Mackenzie, Lost and Found Read online

  With a heavy sigh, I closed the door behind me and took a quick look around my new room. It was pretty plain. There was a wooden dresser, a mirror, and a double bed covered with an ugly flowered blanket. A wide window across from the bed offered a view of the surrounding hills and the busy intersection below.

  I kicked off my shoes and collapsed onto the bed. Right now, all I wanted to do was rest. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so exhausted. It was like a truck had run me over once and then backed up to finish the job.

  As I lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, images from the day passed through my mind. The bearded men in the airport … the smoker in the lobby … the head-scarved women with their babies … the soldiers. It was all so different. And yet, in a weird way, it was also kind of nice. Nobody here felt sorry for me. For the first time in a year, I didn’t feel pitied.

  Maybe we did need to get away for a bit, I thought with a yawn. And it’s only for three months, after all.

  Chapter 2

  My body clock was totally messed up. I woke up the next morning before sunrise and, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t get back to sleep. So instead I began to unpack my suitcase and scatter some of my personal stuff around the room. My diary, my yearbook, and my yellow stuffed Frou-frou bear — a favourite toy left over from childhood — all found a home on the little shelf next to the bed.

  Ah, Frou-frou! When I was little, he had literally been my best friend. For years I’d slept with him, confided in him, and taken him everywhere I went. Now, with his fur worn and tattered and one of his ears missing, he had made the journey to Jerusalem with me. Even though I was almost fifteen now, I really couldn’t imagine any house ever being a home without my Frou-frou.

  The next thing I unpacked was Mom’s old cashmere sweater. I hugged it close, letting the memory of her soft touch take over. I missed her so much. For the millionth time, I found myself wishing that our lives didn’t have to be this way — that everything could go back to normal.

  The last thing to come out of my suitcase was a framed picture of Mom taken the summer I turned thirteen. Even though her eyes were squinting slightly in the sunlight, it was a great photo. She was laughing at a joke I’d made right before I clicked the shutter. Although I couldn’t remember what the joke was now, the rest of the moment was still so vivid in my mind. The two of us had been eating Popsicles and relaxing in the backyard on a hot weekend afternoon in August. I had been playing around with the new digital camera I’d gotten for my birthday and Mom had volunteered to be my model. Of all the photos I’d taken that day, I remember thinking that this one captured Mom’s personality the best. Her eyes were lit up with joy, her mouth was slightly red from the cherry-flavoured Popsicle, the sun was shining through her brown hair like a halo, and the smile on her face was easy and natural and so happy.

  Back home in Toronto, I’d kept the picture in my nightstand drawer, tucked under a book where I didn’t have to face the pain of looking at it every day. Now, I held it tenderly in my hands while I contemplated where to put it in my new room.

  Mom’s eyes stared up at me from beneath the glass.

  Ouch.

  I folded Mom’s sweater carefully around the picture, opened my new nightstand drawer, and slid them both inside. After that, I took some time to look around my new home. One by one, I examined all the books on the wicker shelf. I tried out all the appliances, making sure each one of them was in working order. I flipped on the television set, surfing the channels for something — anything — that looked familiar.

  And then I walked down the hall and found the bomb shelter.

  It was a small room at the end of the hall about the size of a powder room. There was one window, which was sealed and covered in a thick plastic curtain. In addition to a couple of cases of bottled water and a folding chair, the owners had left a trio of gas masks, more plastic sheeting, and a roll of duct tape. I quickly figured out these were to be used in the event of a poisonous gas attack. There was a sign on the door with instructions in both English and Hebrew:

  In Case of Emergency

  Bring radio into shelter.

  Ensure there is one gas mask for

  every person in shelter.

  Seal door edges with thick strips of

  tape once bomb shelter is closed.

  Seal the bottom of door with

  a wet towel.

  Do not leave until you hear the

  “all-clear” signal.

  Holy crap! The whole idea of a bomb shelter was frigging creepy. The air was stale and claustrophobic and the gas masks looked like lifeless alien faces lying there on the floor.

