“Is she all right?”
“Right as rain, thanks to you. It was really smart of you to take Mom to a doctor. I had no idea she was sick. Physically, I mean. We all know she’s not right in the head. But she was even loonier than usual.”
“I took her to a geriatric psychiatrist, and he figured it out even before the lab tests came back.”
“Who would guess that a bladder infection could cause a personality change?” Amanda shook her head.
“He said it was common in the elderly. He also tagged her as a sterling example of a narcissist.” It felt reassuring to be chatting about Mom with Amanda, comforting in a way. My younger sister had avoided me for years thinking I was living the good life while she took care of Mom, but recent events gave us both a better appreciation for each other and our trials.
“I looked it up once, and she fit all the criteria.”
Amanda gave me the smirk she’d perfected when we were young. We looked a lot alike, although her hair was less curly than mine, her face more oval, and her eyes a truer blue. “Didn’t it ever occur to you that both our parents were nuts? Surely you’ve figured that out by now. I’ve been in therapy for years. My counselor tells me I’m a survivor, and I know you had it worse than me. Speaking of surviving, you’ll need to take it slow at first.”
“Right.”
“Lucky you, I’ll be around to help.”
“You will? How long are you planning to stay?”
She studied the ceiling. “Indefinitely. See, I plan to move here. Actually, it was either that or be unemployed. My boss retired, and the partners in his law firm closed their Arizona office. Fortunately, I had a contact here in the St. Louis area, and they’ve offered me a job. I’m moving to the area. Weird, isn’t it? That we’d both wind up in the same city?” She looked me in the eye. “If that’s all right by you, I mean.”
“Of course it is. I’d be happy to have you nearby.”
“We don’t have to live in each other’s pockets.”
“Amanda, I welcome the chance for us to be close again.”
She reached out and squeezed my fingers.
“How does Mom feel about all this? Moving? She’s not much for change.”
“She doesn’t know anything about the move, not yet. If she doesn’t want to move with me, and live with me again, she can find her own place.”
“I’m betting she’ll tag along with you.” I paused. “I don’t have room for her at my house.”
“Don’t I know it. Lucky, lucky you.”
four
“Good news. We found Brenda Detweiler’s Camry. Unfortunately, Brenda wasn’t in it.” After delivering a courtesy knock on my door, Police Chief Robbie Holmes strode into my hospital room, carrying his police cap in his big hands, his presence foreshadowed by his Aramis cologne. He pulled up the visitor’s chair, a beige molded plastic seat with metal legs.
“I’m confused. The Post Dispatch says Brenda is in custody,” I said. I had given in and read the article after Amanda left.
“The reporter got it wrong.” Robbie’s large frame dwarfed the chair.
“Does it matter?” Now that he didn’t have my daughter in tow, I could give full vent to my anger. He’d ignored my warning that Brenda Detweiler’s behavior was getting more and more erratic by the day. If he’d have listened to me, this could have been prevented. Instead, he’d passed over my worries with a patronizing platitude that the problem was between the two of us “girls,” treating the violent incidents involving Brenda like small discourtesies.
“I suppose I deserved that. You tried to tell me she was dangerous. I didn’t listen. I made a mistake. Will you accept my apology?”
His quick admission of guilt surprised me, and so impressed me that I rolled toward him and quickly answered, “Yes. Of course.”
“Good. A farmer found Brenda’s car in a field a few miles from here. Seems she’d run out of gas. Probably walked home after leaving it behind.” Robbie’s voice, always booming, dropped to a near whisper.
“So you think you’ve found her?”
“No, but she couldn’t have gone far. And she isn’t at her parents’ house. Her mother, Carla, claims she hasn’t seen her. The woman is hysterical and had to be sedated. We’ll get her in for questioning. Maybe give her a lie detector test. I’m not sure I believe they weren’t in contact. But I would guess that Brenda’s hiding out at a friend’s house. Seeing as how she’s from southern Illinois, she has all sorts of resources. But law enforcement officials on both sides of the river are actively looking for her, and she doesn’t have any money. Chad notified the bank to cut off her funds. Even if she hitchhikes, she won’t get far. Besides, as you know, she’s high most of the time. Either she’ll need to visit a dealer to get more drugs or she’ll run out of dope and do something stupid and obvious. Then we’ll catch her.”
