A Little Help from Above

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “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…anythi
ng.”

  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.”

  “Oh, really? How do you know that?”

  “Because. Only the good die young. Like in the Billy Joel song. Ask your husband.”

  Lauren’s eyes widened. “That is the most asinine thing I’ve ever heard anyone say,” she replied before slamming the door and storming off.

  Vintage Lauren. Feel it, think it, never say it. Someone could get hurt. Most likely her. Did I say this wouldn’t work?

  As Shelby watched Lauren waddle off in the direction of the hospital’s front doors, all she could think was how fat Lauren looked. Not that this was new news. Her sister had been up and down the scale so often, Weight Watchers created a program just for her. The Perpetuity Plan.

  “Maybe it’s not what you’re eating, it’s what’s eating you,” Shelby remembered suggesting upon learning Lauren’s biology term paper was entitled, “Why Women Gain Five Pounds After Eating a Two-pound Box of Chocolates.”

  In hindsight, Shelby’s well-meaning diagnosis was more of a turning point for herself than for Lauren. By spring break, Lauren had gained another ten pounds, and Shelby switched her major from psychology to journalism. “Helping crazy people takes too long,” she said, sharing her revelation with her faculty advisor. “It’s much easier to write about them and move on.”

  Not that it stopped Shelby from calling Lauren every few months to insist that she try her latest weight loss strategy. Finally, after stomaching an entire week of the no-fail, cabbage-and-lemon diet, Lauren begged for mercy. “Find someone new to torture, Shel. I’m never going to be you, and I’m okay with that. I still have a pretty face.”

  Which was Shelby’s point. Lauren could have been a knockout if she didn’t subscribe to Aunt Roz’s, “what’s one little piece of cake going to do?” attitude. Yet even with her weight issues, there were times Shelby was secretly envious of Lauren’s natural attributes. She was the one who’d inherited those big, brown M&M eyes, the lush auburn hair, and the satiny, olive complexion that glowed even on dreary, winter days.

  Still, if there really had been a contest, the judges would have declared Shelby the family’s “it” girl. For she was the one fate chose to come in standard-equipped as a long, leggy blonde with a tiny waist and chiseled cheekbones. But Shelby also knew there was an unspoken truth. Sandy and Roz, two very different-looking sisters, had genetically predisposed the next generation of sisters to the same miscarriage of justice. One could stop traffic, the other wouldn’t get arrested for standing naked in Times Square.

  Poor Avi, Shelby thought. He probably met Lauren when she was in one of her svelte, size-ten cycles, never imagining she’d blow up to have an ass shaped like a couch cushion. No wonder he thought I was so hot.

  She flipped down the sun visor to reaffirm her stunning good looks in the mirror, then practically jumped out of her own flesh. Gazing back in the reflection was the shadowy image of her mother’s face. Shelby punched the sun visor up and clutched her shirt. Was she so tired she was seeing ghosts? She closed her eyes, hoping to erase the eerie vision in the glass.

  It was one thing to have occasional make-believe conversations with Granny Bea Good, her Jiminy Cricket. It was quite another thing to be spooked by your dead mother at the very place where her life had ended.

  Suddenly she was reminded of the time Ian McNierney, speak of the devil, handed her a bizarre assignment when she first started working for him. “Find Detroit’s top psychics and clairvoyants, and see what they’re predicting for the nineties.” He’d grinned.

  Assuming this was some kind of hell week prank, Shelby submitted her first draft, a piece she cleverly entitled, “Boo!” Never did she expect Ian to attack her for allowing cynicism to seep through the words. “Mock readers, mock me,” he bellowed. “But then I should have guessed you’d be daft on this subject. You’re living proof, education is the bane of enlightenment!”

  Shelby had never forgotten Ian’s stinging remark, not because he’d attacked her elite American schooling, which he insisted had left her void of original thought. What had been far more disconcerting was this brilliant man’s unshakable belief that humans could communicate with the dearly departed, and learn about the future from them, too.

  Total lunacy was her reaction then and, his little psychedelic trip notwithstanding, now. If it was true those who passed on had the ability to communicate with loved ones, why hadn’t her mother appeared before today? Surely she had to know Shelby still mourned her loss, still drifted in a sea of uncertainty without her loving presence.

  She quickly rolled down the window, flush with neurosis and in desperate need of air. What to do next? Lauren was no longer in her line of sight, so it would be pointless trying to catch up to her. Yet she knew she had to get the hell out of the car, for it was no longer a safe haven.

