A Little Help from Above

by Saralee Rosenberg

  As far as I’m concerned, the guy got what he deserved, and I would have told him so. But Irma insisted he return to Long Island so she could care for him.

  I know. You think she’s a patsy. The Grand Martyr in the Fools’ Day Parade. But don’t be too quick to judge. What she really is, is wise. For in spite of her suffering, she came out on the other side of the experience having learned a valuable lesson. Bitterness only poisons the soul from which it stems. She would either be consumed whole by anger and resentment or move on.

  Irma chose “B,” which is one reason she will be found deserving of having eternal peace. And the other? You know that little chat she had with Shelby? I loved the part when she said I was one of her favorite patients. Ha! She hated me, and who could blame her? I was so smug, with my Louis Vuitton pocketbooks and professional manicures. Plus, I never had an appointment I kept. I’d call to change them two or three times, then arrive late with apologies to no one. And yet, you heard Irma. She made it sound as though she adored me.

  Then that bit about how I almost choked Bernie to death? Never happened. Not even close because it simply never occurred to me to question him. I guess I was too self-involved and vain to think I could actually have a serious problem. Which, in retrospect, made me no better than he.

  Still, you’ve got to love Irma for lying to win Shelby’s trust. And for understanding the one thing Shelby desperately needed to validate was that her mother was a fighter. Just like her.

  Now here’s the ironic part. Irma’s ex-husband is lying in North Shore where his days are numbered. Only one floor above my husband, whose days may also be numbered, depending on what God has in mind. That means the two men who had more to do with shaping my destiny, and whose own destinies were ultimately and dramatically altered by my death, are now under the very same roof as I when I was fighting for my life.

  Honestly. Who’s writing this script?

  Oh, and something else. Irma was right when she guessed Shelby wouldn’t be leaving yet. Somehow she sensed she wasn’t going anywhere until she came to terms with both these men.

  I do hope there’s time.

  Chapter Eight

  When Shelby awoke the next morning, in a bed and a room that were completely unfamiliar, she only vaguely remembered why. Something about a bad dream involving an accident, a frightening visit to an emergency room, and a bunch of unfortunate reunions with people she didn’t care for, or about. It reminded her of one of those Ann Tyler novels where one insufferably long day in the heroine’s life took seventy-three pages.

  Then she came to. She was back in New York among the people she was connected to by blood and ancestry. It wasn’t a dream or even a decent novel. It was her damn life.

  She opened one eye to slowly take in her surroundings and gasped. Surely this part had to be fictitious. Otherwise, she’d just spent the night in a place where a disciple of Martha Stewart had gone mad. Large, maple furniture and lemon yellow chintz were everywhere. Curtains. Dust ruffles. Tablecloths. Chairs and ottomans. Was she hallucinating again, or had Aunt Roz hired a decorator who was legally blind?

  Shelby inched out of bed to begin a full examination of what she now recalled was the guesthouse. It was more akin to a studio apartment, but she had to admit there was a certain coziness to the place. She especially liked the airy feel of the floor-to-ceiling windows, and the plush, plum-colored carpet under foot. Welcome to Hotel Lazarus, she thought as she made her way to the private bath, which boasted a Jacuzzi tub and a closetful of velvety towels. If there was also maid service, she might never leave.

  Question of the day was, why didn’t she have any recollection of how she’d gotten here? As if that never happened before, she mused. But this time she was certain alcohol had played no part. Maybe if she took a moment to collect herself, the details would surface.

  Shelby was beckoned to a massive, leather chair in the corner, which looked perfectly comfortable save for the bright, yellow gingham throw pillows tucked inside. What decent decorator would mix twentieth-century Haddassah with goyishe country chic?

  As she tucked her legs in, it occurred to her she was still unsure how she ended up asleep here, but she now knew what woke her. A bird convention had assembled outside the window near the bed, and they were so insanely loud, Shelby surmised they were either planning to overthrow the government or visit the in-laws in Miami.

  So how did she get here? Oh, yes. Avi had come to the hospital to retrieve her and Lauren, as neither felt up to driving home. At the house, he dug into a brisket dinner a neighbor left for them in the refrigerator, then took off into the night for a last-minute airport run.

