Murder At The Mikvah (8 page)

Could children survive on their own at Disney World?
Maybe it
was
possible, though this would need to be a solo operation. There was no way he could bring Sunny along. Yehuda rolled over and covered his eyes. Who was he kidding? It would never happen.

Be a good boy and help your mother.

Even without his father's directive, Yehuda knew he couldn’t abandon his mom; she needed him, and although she would never admit it, Sunny needed him too. Whether he liked it or not, he was the man of the family now. Besides, if he lived here at Disney World, he would miss them too much.

Yehuda wiped his eyes with his palms. He turned on his side to grab a tissue and studied the long flowered drapery pulled tightly along the windows. He suddenly had the urge to wrap himself in it. If he were lucky, it would swallow him up and send him off to another dimension, like the twilight zone. In an alternate universe he might transform into Captain Marvel or Spiderman; then he could solve
any
problem. Yehuda got down on the carpet and crawled to the far corner of the room. Out of view behind a small table and two chairs, he sandwiched his eighty-pound body between two thick layers of fabric. Feeling as secure as a newborn swaddled in a receiving blanket, Yehuda waited in complete darkness for the transformation to begin. A burst of cool air from a vent dramatically blew the curtain back a few inches.
Was something happening?
At the sudden flash of sunlight, he examined his hands, and patted himself down hoping something would to be different. But, as expected, he remained completely unchanged. There was no such thing as magic. Not for him, not for those sick kids in wheelchairs. Even the magic kingdom wasn’t really magic. It was all just one big lie. Mickey and Minnie were really just people in costumes. The exhibits were covered in wallpaper, powered by human hands. Yehuda closed his eyes; they were heavy from crying. He drifted off to sleep, exhausted.

Yehuda hid himself so well that upon their return from breakfast, his mom panicked and called hotel security. Sunny burst into tears, overwhelmed by both the news of the divorce and the concern in her mother’s voice. Judith insisted to the hotel authorities that something must have happened
. It wasn’t like Ira to wander off by himself
.
Someone must have taken him!
Besides, his sneakers were here!
He wouldn’t have left without his shoes!
She and Sunny waited in the room while a massive search of the hotel grounds was conducted. His mother paced back and forth wondering if her eleven-year-old son had been kidnapped. All the while Yehuda lay perfectly still, slipping in and out of a light, almost hallucinatory sleep. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t muster the strength to call out.

Two hours later, the search was called off after Sunny heard a low grumble coming from the corner. Yehuda's empty stomach had blown his cover. His mom pulled back the curtains to find her Ira curled up asleep on the floor. To his astonishment, there was no punishment. Instead, his mother hugged him tightly against her chest, drenching his cheeks with her tears.

The three of them spent the rest of the day at the hotel swimming pool, a spectacular grotto-like structure, encased in stonework with flowing waterfalls and slides. His mother must have known that the water was exactly what he needed; he felt lighter, like the weight of his problems had washed right off him. Before long, he made some friends and together they spent the next several hours splashing around as pirates. The boys even included Sunny, casting her in the role as the stow-away. For a while, Yehuda was able to forget about his parents divorce. But, every so often, he would catch a glimpse of his mom watching from the water’s edge, and the uncertainty of what lay ahead for the three of them sent a shiver down his spine. His mom looked glamorous in a two-piece red bathing suit that tied halter style around her neck. Large dark sunglasses covered half her face, so he couldn’t tell what kind of state she was in, or even if she was crying. When she noticed him looking at her, she would sit up, tuck her knees in, smile and blow kisses. Theatrically she’d catch the ones he blew back, even leaping off her lounge at times to chase the ones that got away.

Two days later, they checked out of the hotel, piled into a rented station wagon and drove six hours to Fort Lauderdale, where Yehuda and Sunny met their maternal grandparents for the first time. Harvey and Sylvia Orenstein, a kind looking couple, lived in a terracotta ranch style home with a tiny patch of sod, which they jokingly referred to as the “south lawn”. They were waiting expectantly on folding chairs, and at the sight of the station wagon jumped up, and ran over with wide grins and open arms. Sylvia tattooed Sunny in lipstick kisses while Harvey hoisted a reluctant Yehuda up in the air. Before long, it was obvious that the kids were exhausted after such a long trip. Harvey ushered them inside while Sylvia stayed behind with Judith to speak to her privately. Their belongings, she told her daughter, had arrived safe and sound, a few days before. Sylvia had unpacked everything and set up two of the home’s three bedrooms. If it was all right with her, Judy and Sunny would share one room and Yehuda would have the other to himself.