“Did you check with the Detweiler family? Detweiler’s sister Patty Kressig and Brenda are BFF.”
“BFF ? What does that mean?”
“Best Friends Forever.” I looked past him to study the spindly maple tree planted outside my window. Four stakes held the sapling upright. I might need similar help returning to a vertical position. Especially since I wasn’t getting any rest.
“Right. I think it’s safe to say that Patricia Detweiler Kressig isn’t interested in continuing their relationship. Not after the stunt Brenda pulled, drugging her brother and kidnapping you. We’ve been in contact with Brenda’s father, Milton Kloss. He’s been up in Chicago this whole time for meetings with the Republican Party. You know, he’s running for State Representative, and he’s been attending a mandatory get together to discuss campaign strategy for would-be candidates. The Illinois authorities are checking cell phone records on both parents as we speak.”
“What do you plan to do when you find Brenda? Treat her with kid gloves like the princess she is?” The lack of sleep and the pain made me snippy. “Or are you planning to bring Brenda here so she and I can ‘talk it out’? Isn’t that what you suggested we do when I warned you she’d lost her mind?”
After the words were out, I marveled at my own audacity. It was not like me to give Robbie Holmes grief. I liked the man. Liked him a lot. I had watched his love change Sheila Lowenstein from a cold, bitter woman into a loving one. As he’d become a fixture in her household, I’d learned how seriously Robbie took his responsibilities. I gained insight into the difficult political arena in which he carried out his duties. Watching him with Anya, I’d heard about how kind he was, how warm and caring, to a pre-teen who was his “new granddaughter”—at least that was how Robbie introduced people to my daughter.
I’m rarely nasty to anyone, but then again, I’ve never had to shoot a man in cold blood. I was certainly turning over a new leaf ! At this rate, I was becoming a whole new species of plant life.
“No. I’m not planning to bring her here.” His sigh was audible. “In fact, we’ve posted fliers with her photo at every local hospital and convenience store. Your caregivers know not to let her anywhere near you.”
“Thanks.”
“Since this is a continuation of your husband’s murder case, I’ll be taking your statement.” Reaching into his back pocket, he removed a Steno pad. Where he found one I’ll never know because they’re a scarce commodity these days, but the greenish cover was familiar to me from my two years in college as a journalist major. His pen poised over the lined pages.
“Now start at the beginning.”
five
Going through all that had happened was harder than I would have guessed. Especially when I got to the part about killing Bill Ballard. Robbie finally left, but I was too upset to rest.
Nurse Ned came back a few minutes later and took my pulse. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I brushed the tears off my face.
“You’ve had enough visitors, darlin�
�. Time for you to take a nap.”
Somehow I knew I was safe under his protective eyes, so I wiggled down under the sheets. Ned tucked me in. “Sweet dreams,” he said as he turned out the light.
Even when I’m stressed—or particularly when I’m stressed—I eat, so later when the orderly brought the battered plastic tray with my lunch selection, I chowed down. I ate the overcooked Salisbury steak, the watery green beans, the limp lettuce salad with streamers of carrots. When I finished, I faced the wall and fell asleep again.
I woke up to a soft light that bathed the vinyl blinds in a golden glow. Dust motes rose and fell, dancing a slow waltz. The slats were canted enough for me to watch a watercolor portrait of the sunset, indistinct yet softly vibrant. A peacefulness settled over me, like a benediction. The ache in my throat had eased.
I was not alone. I could feel that someone was sitting beside my bed, behind me.
What now? Who else has come to bug me?
That piece of steak sat heavily in my stomach. A powerful thirst nagged at me. The scent of roses filled the air.
Maybe if I ignore my visitor, he or she will go away.
