The Sisters We Were

Producer and International Distributor eBookPro Publishing www.ebook-pro.com The Sisters We Were: A Novel Ehud Palmor Copyright © 2023 Ehud Palmor All rights reserved; No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author. Translation: Yael Schoenfeld Abel Contact: [email protected] ISBN Contents First Year Second Year Third Year Fourth Year Fifth Year Sixth Year Seventh Year Eighth Year Ninth Year Tenth Year Eleventh Year Twelfth Year Thirteenth Year Fourteenth Year Fifteenth Year Sixteenth Year Seventeenth Year Eighteenth Year Twentieth Year Epilogue To Ruth You, who believes in the spark. “… like dancing. One moment you’re in the clouds, the next you’re down. Now you are reaching out to the stars, and now you are falling.” (D. Epstein, Collected Writings) First Year 1 “I don’t want to hear about your traffic tickets!” Dana’s voice suddenly rose by several octaves in front of her three children’s stunned eyes, while they were still on their way back from the funeral. “I don’t want to hear about it at the beginning or at the end. Not that you got them, not that you paid them, and definitely not that you’re planning to pay them!” This was another one of her outbursts, which were recently increasing in frequency. “I don’t want to know about your problems!” The oppressive silence imbued her voice with increased confidence. “From now on-just achievements! You hear me?! Nothing but achievements!” These were, without a doubt, the fumes of the Shefer family’s negative influence in action, and they had already reached a boiling point. And that idleness of Itamar’s, just sitting there twiddling his thumbs, was definitely not helping. “You’re old enough to stop all that,” she continued yelling, mostly to herself, hoping her offspring were getting it as well. “No more traffic tickets, no accidents, no bad grades. No more ‘I broke it,’ no more ‘I forgot,’ no more, ‘poor little me, I’m just a victim.’ Nothing! Achievements!” She took advantage of the red light to strike the back of one hand against the other with a dry whack. “Nothing but achievements!” And Sharon wasn’t even eight years old yet. She had just started playing with one of the Dekel boys. Dana still enjoyed calling the family “the Flanders,” like the Simpsons’ neighbors on the TV show, although no one understood what she meant, or bothered to ask. She does still find herself taking solace in the fact that Sharon’s pointed silences were only temporary, and that at some point, at the end of her thirties, when she, too, would have two or three kids of her own, after the mortgage was paid off and with the end of the road in sight, she would suddenly behold her mother, and an entire life cycle would come to a close with a sense of guilt, with a heartfelt apology and a new mutual closeness, and then all this would be worth it. But where would she, Dana, be then? What aches and pains would be leeching away her joy for the rest of her life, simmering slowly yet efficiently? Or would something else be casting its shadow over her, perhaps the shadow of wisdom and experience, or the waning of the libido, or a dull apathy that would dwarf everything and portray the current tussle in a banal, laughable light? That silly, oh-so-transparent little twelve-year-old, Sharon’s eager boyfriend, who is certain that the way to her heart is through her mother, has never even considered that the current page of guidelines affixed to the fridge in the Tamir family home declares that first of all, toadies are not welcome. And also, that if little Neta is exhibiting initial sparks of uncommon sweetness, this does not indicate a thing about her mother. “Something needs to be perpetually in motion in your life. It doesn’t matter what. Life is motion. Actually, even better, life is like a bicycle: if you’re coasting, then you’re going down,” she gleefully preached to little Itamar and Neta a moment before driving into the parking spot. In the same breath, she added, “Don’t learn everything from me. No way.” The Cop would be late today. He had sent her a message. “Hi Dana. Gabi asked me to stay and serve as backup today, for the protest.” Rigid, she thinks. Distant. Or perhaps it is excessive formality? As if they had just gotten married. Once again, she finds herself wondering, how could nothing have thawed? Every time she deluded herself that at long last, something had shifted, a text like that arrived and brought them right back to square one. Tal and Yifat, mostly Tal. Something in Dana, tenses anew every time Tal implores her to relax, to let go. When Tal repeatedly declares that the secret to her and Gil’s happy marriage (why the hell did she keep saying “marriage” instead of “relationship” if they are doing so great together?), is the fact that they have never tried to change each other. Dana just couldn’t live with that. She will keep on striking the rock. She simply has no other choice! And that Cop. Why does he always take himself so damn seriously? Living with no spaces, task-oriented, keeping his head down, like a mouse. Sniffing at the ground all day. One duty abutting another, one challenge adjoining the next. And it drives her crazy, that mindless enlistment. For a while now, she has not seen the virtue in this devotion. To work, to family, to life in general. For a while now, the trait she once so appreciated has overturned on them. Not only does her contempt for him refuse to dissipate, but it is actually becoming more and more biting. What’s the project this time? Which axle haven’t you greased yet? Which patch haven’t you weeded yet? Which fence haven’t you painted? What item off the shopping list I