What kind of impression had I made on Johanna? Did I need to be more assertive? I was sure someone with greater self-confidence would’ve achieved better results.
I wanted to call her but felt embarrassed. Barely eight hours had elapsed. I would appear too eager. Leanira, I knew, would have said the exact opposite. She would tell me I lacked persistence. I could almost hear her voice: “Milbert darling, if you’d take the energy you spend on your rabbits and tubes and invest one-thousandth of it in a relationship with a woman, you wouldn’t be so alone.”
It was almost seven in the morning, too early to visit Grandma. She would be having her breakfast right now, spitting her diced pills under her pajamas.
I hoped she would forget last night’s conversation. I didn’t have the energy for another day of her serial suspicions. But on the other hand, I had no desire to be buried in the lab all day.
I decided to take my escape route, a task that would ventilate and refresh my grey cells.
Judd, the art student who lived in the apartment across from me, was at some spiritual retreat in Arizona. He’d left me his keys to water the plants and walk Wilbur, his poodle.
It was too cold to venture beyond Lexington Avenue, so after I watered Judd’s three plants, Wilbur settled for the abridged version of our walk and we headed down to the corner house, the home of his most hated rival, a Belgian shepherd. Wilbur lifted a leg and peed a powerful jet that almost knocked over a geranium plant.
I managed to kill twenty-five whole minutes.
Back in the apartment, I filled Wilbur’s bowl with animal-shaped snacks, which the dog attacked greedily.
I went back to my apartment and made a genuine attempt to read a thriller by Tess Gerritsen that Leanira had bought and forgotten to take on her flight. But the sentences, though brief, did not connect in my mind.
I sighed and set the book down. It was time to visit Grandma.
***
The way to Blue Meadows was a mosaic of floodlit trails.
Aside from the physiotherapy mats or the pond in Seneca Park, seen only from the roof, it was hard to find anything blue about Blue Meadows. The name came from the color confusion regarding Kentucky bluegrass. The arches at the front of the one-story building saved it from the dull rectangular look. The walls were carefully painted in a lemon shade and eagerly absorbed the scarce sunrays. Rhododendrons rustled in the easterly wind. Two beds of begonia flowers marked the path. Half-buried clay fragments and tuffs imparted an “archeological” look.
Mediterranean-style shutters opened like the pages of a book over the gutters. Birds chirped as I made my way to the opaque-glass-peppered wooden front.
I climbed the stairs into a lobby that housed an oblong information desk and a small waiting area with a vending machine, sofa, and old magazines. I knew my way, so I nodded to the clerk and continued down the corridor to the sheltered-living wing. Recently a new feature had been added to the building: a medical facility that resembled a hospital intermediate care unit. The repeated prime-time TV ads promoted the facility, touting a significant decrease in ER referrals. It was staffed by full-time registered nurses and a medical director, a doctor who oversaw the unit as well as the rehab center in the rear building, which was attached by a long corridor. A treatment room was located between the two. At 7 pm an on-call doctor filled in to cover for emergencies.
I reached the fancy door that separated the unit from the lobby and pulled the antique-style bell. After her last bout of sciatica, followed by her confused state—in part a reaction to her medications—Grandma was moved to the unit for closer observation.
Contrary to the home’s appearance of a resort or spa, Mrs. Hertz ran the place with an iron fist. As I tinkered with the bell-chain I could hear her ordering Mrs. Shapiro to return to her room. The doctor was waiting for her, she said, ready to examine her.
The door finally opened. She welcomed me with a smile reserved for non-threatening guests. “Oh, Mr. Greene, no, no, please come this way.” She practically pushed me back towards a side exit and the door slammed shut behind us.
Even after her morning round of staff meetings and phone calls, every curl was in place. A butterfly pin glittered from her lapel. Her blouse seemed just ironed and her matching skirt fell to her ankles.
I felt in the air that something bad was happening. There was a serious commotion behind the door.
