The Murderer's Daughters Part 14

"Doctor Zachariah?" Doug took my arm. "Should I get someone?"

"What kind of place is this?" The patient advanced toward me. "f.u.c.k this s.h.i.+t."

I ran.

The women's room seemed miles away. I needed to pee so bad I didn't know if I could make it. People lining the hall backed away as I raced past them, their concerned faces barely registering.

"Doctor Zachariah," Doug yelled as I turned the corner, closing in on the bathroom. I felt like I was running in slow motion, as if I'd never get anywhere.

I could barely lock the stall door with my shaking hands. Voices, too loud, a.s.saulted me. Doug's and others.

Are you okay?

Louise, do you need anything?

What's wrong?

Their words were miles away. I flushed the toilet and sat back down, lowering my head to my knees. It's just a panic attack, I told myself, mentally listing as many symptoms as I could remember: palpitations, sweating, shaking, choking sensations, smothering sensations, derealization, depersonalization, paresthesia, urgently needing to urinate or defecate.

Feeling as though someone would die.

Smelling anger.

My father's hot metal smell flicked out at me from that hot July day. If I'd stayed, would Mama be alive? Would I be dead?

Why had I gone so slowly to Teenie? Why hadn't I flown to her apartment?

"Security's going to take off the door if you don't come out, Louise."

The determined voice brought me back. She sounded familiar.

"No," I croaked. "Okay. I'm okay. Just got sick." I slowly stood and unlocked the stall door. The harried-looking charge nurse watched me with arms folded.

I ran my hand over my mouth, pretending I'd been sick, and went to the sink. I splashed water on my face. My heart beat too fast. My breathing remained ragged. Too bad knowing what these symptoms represented didn't make them go away. I reached down as far as I thought I could and pulled out a few words. "Flu. Sudden. Can barely stand."

"Do you need help?" The charge nurse seemed suspicious.

I shook my head. "I'll phone a cab."

"I can drive you," Doug said. He stood in the doorway, unwilling to breach the entry to the women's bathroom.

"Stay. They need you." I wrapped my arms around myself.

"I'll get you that taxi," the nurse said.

My messy studio offered comfort. For once, I didn't care that it had been weeks since I'd had time to clean. I was safe here. I threw off my coat and collapsed on the unmade bed, burrowing my face deep into the pillow. Long-buried emotions rose, and I bit down on my hand to keep from screaming, from seeing my mother's bones in the dusty ground.

I'd hated her for yelling, for sending me to the store, for not making supper, for not being soft and understanding. For not knowing that I existed until she needed something.

Play with your sister.

Bring the ironing to Teenie.

Save my life.

I hated myself for having hated her.

Maybe my hate had helped Daddy kill Mama. Why hadn't I jumped on Daddy's back? Thrown myself in front of him? Screamed at him? Why hadn't I opened my mouth instead of hiding in the bathroom? Merry ran out to them. I didn't go in even when Mama screeched. He has a knife. Get Teenie! He's going to kill me.

Had Mama said that? Did I remember it right, or was I imagining the words? Had Mama said he was going to kill her? Why hadn't I gotten between them?

What if he'd killed Merry?

Why hadn't he killed himself?

Why hadn't I saved anyone?

The next morning when I returned to work, I explained away the disappearing flu by renaming it food poisoning. At least I'd gotten a decent night's sleep, although it took NyQuil-the closest thing I had to a narcotic-to put me out.

After s.h.i.+ft, I'd allotted my first night off in two weeks to seeing Merry, now a senior at Northeastern in Boston. She'd asked me to meet her because she needed money, and, naturally, she was twenty minutes late. I stared at the restaurant door, checking my watch every three minutes. Cold fear took over after half an hour. By the time she walked into Rubin's deli, I wanted to scream my head off.

"Where have you been? Why are you late this time?" I asked, though Merry's bloodshot eyes and unwashed hair told me exactly why she was late.

"The trolley's on Sunday schedule. I had to wait forever." She fell into the wooden chair across from me. "I need coffee."

"You need a keeper," I said. "You look like s.h.i.+t."

"Thanks. It's always a comfort to get your support. I've been studying for finals all week." She dug into her bag, rummaging around until she pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

"Could you wait until I'm finished eating?" I pulled the pack of Marlboros from Merry's hand. "Did you study in a bar last night?" I picked up my thick corned beef sandwich and took a large and deliberate bite.

"Blech," Merry said. "That looks disgusting."

"Staring at your ratty hair while I eat isn't exactly a treat."

"Why do you have to be so mean?"

"Why can't you treat yourself better?"

Merry took a pack of matches off the table and began ripping them out one by one. "Sorry everyone can't be a saint like you." She grabbed my thick white coffee mug and took a sip. "Ick, you put sugar in. When did you start that?"

I leaned over the table and s.n.a.t.c.hed back my cup. "When I started having to wait for my sister after I've been working insane s.h.i.+fts for weeks and my sister doesn't show up on time and my blood sugar drops so low that I'm forced to load three sugars in my coffee. Does that answer your question?"