  Shelby then remembered Lauren guiding her down the lighted path to the guesthouse. Once inside, she’d turned on a small Tiffany lamp, pointed out the bathroom and the phone, mentioned something about a migraine, then quickly said good night.

  Now as she stared at the clock on the night table, reality time registered. It was 8:23 A.M. Monday, June 23. The day after the most horrific headline of her life had run: LARRY AND ROZ GET HIT BY A TRUCK; BUT SHELBY’S LIFE IS OVER! Right. The accident. A sudden queasiness churned inside. Had anything happened during the night? Surely Lauren would have woken her if they’d died. Trouble was, and she was even sickening herself thinking this, she really didn’t know what to wish for. She only knew what it was too late to wish for.

  It was too late to wish her number was unlisted so that Lauren wouldn’t have been able to notify her of the accident. It was too late to wish that her father and Aunt Roz were still sedentary couch potatoes so they would have been sleeping instead of jogging. And, it was especially too late to wish that her father never married Aunt Roz at all. Not merely because Shelby detested her cheap, unkempt appearance, but because she was so tired of explaining their unusual relationship.

  “We’re like a Jewish Chinatown,” she cried to her shrink, taking creative license with the famous line from the movie. “She’s my mother, my aunt, my mother, my aunt…”

  But why wish for anything? The way her luck was running, if her ship ever came in, she’d surely be at the airport! The only thing left to consider were the “what-ifs.”

  What if they didn’t survive? What if they did? Scott Rosenthal was probably right. Humpty Dumpty would be easier to put back together. They’d need round-the-clock care, months of physical therapy, operation after operation, pain medication, conferences with specialists…She’d seen this movie thirty years ago and knew the genre didn’t guarantee a happy ending.

  Only difference between the death of her mother and the survival of her father and aunt, was this time she wasn’t as emotionally vested. Not since spending the past two years distancing herself from them, paying thousands in therapy bills to justify the decision.

  It occurred to her that she might be entitled to a refund if she now had to pay for reverse emotional osmosis or additional hypnosis sessions. How else would she summon the empathy she’d need to stomach whatever happened next? Hold that thought, she groaned. Someone was at the door. “C’mon in,” she called out. “I’m up.”

  Lauren peeked inside. “How’d you sleep?” she asked.

  “Great,” Shelby stretched. “You?”

  “Not a wink. I think I was afraid to fall asleep in case the phone rang.”

  “And? Did it?”

  Lauren shook her head.

  “So that’s a good sign. Right? They must still be alive.”

  “Oh my God, Shelby! What is wrong with you?” She turned and headed out the door.

  “What did I say?” Shelby found her slippers and ran after her.

  Lauren kept walking, refusing to answer.

  “Get a grip on yourself, would you?” Shelby caught up just in time for Lauren to slam the kitchen door in her face. “I only meant that we should be happy…” She stopped short, taken aback by the sight of a tiny, black woman removing fresh cinnamon rolls from the oven.

  “Care for one?” the woman delicately dropped a hot, melte
d bun on a plate.

  I’d kill for one, she thought. “No thanks. They’re loaded with fat, carbs, and sugar.”

  “I didn’t ask about the food groups, dear. I just asked if you’d like to try one. They’re your sister’s favorite.”

  “What isn’t?” Shelby sniffed.

  Lauren’s eyes welled up. “Stop it, okay? I can’t take your being so mean to me right now.”

  “Fine. I just don’t remember you being so touchy.”

  “Come here, baby.” The woman offered Lauren a hug. “Shhh. There now. It’s okay.”

  Shelby took a step back on the slim chance that she was going to be invited into the group hug. And what was with everyone treating Lauren like she was an emotional cripple? “I’m mildly curious.” She tapped the woman on the shoulder. “Who are you?”

  “Name’s Maria.” The woman began arranging the rest of the rolls on a ceramic tray.

  “Name’s familiar.” Shelby copied the attitude. “Didn’t I fire you yesterday?”

  “Shelby!” Lauren cried.

