He felt proud of his two elder children, especially of Enat, who had taken such good care of her grandmother, despite the trauma of her mother’s death. “Has Gabi been here too?” he asked. Yes, he was told. In fact, the boy had spent such long hours in the hospital that the nurses had forced him to go home. Molkho was satisfied. “You see,” he said to the nurse with a wry smile, “I’m not exactly a stranger to all this.” “Yes, I know,” she answered gently, and happy to see he was appreciated, he proceeded to inquire about his mother-in-law’s blood pressure, her pulse, her X rays, her temperature, her medicines, and the machines she was hooked up to.
Watching his daughter wet her grandmother’s lips with a Q-tip, he felt a wistful resentment. How afraid she had been even to approach her dying mother, and now she sat up with her grandmother as devotedly as if it were her mother instead. “Why don’t you go home now,” he said, putting an arm around her. “Why don’t you both go home and let me stay. Perhaps she’ll come to and we’ll be able to talk. Go on home. It’s later for you than for me, because I’m still on European time. I’ll call you if I need you. Just give me money for a taxi and take my suitcase. There’s chocolate in it for you, and tomorrow I’ll tell you everything.”
He inspected the night table by his mother-in-law’s bed. There was no tape machine in the drawer, not even a radio. “Why couldn’t you have played her some music like I did for your mother?” he asked his two eldest children. “Why didn’t you think of it?” But they had, they told him. Their grandmother hadn’t wanted it.
THEN LET IT BE WITHOUT, Molkho thought. What makes me so sure that dying is easier with music? Maybe it’s just harder. He went to wash and then telephoned his mother, gravely waking her in the middle of the night to inform her that he was home. “I don’t think she has long now,” he glumly told her, alarming her with the news, as if she were certain that Death, once finished in Haifa, would make a beeline for Jerusalem. “Don’t wake her,” she pleaded. “Let her rest.” He hung up and walked down the corridor, peering into the other rooms. Was Death waiting in them too? In one lay two old men hooked up to tubes and instruments. In another was a surprisingly young-looking woman and a private nurse reading a newspaper. In a third was yet another man who groaned in his sleep.
He returned to his mother-in-law’s room. She was having trouble breathing, and he opened a window to let in some air. The mild night was cool and clear, the sky studded with big stars, the invisible sea a velvety blur in the background. We in this country don’t appreciate what a human climate we have, he reflected, feeling a tap on his shoulder. It was the nurse, come to change the intravenous and bring him some coffee. He sipped it in his chair, no longer Death’s humble apprentice but its seasoned overseer, watching her attach the fresh solution. His mother-in-law opened her eyes. He gave her a tragic smile, the coffee mug unsteady in his hand. But already her eyes were blank, the moment of recognition, if such it was, passing at once. Let her wake when she’s ready, he thought, it’s up to her. Indeed, he could not help but suspect that she might be avoiding him. Had she really intended to fix him up with the little Russian? His wife had often accused him of harboring unconscious motives, and in retaliation, he had tried to find them in her too; but since her death he had rarely thought about such things, the unconscious sinking into oblivion.
AT MIDNIGHT he was awakened from a light sleep by the laughter of the new shift, two young nurses in starched blue uniforms and white bonnets who looked like they still were students. He and his mother-in-law were delivered to their care with a report on the previous eight hours that included a few words about him. “This is her son-in-law. He just flew in from Berlin.” “Especially?” asked the new nurses in surprise. “No,” Molkho said, “I was planning to come anyway.” “But you must be exhausted,” they said. “Why don’t you let us fix you up a bed?” Molkho thanked them but explained it wasn’t necessary: he lived nearby and was hoping his mother-in-law might regain consciousness long enough for him to have a few words with her. “And anyway,” he added with a self-deprecating smile, “I’m an hour up on you because I’m still on European time.” They took his empty mug, darkened the room a bit, and shut the door, leaving him cozily alone with the old woman and Death, though he still could hear them talking on the other side of the wall. They were louder but better-looking than the day shift, especially one of them, a vivacious, ivory-skinned brunette that something in him found irresistible. In recent years the girls had gotten prettier, that much was for sure.
IF SHE’S REALLY DYING, he thought after dozing off again and waking up with a start, imagining for a moment that she had disappeared from the bed, at least she’s doing it easily. I should only die as easily myself. It was 2 A.M. and he felt stiff and tired. Going to the door, he looked out at the quiet ward. Only the dark-haired nurse was visible, her graceful white neck arched like a swan’s above a book, a transistor radio beside her playing soft Arab music. Passing behind her as softly as a shadow, he did a sudden double take, for the book was in Arabic too. But how could I have mistaken her for a Jew? he wondered, appalled by the blindness of desire, he who had always prided himself on telling the two peoples apart. Was the other nurse also an Arab? He sought her in the hallway, failed to find her, looked in on the two old men, and noticed that an intravenous needle had slipped from its bag and was beginning to take in air. Nervously he readjusted it and returned to his mother-in-law’s room, pleased with himself and swearing at the nurses, who, aware that he was up and about, soon came to ask if he meant to stay the night. “Yes,” said Molkho, “if I can.” “Then why not lie down?” they suggested again. “If she wakes, we’ll wake you too.” “No, thanks,” he declined after a moment’s thought. He was fine as he was, though he wouldn’t object to another cup of coffee and a pillow. Intrigued by his stout, loyal figure, they brought him the coffee, a pillow, and a blanket, and he covered himself and settled back in his chair to watch the old woman fight for breath in her corner. Now and then, she opened unseeing eyes, as if deliberately snubbing him.
Suddenly he jumped to his feet, called for the nurses, and demanded that the bed be moved. “She has no air,” he told them indignantly. “Move her nearer to the window, with her face toward the sunrise. Move her!” he insisted. “The bed has wheels, move it!” They looked at each other in bewilderment, not knowing what to do, but his adamance was such that at last they gave in, first moving the chairs to make room. Drunk with fatigue he stood watching, remembering his wife with her earphones in the large hospital bed, like a radio operator going into battle. Now her mother was off to the front lines too, wheeled eastward toward a sun that soon would rise. Yes, he knew how every window in this hospital faced.
It was 3 A.M. It’s only 2 A.M. in Europe, Molkho thought, but so what? I’m not on their time anymore.
THE OLD WOMAN did not awaken when moved. He leaned over to speak to her, calling her name, praying for five minutes of consciousness. Why, she can’t leave me like this, he thought, desperate for a word with her. Yet, though her eyes kept fluttering open, even resting on him with seeming approval, she refused to come to. Did she know he was there? Could she hear him? He didn’t want to talk to the wall. Her thin arm helpless in its cast, like a schoolgirl’s hurt at play, filled him with pity and grief. Would she be buried like that? He wet her lips with the Q-tip, watching her hand fanning in Death. “Maybe we should call a doctor,” he pleaded with the nurses, who saw no point in it. “The doctor was here in the evening and will be back at eight,” they said. “Why make him come now?” “It’s an easy death,” added the brunette. “Why make it worse?” Yes, mine should be no harder, thought Molkho, sitting by the open window and wondering about the estate, of whose extent he had no idea. I’ll divide it up among the children right away, he decided. I’ll split it into three different savings plans for each, or maybe even six, or maybe nine to be on the safe side.