Virginia

 

            I thought I might sleep on the bus, but I couldn’t.

            I was tired, but the landscape whooshing by was too new, too important to lull me to sleep. It was hard to believe this place. Rolling green hills, wooden fences rising and falling in gentle undulation as the bus glided by them. Red farmhouses, silver silos, brown cows.

            In the bus’s air-conditioned climate, I could look out and enjoy the beauty, but knowing the heavy humidity that hung just outside the huge glass windows made me nervous. The landscape looked so civilized and tame, it was hard to reconcile it with the exotic, nearly tropical humidity in the air. I had never felt anything like that lethargy that settled over me when I stepped outside the airport with my bags. I couldn’t breath, the air was as thick as soup.

            Slouched in my seat, I rubbed the heel of my palm between my eyebrows where a headache had been growing since the plane crossed over Greenland. A green sign flashed by and I reminded myself the distance was measured in miles, not kilometers. It had been years since I studied miles, feet, and Fahrenheit temperatures. I only had a faint grasp of what they actually meant. It made me feel like a child again. Are we there yet? Are we there yet?

            Shifting again, I tried to find a comfortable place to lean my head and resolutely closed my eyes. It was going to be a long day once I reached Charlottesville, I hadn’t slept in over thirty hours and had a seven-hour jet lag to reconcile. Any sleep I could get would be useful. But sleep never worked like that for me. Unlike Dov who could fall asleep anywhere, under any condition. He claimed it was a skill, not a God-given talent, but I never learned how to turn a switch and sleep.

            I hadn’t learned how to turn a switch and stop thinking about Dov either.

            I spent the rest of the ride pretending to sleep, hoping to trick my over-tired mind into believing itself asleep and letting go of memories best left behind.

            The bus pulled up to its terminal in Charlottesville with a relieved whoosh and I disembarked, feeling ever more lost and homesick in this tiny abandoned station.

            Homesick. That’s a funny word. Especially since I came here because I was sick of home. Still, on arriving at the bus station, so tired I swayed on my feet, I had a bone-deep feeling that I shouldn’t have come.

            The bus driver hauled out my three suitcases from under the bus and shook his head at the folly of packing so heavy. He climbed back into his silver bus, which shuddered, beeped, and lurched as he reversed and drove away.

            I studied my bags. One army-issue green duffle. My mother’s gray suitcase with four tiny wheels. One red and black canvas suitcase. It went against my grain to bring along more bags than I had arms to carry. Then again, this was all I owned for the past two years and all I planned to own for the next four. Not much when you think of it that way.

            The station with its dusty gray linoleum floor, ancient vending machines and a sleepy-looking woman watching television, looked forgotten. It was too quiet. I shivered. It was nothing like the hustle and bustle of the Haifa station with its huge timetable of buses arriving and leaving, soldiers coming home or returning to base, tourists with backpacks, business men with briefcases, the smell of falafel drifting everywhere, and kiosks packed in every corner selling candy, soft drinks, and newspapers. The place here was deserted and silent except for the clapping from the game show on television.

            The other two passengers who got off in Charlottesville picked up their small bags and walked away.

            “Excuse me,” I called out. The fat woman turned, the pregnant one kept walking. “How do I get to the university campus?”

            “Wail,” said the woman slowly, revealing a missing canine. “’S not too far if yuh wanna walk. ‘S that a-way bout a mile or so. There maht be a taxi round here somewhere.”

            She started shuffling away, then turned and said “Wail comon now.”

            I understood almost nothing she said.

            I followed her, not sure what else to do, heaving my army green duffle bag across my back, gritting my teeth as I dragged the two suitcases whose wheels seemed to want to roll in different directions. Outside, by the curb, were two yellow cabs. On the back of one it said: IT’S NICE TO BE IMPORTANT, BUT IT’S IMPORTANT TO BE NICE.

            I felt hysterical laughter bubbling up.

            “Well lookie here,” the woman said. “Here yu go suga’. Two. Jus tek yur pick. Yu take care now.”

            A driver got out of the first cab and loaded my bags. Getting in, he looked at me from the rear view mirror.

            “To the University of Virginia,” I said.

