Moshiko and the Wild Redhead!

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Moshiko and the Wild Redhead

No! Zahava was not the shy girl from Bnai Brak. She did not dress in black. She was the wild redhead in a rainbow t-shirt, a biker taking college courses in Los Angeles. She turned left on her bike, and someone, call him the Angel of Death, ran over her ankle, crushing it in the middle of traffic.

She screamed but nobody heard. She was just an illegal Israeli tourist overstaying her visa, lacking money and insurance, proving her mother had been right all along.

A surgeon ordered six surgeries.

“I won’t let you!”

“We must.”

“And I’ll walk?”

“No.”

Her mother called. Do the surgery.

“Better I should die.”

When it was all over, the doctor wheeled in a machine.

“You can push the button, and the machine will give you morphine. If you push it a lot, you’ll be addicted and then you’ll be a junkie. Frankly, we just want you to be quiet.”

Zahava pushed the button. She felt happy. A happy slave to the machine.

Her mother arrived and began to sort, pack and throw out the books, records and clothing Zahava kept close to her always. Zahava grabbed her Pink Floyd album, yellow dress, and multicolored socks.

“You don’t need these in Bnai Brak,” her mother said.

“I’m not going!”

Zahava’s mother stared at her in shock.

“Who will take care of you? You don’t have money for a nurse. You’re illegal in this country. Come home and face reality.”

Zahava was wheeled onto the plane, defeated, dropped at her mother’s apartment, a fourth-floor walkup devoid of Pink Floyd. She spent a year and a half in the bed.

“Move over,” said the Angel of Death.

“Fight, fight!” screamed the Pink Floyd band. “Be the crazy girl. Play

the music full volume.”

Zahava’s mother shuffled in with a tray of coffee and cookies.

“Don’t make any plans,” Zahava said. “Today we have physical therapy.”

Her mother shot a stern look. “How come I don’t know about it?”

“I forgot.”

“You told me so late. You’re a lost case. You don’t need physical therapy.”

“I’ll go alone!”

Zahava clapped hands and sang “Yah, bah, bah!” like a bazooka to ward off the tank-like men and women in black.

Neighbors cracked open their doors to check on the noise. Zahava’s mother hurried downstairs with the wheelchair, hailed a cab, and joined her on the ride.

The clerk at the clinic checked her calendar. “You have no appointment,” she said.

“What kind of computer do you have? Of course, there is!” said Mother, her face turning red.

Zahava grabbed the wheels and rolled herself to the desk. “I’ll handle this,” she said, waving Mother away. “Listen to me,” Zahava whispered to the clerk, “I know I don’t have an appointment, but you’re not going to make me come all this way for nothing. I want the physical therapist.”

The clerk consulted her computer screen. “Your chart says you’ll never walk. The therapist can’t do anything.”

“Let the therapist to tell me!”

“You’re wasting everyone’s time, Miss…”

The clerk fell silent when Moshe, the physical therapist, appeared at the door. Gently, he wheeled Zahava into his cubicle and proceeded to prod for reflexes and feelings in her legs.

“Why can’t I move?”

“You had surgery. We must wake up your legs.”

He glanced up.

“Four doctors said no. You think I make miracles?”

“Let me know for myself. How many times a week?”

“You tell me.”

“Every day but Shabbos.”

“You can’t.”

“I can.”

Next morning, grunting and panting, Zahava eased herself down the stairs, hailed a taxi, and crawled upstairs to the clinic, yelling at her legs, “Wake up, wake up!” Then she cried.

“Why is G-d doing this to me? What is this STUPID JUNK?” She shouted at Moshe.

“Stupid junk!” Someone yelled from behind the door. “Stupid junk!”

“I need the machine! Do you have a machine for the pain?”

Moshe smiled. “I have something, but it’s dangerous.” He disappeared into the next room, conversing with someone, and returned with a flashy green parrot on his shoulder.

“What’s this – some kind of joke?”

“I brought Moshiko for you. You say something to G-d and Moshiko will tell you what G-d says.”

Moshiko launched into a joyful monologue: “Shalom! Lila tov, metuka! (Hello! Good night, sweetie!) [Kiss! Smack!] Tehi briah, chamuda sheli! (Be well, my cutie!) The parrot blessed in Hebrew.

“Did you hear that?” Zahava laughed, despite the sharp pain. “G-d blessed me!”

“He loves you. Be happy.”

Every moment still hurt, but Zahava decided not to utter a curse. Moshiko might utter one back. Maybe, she guessed, it was better to put aside her intellect, act like a bird with no brains at all, and switch to a mode of pure joy and simplicity.