A Room of Their Own Rakefet Yarden (top 10 novels of all time TXT) 📖

“No, he can be a little dim,” I said. She shifted her gaze to the forms, trying to conceal her bewilderment. “Dim in a good way.” I tried to justify myself before letting go of the whole thing. Just because everyone else is chasing the array of intelligence forms, doesn’t mean that I have to be in on it, too. It’s my child, and if I want a dim donor, I’ll get a dim donor, and I don’t owe her any explanations. I saw it as a sort of guarantee for a healthy mind, a kind of inoculation from depression and other unnecessary mental health issues or, at the very least, a bit of simplicity. As it says in Ecclesiastes, “Increased wisdom, increased pain.” And in plain language, “No brain, no concerns.”

I had wanted to find a donor on my own, but I didn’t have any patience for people, or for anyone intervening in our future lives. In short, I didn’t want any partners. So I had to let go of one thing in order to control something else. It’s all a system of checks and balances, I’d reminded myself.

Emily didn’t like the idea of my having a child on my own. I’d started to play with the idea in my mind at the age 30, following my relationship with Yochai, who’d been with me since our army service. After we ended things, I decided that I was going for it. I didn’t want to start all over again and wait to see where it would lead to, and if I could count on us loving each other forever, or at least until the unborn baby’s bar mitzva. I didn’t want to raise a child whose life would be split between two homes.

It took me a full decade to carry out my plan. I couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting pregnant, what with everything that Yochai and I had gone through. But I didn’t give up. At least I had started early, and didn’t listen to Emily, who heatedly proclaimed in my face, “What’s the rush? You’re young. You’ll find someone.”

“I’m not looking for anyone. Don’t you get it?”

“But that’s selfish. You’re not thinking about the child,” she insisted.

The child isn’t here yet. I’m here, and for a change I’m thinking about myself. Who did you think about when you decided to bring children into this wonderful world? Do you really mean to tell me that you and Ehud sat down and thought about whether or not to bring children here, whether or not this place really is that grand? True, you’d still had a perfect life back then and everything had seemed different, but the least you can do is admit that it’s nothing short of a risky gamble. Even if everything were to go smoothly, the endless medical tests, the labor, the gas, the teething, school, and even getting through army service safely. Could you honestly know for certain that your child would feel good, be happy, satisfied, find a purpose and find love, or are you gambling because you simply want a cute baby to provide a reason to live, an extension of yourself, an improved mini-me?

Obviously I didn’t tell her any of that. I have a lot conversations with Emily in my mind, and then we just end up talking about the children’s extracurricular activities. That is, we used to, before she cut off contact with me. Malka, Milly, Emily, depending on who you ask. She was named after our grandmother. Our parents may have come from Morocco and settled in Kiryat Shemona, but to this day they seem European: light-colored eyes and French-speaking. The Viking had visited Morocco, too.

Emily galloped ahead with her high school sweetheart, and pretty quickly became Emily Elkabetz, and then Dr. Elkabetz. The gap between us grew as the years went by. But three years ago, her glorious world shattered all at once. Ehud, her husband and love of 30 years, suffered cardiac arrest in the middle of sex − not with her, but rather with another woman. What one would call “fell in the line of duty,” − no offense intended. This life is sad enough without occasional laughter being forbidden.

What a way to find out that your husband’s cheating on you! A minute ago you loved him and believed that everything was clear and out in the open. Now you’re angry, offended, hurt to the depth of your soul. You need to feel your anger on your own, you ache, you get tested for HIV, you’re there for the children, and you tell the whole world that it’s none of their business even if they’re completely certain that they understand it much better than you do. And if all of that isn’t enough, your inadequate little sister manages to irritate you during your shiva mourning period.

Another message from Omer beeped. He’d been trying to reach me for a few days, and I still hadn’t replied − not entirely on purpose. I kept saying that I’d get back to him and it just didn’t happen.

“We have to meet right now. It’s about Mom.”

“It’s 10 at night and I have a really hectic day tomorrow. Sorry.”

Another beep.

“Rotem . . . When can we talk?”

“Your mother doesn’t need my help. I, too, realized that eventually.”

“But I do. Rotem, please just hear me out.”

“I’m already in bed. Let’s speak tomorrow, okay?”

Dani

It was nighttime. Yet again I put off going to sleep. Not because I like late-night hours, rather for fear of going to sleep. Fear of those moments right before falling asleep, when all of the thoughts rush up. About life, about purpose. Why do I need all that, and why am I not like everyone else? All right, I’m no longer at the age where I think that there’s such a thing as “everyone” and that there’s only one way of living and behaving, but still, I’m always so different. So lonely and misunderstood. It has a despairing and