Murder At The Mikvah (9 page)

 Eleven

Hannah lay peacefully on her back, covered by a white blanket with the top portion of her head wrapped in a thick bandage. Thin breathing tubes hung from her nose. The corners of her mouth turned up ever so slightly—suggesting just a hint of a smile—and her chest raised and lowered rhythmically. Had it not been for the wall of machines—computers flashing numbers and wave patterns across their monitors—and the IV bag steadily releasing small drips of liquid into her veins, one might have reasonably assumed she was enjoying a blissful nap.

Yehuda rushed to her side. “Oh my God, Hannah!” He took her hand and held it against his cheek.

“She has been comatose since her arrival,” Dr. Patel said.

Yehuda swept a gentle hand across a small patch of his wife’s cheek, the only area not bandaged.

“Can she hear me? Does she know I’m here?”

Dr. Patel shook his head and approached the bed. “No, in this state, it is unlikely that any words would register, although there are differing medical opinions on that.”

Yehuda stood, but his eyes remained locked on his wife.

“Mrs. Orenstein scored a seven on the Glasgow Coma Scale, and the CT scan has confirmed a blunt head trauma. The force of her skull against the concrete wall has…”

“The bandages…” Yehuda interrupted.

“Yes,” Dr. Patel said, stepping closer. “Her frontal lobe was bruised from the impact.”

Bruised
. Bruised made it sound as if this was no different than Yitzi falling off his tricycle or Rachel twisting her ankle.

“When will she wake up?” Yehuda asked, heading off the images of Hannah being attacked that now seeped so readily into his head.

Dr. Patel, who had been prepared to go into a long discourse on the different types of head injuries, took a few seconds to regroup. “We cannot say.”

Yehuda rephrased the question. “I mean in general…on average… how long?”

Dr. Patel shook his head. “I’m very sorry, Rabbi Orenstein, but we have no way of knowing.”

“What? But how can that be?” Yehuda made no attempt to hide his annoyance. “You
must
be able to give an estimate… a day, two days, a week?”

Somehow, knowing when Hannah would awaken seemed like vital information—as if being able to put it on the calendar like an upcoming birthday would make everything that led up to it more tolerable. Yet, Yehuda knew this notion was absurd. As Dr. Jarvis had explained earlier, this was likely to be the beginning of a long and arduous recovery. From this vantage point, there was no celebration to count down to. At the same time, Yehuda wasn’t ready to hear the doctor spew out a list of everything that could be wrong with his wife.

“Or even longer,” Dr. Patel said. “Rabbi Orenstein, as cruel as it may sound, we have no choice but to wait.”

Yehuda nervously adjusted his yarmulke. Patience was never one of his strong suits. “What exactly are you saying?”

“I’m saying that we have no accurate way of predicting the duration your wife—or any individual—will remain in this state. But Mrs. Orenstein's pupils
are
reacting normally to light—an excellent sign—and the surgery to reduce the brain swelling went better than expected. Now all we can do is hope and pray that she does, indeed awaken.”

Pray
. Now that
was
one of Yehuda's strong suits, though he couldn’t help but wonder about all the prayers he had said already. What about the three times a day—for the past twenty years—chest pounding entreaties to God asking for health and longevity? Didn’t those count? Didn’t God care? Yehuda's shoulders dropped in surrender. His head hurt and he rubbed his temples, feeling immediately remorseful for his ingratitude. After all, God had blessed him with a beautiful family. God had listened to his prayers when they nearly lost Nehama. He of all people should remember there were no guarantees in life. Yes, God always heard, but sometimes the answer was
no
. Yehuda had to heed his own advice, words he had said to others more times than he could recall:
Trust in the Almighty's wisdom
.
What God does is always for the best.
To Dr. Patel's surprise
,
Yehuda suddenly burst into laughter. There it was, that trite piece of advice he didn’t want to hear. But he couldn’t very well punch his own lights out now could he? As quick as it had come, Yehuda's smile fell away, and his eyes welled with tears.

“Rabbi Orenstein?”

Yehuda rubbed his eyes and didn’t look at the doctor. “You're saying there’s a chance that she…” He could barely get the words out. Fortunately Dr. Patel cut him off and he didn’t have to try.

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“What are the chances?”

Dr. Patel sighed. “Fifty-fifty.”

Yehuda kneeled back down next to Hannah and buried his face in his hands.

Oh God, give me strength.

“Rabbi Orenstein,” the doctor said softly, “Senecca’s trauma center is considered a level four facility—the most highly equipped. Your wife is in the very best hands. Our team will be monitoring her progress closely, especially during this first week.”

“This first week?”

“Yes,” Dr. Patel said gently. “Over the next seven days, we want to watch for signs of secondary injury, which could adversely affect her prognosis.”

