What Matters Most
There were too few flights from Israel the week I needed to be in Maryland. The best I could do within my budget was two stops and more than 30 hours of travel. Not acceptable. Forced to expand the budget, I booked a flight with only one stop in Amsterdam before flying to Washington, D.C.
After I made all of the arrangements from my side of the Atlantic, including pet boarding, client rescheduling and reserving a rental car at Dulles (a 2014 Dodge Dart with only 29 previous other renters), I received a call from the smarmy agent who explained that my flight was now, unavoidably, two stops with the option to stay 12 hours in either Frankfurt or Amsterdam.
Unless I wanted to fly the following week. I sobbed, screamed, threatened and, two days later, was awarded a one stop-over flight with “only” 15 hours in Frankfurt. Weary and wiped, I managed to secure the last of three “sleeping pods” in the airport, reserving it for 10 hours.
Once I arrived at Dulles, I found the car in the mysterious spot it had been promised, the key surreptitiously hidden on the passenger-side rear tire. Ready to go, right? Not so fast. The expensive and foolproof WiFi package I’d ordered from Israel and had used many times before did not kick in. Nothing. Nada. But I’m brave and have done this trip before. How hard could it be to get on the highway and just find Rockville, Maryland?
Apparently very hard.
By sheer instinct, I eventually found the proper exit and things looked a little familiar. It was quite late at night now, and I pulled into a Trader Joe’s to stock up on enough fruit, vegetables and yogurt to get me through the next day.
Pulling my small suitcase in one hand and cradling the Trader Joe’s goodies in the other, I entered the warm lobby of my mother’s assisted living center. I had told her several times that I was coming, but would she remember? Would she be afraid or confused upon seeing me? Would she even be awake?
She was washed and in her nightgown, reclining in her favorite chair. The television was silent and I found this unusual until I realized that she only occasionally remembers how to turn it on or off. She seems content with quiet. Sensing my entrance, she turned toward me and, with laughter in her voice, exclaimed, “It’s you!”
I covered her with a woolen blanket, and collapsed on the sofa beside her. She only sometimes sleeps in her bed these days, preferring her well-worn chair.
For the following six days, I culled her closet of passe clothing, tossed out 60 years’ worth of collected recipes, supermarket coupons and invitations to every Bar Mitzvah and wedding since Eisenhower was president.
I wept upon finding every report card and elementary school essays that her children had written. She waited in the car each time I popped into Target or CVS to get her another pair of slacks or compression hose. One morning I treated her to a pedicure and, when done, we drove to a kosher Chinese restaurant for veggie egg rolls and fortune cookies. We ate in the car and laughed the entire way back home.
On the morning I left, I programmed her Amazon Alexa to play selections from her favorite show, “Jersey Boys.” It warms my heart to imagine Mommy humming along with Frankie Valle while she sits in her chair and waits for me, again, to walk through her door.
New York native Andrea Simantov has lived in Jerusalem since 1995. She writes for several publications, appears regularly on Israel National Radio and owns an image consulting firm for women.