The thirst won out. I fought it as long as I could, then rolled over to find Rabbi Sarah, dozing in the visitor’s chair, her chin nearly resting on her chest. Her thick, black curls tumbled over her shoulders. Her hands folded in her lap, the slender fingers knotted at the joints. She suffered from an extreme sort of arthritis, a crippling disease. However, she never let it stand in the way of her duties. The joke around temple was that Rabbi Sarah wouldn’t die. Instead, a chariot drawn by heavenly horses and driven by Michael the Archangel would come down and invite her to her reward. Although her face always looked drawn and tired, her spirit energized the entire congregation. To me, she was the epitome of what a spiritual leader should be: compassionate, knowledgeable, humble, loving, inspirational, and a role model. She lifted all of us congregants up, encouraging us to a higher standard of behavior.
Her lashes fluttered and those huge brown eyes focused on me. “I must have dozed off. Did you see these red roses? They came for you while you were sleeping.” She handed me the card, and I read, “Love you with all my heart—D.”
“How are you?” Rabbi Sarah asked.
“Better now that you’re here. Thank you for coming. I know how busy you are.”
She smiled, a gentle incomplete grin that belied her worries. “Ned, your nurse, called me. Of course I would come. Care to tell me what’s going on? Let’s get a pot of tea, shall we?”
To my surprise, she rang the call button and asked for a pot of chamomile and two cups. I didn’t know you could order anything! I’d assumed the uninviting photocopied sheet with the menu was all the hospital had to offer. The expression on my face must have given away my astonishment.
Rabbi Sarah laughed, a sound as cheerful as hand bells ringing. “Being a rabbi has its privileges. Not many, but enough to share. How are you feeling? They tell me you can go home tomorrow. How’s your head?”
I reported I was fine. My headaches bothered me intermittently, but they were nothing I couldn’t deal with.
A woman in a white uniform knocked twice, entered when Rabbi Sarah opened the door, and set a handsome walnut tray on the metal serving arm that hovered over my bed.
“Thank you, Eugenia,” Rabbi Sarah nodded to the woman with the coffee-colored skin. “This looks grand.”
The server reached over to hug the rabbi. “For you, ma’am, anything.”
Astonishing.
I watched Eugenia reluctantly take leave of us.
“She needed help with housing a few years ago. I went to an agency and interceded on her behalf. You can’t believe the hoops they ask people to jump through. While I understand the need to monitor usage, and to vet applicants, when a person is hurting any effort is a gargantuan task, and energy is difficult to come by. I paved the way, and she’s been grateful.”
That was so like Rabbi Sarah. Her spiritual jurisdiction knew no bounds. Although Montefiore Temple was on the other side of the river, Rabbi Sarah’s mandate was simple: to serve. Stories about her humanity were legion, like the one about the time she caught two boys vandalizing her car. Instead of turning them in to the police, she worked to fund and staff an afterschool program to keep kids off the streets.
Rabbi Sarah poured us both a cup of tea. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave anything out, all right?”
It was quite a data dump—and this time it came easily. I started by explaining how Bill Ballard had sent me threatening postcards, phone calls, and so on. How there were unexplained happenings, such as the time I came home to find a “bloody” pelt on my porch that led me to believe my beloved dog, Gracie, had been skinned. Then I moved on to tell her how he’d avoided prosecution by lying about the time he’d held me at gunpoint. I shared the fact he’d moved most of the money from the business he co-owned with my husband—Dimont Development—into accounts in the Cayman Islands. How I couldn’t get at the funds that were rightfully mine. Finally, I outlined the events of the past few weeks. Bill’s reappearance in the St. Louis metro area. His vow to make me pay. The plot that Johnny Chambers and Police Chief Robbie Holmes hatched to entrap Bill. It involved me having a mock fight with Johnny, a public disagreement, so that Bill would hire Johnny to hurt me.
I backtracked a little, explaining my relationship with Detective Chad Detweiler, his crazy wife Brenda, and my pregnancy.
Rabbi Sarah said nothing except to nod or ask me to clarify a point.
