Chapter 1
West Jerusalem, Israel
Micah's been slipping away from me for months. Our morning run always ends with a sweat-drenched peck at the entrance to a West Bank checkpoint. But our nights used to end sweaty as well.
She swears she can handle the misery in the camps, although I'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb to miss what it's doing to her. The intermittent pounding of mortars in the distance keeps me tethered to the apartment window, my focus on the rain-soaked street instead of my laptop. She should have been home hours ago.
Good Jewish boys are supposed to marry their mothers. Not turn into them. Mine used to sit at this table every night, waiting for my stepfather's shadow to break across the cypress-lined courtyard. In the end, he was the second husband she had to bury.
Micah's cat hops up on the table and settles into my disorganized pile of charts and newspaper clippings, smug in the knowledge I'm too distracted to disturb him.
Another hour passes before Micah jogs into view, skirting the edges of streetlamps. In darkness or in light, I know the way her body moves, but she's not normally the type to skulk in shadows.
The intercom buzzes a moment later, sending cat and charts flying. I walk towards it and press the button. "You can't be my wife. My wife calls when she's going to be late."
"Just let me up, Nate," crackles her stiff reply.
When the door finally opens, I'm not convinced what saunters in is the woman I married. Her scrubs are drenched in half-dried blood, blonde curls matted to rust-colored dreadlocks. I swallow the argument-starting lecture on my tongue in favor of a cautious embrace. "I saw this movie once. Shouldn't you be wearing a prom dress, Carrie?"
She averts her eyes and heads straight for the bathroom. "Knew you'd be watching. The bastards took my phone, Nate. That's the only reason I didn't call."
While she peels off her scrubs, my eyes rove her lithe form until I'm satisfied none of the blood is hers. Unfortunately, this does little to diffuse the tension in my body. Or in the air for that matter. "Are we talking Israeli Defense Force bastards or Hamas bastards?"
She makes a disgusted face and turns on the shower. "I'm wearing the Hamas one."
Micah's work with Doctors Without Borders, known locally as MSF, gives her equal disdain for both sides of the conflict. Ending it is a passion we share, but days like this, seeing her with a thousand-yard stare... I regret coming here. I pull her close and kiss her forehead, terrorist guts be damned. "And how did that happen?"
"The IDF guy held the entire clinic at gunpoint because one of his buddies got killed." Upon noticing she's gotten blood on my chest, her fingers dip inside the waistband of my running shorts, pushing southwards. "I had a six-year-old wide open on the table. They weren't going to let me finish unless the kid's father talked."
My grip tightens. If I know my wife, she dared the soldier to shoot her and went back to her surgery. Most of the IDF men and women I know serve their country honorably, but she's developed a knack for running afoul of some truly militant ones lately. Anyone who would let a kid die for information is a terrorist in my book, no matter the flag he salutes. "Did the kid make it?"
A hint of light comes back in her eyes as she catches my gaze. "Come on, who are you talking to here?"
"A woman I dearly hope to have a chance to grow old with," I reply, following her into the shower. "You don't seem to realize that some of those guys actually would shoot you."
She steps beneath the spray. A crimson stream trickles between her breasts and over the flatness of her abdomen. "The father took himself out of the equation. Grabbed the scalpel out of my hand, severed his own carotid. Over in a blink. They didn't care what I did after that."
"So what did they want with him anyhow?" My question is as much professional curiosity as worried husband patter. I'm working on a doctorate in Middle-East relations at Tufts University's Fletcher School. We were supposed to head back to the States a few months ago, but she convinced me to stay.
"No idea," she shrugs. Then she closes her eyes and turns away, scrubbing shampoo into her scalp as hard as she can.
It's the first time in twelve years she's lied to me.
West Jerusalem, Israel
Micah's been slipping away from me for months. Our morning run always ends with a sweat-drenched peck at the entrance to a West Bank checkpoint. But our nights used to end sweaty as well.
She swears she can handle the misery in the camps, although I'd have to be blind, deaf and dumb to miss what it's doing to her. The intermittent pounding of mortars in the distance keeps me tethered to the apartment window, my focus on the rain-soaked street instead of my laptop. She should have been home hours ago.
Good Jewish boys are supposed to marry their mothers. Not turn into them. Mine used to sit at this table every night, waiting for my stepfather's shadow to break across the cypress-lined courtyard. In the end, he was the second husband she had to bury.
Micah's cat hops up on the table and settles into my disorganized pile of charts and newspaper clippings, smug in the knowledge I'm too distracted to disturb him.
Another hour passes before Micah jogs into view, skirting the edges of streetlamps. In darkness or in light, I know the way her body moves, but she's not normally the type to skulk in shadows.
The intercom buzzes a moment later, sending cat and charts flying. I walk towards it and press the button. "You can't be my wife. My wife calls when she's going to be late."
"Just let me up, Nate," crackles her stiff reply.
When the door finally opens, I'm not convinced what saunters in is the woman I married. Her scrubs are drenched in half-dried blood, blonde curls matted to rust-colored dreadlocks. I swallow the argument-starting lecture on my tongue in favor of a cautious embrace. "I saw this movie once. Shouldn't you be wearing a prom dress, Carrie?"
She averts her eyes and heads straight for the bathroom. "Knew you'd be watching. The bastards took my phone, Nate. That's the only reason I didn't call."
While she peels off her scrubs, my eyes rove her lithe form until I'm satisfied none of the blood is hers. Unfortunately, this does little to diffuse the tension in my body. Or in the air for that matter. "Are we talking Israeli Defense Force bastards or Hamas bastards?"
She makes a disgusted face and turns on the shower. "I'm wearing the Hamas one."
Micah's work with Doctors Without Borders, known locally as MSF, gives her equal disdain for both sides of the conflict. Ending it is a passion we share, but days like this, seeing her with a thousand-yard stare... I regret coming here. I pull her close and kiss her forehead, terrorist guts be damned. "And how did that happen?"
"The IDF guy held the entire clinic at gunpoint because one of his buddies got killed." Upon noticing she's gotten blood on my chest, her fingers dip inside the waistband of my running shorts, pushing southwards. "I had a six-year-old wide open on the table. They weren't going to let me finish unless the kid's father talked."
My grip tightens. If I know my wife, she dared the soldier to shoot her and went back to her surgery. Most of the IDF men and women I know serve their country honorably, but she's developed a knack for running afoul of some truly militant ones lately. Anyone who would let a kid die for information is a terrorist in my book, no matter the flag he salutes. "Did the kid make it?"
A hint of light comes back in her eyes as she catches my gaze. "Come on, who are you talking to here?"
"A woman I dearly hope to have a chance to grow old with," I reply, following her into the shower. "You don't seem to realize that some of those guys actually would shoot you."
She steps beneath the spray. A crimson stream trickles between her breasts and over the flatness of her abdomen. "The father took himself out of the equation. Grabbed the scalpel out of my hand, severed his own carotid. Over in a blink. They didn't care what I did after that."
"So what did they want with him anyhow?" My question is as much professional curiosity as worried husband patter. I'm working on a doctorate in Middle-East relations at Tufts University's Fletcher School. We were supposed to head back to the States a few months ago, but she convinced me to stay.
"No idea," she shrugs. Then she closes her eyes and turns away, scrubbing shampoo into her scalp as hard as she can.
It's the first time in twelve years she's lied to me.