A Little Help from Above

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “I mean she told Daddy she gave you permission to use the car. She even paid for the repairs herself from her mah-jongg winnings.”

  “You’re kidding? Why?” Shelby couldn’t believe this bit of news.

  “Beats me. I mean the way you treated her, I thought she’d use it as a chance to get even. Then she went and took the whole rap. You didn’t know that?”

  “No.”

  “Sounds like an incredible lady.” Scott sighed, just as his pager went off. “Uh-oh,” he read the message and took a deep breath.

  “What?” Lauren grabbed his arm.

  “I’m needed upstairs. Sit tight, girls. And pray. Pray hard.”

  Chapter Seven

  I know, I know. This little accident idea of mine is now a full-blown disaster, and you’re hoping this is the part where I just flap my wings and make everything all better. Unfortunately, I’m so low on the spirit totem pole I have no wings. Most of us here don’t. It’s like the army. Anyone can join, but only a select few are deemed worthy enough to be called General.

  You might call it a heavenly hierarchy. Only those who’ve evolved over many lifetimes and who have genuine empathy for human frailties ever reach the top pinnacle. These lucky souls are our Archangels, like Michael and Gabriel.

  Here’s something else you may not know. Miracles begin with the human spirit. Really. No prayers? No answers. Yes, I know Lauren is down on her knees, but she seems to be the only one, and you can’t attract much attention with a single voice. For best results, there needs to be an entire chorus. And sincerity, too. It’s simply not good enough to go somewhere to pray, then spend the time wondering if the woman next to you is carrying an expensive, designer handbag, or the knockoff from the street vendor who sells in front of Saks.

  In the meantime, if it’s divine intervention you want, don’t look at me. I think I’ve proven that my supernatural abilities are limited. Remember the debacle in Lauren’s car? I can’t even reappear without causing my daughter to faint.

  Funny thing is, I was so sure Shelby would take comfort in getting a glimpse of my smiling face. Oh, I know she’s a cynic. Most people are until they’ve had their first enlightening experience. It’s called an awakening. I just thought if she saw me, she’d know I was at peace and would have the courage to enter those hospital doors. Which technically she did, although it was by way of a stretcher.

  Now you understand why I’m leery of helping my husband and sister recover. Given my track record, I’d only make matters worse. Frankly, the best I can do at the moment is to give my children the strength they’ll need to carry on. Isn’t that what a mother does?

  Over the next few hours, Lauren became the self-appointed diplomat, shuttling between the third floor ICU and the cafeteria, where she reported in to Shelby. Occasionally there was new news, rarely was it good. Their father had lapsed into a coma, as the doctors suspected he might, and Roz was rushed back into surgery to try to locate the source of her internal bleeding.

  In the meantime, Shelby lost count of the cups of coffee she drank. Nor could she remember if she’d switched to decaf. How could she possibly concentrate when a continuous parade of do-gooders was annoying her?

  First came a visit from the hospital chaplain, a slight man in a dark suit who kept referring to Larry and Roz as Mother and Father, as if they were his family, too. Hard to believe this guy existed because he beat out a million other sperm, she thought, sighing.

  The chaplain was followed by Dr. Glavin, who came to confirm that Shelby had eaten and that she felt no ill will after Shelby’s little tantrum in the ER. To prove her point, she offered Shelby a personal escort to the third floor as soon as she felt up to the challenge. “We’ll take it nice and slow.” She smiled. “In the meantime, here’s my card.”

  Shelby didn’t get the chance to tell Dr. Glavin she wouldn’t go to the third floor if she were escorted by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, for the next visitor had already arrived. This time it was a nurse from the ICU who had just gone off duty. She offered Shelby her heartfelt wishes, and a new antidepressant a detail man had left last week. “If those were my parents up there, I’d take the blue one now and the red one at bedtime.”

  No sooner did she leave than Scott Rosenthal returned, not to share more gory details about her father and Roz, but about his recent separation. Let me guess, Shelby thought. Your wife wanted it all. The bottomless checking account, the big house, the fancy car, jewelry…

  “How could I pay for everything unless I was out busting my hump?” he cried.

