Chapter 10
Moving In Together
On Friday, at one in the afternoon, I went to my parents’ house to pick up the Ford.
The anticipation of seeing Lily was mixed with the dread of facing my mother.
Luckily, my parents were napping, and the car keys were lying on the table in the entrance hall.
I quickly grabbed them and left with a light heart, filled with excitement about meeting Lily.
When I stopped by the apartment in Bavli to pick up my things, I tried to think about the year that had gone by.
But the storm in my head and the anticipation of seeing her again shattered every attempt at coherent thought.
In practice, I had barely been at the apartment.
The hospital had become my real home, and whatever I did there no longer mattered.
The future was all I cared about. I packed a small suitcase and two boxes and headed down to the car.
Before turning onto Tagore Street, I stopped at a flower vendor whose buckets of flowers stood on the sidewalk in bright colors.
“Do you have daisies left?” I asked from inside the car. To this day, I don’t know why I asked for daisies specifically. Maybe because when I thought of Lily, I thought of daisies. Roses felt too banal.
“Yes, how many would you like?”
“You know what? Give me eighteen, please.”
“Chai?” he smiled.
“Yes, chai, please.”
Lily loved the daisies.
“That’s my flower,” she said when she saw them in my hands. Even before I had a chance to notice the apartment, its smells, or the pictures on the walls, we were already in each other’s arms. Fifty-three hours apart had taken their toll. I knew so little about her, yet felt so much.
“Can I see your paintings?” I asked once we had caught our breath.
“You haven’t noticed? They cover the walls.”
“You didn’t give me a chance…”
The apartment was tiny, but the architects had somehow squeezed a living room, kitchen, two bedrooms, and a bathroom into fifty-four square meters. Quite an achievement. It overlooked a sandy lot with a few trees at the edge.
“The neighborhood kids play soccer there, and in the evenings, I see joggers on the asphalt,” she said, gently resting her hands on my shoulders from behind.
“The apartment is small, but we’ll manage. Luckily, it’s filled with light, which helps me paint. In the mornings, the sun floods the living room, making it feel bigger, painting the walls in pale colors. In the afternoons, the gallery on the other side is bright too.”
“And the paintings on the walls?”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get to them. First, let’s take a look around the flat.”
To her, the flat was a miniature museum, with several galleries. The guided tour went slowly, with kisses on her neck here and there, answered by fierce hugs.
When we got to the kitchen, I was stunned.
The building had been built in the early years of the state for new immigrants.
It looked like it hadn’t changed since. Lily had painted the cupboard doors dark brown, giving life to the little room, but I had never seen a kitchen like it in Tel-Aviv.
It was spotless, no sign of recent use. Not even a single cup in the sink.
“We’ll skip the bedroom – you’ve seen it from every angle already,” she whispered in my ear.
“We’ll go back, don’t worry. But now we’ve come to the most important part of the apartment.”
“The bathroom?” I teased.
“You still don’t get what it means to be a painter.”
“This is my studio.” The sharp smell of oil paint filled my lungs, intoxicating and drawing me in. The room looked chaotic compared to the rest of the flat.
On the easel sat a roughly eighty-by-sixty sketch, two figures scribbled in charcoal or a thick pencil.
“I didn’t have time to tidy up,” she apologized.
“Looks like you know me better than I know myself.”
“I told you – you’re transparent to me.”
“Transparent? That’s surprising.”
“Yes. For me, you are transparent.”
“Me? My friends call me ‘the Mossad agent’ – they never know what’s going on inside me. And you’re saying I’m transparent?” I doubted her words.
“Maybe that’s how you are for them. For me, you’re easy to read,” she said with finality.
“Who’s in the sketch?” I changed the subject.
“Us.”
“When did you even have time?” I asked, astonished.
“It’s just a rough draft. I want it to be my first painting of this new chapter.”
“And when will you finish it?”
“Not sure I ever will. And even if I do, I might erase it.” She looked at the sketch with a distant gaze and a teasing smile.
“You erase your paintings?” I asked incredulously. I had never heard of artists erasing their own work.
“I may be just starting out, but I’ve already erased several. Even ones that others thought were excellent. Even ones that were already in an exhibition.”
“You’ve already had an exhibition?” I was shocked.
“Yes, at the Army Memorial Museum in Holon.”
She added that at her exhibition, some well-known Israeli art figures had praised her talent, and were surprised that she had never studied in any formal art school.
That surprised me too – in my home, education was sacred.
My parents invested everything in it. Mom even bought us schoolbooks so we wouldn’t waste time in the library – or worse, meet friends there who might distract us.
When I asked her why she hadn’t studied formally, she said it just hadn’t happened, and now, at almost twenty-six, she felt it was too late.
The more time passed, the more I realized I didn’t understand painting – or the world of painters. I asked her what she intended to do with it. Her answer challenged me.
“At thirteen, I dreamed of being an athlete, a swimmer. But the illness killed those dreams. Now I have other dreams. And if those don’t work out, others will come. The thing is, I know my time is limited.”
“Lily, please – never say that to me.”
“Listen, I’m twenty-five years and ten months.
I want you to know now – and not say later you didn’t know – I will never see thirty.
I promise never to repeat this again!” I felt a desperate need to hug her, to sway with her to some imagined music – and I did.
She hugged me back and kissed my neck, as far up as she could reach.
“Remember – you can walk away. Run, escape. I’m not holding you here.” I looked at the woman in my arms, God’s perfect creation. I couldn’t believe her. I couldn’t believe the doctors. All I wanted was to be with her … together … united … one. She seemed so alive.