  Later on, when I showed the room to Dad, he did his best to downplay it.

  “Don’t worry about it, Mack,” he said, waving off my concerns like a pesky fly. “Every house and apartment in Israel is required to have one of these things. It’s like, I don’t know … seat belts in a car … or emergency exits in a movie theatre … or fire extinguishers in school classrooms. Just something that’s required by law for safety reasons.”

  I rolled my eyes in disgust and wondered for the millionth time why he’d brought us here.

  Yeah, right, Dad. A bomb shelter is no different than an exit sign!

  How could I have known that one day I’d actually have to use it?

  The next morning, Dad and I were given an orientation tour of the university by one of his new colleagues in the Institute of Archaeology.

  “Hi, I’m Professor Anderson,” she said, shaking our hands and grinning widely. “But please call me Sharon. I’m the resident pottery specialist here at Hebrew U — although I’m originally from the University of Minnesota. I guess that’s not too far from your neck of the woods — relatively speaking.”

  I liked her instantly. With her girlish blond ponytail and freckled cheeks, she looked far too young and pretty to be a professor, let alone an archaeologist. In fact, she didn’t look much older than a student herself. It was a big contrast to Dad’s colleagues back home, who had all seemed as old and dry as a bunch of prehistoric fossils.

  Sharon led us around the grounds, pointing out the requisite places of interest. But for me, the best part of the tour wasn’t the buildings or the library; it was her advice about living in Israel.

  “I know you guys just got here, so here are some ‘survival tips,’” she said as we all sat down for a drink in the campus cafeteria. “First of all, you should know that this is a country of soldiers. Many Israeli adults have spent some time in the army. You may have noticed from the way they drive here that their attitude is all about ‘survival of the fittest.’”

  I nodded, thinking back to the taxi ride in from the airport. The mere memory of it sent a wave of nausea through my belly. I took a long sip of my ginger ale. Thank God you could get Canada Dry here!

  “You’ve also probably noticed by now that security is a way of life here,” Sharon continued. “Be prepared to get searched when you enter the mall or other public places. And don’t be shocked to see armed soldiers everywhere you go: restaurants, shops, buses.”

  The gingery bubbles melted on my tongue as I ate up her words. I knew that this was the kind of stuff I needed to hear if I was going to make a life for myself in this city — even if it was for just three months.

  “Be respectful around the Orthodox Jews,” Sharon continued. “You’ll know them by the way they’re dressed.”

  My thoughts flashed back to the men I’d seen walking through the airport. Big black hats, long dark coats. My dad and his cape were going to fit right in.

  “And it’s important to remember that these people don’t believe in any eye contact or physical contact — even handshaking — between members of the opposite sex. In fact, Mackenzie, if you ever take a seat on a bus next to an Orthodox man, don’t be surprised if he gets up and moves away. You should also know that much of this city shuts down from Friday afternoon until Saturday night at sunset. Whatever you do, don’t drive through a religious neighb
our-hood during that time. You might have stones or even dirty diapers thrown at you.”

  “Oh gross!” I grimaced and put down my drink. “Are you serious?”

  “One hundred per cent,” Sharon replied with a laugh. “It’s just a fact of life here. Don’t worry, you’ll get used to it soon enough.”

  No I won’t, because I’m not going to be staying, I felt like replying.

  When Dad got up to refill his coffee cup, Sharon leaned her head towards mine and lowered her voice to a whisper.

  “Listen, I’m sure this whole thing hasn’t been easy for you … you know, moving to a strange country without your mother here to help. So if you don’t mind, I’d like to offer you some ‘woman-to-woman’ advice.”

  I stared down at my drink and shrugged. As nice as Sharon seemed, I did not want to talk to her about Mom. Please don’t go there, I prayed silently.

  “Mackenzie, I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful when you’re out alone,” Sharon continued. “You’re in the Middle East, now — a long way from North America. There are people and places in this city that can be dangerous for young girls on their own. Do you understand?”