            “Whereat th’ university?”

            “Pardon?”

            Nothing these people said made any sense. My English teacher in high school was from England. Either she taught me the wrong language or I had forgotten more English than I thought.

            “Do you want to go to old dorms, new dorms, the library, to the rotunda, where?” He spoke slightly louder and with exaggerated patience. Like he had to deal with idiotic passengers all the time.

            I felt queasy. Too tired, too much bad coffee on the plane.

            “I don’t know where I need to go. I just need to get to the student dormitories.”

            “Didn’t they give you an address?”

            “Yes. Wait.” I rubbed my gritty eyes, trying to think. I rummaged through my backpack and found a large manila envelope containing the welcome packet.

            “Is this it?” I handed him a sheet of paper.

            “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

            We pulled away. I thought I’d feel excited by now. Nervous, edgy, alert. Instead I just felt slow and stupid. It was hard to remember to speak in English. Everyone here seemed to speak through a mouthful of syrup.

            The ride didn’t take long.

            He pulled along side of a three-story building, one of several that all looked alike. The street was nearly empty.

            “Guess you’re here a little early,” he said. “Let me tell you, that’s a good thing. This place is a zoo on moving day. You wouldn’t believe what some people bring with them to college.”

            I couldn’t think of anything to say to that. I had three bags.

            I got out of the car and stood while he heaved out my suitcases from the trunk. I paid him and watched as he got into his cab. He rolled down his window.

            “Good luck,” he said.

            I turned to face my new building, red brick with white trim on the windows and doors. Leaving my suitcases on the sidewalk, I walked up and tried the doors.

            “Shit.”

            I rested my head on the locked doors and fought the urge to cry.

            I didn’t have a key.

            I sat down on the steps and rummaged through my bag, opened the welcome packet and started to read. I should have poured over this when I first got it in Israel. But at the time, I didn’t have the patience to read through all the introductions and congratulations and regulations regarding personal vehicles and maximum voltage and open flames. Now I had nothing better to do. I started, hoping that at some point in this twenty-page manuscript it would tell me where to go and get a bloody key.

            I was only on page five, doggedly plowing through the section about the dining facilities, opening hours, and extended meal plans, when I heard someone coming.

            A woman in baggy sweats carrying a cart full of cleaning supplies walked out of one building and was headed my way.

            “Hello,” I said. She was the first person I’d seen since the taxi left.

“Locked out?” She seemed amused. She walked past me, eyeing my suitcases strewn around me.

            “Yes. So stupid of me. I was so worried about getting here, I didn’t think about the key.”

            “I can let you in,” she said. “I’ve got the master key for all the rooms. Which one is yours?”

            I handed her the same sheet I showed the taxi driver. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to tell her she had no idea what this meant to me. I wanted to tell her that I just flew in from Israel, that this was only my second time ever in the United States and I wasn’t sure that I liked it. But I didn’t say anything.

            “You’re on the third floor, room 305.”

            I nodded.

            “Follow me.”

            I did, grabbing my duffle bag, trusting the others would still be there when I went back for them.

            She unlocked my room with a key she pulled out of her pocket.

            “Make sure you go tomorrow and get a key,” she said. “These rooms really need to stay locked and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

            “You won’t,” I said. “I won’t tell someone…anyone.” My English was coming out badly. I wasn’t sure I was saying anything right.

            She waved away my promises. “Don’t worry about it, just get your own key as soon as you can. It’s too late to worry about it today anyhow.”

            My room was fairly large, but with two beds, two desks, and two closets there wasn’t much room left for anything else. There were two shelves above each bed, and one window. Gray floor, white walls. Home sweet dorm.

            I dropped off my bag, tossed my backpack on the bed farthest away from the door, and went back to haul the rest of my gear up to my room. Then I went to find the cleaning lady. She was in the bathroom, mopping the tile floor with brown soapy water that reeked.

            “Thanks,” I said. “I don’t know how long I would be sitting there if it wasn’t for you.”

            She stopped mopping and straightened.

            “You’re welcome.”

            “What’s your name?”

