He observed the carefree city of Netanya – people sitting by the fountains, children running in the water, laughing and kicking with their tiny bare feet sprays of water, abruptly shooting up.
Suddenly he thought he spotted Mica. His heart shrank nastily and started pounding in his throat. He blinked, trying to get a better look at a red-haired boy dipping his hands in the fountain. Red-haired just like him. Mica, Mica, look at me, he whispered.
The boy straightened up and ran away, laughing.
No, it’s not him.
His heart was still flattering, his throat was dry. Customary despair pressed upon him. Mica, Mica, look at me…
Six years ago everything seemed so simple and logical.
Faina needed a child. He needed Faina, but not the child. They made an agreement right away – he doesn’t approach him, doesn’t introduce himself and never takes any part in a life of this hypothetic child Faina was so obsessed with. He was slightly bewildered by her obsessive wish, but took it lightly and sympathetically. Back then, he generally took things lightly.
That’s what attracted him to Faina in a first place, her strong unbendable will – in work and in life. He always admired people who had something that he didn’t. And he was soft, dreamy, floating through life with a smile, got together easily, and easily broke apart and didn’t want any burden, no chains, shackles, families, kids…
Oh, how he hated his former self right now, that listless, complacent idiot!
If only he came to the hospital, if only he saw Mica right away, if only he hugged her knees and said – don’t kick me out, Fayush, you might find some good use for me…
If only he didn’t push the strange gaping self-discontent into the darkest corner, if only back then he found within him the courage to understand that he was desperately drawn to Faina and the little bundle with a piece of his DNA in him, unfamiliar to him back then…
If only, if only…then Faina would sit on the grass by his side right now, and Mica would run through the fountain square, squealing and jumping and screaming, “Daddy, daddy, look how fast I can run!”
But no, he did everything right, never approached, never started a conversation and never tried to take part.
But he couldn’t help peering from his car parked across the street, as she was going for a walk – at first with a baby stroller, and later holding firmly by the hand a funny stumbling little guy.
It’s my child, he was telling himself – and feeling nothing.
And then, one not-so-bright day, right between a salad and a steak in a diner, among small talk and dirty dishes, his heart suddenly shrank and dropped into his stomach, right next to a half-eaten steak. He felt roaring pain right behind his solar plexus. Oh, so that’s where you’re your soul aches, he noted absent-mindedly.
This. Is. My. Son. That’s what he had realized all of a sudden.
He also realized that he will never be forgiven for not coming to the hospital and not hugging her knees.
And he will never take his son for a walk, holding his tiny hand firmly but carefully. Won’t buy him ice-cream behind his mama’s back and won’t admit to it when he will get a sore throat anyway. He will never read his favorite book to his son and feel sad that the kid didn’t like it. They will never watch together the same cartoons for the umpteenth time.
He will never sit by his side while Mica falls asleep, and he will never be the first to rush to his little bed, chasing away a bad dream. And he will never hear his sleepy voice saying, “Good night, daddy, I love you so much”; and will never say in return, “I love you more, bear-cub” …
Mica, Mica, look at me…
I’m going to call her, he thought for a hundredth time. I am going to call her right now.
I am going to say: “Fayush, I’m the dumbest idiot that have ever lived, you will never forgive me, and you really shouldn’t, I will never forgive myself. Just let me in with the two of you, you might find some good use for me…
And she would suddenly say: sure, come in you dummy, certainly took you long enough!
And I will say: “I love you so much, you and bear-cub, I have wasted so much time. But now everything is going to be fine, I promise!”
He stared at the red-haired boy by the fountain.
He picked up his phone, slowly, like in a dream, pocked his finger into her number and froze, listening to dial tone.
And when she picked up, he slowly articulated everything he repeated a million times during those years, everything he was dreaming of, hardly even understanding what he was saying or why.
She was just buying ice-cream for her son, first time in his six years.
And she replied, surprising even herself: “Sure, come in right now, you dummy, certainly took you long enough… but now everything is going to be fine, right? For sure everything is going to be fine…
Translated by Diana Shnaiderman-Pereira