Ilan must have been thinking about her, she’s sure of it. He knew how she longed for such moments with her son. How she wished for more of him. She realizes Ilan had only good intentions, but the more she thinks about those intentions, the angrier she gets. For showing her what’s missing, letting her see it with her own eyes. She stays there a few more minutes, trying to delve deeper into the memory. Now she can smell the desert too, reminding her of the two years she worked in Mitzpe Ramon. Everything becomes sharper, more lucid. But she can’t pick up a single sound. Her son is standing in front of her, still yelling words she can’t hear.

She stares at the ceiling. Can’t understand what she’s doing here. She never even wanted the treatment. She holds her head in her hands, hoping to extract the foreign memory that’s been planted inside her. It’s no use. She looks both ways, making sure the hallway is clear, and lets out a feeble cry. She wants to scream, but doesn’t want anyone to hear. Then she starts walking down the hallway, makes it to the elevator exhausted and presses the button, feeling the dizziness has slightly abated. The elevator door slides open and she walks in. Glancing at the buttons, she presses both the fourteenth and first floor, still undecided.

3.

SHE MAKES HER way up to Amichai’s office on her own. When the door opens, she is standing before a beautiful parquet floor and marble walls. They don’t notice her at first, but halfway to the receptionist’s desk, she sees several of the employees already staring at her.

“Everything okay, ma’am?” the secretary asks. “You look a little pale.”

“I’m absolutely fine,” she says, making sure to smile, hoping the smile will make up for the green gown and the tired body. “I’m here to see Amichai. Where is his office?” she asks, and thinks about Ilan. About the sadness he’d feel if he found out they’d met. When he finds out they’d met. The receptionist peers at his computer screen.

“I’m sorry, I don’t see any appointments in his schedule.”

“I used to be his wife,” she says.

The receptionist hesitates, signals to the girl sitting next to him, whispers something in her ear. She gets up and scurries toward one of the doors, knocks, and enters.

“Is that Amichai’s office?”

“Just one moment, ma’am.”

The girl walks out and whispers something to the receptionist.

“He’s in the middle of an important meeting,” they tell her. “It’ll take at least half an hour.”

“I just want to say hi, may I?”

“I apologize, we’re being instructed not to disturb him.”

“I see,” Ruthie replies, and lets out a sigh. “No problem, some other time.”