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She plucked a few mint leaves from the handsomely hung boxes he had along the living room window. She loved Erez’s place, and its location—it was so much closer to work, cutting down significantly on her commute time. But it was way too small.
“Hey! Abba said you were here.” Erez’s daughter didn’t sound very hostile, which surprised her a little. Gal moved aside and Dafna poured boiling water on the plucked leaves, the scent of mint refreshing. “You brought more granola,” Gal added, her softened demeanor explained. The road to Gal’s heart passed through her stomach.
“How about I fix us some granola and fruits?” Dafna asked. This was a breakfast that the Ben Amis were very fond of. Greek yogurt didn’t harm vocal chords, Erez had said, begging for her homemade nut and raisin granola.
“Okay.”
Gal took out the Greek yogurt and Dafna distributed it into three bowls. She added freshly sliced bananas and sprinkled the granola on top. Once Gal started eating, she would also start conversing. It was a tactic that always worked on her sons.
“What were you singing?” Dafna thought this would be a safe subject.
“It’s a piece. An aria.” Gal stuffed her mouth so violently with granola, Dafna was afraid she would choke. Not a safe subject. Better to hit it straight on, then.
“Is there a problem with this aria?”
Gal chewed and spoke into her bowl. “It’s a solo,” she mumbled, munching.
Gal’s workshop ended two weeks ago, at the end of August. Erez’s daughter had already met for several sessions with the stage fright therapist. Gal wasn’t aware that it was Dafna who recommended this therapist for her or that Erez kept her informed that Gal liked and trusted this woman. They ate in silence for a while. Dafna didn’t prompt Gal. They were at the crux of it already. If she wanted to talk, she would.
“Did Abba tell you I was seeing a therapist about my stage fright?”
“Yes, he did.”
“The therapist has a theory of why I choked and…Abba isn’t going to like it.”
“Can’t be that bad. He doesn’t like the lyrics of half the stuff you sing, and you’re still singing your heart out.”
“It’s bad.” Gal’s fingers flexed on the spoon. Erez’s daughter felt responsible for her father’s happiness and well-being and feared hurting him. “Abba will be sad and will argue with me.”
She dug into her bowl, scraping the last of the mixture.
“It will be worse if you don’t tell him,” Dafna argued.
“That’s what my therapist says too.” Gal exhaled. “Okay, here goes: my therapist thinks that the reason I get stage fright is that when I see family, I get nervous. It’s a common phenomenon–I have no trouble singing to strangers, but I want to please my family so much that I choke. What will Imma and Abba say when I ask them not to come to my performances? Ever?” Her face contorted, but she didn’t cry.
“Can it be treated?” Dafna asked. Poor child. This was bad.
“I don’t know.”
“Good morning to my two favorite ladies.”
Erez joined them, freshly showered and sporting his hot accountant look—ironed light blue shirt tucked into navy pants. He kissed Gal on her brow and caressed Dafna’s cheek with his own neatly shaven one. Gal lifted her brows at Dafna, signaling she didn’t want to talk about the subject anymore.
“How goes with the Kisharti emails?” Dafna asked him, to turn the conversation away from Gal.
They started sending the emails three weeks ago, on Erez’s last day at Kisharti. For the first couple of weeks, she was on edge. But the return emails trickled in, and they were all positive, thanking Kisharti for the inquiry, and asking professional questions, or assuming the help desk sent the email. She was now confident that Kisharti was okay, and Nurit simply made a few mistakes. Erez had routed the responses to the right Customer Success people, and Dafna delivered them, expecting inquiries, but there weren’t many. It was an email that Daniel’s people used, before Menni stopped it, and most assumed it was a late answer to an email they’d sent.
Erez wolfed down his bowl of granola. “I haven’t checked the inbox for several days. Been super busy at work. What were you talking about just now?”
“Abba, will you drive me to the opera house?” Gal asked.
“I will. But not before you tell me what may hurt your mother and me.”
Gal and Dafna exchanged a look.
“Dafna will tell you.”
Good thing she was trained for this shit.
