Authors: Naomi Ragen
“Who is it?” a voice behind him said. A woman suddenly appeared by his
side. She was slim and youthful, wearing a long Indian skirt and a turquoise head scarf. Her blue eyes were beautiful and familiar, Abigail thought, her eyes shifting between the woman and the young man.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m Mrs. Samuels. I’m here to see Kayla.”
“Kayla’s mother!
Baruch Hashem!
Come in. Can I get you something to eat, or drink? You’ve had a long journey. God bless your safe arrival.” She spoke in English with a French-Canadian lilt.
“The taxi is waiting… If I could just… where is… my daughter… ?”
“Ah, the taxi! Your suitcases! Let us help you. Kayla is on a desert trek with Natan. She’ll be back in the morning… She mentioned you might come.”
Abigail gave a confused half smile. “She did?”
She nodded. “But I don’t think even she imagined… that it would be this soon…” The woman grinned. “I’m Ariella, by the way. Let me see… Here’s the key to caravan eight. It’s the best one we’ve got at the moment. Would you like to have a meal with us?” She spread out a welcoming arm. “Or if you’re tired, I can make a plate for you, and you can take it back to your cabin…”
Abigail didn’t hear anything, busy with the slow percolation into her brain of the information she had just been given. Finally, it sank in. Her daughter—and everyone else here apparently—had been sitting back waiting for her to show up. As if there had been no other choice she could have made!
Was Kayla’s letter, then, just a cynical exercise in manipulation? And were these people expecting her because that was what all the parents of potential or actual cult inductees did? Was it simply experience that informed their expectations? Or had Kayla regaled them with intimate tales concerning her family life (no doubt at Abigail’s expense) that had led them to this conclusion? She found both possibilities equally infuriating. Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, or that mouse in the maze that keeps going for the cheese, did Kayla really think her parents were that pathetically predictable?
Then another idea took over, shoving out all the rest: Here I am in the desert on some godforsaken mountaintop with a bunch of refugees from Woodstock. And Kayla is nowhere to be found.
The taxi honked viciously.
She saw the woman and the young man glance at each other in sad understanding. “Ben Tzion, be a
tzadik
and get Mrs. Samuels’ suitcases from the car?
She is probably very tired. In the meantime, I’ll prepare something for the driver.”
“It’s all right. I’ll take care of him…”
“I’m sure you will…” The woman smiled. “Still, he needs something more. Something to sweeten his soul.”
Abigail paid the driver, who continued to mutter beneath his breath. Behind her, she heard the quick footsteps of the woman. Ariella put her arm around Abigail’s waist and leaned into the driver’s window, handing him a handmade ceramic box covered with amulets. “Fresh zaatar, from our gardens. Put this on your salad, your hummus…” She smiled.
The driver opened the container and sniffed. His hard eyes softened.
“From your own gardens? You can grow something in this hole?” He smiled.
“
Baruch Hashem.
” She smiled back.
“
Todah, geveret.
” He nodded.
“
Bevakasha, adon
.”
He reached into his pocket, then handed Abigail a card. “Lady, this is good place. But anyway. Here is name, number. Anytime, I get you out of here.”
Abigail pocketed it, forgetting all about the driver’s bad behavior, thinking only what a relief it was to be a phone call away from rescue, even if Prince Charming on the white horse was a cabbie with thinning hair and a bad temper who didn’t speak English.
The revving of the engine pierced the quiet. The rough sound of rubber flattening gravel grew fainter, until swallowed by the night. She felt a quiet desolation settle over her. She was really and truly stuck now. “Well, I am tired. I think… I’ll just… go now. Thank you.” She put out her hand to Ariella, who ignored it, giving her a hug, which Abigail found intrusive and inappropriate.
“Ben Tzion will see you safely there. It’s just a short walk.”
Abigail followed the young man and her suitcases up a poorly paved and meagerly lit path to what looked like the prefab concrete boxes you see on building sites. White paint peeled off the badly fitted wooden door.
The young man said nothing, lugging her suitcases without complaint, standing patiently outside her door until she finally realized it was she who had the key. She fumbled through her purse in the dark, finding it, certain it would
jam. To her surprise, it turned smoothly in the lock. Blindly fingering the walls, she found the light switch. A bare bulb illuminated the distempered walls. With a touch of fear, she peeked into the bathroom.