            “Yami,” she said. “My name is Yami Bouchon.” She sounded slightly defensive, as if she thought I was going to write down her name and file a complaint.

            “I’m Maya,” I said. “Maya Laor.” I stuck out my hand. There was a slight hesitation on her part. We shook.

            “Where are you from?” she finally asked. “Seems like you came from far away.”

            Now was my chance to make something up. To leave everything behind like I dreamed about when I finally decided to come. I debated inventing a life in Bulgaria with a mad uncle locked away in a castle. A fairy tale to live in. Forget where I came from. Forget what I did. But I heard myself tell the truth.

 

            Back in my room, I dug around in my big suitcase until I found a sheet and a thin blanket. I’d have to buy a pillow first thing tomorrow. I left mine at home because I ran out of room in my suitcases. For now I rolled up a sweatshirt. Lumpy but it worked.       I thought I’d fall asleep immediately. I was tired enough to sleep until noon the next day. But I kept thinking about things; about being here, about what would happen next week when classes started. I rolled over and grabbed a note pad and made a list of all the things I had to buy tomorrow.

            I heard Yami finish in the bathroom. She swept the hall, starting at the far end, working steadily and finally finishing. Only after the hall door click shut behind her, I realized I still didn’t know where to get a key or whether the doors locked automatically when shut.

            “Tomorrow,” I said out loud. “Deal with it tomorrow.” I resolutely turned over on my side, faced the wall, and willed myself to sleep.

 

            The next morning I woke up at six, confused with half-remembered dreams crowding my peripheral vision. On the bright side, I mostly slept through the night, waking up only twice. That alone was enough to put me in a better mood and I quickly got ready to explore this new place.

Once I got out of the University area, I found a Colonial-looking downtown with red-brick buildings and green-black shutters that housed everything from law offices to shops to restaurants. My favorite part was a little pedestrian-only boulevard full of small cafes and semi-expensive boutiques selling pretty nonsense. I bought breakfast at one of the coffee shops and sat down, fortified by strong coffee to plow through that damned welcome packet once and for all.

            This time, not paralyzed with tiredness I easily found the housing part and read where to get a key. The office was open from eight to five, which left me almost an hour before they even opened. I studied the people huddled around mismatched tables, laughing or working in the chic café. A not-so-young mother and a blond toddler shared a muffin and a cup of hot chocolate.

            My mother used to take me to coffee shops when I went with her on errands. She taught me to drink coffee. I learned to drink it to please her, to be able to share with her the joy of a really good cup of café au lait. Watching the mother and her girl cheered me. People here couldn’t be too strange if they brought their kids to cafes in the morning.

            But people did look different here, I decided after a careful study of my fellow patrons and the people strolling outside the cafe. Clothes were baggier, hair was lighter, the colors, the styles—different. They walked differently, the pitch of conversations more relaxed, slower.

            I finished my lemon-blueberry muffin, shouldered my backpack, and with one last look at the strange art work hanging on one wall and the warped mirrors hanging on the other, I left.
            It was a balmy day, not nearly as scorching as yesterday. There was a slight breeze, and when I stood in the shade of the large tree on the pedestrian walk, it was actually comfortable.

            “Excuse me.”

            I turned.

            “I think this is yours.” It was one of the students in the corner who had been reading a book. He was holding my welcome packet.

            “Oh.” I reached for it. “Thank you.”

            “You left it on the table.” He was tall, much taller than I expected seeing him engrossed in his book. I took a small step back and saw that he noticed.

“You’re a student here?” he asked.

            “Going to be.”

            “Welcome.” He spread his arms to encompass the university, Charlottesville, and the whole United States.

            He looked very American to me with his light brown hair and golden tan. I wondered if he was from some place like Nantucket or Cape Cod, places that seemed ridiculously American, like parodies of themselves. My family and I spent a couple of months in Boston once, where my father took a summer course. We traveled on the weekends when my father was free and the small towns I saw and the friendly people living there had seemed like scenes from a movie.

            “Justin,” he said offering me his beautiful hand to shake. “Justin Case. I’m working on my doctorate in history at UVA.”

            His name confused me at first. Said quickly it sounded like “just in case” and it took me a moment to realize his name was first name: Justin, last name: Case.