“
Secondary injury
? What is secondary injury?”

“It's not quite what it sounds like. Secondary injury can occur as a result of the body’s reaction to the initial trauma—for example, tissue damage, infection, electrolyte disturbances, ischemia.”

“Ischemia?”

Dr. Patel nodded. “Yes. Ischemia is inadequate blood flow. It can result from any number of situations…”

Yehuda was sorry he had asked. He held up his hand to stop the doctor. “My head is pounding and I’m not sure how much I’m capable of retaining right now…”

“Yes, of course.” Dr. Patel said. “We'll have plenty of time to discuss all of this tomorrow. Just know that we will be doing everything we can to prevent further damage.”

Yehuda collapsed onto a chair in the corner of the room. It was a recliner. He wondered how many people had slept here, not knowing if their loved one would live or die. Whether he liked it or not, he was now part of that private club.

Further damage.

Yehuda sat up. Something had suddenly occurred to him. “Dr. Patel, when you say
prevent further damage…
Does that mean that my wife already has… is she…” He swallowed. “Is my Hannah brain damaged?”

The doctor nodded slowly. He was used to repeating himself to overwhelmed loved ones. “There was damage to your wife’s frontal lobe and possibly the temporal lobe as well.” Dr. Patel said. “The left temporal lobe controls speech, writing, all areas of language processing.”

Dr. Patel’s voice faded as a flash of images burst into Yehuda’s head:
Hannah laughing at his jokes. Singing at the Sabbath table. Reading to the children, Teaching her women’s classes
. God used utterances to create the world. He had separated man from animal by endowing him with the gift of speech. Yehuda was certain Hannah’s world would be irreparably altered without it.

“So, yes; technically, we must say that your wife’s brain has been damaged, though the extent and severity of that damage have yet to be determined.”

Yehuda took a deep breath. “Dr. Jarvis called brain injury a 'life long deficit'.”

Dr. Patel nodded. “Yes; that may be true. But remember Rabbi Orenstein, our physical therapists are highly qualified. There are many encouraging cases. Individuals who have suffered even more severe trauma than your wife.” He waited for a response from Yehuda, a glimmer of acceptance, even. But before he could get it, a young nurse poked her head in the door.

“Dr. Patel?” She acknowledged Yehuda with a slight nod and then turned back to the doctor. “Excuse me for interrupting, Dr. Patel; but Mr. Harmon’s wife would like to speak with you.”

Dr. Patel glanced at his watch. “Yes, of course. I’ll be right there.” He turned to Yehuda. “Brain Injury may indeed be a lifelong deficit, but recovery doesn’t end. The human brain is extremely resilient.”

Yehuda looked down at his hands.

“Well, I will leave you now, so that you may have some time alone with your wife,” Dr. Patel said. He bowed his head and started toward the door. Grabbing the handle, he turned around to face Yehuda one last time.

“Rabbi Orenstein?”

Yehuda looked up.

“We’ll do everything we can.”

 Twelve

Patty Collins lay on her back, tucked snugly under the white down comforter, her right leg lined smack up against her husband's like two pretzel rods. But while her closed eyes fluttered in a contented dream state, sleep once again eluded John. He stared up at the shadows on the bedroom ceiling and saw images—distorted shapes—that caused the hairs on his arms to bristle. They were products of his own mind, long serpent-like figures laying in wait between gilded squares. Symbolic, his therapist told him, of feeling out of control. John had had plenty of time to make these connections with Dr. Hendricks while on personal leave from his job; but though the weekly appointments had ended long ago, John remained haunted.

He turned and looked at the clock on the nightstand.

5:27AM

Despite his physical exhaustion, there was no way he’d be getting to sleep any time soon, not while the scene at the old high school kept replaying over and over in his mind: One dead, one barely alive—a rabbi's wife of all people! And there was something about the man they took into custody. He looked familiar somehow. But as much as he’d been trying, John could not place him.

It was pointless to just lay there staring at the ceiling, so John quietly slipped out of bed, pulled on his robe, and headed down the back stairs. The house was so old that it was next to impossible to move soundlessly, though he knew the few creaks of the hardwood floor wouldn’t wake his wife, who had slept through countless nights of his insomnia. In the kitchen, John poured some milk into a small saucepan to heat on the stove. According to his nutritionist daughter Liz, tryptophan was a natural relaxant. While it heated, John studied the bite on his arm. It looked worse than it actually was, the doctor on call had assured him. Nonetheless, John had spent over an hour at the hospital while a dentist took photos and made an impression of the bite with vinyl polysiloxane. Then there was the obligatory saliva swab. John would just have to sit tight and pray the son of a bitch didn’t have an infectious disease. Within a minute, the milk began to bubble. John poured it into a mug, added a tablespoon of sugar, and headed for the chess room. Just off the main library, it was a cozy, circular room with dark wood paneling and stained glass windows. A round, claw foot table stood elegantly in the center of the floor. A white marble chessboard rested on top; it’s shiny pieces waiting at perfect attention. Four high backed chairs rounded out the perimeter of the room, each with it’s own side table, reading lamp, and ashtray.