Living in Florida was very different from living in New Mexico. The temperature was the same, but somehow, Yehuda found himself sweating constantly, even when he wasn’t running around. There were alligators instead of snakes in Florida, and palm trees instead of cactus.

Days, then weeks, then months went by without word from their father.

“Maybe he doesn’t know where we are!” a concerned Sunny told her brother one night while stuffing her face with Jiffypop.

“Maybe,” Yehuda replied, lying for his sister’s benefit. Sunny's hearing wasn’t as sharp as Yehuda's; she hadn't heard the whispered conversations between their mom and grandparents. Nor did she know that mail had come from their father’s divorce lawyer—papers their mother needed to sign—proof that he knew their address! The fact was, their father could visit any time he felt like it; but simply chose not to. Maybe once he stopped being mad at their mother, he would call. Yehuda often tried to guess what caused his parents divorce. Initially he thought his mother must have done something wrong, even though he couldn’t fathom what it could be. Everyone loved his mother, adults and kids alike. Judy was someone who always had
time
. Time to pitch in and lend a hand, time to help a new mother, time to cook a healthy meal for her family, time to teach in the communal school.

Yehuda admitted to himself that as far back as he could remember, there had always been something not quite right between his parents. Most of the time, it was as though his parents were living separate lives, hers with the kids, his without. Sadly, when Yehuda recalled his earliest childhood memories, more often than not, they excluded his father altogether. His dad was always running around, moving so fast, coming and going. It was like he could only stand to be in the house with them for a few hours at a time—except when his mom's friend Marigold was around, that is. Then he had all the time in the world to sit and visit. Yehuda knew it was Marigold who inspired the name Sunny. “Marigold is such a groovy girl,” his dad had said to his mom, “maybe our
Sunflower
will be the same way.” It was funny when he thought about it. Despite the fact that his parents chose to live on a commune, they had always managed to maintain a conservative streak. But it was meeting Marigold that changed all that—at least for his father.

Most nights Yehuda lay awake, sometimes crying softly into his pillow. Other times, he finger sketched an image of his father onto an invisible canvas above his bed, willing himself to remember details: His dad's long nose, his high forehead, the ponytail he had begun to wear in the past year. Yehuda didn’t have a single photo of his dad (oddly he had plenty of Polaroid’s showing he and his mom and Sunny), but he wasn’t about to be a traitor and ask his mother for one. Yehuda struggled to hear his dad's voice in his head, but the more time passed, the less he was able to succeed.

Be a good boy…

That fall, Yehuda and Sunny were enrolled in a Florida public school, which took some getting used to after being home schooled for their entire lives. Having to sit still for thirty to forty-minute increments seemed as pointless to Yehuda, as the amount of memorization he was required to do. He told his mother these things, but she had her own pressures and he didn’t want to burden her. Newly enrolled in law school, she would spend hours in the law library after her classes, occasionally arriving home in time to join everyone for a late dinner. Sometimes Yehuda would wake from a nightmare at two or three in the morning, get out of bed and discover his mom surrounded by books at the kitchen table.

Though Yehuda never said it, the thing he hated more than anything about his new school was his feeling of isolation. His sister made friends easily and before long there were knocks on the door for Sunny to come play tetherball at Sharon’s or ride bikes with Linda and Nancy. Yehuda wasn’t particularly shy by nature, but suddenly he felt different—like those sick kids at Disney World—like he was missing a limb.

After school each day, their grandpop met them at the bus stop two blocks away. “The walk is good for my heart,” Harvey would say. On the way home, he’d ask how their day was. Yehuda’s responses were grunts of two or three words, while Sunny could be counted on to engage him with longer and more engrossing stories. But Harvey wouldn't give up on Yehuda. In time, he was able to coax his grandson out of his shell. Although he could be loud at times (mostly because his hearing was poor and he refused to wear a hearing aid), Harvey Orenstein was generous and kind, and shared Ira’s love of history.