Merry slumped. "The trolley really was running slow."

"You should leave more time on a Sunday, knowing it's a slower schedule." Pent-up anger made me want to shake her until she listened, really listened to me. Terrible things happened in this world. She should remember that, instead of pretending everything was just fine. I hated her reeking of cigarettes, and I hated her clothes holding the memory of beer.

"I'm twenty-one now. When are you going to stop criticizing me?"

"When will you stop coming to me to be rescued?" I reached down and grabbed the old suede bag I'd been carrying since Anne gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. Anne had said the bittersweet chocolate color matched my eyes. I remembered being surprised by her poetic turn of phrase and, even more, by her knowing the color of my eyes.

The familiar feeling of not being nice enough to Anne rushed in. She'd tried so hard, and I'd been a b.i.t.c.h. I poked at the thought, wiggling the pain like a nagging toothache. Merry stared down at her hands, as if waiting for more of my criticisms. Instead, I reached into my bag and took out my wallet, grabbing five twenties fresh from the bank.

"Take it," I said when she didn't reach for the bills. "I gave you a hundred."

"I only asked for fifty." Merry sipped at the steaming black coffee the waiter had slid to her, swiftly and smiling, far different from the att.i.tude with which he'd carried over my sandwich and cooled-off coffee. All Merry had to do was glance at a man and the shower of nourishment began.

I placed the bills down on the gritty tabletop and pushed them toward her. The old couple at the next table glanced over. "Take it," I repeated. "I can't stand the idea of you going around without money."

"Don't worry. When I graduate in May, you'll never have to worry about me again."

I took my sister's hand, folding the bills in and squeezing. Feeling guilty. When I'd graduated from college, the Cohens had sent me touring from Italy to France to the Greek islands. Even as I made fun of the tour guide and my fellow travelers from some Upper West Side young adult synagogue group, I'd lived in the moment for the first time in my life. n.o.body knew me. I could be anyone. That's probably why I finally lost my virginity, which by then I wore like a giant scarlet V.

David Stern, one of the temple's tour team leaders, with his thick, dark hair and a wide-open smile, looked like a cla.s.sic handsome bar mitzvah boy, despite it having been ten years since he'd stood at the bimah-the synagogue prayer altar-and read the haftarah. Even though we all lived out of backpacks the entire trip, his blue s.h.i.+rts and tan chinos seemed freshly pressed. He opened doors and made sure everyone had returned to the bus before we left each stop.

When Mindy Grossman drank absinthe and started puking, David brought her chamomile tea and found French saltines for her hangover. Like me, he was about to start medical school. Unlike me, David had been raised clean and adored, swaddled in love and high expectations.

The first time David and I made love, a golden Jewish star dangled from his neck, swinging above me, and all I could think of was headstones being unveiled-my mother's, my grandmother's. I wished he would have taken the star off, but I didn't know how to ask. We broke up, and Mindy Grossman enjoyed his vigorous lovemaking through the Greek islands.

David had been a great graduation present. What would my Merry get? Doctor Cohen had barely stayed in touch with us after Merry began college, other than paying the bills. Any semblance of our so-called family relations.h.i.+p with the Cohens had ended when he started dating. Merry's present would come from me, and she wouldn't be going on any trips to Europe. If I were lucky, I'd be able to buy her a Timex.

Merry pushed the money back at me. "You can't afford this much, and anyway, I don't deserve it. I'm a brat. I'm late, I'm rude, I smoke, and I drink." She stuck her chin out. "Don't you just want to cut me loose? Don't you ever think maybe you could just get on with your life like a normal person?"

"We're normal." I started scratching lines on my arm. "Nothing can make us separate, Merry. Don't ever talk like that."

"You can't guarantee anything."

"Yes," I said. "I can. We have control of our lives, Merry. Don't forget that."

15.

Lulu May 1987 By spring, I feared my control was slipping. I finally understood how people fell asleep at the wheel. I was terrified of nodding off while putting in an IV. Marta kept reminding me about Ron's party that night, but I'd have been satisfied spending the night watching Dynasty. Our interns.h.i.+p ended in five hours, and I'd be happy spending every hour in the Neuro Step-down Unit, sitting in Mr. Vincent's room, enjoying the food his wife brought to the hospital.

The Vincents had been married for fifty-five years, and Mrs. Vincent was determined to keep her husband alive. Hour after hour, she held his hand, craned her neck to watch the mounted television, and fed the staff. She and her son arrived at the hospital each day by ten, her son carrying a cardboard box stuffed with newspaper for insulation. Inside the box were Tupperware containers filled with warm comfort food, daily variations of ravioli, lasagna, and roasted eggplant. The list seemed endless. In addition, her son carried a plastic bag slung over his shoulder crammed with cannoli and cookies from her cousin's bakery.

