A Little Help from Above (5 page)

Shelby gently placed the photo back in the corner and picked up a silver Mont Blanc pen from its engraved caddy. As she stroked the cool barrel, she realized the pen wasn’t the only thing in its proper place. The entire office was tidy and organized. A housekeeper’s delight. But how had her father, the King of Clutter, managed such a feat? His office at the plant was legendary for being such a mess he used to joke about dying young, just so the cleaning crew could get a head start. And maybe find Jimmy Hoffa.

She’d always thought it sick that a man who lost his beautiful wife to cancer would take mortality so lightly. And yet her father
thought nothing of joking about his death. But now, as Shelby studied his picture and looked deep into the gleam in his eye, she suddenly understood. In his lifetime he’d already experienced the loss of his true love, and with that loss, unspeakable grief. What then was left to fear? Nothing. Therefore, he could tempt fate at whim. Or so he thought. Maybe this accident wasn’t as random as it appeared. Maybe he was getting a sign to stop joking around and start accounting for his sins. And maybe she was the one to tell him so.

Of course. She would send him an e-mail with her revelation. And if he was truly a changed man, he would gladly receive her message. But just as she turned on the computer, she heard Lauren call out. “Shel-bee?”

Shelby was tempted not to answer, although it was probably too late to hide. Better to get the formalities over with and move on to the fighting. Yet even before she could announce her whereabouts, the swivel chair spun around so fast she nearly got thrown off. “Jesus! This thing needs a seat belt.” Then her eyes met her sister’s, and she gasped. Lauren was easily twenty-five pounds heavier than the last time she saw her. And that was what, only two years ago?

“Good God, honey. How do you get your jeans on? With a pliers and a prayer?”

Now it was Lauren’s turn to gasp. She cried out in anguish, nearly flinging a crystal desk clock if a fast-thinking Avi hadn’t followed her into the room and released his wife’s clutch. “Girls. Girls. This is how to behave?”

“I told you I shouldn’t have called her.” Lauren punched Avi’s arm. “Didn’t I say she was the meanest thing?” She sobbed on his shoulder.

“What did I say?” Shelby feigned innocence. “I was merely remarking it looks like you’ve put on a little weight since the last time I saw you. Don’t be so touchy. Relax.”

Lauren tried to speak but sputtered instead.

“Sh, sh, sh,” Avi gently patted her back and glared at Shelby. “Ken’t you see we’re suffering? Our parents’ lives are in jeopardy, and all you ken think about is the crazy scale?”

Our parents? Shelby did a double take. Did someone say inheritance?

Avi looked at his watch and pecked Lauren’s wet cheek. “Avi Bear’s got to go. I have a four at JFK and a six-thirty at Newark.”

Avi Bear? Shelby felt a twinge of nausea watching Avi embrace her sister.

“You okay?” He wiped away her tears. “Try deep breathing. Get in touch with your chi.”

“It won’t help,” Lauren cried out. “I can’t deal with her and deal with them…”

“Be nice,” Avi warned Shelby. “We’re under terrible stress, she’s on medication…“

Shelby signaled she could take it from here. “Go. She’ll be fine. This is old turf.”

Lauren’s eyes opened wide. “Old turf?” She tried to storm off, but Shelby grabbed her arm.

“C’mon, Lauren. Stay. I’ll make you some tea.”

“I heard you don’t know how.” Lauren pushed Shelby away and ran down the stairs.

“Yes, but you do,” Shelby followed. “I like that lemon zinger stuff you used to whip up.”

Lauren’s attitude softened, as it always did when Shelby made an effort.

But the only conscious effort Shelby could make was refraining from lecturing Lauren about her high percentage of body fat. Yes, it was a pity she’d inherited the short, stocky Lazarus gene, but all the more reason to diet. They’d have a little talk about vanity when Lauren was in a better mood. Now it was probably best to chitchat. “So”—she clapped—“how did you two meet?”

“Shel-bee! Aren’t you even going to ask how Mommy and Daddy are doing?”