One afternoon Harvey lugged out a big box of albums, and naturally, Yehuda assumed they were more family photos. Ever since they moved in, Harvey had spent a good deal of time showing off his massive photo collection. But this time, Harvey winked at him while making a dramatic show of opening the first one. About twenty individual stamps were set into tiny paper edges on each page. Yehuda leaned in to take a closer look.
France 1851, Poland, 1910…
Yehuda turned the pages quickly now, saying things like “Look at this one grandpop!” and “I never heard of this country!” Yehuda stopped at a gold page, which stood out from the others.

“Why is the paper different?” he asked.

Harvey grazed the page gently with his fingertips. “Those are from 1948, the year the State of Israel was born. Your great grandfather—my father—was the first in our family to actually
touch
the Western Wall…”

“What’s the Western Wall?” Yehuda asked innocently.

Later that night, Yehuda overheard an argument between his grandpop and his mom.

“How could you not give them a religious identity?” his grandpop demanded. “How could they not even know they are Jews!”

 Ten

Yehuda pressed his face against the pane of dark glass, peering out to a winding cement sidewalk in front of the hospital. The coolness on his cheek felt nice, the next best thing to actually stepping outside for some fresh air. The room where he now stood was at one end of a long stretched out horseshoe. At the other end, was the entrance to the Senecca hospital emergency room and the automatic doors through which he had entered just a little while ago.

How much time had actually passed?

The sliding doors opened and closed dutifully as people hustled in—varying degrees of concern and panic in their eyes—and hospital staff in scrubs and white clogs snuck out for a quick cigarette break. A white haired man hobbled in, favoring one leg while being supported by a much younger man.
His son
? Yehuda would never know what it was like to help an ailing father. He had given up the fantasy of his own father being a part of his life years ago.

Now the full moon caught Yehuda’s attention. There it was, still shining brightly as it had all night. Yehuda felt offended at its boldness, that it could be so unaffected by the tragedy unfolding in his life. How was it possible for the sun to rise tomorrow, as it most certainly would, as if nothing had changed? Yehuda stepped back and gazed at his shadowed reflection in the window. The image reminded him of overnight camp, when his counselor, Herschel Gold held a flashlight against his chin and shone the light up his face. His distorted appearance was perfect for telling scary legends of “Cropsy” the lunatic farmer who roamed the campgrounds after midnight. Herschel Gold was a third year yeshiva student when Yehuda met him, and well on his way to becoming a rabbi like his father and grandfather before him. It was Herschel who became something of a big brother and mentor to Yehuda, ultimately encouraging him to become a rabbi himself. Yehuda wondered what Herschel would say now. He always had a knack for finding the right words, even for the most horrendous of situations. Always compassionate, yet never trivializing matters with “what God does is always for the best…” At this moment, Yehuda would punch any guy, black hat or not, who offered such trite words of wisdom.

“Rabbi Orenstein?”

Dr. Jarvis had returned.

Yehuda jumped. “Right here,” he said, awkwardly pushing the curtain to the side as he stepped back into the room. He squinted and covered his eyes from the sudden brightness. Dr. Jarvis didn’t even blink, carrying on as if he saw grown men pop out from behind drawn curtains every day. He handed Yehuda a cup of water and then picked up the clipboard and flipped through the forms.

“I don’t mean to sound insensitive, Rabbi,” he said, his mouth turned downward, “but we do need these forms completed ASAP.” The doctor sighed and held up a hand. “No. Scratch that. Never mind the forms right now. So be it if the hospital administration gets on my case. It won't be the first time.” He motioned for Yehuda to sit down. “It's much more important that we talk about your wife.” He waited while Yehuda drank his entire cup of water in one swig before continuing.

“Rabbi Orenstein, as you know, your wife endured a period of asphyxiation—lack of oxygen to the brain. I can’t tell you for sure how long she was underwater…”

Yehuda’s eyes popped. “Hannah was underwater?”

“Yes… the police told me,” Dr. Jarvis stammered, obviously caught off guard. “I assumed you had spoken with them.”

“I did speak to them, but they… they didn't say anything about this!” Yehuda jumped out of his seat and began pacing, his right hand nervously adjusting his yarmulke on the top of his head. “I want to see my wife… now!”

