It takes me a minute to realize his eyes are closed and he's praying. But he's not praying in his seat, he's praying right over mine. He's bobbing up and down, his eyes are shut, and his face is in total concentration. In fact, as my eyes focus in the dark, I realize all of the Hasidic Jews have congregated at the back of the plane to pray.
But it doesn't sound like prayers at all, more like some chant mixed with mumbling. They might not even be praying. But then one of the guys, I guess he's the leader, says a couple of words loudly and they all respond and keep on doing their mumbling chant. Yeah, they're praying.
Do they all have to do it at the same time?
And what are those straps on the back of their hands and arms or the box strapped to their forehead?
Now that I watch them more intently, I admire the men for being so devoted to their religion they would pray instead of sleep. Don't get me wrong, I admire it, but I wouldn't do it.
I look over at Ron, sound asleep. He's a good-looking man, if you like the dark, brooding kind of guy. Which I don't. My mother is pastey white and has blond hair and green eyes. She was probably in her "opposite" stage when she and my dad got together that fateful night.
I wonder if Ron wishes I wasn't born. If he'd chosen to stay at his cousin's dorm room at the University of Illinois, instead of following my mom to her sorority house seventeen years ago, then he wouldn't be stuck with a kid who resented him.
His eyes suddenly open and I sit back in my chair, pretending to watch the television screen in front of me without the headphones on my ears. I have one good thing to say about El Al Israel Airline--it has personal television screens embedded into the backs of every single seat. A miracle in its own right.
"I think you'll like it there," Ron says. "Even though I've lived in America for seventeen years, Israel will always be apart of me."
"And ...?" I say.
He shifts in his seat and looks at me straight on. "And your grandmudder will want it to be a part of you, too. Don't disappoint her."
I blink and give him my famous sneer, the one where my top lip curls up just the right amount. "You've got to be kidding. Don't disappoint her 7 . I didn't know she existed before yesterday. What about her disappointing me? If you haven't forgotten, she hasn't been the doting grandma."
Believe me, I know people who have doting grandmas. Jessica's Grandma Pearl spent four years knitting her a blanket. Four years! And she's got arthritis. I wonder what Grandma Pearl would think if she knew Jessica lost her virginity to Michael Greenberg under the blanket she spent four years knitting with her crooked fingers.
Ron sighs and turns his attention to his little personal television screen. I note he's not wearing the headphones, either.
I sit back. There's a long silence, so long I think if I look at him I'll find him sleeping again.
"What do I call her?" I ask, still staring at the screen in front of me.
"She'll like it if you call her Safta. It means grandma in Hebrew."
"Safta," I say quietly to myself, trying out how the word sounds coming out of my mouth. Glancing over at the Sperm Donor, I notice he's nodding. His chin is raised and he's giving me a little smile like he's proud. Ugh!
Looking forward, I turn my personal TV to the channel showing how much longer until we land in Israel. Four hours and fifty-five minutes.
By this time the Hasidic Jews have gone back to their seats. I close my eyes again, thankfully drifting off to sleep.
Before I know it, the flight attendant says something in Hebrew. I wait until the information is repeated in English.
"We're starting our descent into Tel Aviv, please put your seats in the upright position ..."
News flash--my seat has been in the upright position for the whole twelve-hour flight!
CHAPTER 3
I'm not rude, I'm just a teen with attitude.
The immigration officer inside Ben Gurion Airport in Tel Aviv asks Ron (who has dual Israeli and American citizenship) who I am.
"My daughter," he replies.
"Is she registered as an Israeli citizen?" she asks.
Is the woman joking? Me? An Israeli citizen? But when I see the serious look on the immigration officer's face, I panic. I've heard of Middle East countries where American kids are taken and aren't allowed to leave. I don't want to be Israeli. I want to go home, like right now!
I turn around, heading back to the plane. Hopefully the captain will let me back on ...I'll go in the belly of the aircraft, in someone's luggage, in a damn animal carrier. Just get me out of here!
I'm almost at the door. Freedom is in sight when I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"Amy," Ron's familiar brooding voice says from behind me.
I turn around and face him. "They won't let me go back home, will they? You've kidnapped me to this country that wants me to be a citizen. Oh, God. They make everyone, even girls, go into the army at eighteen, right? I've heard that, don't try and deny it."
I know I'm sounding like a crazy sixteen-year-old right now, my voice several octaves higher than usual. I can't help it and I keep rambling.
"You're going to make me stay here and be drafted into the army, aren't you?"
I can just see them making me trade in my Abercrombie & Fitch for fatigues. My heart is beating fast and little droplets of sweat are running down my face. I swear they're not tears, just droplets of sweat.