"The Un-Goodbye" by SJ

[A rewrite of the piece I read in class last week.]

We had talked about Ronny. Now why had we done that? They were our very last moments together—that last that we knew about for sure. We had decided nothing about a future, and much could have been discussed. When would see each other next? Would his officer training keep him from staying in touch at first? What were the terms, the feelings here?

Avi navigated his beloved Peugeot down through the Judean hills too quickly for me. He loved the way his car handled the curves and had concentrated on that, shifting gears and changing lanes as if this were a difficult task that required much attention. I was thinking about summer ending and that Jerusalem was behind me now—and would it be that way forever? A hairpin turn obscured the landscape below, but I knew what was beyond: the airport, the Mediterranean, the States. And my senior year of college. I watched, and kept silent.

In a unique twist of fate I had lived with this young soldier and had been part of his family. These months had been a tumult of culture shock, language classes, and odd jobs. At first time was metered by Avi’s arrival from his week on base, but then his homecomings became sporadic and I was left without him for the weekend, but at least as one of the family, and his sisters, brothers, aunts, and cousins came and went on Friday, keeping me occupied but not preventing loneliness and confusion. And then time came to a halt—it was time to go, for me to leave completely. Back to the States for a fall semester.

As Avi drove me to the airport, there had been so much yet to say, but he came out with: “Ronny says it can never work between you and me.” Had he also said something more specific, about cultural differences? I couldn’t recall the rest later from the air where, from my seat just over the wing I watched the land below swiftly change to open sea and finally let myself think about the goodbye. In the car my mind had been racing, but I had made a plan for this goodbye—to show resolute strength—and to keep it, I had kept quiet. “Restraint,” Avi’s mother had told me, “is the most noble of emotions.” So in our last moment, I was quiet, and Avi had only managed the comment about Ronny.

Ronny had always been there, pulling at Avi, forcing him to pay tribute to his own culture’s ways without fail, and therefore to forgo time with me more often than his love letters had suggested he might. (“Come back! I don’t care what we do--I’d sit for hours at an opera if I could be by your side.”) But as it turned out, on Friday nights, it was always the clubs. I hadn’t wanted to go, but it was what soldiers home for the weekend did. And apparently, it was imperative. Ronny had often told me so with a look that said “Back off, American girl.” Avi was unwilling to choose, and so I went, every time. Except one: the evening after we played basketball with his niece, after the soccer ball from the boys playing nearby hit me square in the ear at close range, leaving me a headache, I hadn’t wanted to go. Avi sat with me that night until I could no longer stand the noise of his friends beeping the car horn from down below. I insisted he go, if only to shut them up.

Now as I pressed the button to release my seat back, I shut my eyes and cursed myself. I hadn’t properly prepared for the goodbye. In the weeks leading up to my departure my pride had swelled. I had decided that when the time came I would say only that it was his turn—I had saved and sacrificed to come back to be with him, after his service was done, he could come to the States, if he was so inclined. I had decided also that at my departure gate I wouldn’t turn around after saying goodbye. One last chance to show I was strong like them, not just emotional and dramatic, a stereotype.

Further into my seat, further westward, it dawned on me that Avi may have used Ronny’s comment to say what he couldn’t. That Avi felt it wouldn’t work, didn’t want it to work?

If I had thought about what I really wanted, I could have gotten past my pride’s goal of staying in quiet control and asked him about this in the car—“Well what, in fact, do you mean?” Or simply, “Do you agree with Ronny?” But too late. We had arrived at the airport so quickly, and there were security, gates, and lines to which we had to pay attention. Our goodbyes were heartfelt but short. I wasn’t feeling strong, really, but it helped to focus on pretending to be so. Had he been hiding something as well? As planned, I did not turn around. My pride had won the internal battle. Once in the air, I wasn’t so sure this was a good thing. We hadn’t talked, I didn’t give a final loving wave, and I would never know how he really felt.

Fifteen years, and just now I’m looking back.