"Come on, just one," she ran after me up the stairs. "No," I ran away from her open arms. "But you don't have coronavirus, you got tested in London before you arrived. You were negative."
She hopped over the stairs quickly. "Yes, but I have just landed, so let's wait." I lunged forward with the suitcase to the second floor. "I am the one who always runs away from everyone, and now you are running away from me?" She blocked my way to the isolation ward my parents had set up in their home and stood there like Christ before his crucifixion. "I have not seen you for six months, my boy, come on, give me one hug," she said. "Never," I shot back and shut the door. "Coward," she blurted toward me from the closed door and got back, disappointed, to the bedroom.
I sat on my bed, surprised. This was definitely not how I expected my mother to behave. She is the most germophobic person ever, the queen of disinfectant and gloves, the virus buster, and the great social distancer who keeps everyone at bay and the mother of all masks.
I know more than anyone else – through our dozens of phone conversations – that over the past two months my mother has appointed herself to be the Corona Sheriff of Herzliyya and has imposed her dominion on the town, armed with her antiviral energy and gesticulation that only she understands.
Only a week ago she told me with great pride how she blocked the path of two strong men on the main street because their masks were hiding below their ears, and to their amazement, she touched her nose to show them what they should do. At first they frowned, unsure what she was trying to tell them. Then she touched her nose again and smiled at them. They then realized what they should do and complied, blushing.
The police officers were not the only ones on my mother's target list. At noon, while she was doing highlights at the barbershop in the city, she noticed dozens of children who had left school without masks. She immediately jumped off her chair, her head covered in foil and all, and reprimanded them. "But I am eating a popsicle," one freckled girl said. "So after you are done you have to put it on," my mother persisted. "Why are you even bothering to care what she says," another boy said and they both ran away.
But apparently she treats foreigners differently. My friends, who had promised me they would come and wave at me from the street to help me and Ravid make time go by, disappeared when the rubber hit the road. This, as my masked mother patrols the area outside my isolation ward as if she has decided to rebel against Caesar.
Every day she tries to entice us to get out and give her a hug and she leaves at our doorstep more and more goodies to tempt us: cakes, chocolate boxes, cherry liqueur that my father had prepared for us.
And day after day we refuse to hug and promise that once the two weeks are over, we will do that. When I look through the peephole, I can only say one thing: My mother's highlights turned out great.