Dr. Jarvis held up a hand. “Rabbi, please, calm down. I understand how traumatic this all is. I assure you, I will take you up to her in a few minutes. She is still being settled in after surgery. It could be highly disruptive to her to barge in at this time. The important thing for you to know is that she is in stable condition.” He tugged on his black stethoscope, as he spoke. Yehuda wondered if he was nervous, maybe hiding something. He couldn’t believe how paranoid he had become; first the cops, now the doctors. Did he honestly believe they were intentionally withholding information from him? He sat back down and put his hands into his face. He looked up at Dr. Jarvis. “Tell me what they told you,” he said. “I want to know everything!”

Ten minutes later, Yehuda and Dr. Jarvis were riding the elevator to the second floor. They wound around a series of short corridors and made their way through a domed glass skywalk connecting the two main buildings of the hospital. All the while, medical personnel in blue scrubs or white lab coats bustled past them, carrying charts and cups of coffee. Occasionally one would give an acknowledging nod to Dr. Jarvis, followed by a curious “once over” of the orthodox rabbi keeping pace beside him. Yehuda caught sight of his reflection in a large window and saw that one of his tzi tzi’s strings was hanging out of his shirt. Usually he was impeccably dressed, but tonight he was a mess. Over and over in his mind, he replayed Dr. Jarvis’s words:
They found Hannah unconscious… breathing was labored… water in the lungs… bruised body… fractured skull.
Then:
Swelling in the frontal lobe. Surgery.
He must have been mumbling out loud because Dr. Jarvis glanced at him, a concerned look on his face.

They stopped at a circular reception desk in front of two large doors
. Intensive Care
read the plate affixed to the wall,
General Access Prohibited.
A short Indian doctor holding a clipboard was talking to one of the nurses behind the desk. When he saw the two men, he ended his conversation and approached them.

“Rabbi Orenstein,” Dr. Jarvis said, “I’d like you to meet Dr. Patel. He’s the neurosurgeon I spoke of earlier. Dr. Patel is a pioneer in the field of TBI, traumatic brain injury. We’re privileged to have him here at Senecca.”

Dr. Patel nodded politely, and then turned to Yehuda. “I am happy to meet you Rabbi Orenstein,” he said, speaking with a strong Hindi accent. He extended his arm, but Yehuda just stared at him, thinking that Dr. Patel looked as though he had been buffed and polished. His black hair was parted neatly on the far left side and had a sheen to it that made Yehuda think of the word “henna”.

Henna.

Hannah.

Yehuda felt like he was floating.

“Rabbi?”

The whites of Dr. Patel’s eyes looked like they had been professionally whitened, like teeth. An image of Hannah brushing Yitzi’s teeth with a
Bob the Builder
toothbrush popped into Yehuda’s head.

“Rabbi Orenstein?”

“Uh… yes… I’m sorry.” He shook the doctor’s hand.

“I am happy to meet you Rabbi Orenstein,” Dr. Patel said again, this time glancing over at Dr. Jarvis, a questioning look on his face.

“You are my wife’s doctor?” Yehuda asked, not the least bit interested in formalities.

“Yes, that is correct. I am overseeing the care of Mrs. Orenstein. I suspect you are very eager to see her.”

“I am.”

“Before we do that, have you had a chance to eat or drink something? You look a bit pale.”

Yehuda waved him off. “I’m fine, just tired.”
Exhausted

Dr. Patel bowed slightly. He reminded Yehuda of Ram Dass, the Indian servant in
A little Princess
. It had been Sunny’s favorite movie when they were kids. They had something in common; just like the poor little princess who was reunited with her thought-to-be-dead father, Sunny too dreamed of her father coming home.

“Very well. Rabbi, I will have to ask at this time that if you are in possession of a cell phone, you turn it off before we step through those doors. And may I ask sir, if you have any electrical implants such as a pace maker?”

“No, none. No pace maker; no cell phone either.”

“Very good.” He nodded to the nurse behind the desk. She pushed a small button to allow them entry.

“Rabbi Orenstein…”

Yehuda turned around, just then realizing that Doctor Jarvis would not be continuing on with them. “I wish you the very best,” he said. “And please, don’t hesitate to contact me if there is anything I can do for you—anything at all.”

“Mrs. Orenstein is in room 246,” Dr. Patel said, gently patting Yehuda on the back. Yehuda turned and followed him down the hall, his heart pounding so hard that he could feel the throbbing pulse in his neck.