The Girl On the Fridge: Stories
“I never come on the actual date. I did go to the funeral and to the first memorial, but with all those people staring, the firm handclasps, the mother smiling at me teary-eyed and asking me when I was finishing my degree—I said fuck it. The date itself doesn’t mean much to me anyway, though it’s an easy one to remember: December 12, the twelfth day of the twelfth month.
Ronen’s sister is a doctor at Beilinson Hospital, and she was on duty the moment your heart stopped. I heard Ronen tell Yizhar that you died at the stroke of noon. Like, on the dot.
Ronen got all worked up about it: “On the twelfth of the twelfth at twelve. Do you realize what the odds are?” he whispered so loud that everyone could hear. “It’s like an omen from Heaven.”
“Incredible,” Yizhar muttered. “If he’d stuck around another twelve minutes and twelve seconds, I bet they’d have issued a stamp in his honor or something.”
It really is easy to remember—the date, I mean—and the street sign we stole together on Yom Kippur.
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