Old/New World Discourse: Terrified

My stomach hurt. My children were in the center of the city while the most recent terrorist attack was taking place.

Boy-Who-Needs-Books had been "boooored." His camp ended, wisely, before the Three Weeks began. His best friends (See: "Packaging and Brown Rice," May 14, 2007) were busy visiting relatives, elsewhere. His older brother was occupied with a new, electric bass. His mother was writing flash fiction for questionable outlets.

Missy Youngest, herself, recently back from camp, was feeling charitable. She offered to take her smaller sibling to a park, to a toy store, or to a falafel stand. Although I insisted that another young adolescent, i.e. Missy Youngest's best friend, accompany my twosome, I ceded to their desire, so intent was I on completing the murder I had begun in my prose.

In no time at all, rooms were cleaned, dishes were put away and even the dining room table was sponged. My two smallest children were eager to venture out alone.

I still felt uneasy, though, due to the combination of their ages and the fact that the day before we had observed the Fast of Tammuz. For that reason, I called Computer Cowboy to see if he agreed with my decision to permitting the little ones to travel into the heart of the city without an older escort.

Meanwhile, Missy Oldest and her friend from abroad were transporting from Missy Oldest's part-time job in a community near Jerusalem. Those teens were en route to Missy Oldest’s next city center driving lesson. When she called to apprise me of her route, I asked her if she would be willing to meet her siblings. Missy Oldest consented.

Increasingly excited about "a day on the town," Boy-Who-Needs-Books checked with me, again, that he was permitted to spend his own money on toys. Missy Youngest, too, verified an important matter; she made sure that I didn't expect her to tote her brother's purchases. When the kids left our home, my baby boy was lugging an empty backpack.

Missy Oldest called once more to shore up plans about where she was supposed to meet her siblings. I responded with spiky remarks about what humans taste like to chimeras and about how difficult it is to construct text about lizards jumping off of merpessiot when the phone keeps ringing.

Nonetheless, not quite two hours later, in the midst of my vicariously examining the color of reptilian viscera, I received another phone call from the kids. Missy Oldest was phoning to report that there had been an attack.

Numb, Missy Oldest asked if she might be able to skip her driving lesson since the roads were proving to be unfriendly. Equally numb, I told her to locate her teacher and to offer to pay that teacher for the aborted time. I had not yet absorbed the reality that my children were in danger.

A little light trickled in. I called my loved ones back and directed them to stay together. Yet anesthetized, my children told me that, in light of the day's events, Missy Oldest's driving teacher had agreed to cancel Missy Oldest's lesson. The kids said they'd take a bus home.

Consumed more by denial than by the mythical beasts I was penning, I grunted agreement to their plan and returned to my keyboard. Moments later, I abruptly stopped writing about scaly creatures.

I wish I could say I put aside my relatively unimportant tasks because I had at last processed my family's reality. I can make no such claim. Rather, it was another phone call from Missy Oldest that roused me from my imaginary world.

My daughter called to report that city police, through megaphones, were telling pedestrians to literally run for their lives. An explosion was going to occur.

I told my children to grab the first available cab.

A short time after, Missy Oldest called back to say that all of the cabs were full.

Resourceful, B'ayan Tov, she, nonetheless, had shepherded all of the kids on a path away from the impending blast.

I told her to buy water for everyone and to keep me posted. I remained deadened to the gravity of the events that were unfolding. After saving my speculative fiction file, I picked up a folder containing notes for a shidduch meeting. Shortly thereafter, I received another phone call.

It seemed that the direction, which my children had run, to escape the lethal chaos, was toward the periphery of a district populated by our cousins. I heard that news just as I was getting into my family's car to find them (I had, at last, been able to function sufficiently to remember that I had a vehicle I could use for their rescue).

BH, while I was driving to catch the children, I was able, via cell phone, to redirect them to a safer neighborhood. I'm not sure who was happiest when, finally, I was able to scoot them into our family's car.

We transitioned with ices for all comers and then with a trip to the grocery store. Together, we completed the week's shopping.

Meanwhile, my family lived as normally as possible. Hours after the attack, Boy-Getting-Taller took his usual combination of city buses to martial arts class.

Missy Youngest, Boy-Who-Needs-Books, and our foreign visitor had no trouble eating their dinner. Computer Cowboy still attended his evening of learning.

Both Missy Oldest and I, on the other hand, remained devoid of sensation. Missy Oldest was working her feelings out through art projects. As for me, I definitely needed Moshiach now. I think I also needed a corner in which to cry.
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Response to Readers:

Cousin Jan, from VA, writing in response to "Old World Versus New World Style," welcome aboard! I hope to hear from you more often.

Louis the Scooterer, also writing in response to "Old World Versus New World Style," it's a treat to get reader feedback from you. I'm a fan of your writing. Whereas I have never visited Altenayaland, I was a frequent guest (reader) at your blog. Keep those responses coming in!