  “Sounds like a Wynonna Judd song.” Shelby shredded her napkin.

  “No, this is. Love is grand,” he crooned. “But divorce is two hundred grand. Anyway, what about you? I bet you’re happily married.”

  “Yeah, I married a great guy. He owns a BMW dealership. We have two beautiful kids…”

  “But no diamonds?” Scott studied her ringless fingers suspiciously.

  “They’re in the vault. Why be a target when I travel?”

  “Uh-huh. But isn’t your last name still Lazarus?”

  “Well, duh. I use my maiden name professionally.”

  Suddenly Scotty boy remembered some important phone calls he had to return. Works every time, Shelby mused, watching him trot off with a sad face. At least now she’d get some time alone. Or not. She’d know those crass voices anywhere, she thought as she turned around to find Uncle Marty and Bonnie the Bimbo headed over. Who else would be grumbling loudly about the high cost of parking in the hospital lot?

  “Someone shoulda told us Larry was in a coma and Roz was in surgery.” Bonnie fluffed her hair when they reached Shelby’s table. “We woulda come tomorrow, or the next day.”

  “Or you could not come at all, and use the six bucks for a pack of cigarettes and a beer.”

  “What’s with the snippy shit?” Bonnie pouted. “Jesus, Shelby. We’re your family.”

  “Let’s not get into this, okay?” Uncle Marty glared at Shelby. “The meter’s running. Call us when they’re up and around.”

  “Does that mean if they’re paralyzed we won’t ever have to speak to you again?”

  An older woman observed the couple leaving in a huff and approached with caution. “You must be Shelby.” She smiled.

  “Whoever you are, I’m begging you. Go away.” Shelby rested her face on the cool table.

  But when Shelby looked up, the woman was not only still there, she was seated.

  “Let me guess,” Shelby sulked. “You sell Avon. No wait. Long-term care policies.”

  “I’d probably make more money.” She smiled. “But for now I’m a social worker on staff. My name is Irma.” Irma patiently explained that she was there to offer Shelby counseling services during this difficult time. And although Shelby’s initial reaction was to spout out a few nasty barbs, she suddenly felt too weary to be combative. So this was battle fatigue.

  To say nothing of the fact that, in spite of the woman’s drab, matronly appearance, she was sharp as a new razor. Somehow she’d gathered a dossier on the Lazarus family history, complete with names, dates, and confidential details so accurate, they stunned Shelby. And disturbed her.

  “You have some nerve probing into our personal lives like that. What gives you the right?”

  “Oh dear. I thought you’d be impressed. I mean because you’re a professional reporter. Besides, isn’t this what you do every day? Pry?”

  Shelby would normally have engaged in verbal combat, but she was momentarily speechless. She hated arguing with someone when they were right.

  “Besides, dear,” the woman continued, “I didn’t really do any prying. I merely spent time with your sister, and she was quite informative. A lovely girl. Very honest. And so open…”

  “Like the Suez Canal,” Shelby seethed. “The only secret she can keep is where she hides the M&Ms. But what’s the point of all this? Don’t you think I know my own life’s story?”

  “Of course you do, dear. I just thought y
ou’d feel better knowing someone on staff was also aware of your special predicament.”

  “My special predicament?” Shelby mimicked.

  “Yes. That the memory of this place haunts you. That it’s difficult for you to be here.”

  “It doesn’t haunt me,” Shelby gritted. “It pisses the hell out of me! Besides, you shouldn’t be playing the Clark Kent home game unless you’ve verified your story with a second source.”

  “Of course, dear.” She cleared her throat. “That is why I also spoke to Dr. Weiner.”

  “How dare you? I hate that slimy, arrogant prick!”

  “I’m sorry.” The woman’s eye twitched ever so slightly. “I didn’t realize it would offend you. After all, he was your mother’s doctor for so many years.”

  “Yeah, and the one who botched her diagnosis. Where’d you find him anyway?”

  “I’m afraid that wasn’t difficult either.” She seemed sullen. “He’s here. In the hospital.”