"h.e.l.lo, Mrs. Vincent," I said, walking into the room. "Hi, Mr. Vincent. How are you feeling today?"

"Look, Joe, it's Doctor Zachariah." Mrs. Vincent tenderly wiped a line of drool off her husband's mouth. "We're watching the news. Joe loves the news. Right, Joe?"

Mr. Vincent smiled and nodded, as he did at everything. Mrs. Vincent took his happy expressions as signs that he'd recover from his stroke despite the gloomy reports from his neurologist.

"Hungry, sweetheart?" She reached into a wrinkled Jordan Marsh shopping bag.

I dropped into the chair next to her. "Starved." I'd been seeing patients since arriving Sat.u.r.day morning. It was now past seven Sunday evening.

Mrs. Vincent made up a paper plate with lasagna. The food was cold, but I didn't care. She handed me a plastic fork and a folded napkin. I rolled my eyes in deep pleasure as I took a mouthful of the sweet-spicy-meaty dish.

Somewhere during my interns.h.i.+p, food had replaced s.e.x as my source of tension release. Having time for bouts of aerobic s.e.x seemed part of another life, in the relatively easier world of medical school, relatively meaning, of course, how in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

A strand of pasta fell on my white coat, blending with the blood just spit up by my patient down the hall. I picked up the noodle and, for a moment, almost considered eating it. I dabbed my jacket with a napkin, succeeding in making the small blood spot into a saucer-size red smear that would no doubt be visible from Mars.

"Here, here, take this." Mrs. Vincent held out a moist towelette. "Are you trying to terrify your patients?"

"They should be scared," I said. "Do you know how long I've been here?"

Mrs. Vincent snorted. "Big deal, look at Joe. You get to go home. He never leaves. You'll be fine. Be happy you're young and healthy. Strong girl like you, you can handle everything. Just make sure to have a cannoli, you need the sugar."

Mrs. Vincent was one smart cookie. Didn't her husband get the best care in the place? Who'd be cra.s.s enough to leave without doing a little something for Mr. Vincent-listen to his heart, do a little eye check, a squeeze test-after eating Mrs. Vincent's lasagna? I struggled not to fall asleep as I ate and watched the national news, keeping my eyes open by playing the FQ game, f.u.c.kability quotient, deciding if Peter Jennings was f.u.c.kable. This had recently become the new craze for Cabot interns, determining who was worth bedding. We judged movie stars, hospital staff, presidents, everyone but patients. Ethics still played a role in our lives.

FQ got us through. If we couldn't have s.e.x, we'd pretend. During our fifteen-minute cafeteria meals, we'd throw out names for the FQ, though never obvious choices, like Richard Gere or Demi Moore. We'd offer people like Gorbachev or Nancy Reagan, forcing decisions among each other.

Peter Jennings was too easy; they'd laugh me out. Obviously, Jennings was eminently screwable. How rude would it be to ask Mrs. Vincent to change the channel? I needed to find someone different, someone under the radar.

"Coffee? My son brought in a thermos." Mrs. Vincent held up an empty cardboard cup. I salivated at the idea of her not-hospital coffee, especially as I considered going to the end-of-interns.h.i.+p party instead of my usual posts.h.i.+ft sleep.

"Thank you. I'd love coffee."

"Wonderful. By the way, I think Joe's pulse is a little high."

Ron Young, my former anatomy and study group partner, hosted the party in the two-family in Dorchester he'd inherited from his folks. His father had been a carpenter and had rebuilt the home from the bas.e.m.e.nt up. Every corner had another inviting specialty-built-in bookcases, cherry wainscoting, intricately bricked fireplaces-and lilacs from the garden filled cut-gla.s.s vases. Ron's home looked like family and history all twined together.

Ron invited everyone from our original medical school cla.s.s who was still in Boston along with what seemed like five thousand others who could have been anything from fellow Red Sox fans to performance artists, knowing Ron's eclectic taste.

"See anyone you like?" Marta appeared at my side bearing two gla.s.ses of wine.

I nodded noncommittally.

"Take the red," Marta told me. "Too bad Henry's left for L.A. You guys could have one for old times' sake-a springtime 'Auld Lang Syne.' He could slip you a cup of kindness. How long has it been?"

Marta's delicate features belied her dirty mouth. I tipped my chin toward a man in the corner, listening and nodding patiently to a too-cute redhead. "Who's that?"

Marta smiled. "Nebraska."

"That's his name?" I sipped at my wine, planning to make it last.

"That's where he's from."

Nebraska looked ruggedly appealing in his jeans and navy corduroy s.h.i.+rt, s.h.i.+rtsleeves folded back to reveal thick arm fuzz matching his dirty blond hair. "You spoke to him?"

Marta nodded. "For a bit. Too white-bread for me." Marta's taste ran to olive-skinned men-Italian, Greek, Jewish, or Puerto Rican, like her-with big paychecks. "He's not a doctor."