“You have one of the few houses with its own bathroom,” he told her cheerfully. “Just… don’t drink the water from the faucet… It’s not drinking water.”
She thought of the scene in
Sex and the City
when the girls are in Mexico and Charlotte mistakenly opens her mouth in the shower…
He carefully brought in her suitcases, which took up half the room. “My mother will bring you some bottled water and some food.” He was silent for a moment, at a loss. “Everything will look better in the morning,” he promised kindly.
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” She opened her purse to tip him, but he was already gone.
The floor of the shower stall had peeling whitewash, revealing the cracked tiles beneath. There was also a claw-footed bathtub that had seen better days; a sink with a faucet that reached out almost beyond the basin; and an old toilet with a plastic seat that seemed straight out of black-and-white prison movies. Two beds hugged opposite walls—slabs of hard foam rubber on simple wooden pallets that raised them barely above the floor. Two small, chipped Formica night tables filled the gap in between, and a rattan bookcase on a third wall held rough white towels and brown blankets. The only other piece of what could loosely be called furnishings was yet another foam mattress wrapped in a colorful fabric with several beaded pillows placed against a wall like a sofa. Old curtains covered the single window, which looked out at the concrete block behind it. There was also an old air conditioner, and a wall-mounted spiral heater. She pulled the dangling cord and took some comfort as she watched it turn fiery red. The room was freezing. A smell of bromide drifted in from the bathroom.
She sat down on the cold bed, shivering, hungry, heartbroken. There was nothing she wanted, she thought, nothing that would make her feel better. She thought of all the things she had done for Kayla over the years. And this was what Kayla had done for her! But even in her anger and despair, she knew it wasn’t only Kayla. She had come to the end of some strange, twisting road,
ending up in this dump, surrounded by darkness and strangers, far away from everyone she loved. Without even willing it, she began to sob, her whole body aching with longing to be home.
But where was that, she wondered? In the neighborhood of people who had shown her no compassion in her time of need? In that huge, expensive, barely inhabited pile of bricks, filled with things slowly falling into decay? Or at the side of her silent, broken husband who shuffled around like an old man and went to bed at nine, if he went to bed at all? If home was to be defined as a place of comfort and sheltering warmth, compassion, and well-being, then she was, for all intents and purposes, homeless.
She heard a gentle tap at the door. It was Ariella. She held a covered tray and a large wicker basket. The scent of warm bread and meat and potatoes wafted into the room. Abigail opened the door wider, letting her in.
“It’s still warm,” the woman said as she placed a large white plate covered with a napkin on the night table. “And here is mineral water, wine, and juice. We’ll move a refrigerator in here in the morning. And maybe a chair and table.” She looked around, her eyes alert. She picked up the basket and began to unload its contents onto the bed. “Some soaps and body lotion. They’re full of Dead Sea minerals. Wonderfully healing. And some scented candles you can light to relax when you take your bath.” The woman looked at Abigail, her beautiful eyes filled with compassion. “Kayla is a lovely girl. I’m so happy you’ve come. You must have missed her very much.”
Abigail nodded cautiously, watching the woman’s bustling hospitality with suspicion. She’d heard about these kinds of cults, where they first drew you in, disarmed you with kindness, then wound up robbing you of your children and every last cent. She pressed her lips together.
Ariella reacted, becoming still. “I’m sorry we can’t offer you a more luxurious room. You know, most of us sleep in tents.”
“Kayla too?” She was shocked.
“Kayla was actually assigned a room. But she said she liked the tent better.”
Abigail stared at her, speechless.
Ariella grinned: “You look amazed! Your daughter is not a spoiled American. She’s wonderful. She’s one of us.”
“And when did you say she’d be coming back?”
“Tomorrow morning, or maybe afternoon. You never know.”
Abigail’s heart sank. “Why is that?”
“Well, these treks are so organic. They start out as one thing, then things happen you don’t expect, and so they grow into something else entirely.” She shrugged.
What did that shrug mean? Abigail wondered. Did it mean, “Oh those crazy kids, you can never tell what they’ll do next”? Or was it sad, resigned, even a little frightened?