“She’s not your mother. Must we go down this road again?”

“Why?” Lauren wiped her eyes. “Is it out of your way?”

“Yes, and we’ve been through this a million times. It’s a simple concept. Roz is our aunt.”

Lauren filled the kettle while taking deep breaths to settle her nerves. “You call her whatever you want, but to me she’s Mommy. Okay? It’s not my fault the woman who gave birth to me died when I was four, and much as I try, I don’t remember her.”

“Well I do, and trust me on this, Aunt Roz was a lousy consolation prize.”

“Enough!” Lauren slammed the kettle on the stove. “Leave her alone, Shelby. Please.”

Shelby sighed. Touchy, touchy, touchy. “Fine. Sorry. I’ll start over. Tell me what happened. Tell me how they are.”

But no sooner did Lauren try to bring Shelby up to date than the floodgates opened. Family and friends began calling and stopping by, each one hungry for information. How did the accident happen? What were the doctors saying about Larry’s and Roz’s prognoses? What could they do to help? Translated, should they send over dinner or dessert? A brisket or a babka?

“It’s Dr. Gold,” Shelby covered the mouthpiece on the phone. “I can’t remember. Is he the dentist from the club, or that lunatic chiropractor from across the street who pees on his lawn?”

“Neither,” Lauren interrupted her cell phone conversation. “I think he’s Daddy’s podiatrist. No wait. His proctologist.”

“He wants to know if they were knocked unconscious.”

Suddenly Lauren broke down like a ’57 Chevy. “Daddy was. Mommy wasn’t, poor thing. She was just lying there in her own blood, screaming for help. She couldn’t even move her legs. Couldn’t tell if Daddy was dead or alive. That’s probably when she went into shock.”

Shelby took a deep breath and repeated the story, grateful for her years of experience as a detached reporter who could deliver information without emotion. But after the first few calls it dawned on her that people weren’t calling to offer comfort. They were calling to receive it.

“I know. I know. It’s a nightmare. But don’t worry Mrs. Kaplan. I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

“Yes. Such a terrible shame. It could be months before they rejoin the bowling league.”

“No, really. Go see the movie. I’ll leave a message the second I hear anything.”

Or worse, they wouldn’t hang up until Shelby agreed to consult with their doctors, presumably the only medical practitioners on earth who could save Larry and Roz.

“Really? Harold doesn’t limp anymore. That is amazing.”

“A healer? I don’t think so. No, I’m sure he’s the best, it’s just not our style. Oh. I see. Lauren asked you for his name…”

In one sense, Shelby was grateful for the barrage of inquiries, as
it gave her no time to think. On the other hand, as the grim details of the accident unfolded, reality hit hard. No amount of reporter’s objectivity could negate the facts. Her father and Aunt Roz had suffered serious, life-threatening injuries and the next twenty-four hours were critical.

“Is this the home of Lawrence and Rosalyn Lazarus?” a young boy in shirt and tie asked.

“Yes,” Shelby replied. “Can I help you?”

“Ma’am, I’m Richard Rienzo from Newsday. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions about this morning’s accident?”

This kid was a reporter? He barely looked old enough to deliver the paper.

“Sure. Come on in,” Shelby led him into the living room and extended her hand. “I’m Shelby Lazarus. Chicago Tribune.”

The cub looked baffled. What didn’t ring a bell? Chicago, or the Tribune?

“Whoa. They must be pretty important people if the out-of-town papers are here.”

Shelby sighed. Had a village reported a missing idiot? “Hello? I’m family of the victims?”

“Oh. Got it. Actually, your name is familiar. Maybe later I should ask you about a job.”

“Don’t you already have a job? Isn’t that what brought you here?”

“No, it’s just a summer internship. But I’ll be graduating from Ithaca next year and then…”

Jesus! A celebrated member of the press suffered a tragedy and the best Newsday could do was send over a kid who still needed his ass wiped?