“Robbie and Detweiler told me over and over that I’d never be at risk. I mean, I agreed he should wait on the divorce so that Brenda can go through rehab, and what happens? She decides to kill me!”
Rabbi Sarah’s gentle smile crinkled the corners of her eyes. “No good deed goes unpunished, right? Except there are also great rewards, aren’t there? I’ve been to see Sheila.”
“How is she?”
“Fine, but exhausted and in pain. We could only talk for a minute. She told me about how you shot Bill Ballard. She’s thankful you did what you did. She owes you her life.”
“I’m scared to death about what people will think of me. I’m not a bad person!” I protested. “I’m not a natural born killer! Heck,
I don’t even eat red meat very often. Well, I did at lunch because that was one of the menu offerings. But normally, I don’t! I mean, I know I did the wrong thing to shoot him, but what other choice did I have? How can I live with myself ?”
To her credit, she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she poured us both a second cup of tea.
“I know you never converted, but I consider you one of my flock, so to speak. You are like Ruth; you chose to follow your husband’s family. Let me tell you what rabbinical law says, because I believe that will comfort you. You see, we believe that if you do not take a stand against an aggressor, you are partially responsible for the evil he does. We also teach that to stand by and let someone harm you or others would make you culpable. Furthermore, in Exodus, we learn that if a pregnant woman is killed, the assailant must be put to death because he has also murdered her child. So, according to our ways and our laws, you had no other choice but to act as you did.”
The tea calmed me, as did her words, but I still felt guilty, dirty, and foul. I told her so. “In the movies, people are rescued. The cops always arrive in the nick of time. Maybe if I had waited, maybe they could have stopped Bill.”
“That might have happened. Or one of them or both of the cops could have been killed.”
“Yes, but …”
Rabbi Sarah set down her teacup and took both my hands in hers. Her eyes searching mine, not allowing me to hide. “Let’s look at this another way. I want you to imagine that Anya was there. That she stood at the scene and saw Johnny bleeding to death. Her grandmother being strangled. Her mother threatened. Let’s say that she had a gun. That she
shot Bill Ballard. That she feels this overwhelming sense of responsibility and guilt for what she did. What if she came to you and said that she could never get over what she’d done? What if she believed she could no longer live among decent people because she had blood on her hands? What would you say to her?”
This shook me to my core. “Anya? My daughter? Are you kidding? I’d fall on my knees and thank her. I’d tell her how proud I was of her being brave! I’d tell her we ought to celebrate her survival!”
Rabbi Sarah nodded. “Then the real question here, the one we’re grappling with, isn’t whether what you did was right or wrong. The problem is … why don’t you think you have a right to live? What’s wrong with you, Kiki Lowenstein, that you can only take blame, not accept gratitude for saving your own life? And the lives of others?”
six
Rabbi Sarah’s last words to me were, “Remember: When you beat yourself up unnecessarily, you are being self-indulgent. You are wallowing in self-pity, not in remorse. If you start to question your part in all this, run the scene again. Put the gun in Anya’s hands. That will get you thinking straight.”
After she left, I stared up at the ceiling for a long, long time, noticing thin cobwebs fluttering around the fluorescent light fixture. When I started to feel guilty, I did as Rabbi Sarah said. I put Anya in my place.
And when I did, I knew I wouldn’t blame Anya for Bill Ballard’s death. I would celebrate Anya’s courage.
The stainless steel railing around my bed distorted my features. The flesh-toned bandage stuck out like a mismatched bumper on a car. But the eyes that stared back into my own were calm, steady.
If I gave in to despair, Bill Ballard won.
I wasn’t about to let that turkey win. Not now. Not ever.
Maybe the time for beating myself up was over. Maybe it was time for me to move on. To grow up and realize that, as Amanda had said, our parents were nuts. What they had told me about myself was untrue. I wasn’t a mistake any more than Anya was or this baby would be. Sure, the timing of my arrival might have been inconvenient, but I was definitely supposed to be here.
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