  “It’s all right, baby.” Maria stood erect, then looked straight at Shelby. “I have a saying. He who hires me is the only one who fires me. I’ve been with your folks a good number of years…”

  Lauren ran to throw her arm around the woman. “And she’s like family to us.”

  “You’re joking. Someone would actually volunteer to be in this family?”

  “She’s all yours, dearie,” Maria remarked. “I’ll be upstairs. It should be safer there.”

  “Thanks.” Lauren waved. “Oh, by the way. Avi and I will be staying in their room. Be a doll and strip the bed?”

  “With pleasure, sugar.” Maria reached for a dust rag and whistled out.

  “Sugar, doll, dearie, honey child,” Shelby mimicked. “You need insulin to be around her.”

  Lauren pulled out a chair and quietly munched on a sticky bun.

  Shelby was all too familiar with the silent treatment in this house but as always, ignored it. “Why are you staying here? I thought you said you have a place.”

  Lauren bit her lip, tearing the remains of her roll into a few pieces.

  “Oh please. Not this game. It won’t play well at the funeral.”

  Lauren looked at her, her eyes still moist from the last cry. “Shut the hell up.”

  Whoa. Lauren used a curse word? “Fine. I’m sorry. Let’s start over.” Shelby spotted fresh coffee. She was saved. One large cup, and she could stave off hunger for hours. “Good morning. How are you? Have we heard from the hospital? Maria’s here? Excellent. At least we’ll get clean towels and mints on the pillow. Did you happen to notice she’s black, but the one who was here yesterday was Latino? How can they be sisters? Sisters look alike. Like me and you.”

  Lauren tried to hide a smile. “Trust me. They’re sisters, okay? Maria’s the oldest of six girls. Kaneesha’s the youngest.”

  “No way. The black one has a Spanish name and vice versa?”

  “They’re lovely people, that’s all I know. Maybe they had the same mother and different fathers. Or, maybe they’re like us and Eric. Different parents, but still a family.”

  Shelby bristled at the reference to their adopted, drug-dependent stepbrother, and out of disgust, grabbed the last bit of roll from Lauren’s plate.

  “What? Reporter Barbie’s eating? Call a press conference.”

  “Good one.” Shelby opened the refrigerator and grabbed a yogurt. “But for your information I eat plenty. I just stay away from all the crap.”

  “I could too if I used all my kitchen cabinets to store shoes and pocketbooks.”

  Shelby cleared her throat. She’d forgotten Lauren had once visited her place. “What can I tell you? I have very limited closet space. But at least I don’t put on, oh say, twenty pounds a year?”

  “Is that what you think? That I just sit here all day and pig out? For your information, there’s a very good reason I look like this.”

  “You became a professional boxer and had to bulk up for the championship fight?”

  Ding! Just as if the fight might really begin, the bell rang. Or at least the phone. Lauren and Shelby looked at each other. Who was brave enough to answer?

  “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot?” Shelby poked Lauren’s arm.

  “Wimp.” Lauren got up to answer. “Oh hi, Dr. Glavin.”

  Shelby groaned. “Tell her I just had a six-course breakfast. And good news. My arteries are starting to close.”

  “Shelby says to tell you she’s feeling much better,” Lauren said. “And thank you so much for your concern.”

  Shelby heard enough and headed back to the guesthouse. Hopefully the birds had found somewhere else to congregate, or she was going to turn into the Great White Hunter. For what she needed now was complete silence. It was important decision time.

  It was nearly eight o’clock back in Chicago. Normally at this hour she’d be in her office preparing for a staff meeting, so in just a few minutes her absence would be apparent. Particularly since as VP, Cynicism, her job was to bring comic relief to the proceedings. No Shelby? No wisecracks. Not that the other reporters weren’t thinking what she said. They were just too green and timid to speak up. God, they were graduating them young these days.

  In any event she needed a plan. Not only had she not yet accounted for her whereabouts yesterday, she needed a better-than-average reason why she wouldn’t be in today. Then again, would her managing editor give a shit? Sadly, yes. Walter Sipowicz was one of the rare breed of newspapermen with a big heart and an office that doubled as a confessional, remnants of his first career as a Jesuit priest. He was also as flexible as a gymnast when it came to story assignments. There were only two things that mattered to him. Honesty and good attendance.