“Okay. First rule of thumb, Richard. Never hit on a source. It could really piss them off. Particularly if they’re in the middle of a personal crisis.”

“Right. Of course. Sorry.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sure this is very difficult for you. I’ll need just a few more minutes of your time.”

Shelby’s heart raced as the kid sorted through his notes, rattling on in graphic detail without so much as a wince. “Lawrence Lazarus, sixty-five, and Rosalyn Lazarus, fifty-nine, while out on a morning jog, were struck from behind on Royal Lane, Manhasset, by the driver of a 1993 Ford pickup, a Mr. Juan Pedro Martinez, thirty-two. Both victims were rushed to North Shore University Hospital, where they remain in critical condition. It is believed Mr. Lazarus, found unconscious at the scene, suffered the most extensive injuries, contusions over 40 percent of his body, collapsed lungs, fractured ribs, a fractured hip, sprained neck, a ruptured spleen. Mrs. Lazarus suffered multiple abrasions of the head and chest, a fractured nose, broken arm and leg…”

As the kid droned on, all Shelby could think of was how bitter the medicine tasted when it was hers to swallow. Didn’t this callous, mechanical moron with a pen understand he was speaking about her flesh and blood? How could he be so insensitive? And yet she knew better than anyone, learning to feel nothing came more easily than one would suspect.

“It’s why they call it a story,” Ian McNierney used to drum into her head. “It’s not real. Unless, of course, you’re the bloody victim, and then it’s very real. But that’s none of your concern.”

“Who’s at the door?” Lauren called out from the kitchen.

Clark Kent, Jr., she was tempted to say. “A reporter from Newsday,” Shelby yelled back.

“Oh God.” Lauren rushed in to peer out the living room window. “Not the damn media.”

“Excuse me?” Shelby stood, hands on hips. “Do we have a problem with the press?”

“Sorry.” Lauren blushed. “I forgot. But you understand, Shel. Who needs to be exploited at a time like this? You think Channel 7 is on their way over? Maybe I should go change.”

“This is my sister, Lauren…what did you say your new last name was again?”

“Richard Rienzo from Newsday.” He shook Lauren’s hand.

Thataboy Richie, Shelby thought. Get over it. Who wants to waste time speaking to a lowly print journalist when the possibility exists they can see themselves on the evening news?

“Can you tell us anything about the savage beast who hit them?” Lauren wiped her nose.

“Yeah, did they arrest the guy?” Shelby piped in. “We heard he tried to flee the scene.”

Richard flipped to the back of his notepad. “Actually, ma’am, the vehicle was impounded, but there was no immediate evidence of mechanical failure, although further testing will be done in the next few days. License and registration were valid, the driver had no priors, no DWI…”

“What about a green card?” Shelby sniffed. “Is the guy here legally? What do you bet he’s halfway back to the Dominican Republic by now.”

“No, ma’am. I just spoke to him a little while ago. He’s over at the hospital. He’s all shook up. This is the first time anything like this has ever happened to him. He owns the landscaping company, the truck, a nice home, he has a family…”

“I didn’t see him at the hospital,” Lauren said. “Was he hurt?”

“No, it seems he’s there on a vigil now. He’s very concerned about your parents.”

“No, he’s concerned about us pressing charges,” Shelby said. “Why did he try to flee?”

“Actually, according to the police report, he was running for help. In fact, a witness corroborated that the man flagged down a motorist and used her cell phone to call an ambulance.”

“I don’t understand,” Lauren cried. “If he’s such a nice man, why did he hit them?”

“He said he was doing the speed limit but the glare from the morning sun was so bad he couldn’t see a thing, and then boom! Until he got out of the truck he had no idea what he hit.”

“The poor man,” Lauren cried. “We have to talk to him, Shelby. Tell him we forgive him.”

“Sure. Let’s bring him a bottle of wine, too. Are you crazy? No contact, Lauren. I mean it. Next thing you know you’ll be inviting him for Thanksgiving. Let the attorneys handle this.”