  I looked up again and nodded, relieved that she hadn’t asked about Mom. And happy that she didn’t give me that speech in front of Dad. He was way too overprotective of me already without hearing stuff like that. Too bad he couldn’t be more like Sharon. I liked how she spoke to me like an adult, without sugar-coating the facts to make this place seem more like home.

  Still, there was no way I could have known just how accurate her warning would turn out to be.

  Chapter 3

  On our fourth day in Jerusalem, Dad took me sightseeing.

  “Wake up and put on your walking shoes!” he said, opening my curtains to let in the bright morning light. “We’re going to the Old City today!”

  I opened my eyes and groaned. He was standing over my bed and smiling down at me in full tourist gear: Birkenstocks, safari hat, and Bermuda shorts. Ugh! At least he wasn’t wearing his cape. Dad had been known around York University as a bit of an oddball — a reputation I know secretly pleased him. Every time I ever visited him at work, I’d find him riding an old-fashioned bicycle around campus, his black cape billowing behind him in the wind. He told me that his students had long ago nicknamed him Einstein because of his wild mop of bushy, blond hair. I sometimes called him that, too, but never to his face. Can’t you just picture him? If he wasn’t my father, I’d laugh. But most of the time I don’t find him very funny.

  Still, as much as I sometimes hate to admit it, Dad and I are eerily similar in a lot of ways. We both sleep with our eyes halfway open, we’re both allergic to strawberries, and we both have the same dumb laugh that has politely been compared to a horse on drugs. We also have the same abnormally long pinkie toes, the same lopsided smiles, and the same pasty white skin — for sure my worst feature. Dad calls it “alabaster,” but it’s so grossly pale the kids at school back home nicknamed me Snow White. I could never get a nice suntan like the other girls and I couldn’t even wear shorts in the summertime without looking like a ghost.

  Which was exactly how Dad was looking right now in his Bermuda shorts. Weird how genetics work, huh?

  But we have our differences as well, and that’s usually what the fights are about. Maybe it’s because he’s an archaeologist, but his head always seems to be stuck in the past — the ancient past. So much so that he usually doesn’t give a rat’s ass about what’s happening right in front of his nose. It’s something that used to drive Mom crazy. And I worried it was only going to get worse here in Israel.

  Still, I had to admit, as much as I didn’t want to come here, the old walled city of Jerusalem turned out to be a pretty interesting place. It was made up of four quarters, one each for the Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Armenians. Cars weren’t allowed on the Old City streets. Each quarter was a maze of narrow cobbled roads, staircases, sharp angles, dark passages, and tiny corners that demanded to be explored on foot.

  Instead of taking a formal tour, Dad suggested that we just wander around on our own.

  “It’s more exciting this way,” he said, his grey-blue eyes gleaming. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll even get lost!”

  It didn’t take very long to see how easily that could happen. With crowds of people walking in every direction, twisting roads, and a jumble of haphazard old buildings, arches, and domes, the Old City oozed a sense of exotic chaos. Unlike Toronto, where the streets followed a well-planned grid, there was absolutely nothing orderly about this place.

  We started off in the bustling Muslim quarter. With all the ancient buildings and sites, Dad was totally in his element. For the first time in my life, I got an idea of why he was so popular with his students: he really had a way of making history come alive.

  “This is the Damascus Gate, which was originally built by the Romans,” he explained. “And over here is the Via Dolorosa, the path where it’s believed Jesus walked carrying his cross. And down this way is the Dome of the Rock, a mosque that dates back to the seventh century. It’s one of the most important sites in all of Islam.”

  Normally, I wasn’t too interested in religious buildings, but this one took my breath away. I had seen it before in photographs of Jerusalem, resting on top of the city like a gleaming crown. But up close, it was so much more magnificent. Covered in intricate blue, gold, and white mosaics, it was topped off with a gigantic golden dome that shone brilliantly in the bright Israeli sunlight.