“It’s not dangerous, is it?”
Ariella smiled. “Well, that would depend on what you consider danger and how safe you think our lives usually are.”
Abigail’s head began to swim.
The woman cocked her head and said nothing for a few moments. “Don’t let the food get cold. You’re tired. Everything will look different in the morning.”
That was the second time she’d heard that phrase tonight, Abigail thought. At least the Moonies had gotten their story straight. Then she remembered: The young man had said his
mother
would be bringing some food. The two were mother and son. The woman looked too young.
“I’m sorry. I am tired. Very tired. Good night.” Abigail opened the door and waited, a rude gesture that fit her mood. The woman smiled and kissed her on both cheeks, then walked out into the night. Abigail swung the door shut, almost slamming it, turning the key twice in the lock.
“I should throw your tray out the window,” she said in fury. She sat down on the bed and looked at it, breathing in the delicious aromas. She lifted the napkin off the plate.
There was warm pita bread with zaatar; a mound of minutely chopped fresh tomatoes and cucumbers, grilled chicken, and rice with lentils. There was a small ceramic bowl with hummus and warm chickpeas, and another with a few pieces of Arab pastry dipped in honey and filled with pistachio nuts. She opened the thermos. It was filled with fragrant green tea.
She washed her hands in the bathroom, then dipped the pita into the hummus. Her stomach growled with joy. Before she knew it, she had finished off the entire contents of the tray, leaving behind empty plasticware. She licked the honey off her fingers.
A bath did sound good, she thought. The tub was chipped but clean, she saw, wondering if there would actually be enough hot water. She turned on the taps. The hot water came in immediately, so hot she pulled her hand away. She lit some candles and shut off the lights, pouring in some bath salts and some perfumed oil. Shedding her sweaty airplane clothes and underwear, she slid softly beneath the bubbles.
It is so quiet here, she thought, closing her eyes. There was only the sound of the wind through the mountains and the call of some evening birds. The water was so soft, like cream, smoothing her dry, aging skin.
She found her mind wandering in darkness until it finally stopped, settling down in a quiet spot of indifference.
The towels were scratchy and thin, but clean and dry. Her skin felt like silk as she slipped on her pajamas and crawled beneath the clean sheets. She felt she shouldn’t fall asleep too easily: that it would betray her anger and frustration. But as soon as her eyes closed, she drifted off.
20
The noise that woke her was a bird’s deep-throated call.
Light was streaming through the old curtains, turning them to bronze. She put on her slippers and bathrobe and wandered toward the front door, opening it. She gasped.
There was the sea surrounded by red mountains beneath a red-gold and lavender sky. She stumbled along the gravel path to where a cliff edge gave one an unobstructed view of the entire area. Blackbirds unfurled their long, graceful wings, floating effortlessly in flocks from cliff to cliff. A family of gazelles grazed, the females nursing their babies, the males polishing their antlers as they nibbled on vegetation. The faint strains of Zen music drifted down to her. She walked up, curious to see where it could be coming from. Just above, on a small plateau that jutted out from the mountainside facing the sea, there was a large circular tent. People must be inside, she thought, doing yoga, or practicing Chi Qong as they took deep breaths and feasted on the view. It must be lovely, she thought, cleansing your mind and heart each morning, then filling it with such a view!
Voices drifted down to her. Praying? Chanting?
She pulled her bathrobe around her more tightly, suddenly self-conscious,
making her way back to her caravan. In the morning light, it looked, if possible, even worse. But for some reason, that no longer bothered her.
She unpacked her clothes, wondering what would be appropriate. Even though it was the height of winter, here it seemed like spring. The full sun in a blue sky—something she wouldn’t see in Boston again for at least another few months—had warmed the cold night air. For some reason, she found herself amused by that, the idea that all the people she knew were freezing, and she was warm.
She took out her jeans, then hesitated. What kind of community was this? Were they like the ultra-Orthodox who obsessed over how pants outlined a woman’s crotch and behind (they did the same to men, but no one seemed to mind about that), outlawing them for women, calling them “men’s clothing” and an “abomination”? A place which had multivolume rule books on everything from the proper length of a woman’s sleeves to the colors she could wear? And if so, should she care?