Shelby then thanked the reporter for his time, making sure he understood he’d just been dismissed. Better to get rid of him before he remembered he wanted to pump her about a job.

“Let’s go tell him we forgive him,” Shelby mimicked as she returned to the kitchen.

Lauren followed, then took one look at the feast on the table and couldn’t resist. “Wasn’t that reporter nice?” She nibbled from the tray of cookies.

“Lovely.” Shelby watched her in horror. “Doesn’t this feel really creepy to you?”

“No.” Lauren attacked a platter of cold cuts and coleslaw from Ben’s Kosher Deli.

“Well it does to me. People are treating us like we’re already sitting shiva.”

“No, they’re just being nice.” Lauren gobbled down two chocolate rugalach, spraying crumbs all over the clean, ceramic tiles.

“Look what you’re doing.” Shelby bent down to wipe up the mess. Same old Lauren. A balanced diet was a cookie in each hand. “You’re being such a slob.”

“Forget it. Maria comes tomorrow.”

“Not if she’s Maria, the housekeeper with the sister,” Shelby examined her manicure.

At last. Something got Lauren to stop chewing. “What do you mean?”

“I mean when I got here, I found some Spanish chick doing her laundry, and when she said she didn’t work for the Mrs., but her sister did, and she said it was okay to be here, I told her to tell her very generous sister neither of them should bother coming back. Basically, I fired her.”

“Oh God, Shelby. Mommy and Daddy love Maria. They know about her sister. She’s been doing it for years. How could you just walk into someone’s house and fire their maid?”

“First of all, it’s not someone’s house. It’s my house. Sort of.”

“Never mind.” Lauren sighed. “I’ll straighten it out with her later. Let’s just get over to the hospital. Daddy might be in recovery by now.”

Shelby shook her head no.

“What does that mean.” Lauren imitated Shelby’s head shaking.

“It means you know why I can’t go there. I think I’ll go find a hotel for tonight.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Lauren tried to sneak a cookie behind Shelby’s back. “Stay here.”

“Where here? There aren’t any extra bedrooms, no pull-out couches…”

“I know. They built a guesthouse out behind the cabana.”

“A guesthouse? Are you serious? Who are they? Mr. and Mrs. Bill Gates?”

“No, but last year after Daddy sold the business they got a little antsy and decided to renovate the house. Then they got the idea to add on. Come. I’ll show you. It’s really cool. “

Her father had finally retired? Shelby was busting to know how much he got for the business, but before she could pump Lauren for details, the phone rang. Lauren rolled her eyes as if to say, who is it this time? Mrs. Epstein calling to see if Larry is a widower and in need of her famous potato kugel? Trouble was it wasn’t a friend.

“Oh, my God,” Lauren cried out, clutching the phone to her heart. “Daddy’s in distress.”

“Define distress.”

“I can’t,” she whispered. “It’s too scary to say.”

Shelby took a deep breath. Was it all over but the crying? “C’mon.” She smoothed Lauren’s hair and gently hung up the phone. “I’ll drive you over there. Maybe you can give blood.”

Oh boy. This is never going to work. Shelby’s been avoiding hospitals for almost thirty years, particularly North Shore. I doubt she’s suddenly going to change her mind and walk through those front doors as if it’s just some large, innocuous place to visit the sick. Not when she still holds them accountable for my death.

Lauren, naturally, was too young to remember my final days, but Shelby was wise beyond her ten years. No matter how hard Larry tried assuring her the doctors were doing their best to save me, she knew he was lying, and worse, she knew my doctor had screwed up. Frankly, she was right. Had my initial complaints been taken seriously by him, I’d probably still be on your side.

The year was 1969. One day I had two young children, a beautiful home on Long Island, a loving marriage and a lethal, unreturnable backhand, and next thing I know I’m in my gynecologist’s office. It wasn’t easy trying to follow Dr. Weiner’s thick, German rambling about my test results, which were supposed to explain my recent problems with bloating and constipation. Finally, I heard the words, stage-three ovarian cancer. And something about his being very sorry. And surprised. Rarely did this deadly disease strike women so young.