My gaze shifted to the side of the building. An ambulance was backed into a space under the side awning, its back doors wide open. It was the first time I’d seen an ambulance here.
“Miss Bertha’s been awake for several hours. Wonderful weather this morning, isn’t it? Sunshine at last. We took her out to the back garden. Follow me, please.”
We walked together to the other side of the building. She opened a little latch, waiting for me to pass through before closing it behind me. The path was still slippery. Grass stubble sprang up in the spaces between the pebbles. Most of the bushes were already naked, browning up, a striking contrast to the plethora of gorgeous mixed flowers that filled the air with intoxicating scents during the summer.
I followed Mrs. Hertz to a balcony overlooking ancient woodlands. Grandma Bertha was seated in a wheelchair with her back to me, a blanket spread over her knees. A checkered scarf was wrapped around her skinny shoulders, adding false bulk to the diminishing body that had always been a source of pride to her. I stepped up next to her and patted her knee.
The manager flashed an artificial smile, a disguise for her growing impatience. “Look who’s here, Mrs. Zucker, your dear Mil-bert.” She made a habit of dissecting my name into two syllables.
Grandma mumbled something. She seemed to be staring at the top of a tree, but dropped her eyes to meet mine. After a slight hesitation, a warm smile spread across her old face, accentuating her eternal dimples. I could easily imagine the same smile thirty years younger, because it was identical to my mother’s.
Her eyes were moist, a tear running down her cheek. Recently there had been further deterioration in her vision. The physicians had offered cataract surgery, claiming it might improve her quality of life, especially with the signs of Alzheimer’s, but my mother was reluctant. “She stopped reading, but hardly complains about it.”
“Milbert!” Grandma glanced sideways and winked at me, playing the game, her slender arms raised toward me. “There you are.”
We hugged and kissed. Grandma’s frequent refusal to eat was taking its toll. I looked at her and realized how much I’d missed her and how much she meant to me. Grandma had raised me while Mom and Dad were both busy building their careers.
“Grandma, how are you?”
We heard a distant slam. Mrs. Hertz’s eyes darted to the ambulance, still under the roofed parking. The driver reached up to the top lock and hinge and slammed the second half of the door.
“You must excuse me,” she hissed, and rushed toward the building. She dashed past the patients who dotted the terrace, enjoying the rare spate of sunshine. At the door, she was greeted by a white-clad male nurse. I understood from her gestures that Mrs. Hertz was a very unhappy lady.
The balcony was awash with sunbeams, and Grandma seemed to be in a relaxed state. I hoped she had forgotten last night’s phone call. But it turned out she had just been waiting for Mrs. Hertz to vanish.
Grandma raised her hand to shield her eyes. “Is she gone, is the witch gone? I have sun in my eyes.” Then she leaned over and whispered, “Hertz is a devil. You should have heard how she screamed at poor Belle.”
I sighed. No escape from Belle.
“Belle Mohay, the lady from room six.” Grandma nodded. “Belle is strong. She was on Hungary’s Olympic gymnastics team. Afterward she worked for the police. She’s a real sweetie, Belle, in spite of all her troubles. She doesn’t have anyone in the whole world.” She burst out laughing. “Yesterday she didn’t let them take her blood
. They needed two nurses and the attending physician. Three people. I tell you, Belle’s as strong as an ox.” She frowned. “I haven’t seen her today. What’s the time? Eight already?”
I glanced at my watch. “Almost half past.”
“Belle should have been outside already. She should have had physiotherapy this morning. This is the second time in a row she hasn’t shown up.”
I patted her hand. “In a minute, Grandma, in a minute I’ll ask Mrs. Hertz about Belle. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.”
From the table behind us voices rose in heated conversation. A woman with a knitting needle talked loudly at a lady with a hearing aid and a straw hat. “Yesterday it wasn’t Dorothy.”
“I really thought it was Joseph-Arthur. He looks terrible, you know; didn’t leave his room for dinner.”