            “Right,” I said, my teacher’s British English stumbling on my lips. We shook. What a funny language English was. Did his parents realize his name sounded like a sentence when they named him?

            “My name is Maya Laor.”

            “Where are you from, Maya Laor?"

            “I’m from out of town.”

            “I noticed,” he said. “From where though? Your accent is very different.”

            “Greenland,” I said, trying out the lie.          

“You’re tan,” he said with a hint of a smile. “To be coming from Greenland.”

            “It’s a beautiful country.” I resisted the urge to fiddle with my packet. “Vastly underrated. We have fabulous summers.”

            “Really? I never knew that. The things you learn every day.”

            “Right.”

            “Nice meeting you, Maya.”

            “Right. Bye.”

            I walked away unsure of why I was so annoyed, why my heart raced. I thought he was watching me but when I looked over my shoulder, he had already entered the café.

           

            Walking back to the university area, I tried hard to enjoy the moment, the slow walk, the beautiful weather, the quaint shops and restaurants. When would triumph set in? When would I finally feel this success? I was going to UVA, I was out of Israel, I was going to get a degree. I was miserable.

            Tiredness lurked behind my skin, settling in my bones. It wasn’t jet lag. It was the same crippling weakness from Israel. Determined to ignore it, to make it go away, I took deep breaths as I walked, rubbing a fist against my stomach to ease the tension.

            After Dov died, everyone had advice. My parents wanted me to keep seeing a counselor. My aunt thought I should go to Europe for a cost-be-damned vacation—she even offered to pay for it—and then come back and focus on getting a good job. She claimed she could get me that too. My best friend, Daphna, decided I needed to learn to meditate, possibly followed by a visit to an Indian ashram. She gave me books with pictures of emaciated yogis perched on the edge of a cliff, as if they were teaching the miracles of human flight instead of meditation. But there was nothing any books could help with. We both knew that.

            Nobody thought I should leave for four years. Six months, twelve months, that was fine. Everyone went traveling after the army. But four years? That’s a long time to be gone. To run away. They were right, of course. That was the point.

            I bought everything on my list. Got a key to the room. Tried to stay busy. The next day, I bought all the books I needed for my classes. They were obscenely expensive and I used the credit card my parents gave me, feeling guilty. The books for my two astronomy classes were beautiful, though. I spent almost an hour sitting on a bench in an enclosed garden behind one of the pavilions on the Lawn, looking at the pictures. The garden itself was something of a pleasant surprise. Like everyone who visits the University, I strolled by the Rotunda, admiring its perfect lines. Trying to see the back of the pavilions that stretch out from it, I discovered that each pavilion had a garden open to the public. Each garden was different, perfect and beautiful in its own way. I tested out several before picking a favorite, the one behind Pavilion IV. Some of the gardens were open and seemed designed for parties or picnics, but Garden IV seemed designed for quiet thought. There were more lush bushes and full trees, more green and fewer flowers. The pavilion was almost hidden from sight, and sitting on the white bench tucked up against the red-brick fence, I could pretend I was happy to be here.

I found the library and used the Internet to write to my Daphna, Leah, and Irit, and my brother Adam. Leah had just been to a show by a modern dance troupe I’d been wanting to see. Daphna wrote me a message complaining about her job, like always. I wished I were still there so I could take her out for a cup of coffee and we could both vent about stupid co-workers.  I emailed my parents as well, letting them know how I was, how my room looked, that I was doing great, brilliant, everyone here so nice.

            I spent three days almost completely alone. I spoke only when ordering breakfast or lunch at the café or when I bought something at a store. I saw Yami twice and we waved to each other but didn’t speak. I slept a lot, flipped through my books, and walked for hours, exploring the University and the town.

            It was exactly four months since the funeral. Not even half a year. I knew my parents didn’t want me to think about it. But it wasn’t right not to think of it, of him. A person should linger with you after they die. Besides, trying not to think of him was an exercise in futility.

            On the fourth day after I arrived the rest of the students came.

            I woke up at seven to the sounds of shouted directions.

            “No Mom, not there! Here, here it is.”