But lest we forget, in the late sixties, when in spite of, or maybe because
of all those burning bras, the medical community still viewed women as the hysterical sex. More times than not our concerns were written off as “kvetching.” Which explains why half the gals in my tennis league had hysterectomies. Whatever ailed us, the cure was removal of the ovaries, and voilà, we were Henry Higgins’s dream date.

The whole thing reminded me of that old joke. What’s a Jewish girl’s favorite wine? “I want to go to Florida!” So when I complained to Dr. Weiner I was bloated, constipated, and so very tired, he just shrugged and said in his native bratwurst, “It’s nothink, Sandy. You haf vat I call One-a-Dayitis.” In other words, there was no need to bother with medication or tests. All I needed was proper nutrition and a good multivitamin.

“And tell that cheap, bastard husband of yours to take you on a nice vacation,” the good doc said. Little did I know, six months later I’d be taking the longest vacation of my life. Death.

Anyway, during those final weeks I was in and out of North Shore, Larry pleaded with Shelby to write me nice, cheery notes, rather than visit. But she wouldn’t hear of it, carrying on until Roz or my mother drove her over to see me. It was then I saw firsthand what a keen observer she’d become. No matter how pleasant the nurses acted, no matter how bright a picture the doctors painted about this new treatment or that new drug, she saw through the whites of their lab coats. They knew nothing and did even less, save for that one compassionate nurse who kept upping my morphine drip when the pain became unbearable.

Now, of course, I can see Larry was right to want to shelter Shelby from all this. Ever since my death, she’s been so terrified of anything medical, she once had to be put under for a bikini wax. And the closest she ever came to seeing a doctor was dating one. Heaven forbid this child of mine ever gets sick!

Shelby was glad Lauren’s car was blocking her rental in the driveway. Now Lauren would have to offer to drive and be the one to deal with the lousy hospital parking.

“Yes.” Lauren clapped upon miraculously finding a spot in the always packed, three-story garage. “It’s our lucky day.”

Our lucky day? Are you serious? Shelby didn’t budge.

“Shelby?” Lauren said in her imitation Ricky Ricardo accent?

“I can’t do this.”

“What do you mean? Daddy’s in distress. You have to go in.”

“Actually I don’t. Been there. Done that.”

Lauren buried her face in the steering wheel. “You’re kidding. Right?”

Shelby shook her head.

“Look. I know what happened here, but it was a really long time ago. And see? The place has totally changed. Can’t we just pretend we’re at a different hospital?”

Shelby peered through the windshield at the massive glass tower. It certainly didn’t compare to the modest, two-story brick building she remembered as a child. But bigger was by no means better. To her, it remained the heartless, inept institution that got away with murder. If only someone had been writing an investigative newspaper column like hers back then!

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Shelby spoke softly. “You were a baby. But I was there every day. I saw how they let her suffer…”

“It’s not even owned by North Shore anymore. They merged with Long Island Jewish…”

“You want to know how she really died?” Shelby cut her off. “They let the fluids in her body build up to a point where her intestines were blocked. Basically, they let her starve to death.”

“I’m sorry.” Lauren yanked her keys from the ignition and opened the car door. “I understand our mother’s death was a senseless tragedy. What I don’t understand is how that gives you permission to turn your back on your family when they need you most.”

“Give me the keys and your pager.” Shelby scooted over to the driver’s side.

“No! Where are you going?”

“Over to the police precinct to find out what really happened this morning. I’ll pick you up in an hour. Page me if…anything.”

Tears rolled down Lauren’s cheek. “Why does it always have to be your way or no way?”

“That’s not how it is at all. You’re simply doing what you do best, and so am I.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” She threw the car keys in Shelby’s lap. “I swear to God, if he dies, and I’m all alone up there…”

“Just go.” Shelby waved her off. “He’s not going to die.”