  With her heart racing, she jumped out and began to pace. Should she, could she, walk through those hospital doors? Her rapidly palpitating heart answered no. Nor could she just drive off, either. If she looked in the rearview mirror and saw her mother’s reflection again, she’d surely floor the gas pedal, crash through the brick wall, and hurtle the car in a downward spiral to parking level one.

  Then panic set in. What if from now on every time she looked in a mirror, her mother’s ghost appeared? How would she put on makeup? And what was she supposed to say to Ernest at Hair Georgio next time she was due for a trim? “Could you please drape a towel over your mirror?” Even worse, with every workout studio at the gym totally mirrored, would she now have to cancel her membership? She could only imagine the scene if her mother showed up at her spin class. Shelby’s stationary bike might become airborne.

  It’ll be a living nightmare. Shelby bit her lip. For as much as it would be nice to know her mother was watching over her, she wasn’t prepared to play peekaboo for the rest of her life. On the other hand, at least this little call from Graveland had occurred when she was alone and not while she was at the office. No doubt her cronies would have toasted her meltdown, for up until now it was only a rumor Shelby Lazarus felt human emotion.

  The thought of work suddenly gave her a new, desperately needed focus. She’d only left Chicago this morning, but in the paper trade, every minute you were out of touch was an eternity to the editor trying to reach you. She tore open her pocketbook, reached for her cell phone, and called in for messages.

  So much for thinking she was important. The only calls were from David begging to hear how she was managing, and one call from her friend Risa, asking if Shelby was done with David, could she give his number to a friend who was ready to start dating again?

  Shelby couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. Was the dating pool so dry that even an overweight, bald guy without a spine was valuable currency? As she looked around the crowded parking lot, it occurred to her the problem with men was they were no different than parking spots. The good ones got snapped up right away, and the only ones left were disabled.

  Just as she was about to dial David’s number, a car stopped and a middle-aged man with a bad toupee honked, then pointed at her spot. “You leavin’?” he mouthed.

  She was about to blow him off when something stopped her. “Uncle Marty?”

  The man rolled down his window, yanked off his sunglasses, and squinted until his sun-drenched eyes adjusted to the dark garage. “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Shelby? Look, hon. It’s my niece, Shelby. You remember my wife, Bonnie, don’t you?”

  “I certainly do.” Shelby grimaced. More like I’ve spent the past six years trying to forget how my mother’s older brother dumped sweet Aunt Ellen for th
is stacked, blond-from-the-box shikseh with fake fingernails and an even faker ID. “If she was born in ’61, I’ll eat at McDonald’s,” Shelby whispered to Lauren at their wedding.

  Bonnie peeked through the window, snuffed out her Virginia Slim, and waved hello. “Hi, hon.” Her gum snapped. “How you doin’?”

  How am I doing, you ask? You fat ignoramus? Excuse me. Aunt Ignoramus? Shelby knew the polite thing would be to walk over, but her legs suddenly turned to Jell-O while a magnet-like force glued her rear end to the car door. “I’m fine, thanks.”

  Uncle Marty didn’t seem all that interested in following social graces, either. His hands remained clamped to the steering wheel. “Good for you. You came all this way to donate blood.”

  “Excuse me?” With all the garage noise in the background, surely she’d misunderstood.

  “We got a call to come over right away. They said your folks needed blood. But you’re definitely the better match. I mean ’cause you got all of your dad and maybe some of Roz.”

  Shelby nearly passed out at the thought of having a needle jabbed into her arm. “Nobody said anything about giving blood. I’m just here to support Lauren.”

  “From outside? Jeez, Shelby. Don’t tell me you’re still pulling that stupid, baby crap about not going into hospitals. You’re a grown woman, for Christ’s sake.”

  “And you’re a moron if you think my father wants to be injected with the nicotine-filled blood of your shikseh wife who’s wearing a cross so big she could probably be nailed to it!”

  “Whad she say?” Bonnie stopped cracking her gum.

  “Forget it.” Uncle Marty waved in disgust before speeding off.

  Shelby stood motionless, terrified, thinking that some migrant worker who swam here from Cuba was now waiting for her upstairs with a syringe and a basket of empty vials.

  I need to collect myself, she thought as she opened the car door and collapsed in the driver’s seat. She turned on the ignition, the radio, and the AC, rolled up the window, and leaned into the headrest. After a short nap she’d be fine. Back to her old self. The tough-minded, volcanic-spewing Shelby, who still believed polite conversation was entirely overrated.