A Room of Their Own by Rakefet Yarden (best summer reads of all time .TXT) 📕

Putting aside those moments before falling asleep, there’s the night itself. Many nights I find myself waking up drenched in sweat, sometimes even shouting or squirming wildly − something I only realized after Miko had woken me up night after night without wanting anything specific. Not a walk, not to fill his water bowl. He just sat next to me, looking at me with his wise eyes, occasionally sneaking in a lick, and then returned to his bed. I assume that I had behaved in an abnormal manner in the minutes preceding that, which then caused him to come to my rescue.

During my one year in the army, it often happened that one of my roommates at the base woke me up because “I was making too much noise.” One morning I woke up with the feeling that someone was staring at me. Once I’d opened my eyes, I realized that my feeling was accurate. Four girls from my room and from the one next door were standing over me, whispering and staring. That same day I went to the welfare officer and put in a request to be transferred to an open base. Again, for medical reasons. Since I was stationed at the General Headquarters and could have remained living at home if I’d wanted to, the request was immediately approved. I moved back to sleep at my parents’ home that same night, despite my father’s protests.

And, to conclude, I hate nighttime because once it ends, a new day begins. A whole new day of questions, thoughts, and coping. Still, there’s no choice but to surrender to the exhaustion and go to sleep, so I did just that.

Utter darkness. I must be small and someone’s grabbing me. Hard. My wrists hurt but I can’t talk. I want to talk but I can’t. I inhale deeply and try to scream until I finally feel a sound coming out of me. Something heavy is blocking my mouth. It’s a hand. It takes me a minute to realize that, and then it tightens its grip over my face and I can’t breathe.

Miko was licking my face. Another nightmare halted by silent licks. I wiped my sweaty forehead and reached my hand over to my chest, under my breasts, sensing a cold wetness. I wiped myself with a shirt, turned onto my side and went back to sleep.

A ray of sunshine woke me up. I was angry at myself for not having shut the blinds the night before, and then I remembered that I had two new clients waiting for me to take them out that morning. I stumbled out of bed as though I hadn’t slept a wink. Miko looked tired, too. Loyal Miko, who made sure to wake me up from my recurrent nightmares.

My new-old clients were a two-year-old brown, unneutered poodle, and an elderly golden retriever with a piercing stare. They both belong to a woman who was abroad and had left her darling dogs in my care. Toto and Libby are veteran clients of mine whose owner often attends conferences and events or takes vacations, and I often take them back home with me, even for the night, if possible. Libby is a very special dog, like a wise old woman who always knows how to say the right thing at the right time. And Toto is a good friend of Miko’s. Those two sometimes play and mess around, while Libby and I exchange mature and amused looks. That morning, I returned them to their apartment after an hour’s walk on the beach. I was supposed to go back there in the evening for dinner and a walk, and if I felt up for it, I’d take them back home with me for the night. In the meantime, I decided not to decide just yet.

I have another little regular client, a 15-year-old Pinscher who simply refuses to leave this world. His elderly loving owner, the friendly Mrs. Adler, is house-bound. Every morning she lets him out and waits for him at the entrance to the building until he finishes his business, and I take him out for one long walk each day, at her request.

“The regular walk keeps him young and strong,” she tells me every day, and adds, “Thank you, my dear.” Sometimes I stick around to have herbal tea with her and refuse to taste the cookies she offers me.

“That’s a shame, sweetie. They’re delicious and you’re so skinny.” I smile without replying, and then just continue to listen to her stories about Tel Aviv of yesteryear. She tells me about the school where she taught for years and later on became the principal, and about the pride in her work. I know the names of all her children and grandchildren, who visit her a few times a week. The rest of the time, she’s alone in her apartment. Sometimes she meets a friend or goes outside, helped by an aide who comes for a few hours a day.

It’s sad to age, I think to myself each time I leave her apartment.

Mrs. Adler used to be a well-known and respected person, and now 10-year-olds bump into her on the street as though she is invisible, as she’d recently told me. “The world belongs to the young, sweetie. Take advantage of this precious time.”

But I don’t feel like time belongs to me at all. I don’t feel young either. Deep down, I feel old and haggard, yet also like a little kid who just wants to lie down angrily on the sidewalk and kick her feet until I get what’s been promised to me.

And I also want a woman who is older than me to hug me tightly, so that I’ll sink deep into her arms and know that from now on, everything will be better.

By the time I returned to my apartment it was nearly 4 p.m. The phone rang; the caller I.D. showed that it was “Tal, My Beloved Sister.” Yes, that’s how