            Within two hours, the halls were jammed and the flow of new students seemed like it would never end.

            It was hard to believe this was the same street from five days ago. Cars were parked up on the curb, stopped in the middle of the road, hazard lights flashing. Hundreds of people were carrying brown boxes, straining, laughing that nervous laugh of stress and exertion. People were shouting to be careful, to lift on THREE, to please move your car so we can get through. Older students in blue shirts were helping new students move in. Parents were hugging their embarrassed children, kissing their foreheads, looking fondly and with concerned pride as they helped their kids unpack their favorite shirts and their lucky shoes.  The students seemed so young, with round faces and shining eyes. Only two years younger than me in reality, but they seemed infantile.

            Every door was propped open. People were meeting their hallmates, assessing the people they had to live with for the next year. Some were scratching their heads at the logistics of cramming a TV and a mini-fridge into a room already stuffed. Closets bulged, beds were elevated on cement bricks to make storage space. Minivans and station wagons careened out to make last minute purchases of shelves, rugs, and cinder blocks. It was chaos.

            At first I thought I’d stick around and meet my new roommate, but as the halls got more and more crowded, I decided we would have plenty of time to get to know each other. I slipped out and headed to the Corner, the area near the university that seemed to cater to the student population, thinking to buy a cup of coffee. It was disorienting to have so many people around after pure silence. But even away from the dorms it was a mad rush of buying and greeting old friends and introducing new acquaintances on the narrow cobbled sidewalk. Students buying books, buying T-shirts with VIRGINIA emblazoned across the front, reiterating their triumph of arriving here.

            I turned and walked away from there as well. Crowds made me nervous, even well-behaved American crowds. The town felt flooded with people. There were suddenly minor traffic jams at every light. There were no parking spaces. The stores were full, cash registers dinging in joy. I really didn’t care about meeting people, learning their names. They all seemed so young. They all looked alike. They dressed the same. The guys with their hats pulled low, slouching in their khaki shorts and gray T-shirts while the girls all wore cute little outfits that I hadn’t seen since I was a kid—baby doll shirts, flowery skirts, high-heeled sandals or colored canvas shoes. Their blondish hair pulled high up in cheerful ponytails.

            Wearing dark blue jeans and a black tank top, I felt old compared with them, like a big dark lizard in the baby-animal petting zoo.

            As the day wore on, parents began to retreat, to start their long drive home, to leave their kids alone and let them settle in. I decided it was safe to return and entered my building that was nearly humming with chatter and nervous energy.

            The door to my room was open, four half-full suitcases lay on the floor. I peered in.

            “Hello?” I said.

            A girl turned from the closet, her arms full of folded shirts.

            “Hi!” she said brightly.

            “I’m your roommate,” I said. “My name is Maya Laor.”

            “Oh hi!” she said again, eyes wide with excitement. “I was wondering when I’d see you. I saw all your stuff already here but I didn’t know where you were.”

            “I got here four days ago. I hope you don’t mind I took the bed by the wall.”

            “Oh it doesn’t matter,” she said. “My name is Payton Lee Walker, most people either call me Payton or Pay.”

            She was short, barely reaching my chin. She had blond hair up in a ponytail and wore khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and pink flip-flops. She fit. I wondered how she knew to wear what everyone else was wearing. Maybe it was in the welcome packet. Maybe it was an American thing.

            “This is so great. You don’t know how long I’ve waited to meet you!”  

            I smiled.

            “I mean, it’s so important who your roommate is, you know? You hear such awful stories sometimes, but I just know we’ll get along great. It’ll be so cool. I’m just going to finish putting some of these clothes away and then my parents want to take us out to dinner.”

            “You don’t have to do that.”

            “Don’t be silly. They want to get to know you, plus we live really close by. Only twenty, well, I guess closer to thirty minutes away so it’s no trouble at all. I think they find it hard that I’m leaving. I’m the baby of the family. Two older brothers.” She rolled her eyes. “At least I’m going to UVA, my brothers both got as far away from here as they could.” She laughed.

            I nodded, hardly able to keep up with her chatter. 

            “How about you? How are your parents taking this?”