John sat down in one of the chairs and brought the mug of milk to his lips, momentarily focused on the pronounced sounds of his sipping and swallowing. Patty’s father had installed special wall insulation rendering the chess room virtually soundproof, so the only movements one could hear were their own. John had always been fond of this room, and ever since Jay’s death he’d been spending more and more time alone here. To John, it offered a womb-like reprieve from a crazy, out-of-control world.

John looked up at the framed oil painting of his father in law—Bertram in his riding gear, tan breeches and black boots, a pensive look on his face. What a shame John had never known the man. By the time he and Patty met in 1966, Bertram Randolph had already been deceased several years. John thought back to that sweltering June day when his life veered off course. Although it was over forty years ago, it felt like yesterday. While on duty in Center City John was summoned to the scene of a hit and run near Lit Brothers department store, where he was to interview several of the witnesses, including Patricia Randolph, a first year nursing student at Hanneman University. Dressed pristinely in a white blouse and pink skirt, Patricia appeared unusually agitated, alternating between wringing her small hands nervously and staring at her watch. John suspected that she was under the influence of some narcotic. But when he moved closer to peer into her eyes, she stepped back, surprised. “If you'll please excuse my odd behavior Officer Collins,” she said, “it’s just that I’m late for something… an event with my mother.” She looked at her watch for the tenth time in five minutes. “If there is any way at all we could speed this up…”

Though average height, Patricia’s petite bone structure made her 5’4” frame appear two inches shorter. She had big brown button eyes with long black eye lashes, a cute little nose, and a tiny pink-lipsticked mouth. Patricia was blond with the same pixie style Doris Day wore in
The Thrill of it All.
Though smitten before he finished interviewing her, what hooked John was the way she called him “Officer Collins”. Something in her voice made him forget for a brief moment that he had four brothers with the exact same title.

Before long, Patty was spending each Sunday with John’s family in their modest twin home on Passyunk Avenue. Swept up in the excitement of young love, it never occurred to John to wonder why he hadn’t been invited to Patty’s family home in the suburbs. He knew only that Patty’s mother was a widow, and that she lived in Arden Station. For John, this was enough information; after all he was interested in Patty, not her family.

John proposed six months later, slipping a tiny pear shaped diamond on her finger.

“Well?” he asked. “Will you have me as your husband?”

She wrapped her arms around him. “I’ll give you my answer on Sunday after you come home and meet mother,” she said.

That Sunday, after church, John arrived at Patty’s apartment wearing a brown suit and striped tie.

“Nervous?” she asked, looking down at his freshly polished shoes.

“Not in the least,” he said, giving her a quick peck on the cheek, “just excited to finally meet your mother.”

Patty got into his car, immediately noticing the wrapped bouquet on the back seat. “Uh oh,” she said, slapping her cheeks dramatically. “Mother
hates
carnations!”

John’s eyes widened. He looked at his watch. “What time is she expecting us? Maybe we can stop off at Murphy’s and pick up something else.” He yanked a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket and dabbed the tiny beads of perspiration that had appeared on his forehead.

Patty covered her mouth and burst out laughing. For such a big, strong man, he was carrying on like a flustered schoolboy. He just looked at her, bewildered.

“Relax!
I’m kidding
… Mother loves carnations!” She gave him a playful poke on the arm. “And you say you’re not nervous, huh?”

Twenty miles west of the city, Patty directed John down a road marked
private drive.
It was lined on both sides with tall fur trees, marking the edge of what was otherwise dense, overgrown woods. After driving about a half a mile, the road dead-ended at a twelve-foot high gate with a large “W” etched tastefully into the wrought iron design. Patty leaned across John’s lap—ignoring his stunned expression—to announce herself into the intercom. The gate opened slowly and she motioned for him to drive on. Speechless, John pulled the car around a small bend, his jaw dropping when the sprawling fieldstone mansion came into view. John's head spun as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. He knew that Patty had been brought up well. She had attended an exclusive private school for girls and was always immaculately dressed and well mannered. But she was so down to earth, and got along so well with his family, that never in a million years would he have associated her with the mansion that lay before them.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Booth, informed them that Mrs. Randolph was resting, and suggested that Patty give John a tour. “Windmere,” Patty told him, was built in 1910 and had been in the Randolph family for generations. Patty’s great, great
grandfather had made his fortune in lumber and spared no expense in building the estate, using an array of materials—everything from rock and brick, to crystal, marble, and quartz. The latest technological advances had been incorporated into the original design of the home, amenities not common for that time period, including indoor plumbing and a central intercom system. The residence totaled over 10,000 square feet, she said, had twenty-six rooms and six working fireplaces. After all these years, the original wood floors of cherry, oak, and mahogany were in pristine condition. Patty pointed out several magnificent stained glass windows including a ten-foot stained glass skylight on the second story. It looked celestial, John thought, and he couldn’t help but compare it to St. Mary's cathedral in the city.