  Two things that meant a hill of beans to Shelby. So where did that leave her? Telling him the truth? Bad idea. She’d have to explain why she’d always led him to believe she was practically an orphan, with her only living relative a senile grandmother in a nursing home. How did you just suddenly remember you also had a father, stepmother, sister, stepbrother, and various crazy aunts and uncles?

  Maybe she should go back to her original idea and send him an e-mail that she was sick. Then he’d never know she was out of town. But that wouldn’t work. Walter was actually known to visit under-the-weather employees.

  Shelby had no choice. She would have to lie. Maybe she’d tell him that she got a hot tip on a story coming out of New York that would be perfect for her column. Yes, that was it. She was following a lead that two Chicago aldermen were siphoning millions of dollars in coins from parking meters, and were using the money to buy into a new Donald Trump development. Lord knows it was probably true.

  But more importantly, Walter loved stories that knocked politicians off their fat, Chicago arses, as he liked to say. And he’d be so proud of her dedication, that she cared more about her responsibilities as a journalist than going to a silly baseball game to rub elbows with Irving Davidoff and the boys.

  Which two aldermen though? She tapped her fingers on the night table as she dialed the office. Were there any not already under suspicion for scurrilous acts of taxpayer betrayal? “Hey, Ginny. It’s Shelby. I know Walter’s in a staff meeting, but I need you to pull him out for a minute. It’s really important…”

  “Where the hell are you?” Ginny screamed. “I can’t believe you of all people aren’t here. It’s just awful what they’re doing!”

  “Whoa, slow down. Start from the beginning. Who, what, where, when…”

  It was another one of those times Shelby was sorry she asked. By the time she hung up, her hands were quivering, and her mouth was dry. These past twenty-four hours simply had to be a nightmare. Otherwise, her family was in the middle of a life-and-death crisis, and her employer had just gone on a Monday morning massacre.

  Sixteen staffers were being reassigned, and twenty-two others were in the midst of getting walking papers, including the nicest guy in the worl
d, Walter Sipowicz. Probably because he was the nicest guy in the world, Shelby bit her lip. How many times had she warned him not to be such a pushover? And what would he do for income? He had two kids in college and a wife just diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

  Shelby was taken aback by her feelings of concern. Was it a sign of aging that she was suddenly mellowing? Or was she just so frazzled from the events of the past two days that she wasn’t quite herself? But enough about him. What was her job status?

  Ginny said she heard a few rumors, but was more concerned with the fate of her own job, status unknown. “All I know is the newsroom looks like a front-page story: DISGRUNTLED PUBLISHER GOES ON RAMPAGE. Everyone’s walking around in shock.”

  “Take down my number,” the shell-shocked columnist said. “And call me back if you find out anything else.” Not that she hadn’t heard all she needed to know. Ian McNierney, the prophet of doom, had just hit another bull’s-eye. Only yesterday he’d told her heads would roll, and even though she’d been privy to the same rumors, she’d been positive he was way off base.

  Shelby was so deep in thought when the phone rang, she jumped, knocking her water glass off the table. No way could Ginny be reporting in with new news. They’d just hung up.

  She took a deep breath. “Hello?”

  “Shelby, it’s Walter. Is that you? Where are you?”

  “Yes, hi. I’m in New York. What the hell is going on?”

  “As if you didn’t know,” he snarled. “No wonder you didn’t show up at Wrigley yesterday. I just can’t believe you left me in the dark.”

  “What are you talking about? I just happened to call in, and Ginny told me what was going on. I’m shocked.”

  “Bullcrap! You could have at least hinted not to throw out the Sunday classifieds.”

  “Walter, I swear on my life. I’m as shocked as you. The only reason I’m not in the office is yesterday morning I got a call from my sister that my father and stepmother got run over by some blind guy in a landscaper’s truck. I ran to O’Hare and caught the next flight out.”