep. And I lost it in front of them. Would I cry like a wuss when they mocked me at school? Would I fall apart when I saw Derrick? It was obvious he still planned to torture me. Mom’s phone on the coffee table buzzed. She leaned over. “It’s Principal Nelson.”
Maybe she was right. Derrick would be punished, I wouldn’t be taunted, and everything that had happened would become a trivial memory, like a bad dream.
“Hello, Mr. Nelson,” she said briskly. “What? How many students did you talk to?” Her face turned red. “Can’t you expel him? It’s not a misunderstanding. Rebecca doesn’t think it’s funny.” Her voice got raspy. “I understand you can’t just expel him. What about Rebecca’s rights? She—why yes, she’ll be turning in her makeup work. All right, goodbye.”
“See,” I hissed. “Nobody will talk.”
“I’ll get Suzie to call the tip line or send an e-mail. She could say her daughters are afraid to speak up.”
“Not.”
She walked over to the kitchen counter. “Let’s catch him in action. I know.” She eyed my phone. “When you’re back at school, video him calling you names.”
“It won’t work.” Like Derrick wouldn’t wise up when he saw the phone and somehow worm his way out of it. Besides, there had already been an investigation. No violations had been found.
“It’ll work.”
“Mom.” She didn’t get it. Haggling over who called me names wouldn’t change a thing. Derrick and his friends weren’t gonna stop. “I can’t go back to school. It’ll suck, like it did before I tried to—”
“It might not,” she said hesitantly.
“Didn’t you see them?” I wailed. “I don’t want to be a loser anymore.”
She grabbed my wrists and shook them. “You’re not a loser.”