Patty and John made their way outdoors, passing through the manicured lawn toward the gardens where Patty pointed out the chef’s garden of rosemary, chicory, dill, basil and parsley. Next, she showed him the topiary maze where she played as a child. “It seemed so big to me then, like I could be lost forever…” She took his hand in hers and led him to a bench tucked behind some rose bushes, where they sat quietly for several minutes, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders. After a minute she sat up and pointed toward several old carriage houses and weathered barns in the distance. After her father's death, Patty said, his beloved horses,
Lucky
and
Misty
had been sold. Her mother couldn’t bear to keep them; the memories were too painful. Patty continued to stare into the distance, lost in thought. Then she turned to John with serious eyes. Did he remember the day they met? Did he recall how agitated she was while he was interviewing her near the accident? Patty now seemed eager to explain: Despite all the pomp and circumstance of his lifestyle, her father was a pretty regular guy. He loved sports and had agreed to become one of the major financiers of a new Philadelphia sports arena. That hot day back in June—the day of the hit and run—happened to be the same day construction was beginning on the
Philadelphia Spectrum
. Patty had been on her way to meet her mother at the groundbreaking ceremony. She made it just in time for the ribbon cutting, but during the dedication speeches, Margaret Randolph was suddenly overcome by the heat and fainted. She was admitted to Pennsylvania hospital for observation, where the doctors determined that she had suffered her first full-blown panic attack. Through wet eyes, Patty described Margaret's ongoing battle with anxiety and depression, an uphill struggle that would not let up until her death twelve years later. After hearing this, John braced himself for a difficult encounter with Patty's mother, anticipating a needy, overbearing woman. But to his relief, Margaret Randolph was weary but welcoming. She was sedated, but lucid, and seemed genuinely pleased to meet him. She already knew a good deal about him, Margaret told him over tea and scones, since her daughter had spoken almost of nothing else for the past three months; but was there something else perhaps? Margaret smiled up at him and then at her daughter. “People are always much more complex than they appear,” she said. “Before my husband died, I was a happy, carefree woman…” Margaret's voice trailed off. “But look at me now…” She shook her head and took a sip of her tea. “But enough about me. Let's talk about you. Tell me, what brings a big strong police officer like you to his knees?”

At the time, John had thought it an odd question to be asked; he brushed it off, not really understanding what she was asking, not yet realizing that we all have it. The thing that brings us down. All the way to our knees.

John set his mug down and stared up at the portrait of Bertram Randolph. It was one of several oil paintings a local artist had done of Patty's family when she was a teenager. John's favorite, hands down was the one of Patty and her dog, Duke.
Duke
. When he first learned the retriever’s name, he was taken aback. The name sounded so regal. That’s when it hit him. The woman he planned to spend the rest of his life with was a millionaire's daughter! Patty didn’t understand why it bothered him. She insisted that her father had simply named the dog after John Wayne, the movie actor.

John remembered how difficult those first few years of marriage had been. Complete culture shock. So often, he wondered if he was good enough for her. He would never admit this to Patty, but even now, after nearly forty years, he
still
wondered if her father would have approved of her marrying a commoner from South Philly. Though how bad could Bertram Randolph have been? After all he was a die-hard sports fan! John tried to imagine Patty's father as the regular guy she claimed he was—a regular guy who just happened to be worth millions. John thought the two of them would have shared a mutual respect. They might have even been buddies—shooting pool, drinking beer. At the very least, Bertram would have been relieved that Patty married a man who wasn’t after her money—a man who not only loved her, but could protect her as well. John smiled, thinking of the private joke he and Patty shared when they were first married: She was his beauty; he was her brawn.

John's gaze passed over the marble chessboard. Bertram had been an aficionado of the game. Patty played a bit, but the girls were more interested in dance and drama. Then, of course, there was Jay who learned to play after he moved in with them.
All those nights when Patty would find the two of them in here at all hours.
John shook his head, willing himself not to think about Jay. For the life of him, John had never understood how his brother Tony could have thrown his oldest boy out like garbage. All because the kid didn’t want to be a cop! John didn’t have a son of his own, but if he did, he would have been
relieved
not to have to worry about the boy's safety! Apparently, Tony didn’t see it that way. To him, it was a disgrace, the end of the civilized world. His kid refusing to go to the police academy? Not under his roof!