“It was Belle. Her room was empty this morning.”
The other lady succumbed. “Too bad, she will be missed at bridge.”
I saw Grandma tense in her wheelchair. She released the hand brakes and began to roll toward the round table where the knitting lady sat with the hard-of-hearing woman in the straw hat.
I could do without conversations about death. I pushed Grandma’s chair the other way and put the brake levers back on when we got to the farthest point on the balcony, making sure Grandma’s back was to them.
Suddenly Grandma straightened, lurched forward in her wheelchair, and pinched my knee hard.
“Grandma!”
“I, I want to get out. I—help me, I—”
The knitter saw my Grandma writhing in her wheelchair, heaved a sigh, and dropped her ball of wool.
“Grandma, what’s wrong?”
Out of nowhere Mrs. Hertz appeared, accompanied by an orderly in a white coat. Noticing my fright, she gave me a reassuring smile. “She’s in a confused state. It happens to her occasionally.”
Grandma continued to fight, but the male nurse held her slight body gently yet firmly against the back of her wheelchair.
“It’s important she doesn’t fall out of the chair and hurt herself,” explained Mrs. Hertz.
She bent over Grandma, and as she tried to pat her hand I was amazed to see Grandma bite the woman’s forearm. Hertz recoiled, and I had the uneasy feeling that were it not for my presence, she would have used her free hand to slap the old lady across the face.
“I think you’d better leave,” Hertz said.
The male nurse injected something into Grandma’s arm and within seconds she slipped into sleep. He released the brakes and rolled her briskly toward the rear door.
“She’s going to be all right. She’ll sleep for a while and wake up refreshed and full of zest.”
I followed Hertz into the facility and down the corridor. At room six, I peeped in; it was empty.
“Mrs. Hertz. Mrs. Hertz!” She continued walking quickly, but I closed the gap. “Grandma is very concerned about the lady in room six, extremely worried. I wanted to know how she was doing. She hasn’t been seen since last night.”
Hertz turned to me, glowering. “Are you related to Mrs. Mohay?” I shook my head no, and she quickly said, “Then it’s against our policy to disclose medical information.” And she slipped into her office and locked the door behind her.
12
I arrived breathless at the lab, expecting the professor’s sour look, scolding me for loss of precious time.
She knew quite well that the tissue cultures would not be ready for another half hour, but cultures or not, she had made it clear from the onset that she expected me to report to work every day at eight o’clock sharp. “As surely will be the case,” she said, “when the time comes for you to report to work in hospital. Even if the experiment is not ready, there’re plenty of things to attend to in the lab.”
Instead, however, I found her rinsing her face before a small mirror above the fridge and checking her teeth. Her forehead and hairline were still damp when she turned to me. She scrutinized me silently for a moment. The harder I tried to decipher her expression, the more unfathomable it became. Finally I decided she must have been drinking.
Then Efron did something incredible—something she’d never done to me before. She put an arm around my shoulders and said with an amicable smile, “Filbert, it’s so good to see you. We have a lecture in fifteen minutes, after which I want your help with something.”
“Is Barbara sick?”
“No, no, Barbara’s here,” she said soothingly.
Chubby Barbara Moss was the technician from the pharmacology team who prepared piglets for in vivo experiments. Efron knew I wasn’t crazy about the pink creatures that ran around in the huge cage on the first floor of the animal house, wallowing in filth and reminiscent of sausages a minute before the grinder.
Professor Efron stuck her hand under my elbow and we strode together toward the elevator, on our way to the Doyle Auditorium.
Once a month, on a Thursday, my peppy mentor had a ‘field day’: a lecture in basic physiology followed by advanced molecular pharmacology, then a seminar on the toxic effects of ocular medications.
We were still waiting for one of the three elevators that would take us to the lecture hall, checking our cell phones, lost in academic cyberspace, when suddenly the professor jumped as if stung by a scorpion.