            “They’re fine,” I said. “They’re used to me not living at home. But they didn’t expect for me to go so far away.”

            “Where do you live?”

            “Haifa, in Israel.”

            “Jeez, that’s really far away. I don’t think your packet says you’re an international student.”

            Didn’t she notice my accent? Did she think it was polite to ignore it?

            “International students are supposed to live in a different dorm, I think. With other international students, but I’m glad you’re here.”

I was silent, not sure what to say.

            “Much more interesting, I think. It’s cool you’re from Israel. Is it really dangerous there? I always hear about it on the news.”

            I was quiet.

She hesitated for a moment, finally hearing the words that gushed out. She turned back to her closet and straightened a row of folded shirts. “I think it’s great,” she said firmly as if I had contradicted her. “My parents are excited to meet you.”

            I wasn’t sure about that.

            She was a like puppy. Jumping from topic to topic, flitting around the room, cramming her clothes into already packed shelves, hanging dress after dress, glancing back at me every so often to make sure I was still there.

            “Daddy!” she said, when a paunchy, silver-haired man stood at our door. “This is Maya, my new roommate.”

            “Hey honey.” He kissed her on the forehead. “I see you’ve been busy while I was gone.”

            Payton smiled. The room looked like her closet had exploded. She was developing a “system” she had explained, and wanted each article of clothing in its proper spot.

            “It’s nice to meet you Maya,” Payton’s father said, extending a hand. We shook, my hand nearly swallowed up in his. “Payton’s been looking forward to meeting you all summer.”

            He had a nice voice, slow and deep. And an accent mild enough that I understood most of what he said.

            “Me too,” I said. I hadn’t given half a thought to my roommate or who she was. “It’s nice to finally meet her, and you.” I bit my lip.

            “My wife and I were hoping you will join us for dinner.”

            “I don’t know—”

            “Come on Maya,” Payton said. “Just come.”

            “Thank you,” I said. I didn’t have anything else to do and the dorm would be packed and impossible to get away from. “That’s very nice of you.”

            “Nonsense. Come on girls, Payton’s mom is in the car waiting for us.”

            Payton’s parents were well bred, well mannered, and well off. Exactly what I expected. Her father (“Robert, but please call me Bob”) was a lawyer, working at the same firm his father worked at, his grandfather worked at, and his great-grandfather founded. Her mother (who told me to call her Sissy, but didn’t really seem to mean it) was extremely busy with something called the Junya League, the Republican Party, and their church. Of Payton’s two brothers, one attended UVA law school and was now cutting his teeth at the firm’s Richmond office. Her oldest brother, a bit of a non-conformist, went to the University of Chicago (“A Yankee school in a Yankee city,” to his parents’ horror), was an investment banker, and currently lived in Hong Kong with his Chinese girlfriend (“lovely girl, very sweet”). 

            We spoke about Charlottesville, they told me funny stories about ghosts in the hallways and a cow lifted on top of the Rotunda, a practical joke at the turn of the century.

            “Charlottesville and the university in particular are just lovely areas,” Payton’s mother said. “But you shouldn’t forget that it can be dangerous. Especially for girls like you.”

            She must have seen the disbelief that crossed my face.

            “I know it looks calm and staid, but last year two students were brutally beaten, they were in the hospital for weeks.” She leaned in. “The police never caught the man who did it. They said it was a fraternity hazing gone wrong, but I don’t believe that for a second. Whoever did it is still out there.”

            I made a suitably concerned face. These people might as well have been from Mars.

            “Now Sissy, don’t go giving the girl nightmares.”

            I tried to imagine what kind of person would develop nightmares from a story like that. I just couldn’t picture it.

            “I just think you need to be aware,” she said carefully. “Both of you. Try to stick together.”

 

            That night as Payton and I settled in for our first night together, Payton sighed and stretched.

            “I think this year is going to be great,” she said. “I was really scared before I came here, but now I’m finally getting excited about all this.” She stretched and sighed. “Yeah, this year is going to be great.”

            I smiled at her in the dark but didn’t say anything.

            I didn’t think this year could be any worse than last, but you never knew for sure, did you?