  It was a pretty hot morning, and the heat intensified as the day went on. Every minute the sun rose higher in the sky, I could feel it burning deeper and deeper into my skin. I tried to tell myself that heat was better than cold and I was lucky to be missing the Canadian winter this year. But in this kind of heat, even the thought of snow and sleet and slush was refreshing. As we walked, I drank a lot of water and tried to think cool thoughts.

  Polar bears … tobogganing … ice fishing … snowball fights … wind chill factors…

  It didn’t help much.

  After wandering around for a while, we suddenly found ourselves in the Arab market, or “souk,” as it was called here. We paused at the entrance and watched the hustle and bustle for a few minutes. The crowds were thick with all kinds of people: American tourists in their baseball caps and fanny packs, women covered in scarves, and men with heads draped in black-and-white checkered fabric.

  I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath of the exotic market air. It was absolutely bursting with smells: spices, coffee, smoke, ripe fruit, and vegetables. I opened my eyes again and stared down the long, sloping path of the market. It was lined with hundreds of vendors balancing on rickety chairs outside their shops. Some of them were so ancient-looking their faces seemed like they’d been sculpted out of rubber. I knew it wasn’t polite, but I just couldn’t stop staring at them. They looked as old as the city itself — like they’d been sitting there on those chairs since the beginning of time. And they were selling just about every kind of merchandise imaginable: copper, gold, and silver jewellery; ceramics; fabric; clothes; shoes; pastries; produce; spices; and every souvenir under the sun.

  Their cries were piercing as we strolled by their stores.

  “Hallo, Hallo!”

  “Come take a look!”

  “Please, please — you want souvenirs?”

  “Right here, best prices in Jerusalem!”

  “Hey, it’s past lunchtime. Do you want to try a falafel?” Dad asked, pointing to a nearby stand. “It’s, like, the national dish here.”

  I walked over to take a closer look. Just like on the first day we arrived, an overwhelming aroma of spice and frying oil wafted under my nose. A skinny, dark man with a chipped front tooth was putting brown, deep-fried balls of mashed-up chickpeas into a pita pocket and covering the whole thing with sauce and vegetables. Of course, I’d seen falafels back in Toronto … but I’d never actually eaten one before.

  “C’mon,” Dad said, pul
ling out his wallet. “I’ll have one if you will.”

  “Um, okay.”

  I was getting hungry, and Dad’s sense of adventure was contagious.

  “Where are you from?” asked the skinny man as he stuffed my pita full to bulging. “Let me guess: England? Australia?”

  “No,” I replied timidly. Nobody had ever asked me that question before. “We’re from Canada.”

  “Ahhhh!” he nodded. “My cousin lives in Canada. He says it’s very cold there.”

  “Yeah, sometimes,” I laughed, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. I felt like saying, Dude, anywhere in the world would probably seem cold compared to this place!

  “There you go — enjoy!” he grinned, handing me his stuffed creation.

  With a polite “thank you,” I took a small bite and chewed it cautiously, waiting for my taste buds to make a decision. The falafel was crunchy, hot, spicy … and surprisingly tasty.

  “It’s good!” I proclaimed, taking another bite. Dad beamed with pleasure, like the falafel somehow justified this whole move to the Middle East.

  We finished our lunch and took our time strolling, browsing, and taking in all the incredible sights of the market. After poking around for a couple of hours, we ended up on a stone terrace overlooking the Western Wall — an ancient, open-air synagogue where tons of people had gathered to pray.

  “This is the holiest site in the Jewish religion,” Dad explained as we gazed down on the crowd. “This one wall is all that remains of the ancient Temple of Jerusalem. It’s been standing for more than two thousand years.”

  Standing a fair distance back, I strained my eyes and tried to see what all the fuss was about. The Wall looked old, fragile, proud.

  “Maybe we can go and take a closer look,” I suggested.

  But Dad shook his head and pointed down to our shorts and tank tops. “Not today. You have to be covered up to go near the Wall. Next time, we’ll bring better clothes.”