  “No way! You’d think a guy that incompetent would have been forced out years ago.”

  “He has lung cancer, Shelby. He’s in as a patient, not a physician.”

  “Serves the fat bastard right.” Shelby peered outside. “Besides, he’s got nothing to complain about. He got to live a full life. My mother was robbed of hers in her prime.”

  “It was over thirty years ago, dear. They knew so little about the disease then. And your mother was so young. There was nothing to suggest…”

  “Oh bullshit. If he’d been paying as much attention to her as his golf game…“

  “Shelby, you may not believe this, but Dr. Weiner suffered terribly after your mother’s death. He took it very very hard, and although he’s not sure anyone would have picked up on the cancer in its earliest stages, he never stopped second-guessing himself. In fact, several years later he left the field, left his family, was treated for depression, moved to California…remarried…”

  “He told you all that?”

  The woman shook her head no.

  “So? What? You’re making this up as you go?”

  “Of course not. Every word is the truth.”

  “Why should I believe you?”

  “Because I lived through it with him.” She deadlocked with Shelby’s eyes. “I was Mrs. Weiner. The first one anyway.”

  Shelby’s heart pounded. His wife? Over the years she’d only considered how her mother’s death had affected her family, not his. But when she studied the woman’s face, she recognized the look of profound sadness and suddenly realized they might somehow be connected.

  “Did you…ever meet my mother?” Shelby asked softly.

  “Oh yes, of course, dear. I worked in the office, and she was one of our favorite patients. But it wasn’t until after she developed problem pregnancies that I really got to know her.”

  “She had problem pregnancies?”

  Irma nodded. “If I recall, she had two miscarriages in between you and your sister.”

  Shelby was nearly rocked off her seat. Her mother had miscarried?

  “You know”—Mrs. Weiner smiled—“you remind me so much of her.”

  “I do?” she perked up.

  “Yes. I can’t believe the physical resemblance. You even sound alike. Nice and loud!”

  “Excuse me?” Shelby’s tone changed.

  “Let’s just say your mother was a pistol. She didn’t take crap from anyone. Especially my husband. I actually used to look forward to her visits because she always gave him hell.”

  Now Shelby beamed.

  “In fact one time, I think you’ll enjoy hearing this, she came in and all of a sudden I heard screaming from one of the examining rooms. I ran down the hall, positive my husband’s temper had gotten the better of him. But when I opened the door, I nearly fell over.”

  “Why?” Shelby was on the edge of her seat. “What happened?”

  “Your mother had grabbed him by the tie and was screaming in his face. He was practically choking to death, but she wouldn’t let go. I had to unfurl each little finger…”

  “That’s the most wonderful story I’ve ever heard.” Shelby clapped. “Do you remember what she was angry about?”

  “Well I wasn’t in the room, of course.” Irma sighed. “But I believe it had to do with how bad she was feeling. She knew something was wrong, and all he probably came up with was his usual diagnosis, One-a-Dayitis. Eat better and take vitamins. That was his cure for everything.”

  “So she almost strangled him? That’s incredible!”

  “It was gutsy, that’s for sure. In those days doctors were considered gods. Nobody questioned them about anything. Especially a woman. It was unheard of.”

  “But she was right and he was wrong.” Shelby knew the rest of the story. “Dead wrong.”

  “Yes.”

  Shelby’s eyes welled up. Maybe this was a cute little story to Mrs. Weiner, but to her it was a revelation. Her mother hadn’t gone quietly to death’s door. She’d practically killed a man with her bare hands while screaming for help. Suddenly she understood the families of murder victims who read the police reports and learned their loved ones had put up a struggle. It didn’t change the outcome, of course, it just somehow gave people comfort knowing the victims had fought back.

  “I thought you’d like that story.” The embarrassed social worker smoothed out her skirt.

  “What else do you remember?” Shelby said sweetly, wanting desperately to sit in this wonderful woman’s lap.

  “Perhaps another time, dear. I have rounds to do. But let’s keep in touch.”

  “Of course.” Shelby tried to hide her disappointment.