“Professor…” The voice was accompanied by a hand that gently touched her shoulder. We turned to face Alex, one of the security guards.
“Sorry, Professor,” he said. “Just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Why?” My eyes bounced between the two of them. “Something wrong?”
Alex said, “Last night, the professor managed to get locked inside the cold room; a faulty lock or something. Luckily, her corridor is on my patrol route.”
Efron said nothing. She turned and stared at the elevator door. It opened and she jumped straight in, even before the people inside had a chance to exit.
Somewhere between the third and the second floor, the ice on her face melted and was replaced by an unpleasant smile. “Let’s go see what your colleagues are made of.”
Attending Efron’s lectures, one would be inclined to think that she was two entirely different people. In the lab her usual facial expressions ranged from a patronizing sneer to palpable disgust. As for her smiles, they were rare, and we would have been better off without them. In the lab there was no time for jokes or intimate conversation. Even momentous conversations rarely exceeded one minute. Long silences were the norm.
But here, on the podium, Efron morphed into someone else, pacing lightly from side to side like a dancer, gracefully waving her hands, giggling—a clown. Although I had witnessed these behavioral changes at other ‘Long Thursday’ lectures, I still rubbed my eyes in amazement each time.
On this day, she went even further. Professor Lucy Efron told a joke.
The topic of her lecture was the relation between cataracts and diabetes. Excess sugar tends to concentrate in certain places in the body, including the ocular lenses. The sweet stuff drags in water, the lenses swell, and the vision shortens. You wake up in the morning unable to see the opposite wall in your bedroom; then, when the sugar gradually absorbs, your vision becomes clearer.
Efron told a joke about diabetes and flies crowding around a puddle of urine. It was not funny, and I suspect the students laughed only so as not to ruin their scores in the course.
During the break I took the opportunity to call Johanna. I got her answering machine and decided not to leave a message, but try again during the next break, between lecture and lab. If all the analyses ran without glitches, I should be done by seven p.m. I could hop home for a quick shower and meet Johanna. Until then, as on any Long Thursday, there were two more hours of lectures left, followed by the piglet experiments with Barbara. In between, the professor would visit the s
eventh floor and delight in the progress I’d made on my own.
I left the auditorium and headed for the lab.
***
By 3:50 p.m. Professor Efron was answering the last question from a student sitting in the front row, loudly chewing gum.
Efron had to flip back three slides and explain the experiments, speaking very slowly for the benefit of those who were taking notes. Two additional hands went up, but the professor was anxious to adjourn. She hadn’t slept two nights in a row and was in urgent need of caffeine.
Her head started to throb. Since childhood she had suffered from migraines that often appeared in stressful situations. She knew the signs: pressure inside the skull that radiated from the temples to the apex, with flashes of light and tunnel vision.
For a moment she considered a stop at the seventh floor. But that meant that she’d have to deal with Gilbert—Milbert, whatever his name was—and he was relentless. Each time he operated the liquid chromatography, there were inevitably problems. Still, she tried to be nice to him; she had a feeling she was always in for a surprise with him.
Johanna might be there, too. During their few months of acquaintance, first at Oculoris and then in the lab, Efron had learned to recognize her guest’s mood swings. Lately, she noticed that the Austrian hardly smiled. Something seemed to be wrong with her—perhaps the typical tension of the last phase of an experiment, shortly before submitting the results to the FDA. The moment of truth. In the past Johanna used to stop every morning at the café near the university and pick up fresh croissants and cappuccino for the two of them. Then she would slip into a lab coat, singing an aria from The Magic Flute.
Last week Mozart had disappeared. Yesterday there were no croissants, and the macchiato and latte were replaced by the murky mud that dripped from the lab’s old Mr. Coffee. Dark circles smudged the guest’s blue eyes.
Efron asked what was up.
Johanna responded with a feeble smile. Everything was fine. Absolutely fine.
An Eye For Murder: A Medical Thriller Page 7