  “There is one other thing,” Irma stood up. “When I heard who they’d brought in this morning…I…this sounds awful. But a part of me was happy it was them.”

  “Are you serious?” Shelby felt as if she’d been stabbed.

  “I know. It makes me sound like a monster, which I assure you I’m not. But you have to understand how much pain your family caused my family.”

  “Excuse me, but I think it was the other way around.” Shelby sniffed.

  “Forget it. I was wrong to say anything. Believe me, I am praying for their recovery.”

  “No wait.” Shelby got up to reach for the woman’s arm. “Please tell me what you meant.”

  Irma seemed surprised by Shelby’s curious expression. “Well, you knew, of course, that your father sued my husband for malpractice and in the process destroyed his reputation.”

  Shelby shook her head no.

  “Needless to say, the case dragged on for years.”

  “Then what happened?” Shelby asked, sorry she didn’t have her notepad handy.

  “In the end he was exonerated. So we thought, okay, now we’re finally going to be able to get on with our lives. Then your father hit him with a million-dollar civil suit.”

  Shelby was clearly thrown. “I knew everything that went on in that house, and trust me, it was more than a ten-year-old should have to know. But I never heard a word about any lawsuit.”

  “Well believe it. It’s why Bernard had a nervous breakdown. Even attempted suicide.”

  “I’m confused.” Shelby collapsed in her seat. “My father refused to let me mourn, or even talk about my mother. Now you’re saying during that whole time he was out for blood?”

  “I apologize. I had no business telling you any of this. You’ve been through enough.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  “No, it was totally unprofessional on my part. I frankly don’t know what got into me.”

  “Forget about it.” Shelby shrugged. “I’ve been known to overdo it myself on occasion.”

  “It’s just…I’ve always wondered if your father had let us move on, maybe Bernard wouldn’t have left medicine. And left….”

  “You?” Shelby finished her sentence.

  Irma nodded.

  “Thank you for coming to see me.” Shelby smiled wistfully.

  “Of course.”
Irma bowed. “I’ll check in with you again tomorrow, if you’d like.”

  “Great.” Shelby watched her head out. “But not too late. I’m flying back to Chicago.”

  “Like hell you are,” Irma muttered when she was out of earshot.

  I may not know much, but of this I’m sure. When Irma Jean Weiner (nee Epstein) is returned to the safe, warm existence from which we all come, she will be ushered in by the angels and bathed with love. And she will be deserving. Not merely because she was compassionate and generous, but because she learned to use her native wit and intellect to overcome great personal problems. Albeit too familiar problems for a doctor’s wife.

  Hers was a textbook case. She not only put her husband through med school, she raised their two sons while Dr. Important built up a small practice that made him so instantly wealthy, he bought the damn building where only two years earlier he was just happy to be able to meet the rent. Oh, and did I mention his philandering and preoccupation with marijuana? He certainly gave new meaning to the expression high-and-mighty.

  Anyway, here was Bernard M. Weiner driving around in his big BMW (just so he could show off his vanity plates boasting the same initials as the car) while Irma drove around town in a red Gremlin she shared with her son. Good old Bernie picked up on a moment’s notice the instant he heard about a challenging new golf course somewhere in the Caribbean. Irma was just happy he didn’t hassle her when she flew down to Miami to visit her mother.

  Then a few months after their younger son Brad’s Bar Mitzvah, Dr. Putz left her for the proverbial young, shikseh nurse and moved to California, where fat, rich, Jewish, middle-aged men with blond babes were as indigenous as avocados. Irma cried for weeks, then cashed in her life insurance policy and returned to college. It took years, but eventually she got her master’s in social work, found gainful employment, put her sons through college, then law school, married them off to two nice girls, baby-sat for her beautiful grandchildren, traveled, and occasionally had dinner with a nice widower she met at her granddaughter’s nursery school picnic.

  Then one day, good old Bernie’s on the phone, crying that his second wife left him. As did his third. Most of his money was gone, burned by a tax shelter deal that went bad. And now the ultimate blow? Test results showed conclusively he had lung cancer. What should he do?