The Lost Family

by Jenna Blum

  Elsbeth was already up; she was sitting in front of the television in the den, frog-legged in her Holly Hobbie pajamas, watching The Pink Panther. This was her routine before June and Peter woke: she was allowed to watch TV if she kept the sound low, and she could have a couple of sugar wafers June left for her in Elsbeth’s special kitchen drawer, but she was not to disturb her parents.

  She whipped her head around when June said, very quietly, “Good morning, darling.”

  “Look!” said Elsbeth. She rose on her knees and bounced, pointing at the screen. The Pink Panther lit Inspector Clouseau’s cigarette. It promptly exploded, leaving Clouseau smoldering. Elsbeth jiggled, giggling. “Isn’t he silly, Mommy?”

  “Very silly. Come on, let’s get dressed, hurry hurry. Mommy’s got a surprise for you.”

  “What?”

  “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you, would it?”

  “No,” Elsbeth agreed. She jumped up.

  June got her dressed, plucking clothes from the basket in the laundry room off the kitchen, a ruffled yellow blouse and a clean pair of OshKoshes. She stuffed a few more outfits into a shopping bag. In Elsbeth’s lunchbox June packed carrot sticks and Laughing Cow cheese and Oreos, averting her eyes from the food Peter had brought home the night before: “rst chix / crmd pots / spch souff / 30 aug,” it said on the Styrofoam container, in Peter’s pointy script. The chef’s habit of always listing contents and date.

  “Can I have some apple juice, Mommy?”

  “May I.”

  “May I have some apple juice, please?”

  “Yes, you may,” said June. She filled Elsbeth’s Beatrix Potter mug. “Stay right here and drink that. I’ll be back in a sec.”

  She darted upstairs, careful to avoid the step that creaked under the carpet. In Elsbeth’s room, June grabbed Charlotte’s Web and Stuart Little from the side table, stuffed Pooh, Piglet, Snoopy, Woodstock, Henry, and EekAMouse! into a sling she made out of her shirt. The master bedroom door was still closed. June crept quickly downstairs. She put on her sunglasses and picked up her purse.

  “Ready, sweet pea?”

  “Where are we going, Mommy?”

  “On a special trip.”

  “Yayyyyyy!” Elsbeth shouted. June put a finger to her lips.

  “But quietly,” she said. “Like baby mice. Can you be quiet?”

  “Yes,” Elsbeth stage-whispered.

  She tiptoed exaggeratedly toward the back steps, lifting her feet in huge arcs. June took a last look at the kitchen and shut the door behind them.

  Outside the big trees were wreathed in mist, the grass glittering with dew. The light was mysterious, the birdsong lively and sweet. June would miss her plants, the yard with the brook. She buckled Elsbeth into the back seat.

  On the way to the interstate, June stopped in Glenwood Plaza to get gas, a cup of coffee, and a new map. “Hiya, sunshine,” the station attendant said to her, “you’re up early for a Saturday.” June smiled behind her sunglasses and added a handful of pretzel sticks for Elsbeth. The pavement steamed; the shopkeepers were just unlocking their doors, putting out sandwich boards. In yards along the way, people shuffled out in robes to get papers, set sprinklers fanning back and forth, walked dogs, unfurled their flags. Then Glenwood fell away behind them as June drove up over the mountain. The road wound through the Watchung Reservation, where June had once made love in a stand of birches with Gregg; she drove past the Eagle Ridge Diner and Pal’s Cabin, and took the exit for 280. It felt strange to be traveling west instead of east to Larchmont or New York, the city at her back. The interstate was nearly empty.

  June felt a rising excitement she hadn’t felt since boarding the Greyhound bus for Manhattan when she was twenty-one. It had something to do with getting up so early, going on a trip, but it was more than that. It was the thrill of embarking upon an adventure she had chosen, with a purpose in mind but no guarantee of what would happen next. June would start by going to Ida’s; Ida might not be too pleased to see June and Elsbeth initially, not under these circumstances, but she would soften, June was sure—and wasn’t home the place you went where they had to take you in? June and Elsbeth would finish the summer there, then go to Minneapolis, where some of June’s high-school friends might help her get oriented. There was no Parsons in the Twin Cities, but there was the Minneapolis College of Art and Design; there were decorating firms; there were correspondence courses. June could be the mother in a few catalogs to bring in some money, smiling in housedresses and pedal pushers at children not her own. And then, degree in hand, maybe California was next—who knew? June didn’t. That was the point. She was free. She laughed aloud.

  “What’s so funny, Mommy?”

  “Nothing, darling. I’m just happy.”

  Elsbeth thought about this. “Where are we going?”

  “Well, sweet pea,” said June, smiling at Elsbeth in the rearview. Elsbeth had put her sunglasses on too, her Minnie Mouse ones. She looked back at June impassively. “I thought we’d visit Grandma Ida. What do you think?”

  “But we just saw her,” said Elsbeth.

  “That’s true. But I thought it’d be nice to go see her again. So you can swim in the pool without your bathing cap and go to the A&W. And then maybe go to Minneapolis!”

  “Is Daddy coming?”

  “Not this trip, darling. He has to work. But we’ll call him later. Okay?”

  Elsbeth looked out her window, swinging her sandaled feet. “Can we see the big lion?” she asked eventually.

  She meant the fountain at the pool. “Absolutely,” said June. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” Elsbeth said.

  “Good,” said June. “Should we sing some road trip songs?”

  They sang all the way through New Jersey. “Free to Be . . . You and Me,” “She’ll Be Coming ’Round the Mountain,” “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad”—that was sort of a travel song—Jim Croce. “Movin’ me down the highway . . . movin’ ahead so life won’t pass me by,” June and Elsbeth sang lustily. There were more cars on the road now; June kept an eye on the lane ahead of her as she spread the map over the steering wheel. It confirmed what she already knew: they would take Interstate 80 through Pennsylvania and Ohio.

  She didn’t start to flag until around noon, when they were approaching the Delaware Water Gap. Elsbeth was feeling it too; she had dozed for a while after the sing-along, her head hanging to her chest, but now she was awake and cranky. “Mommy,” she said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “All right, sweetie pie. Can you hold it until I find a gas station?”

  “No,” said Elsbeth. “I need to go now.”

  “I know.” June handed a baggie of Oreos over the seat. “Just give me a minute.”

  June drove and drove, but all around them were other people’s cars, trucks, mountains, nothing but trees. She knew the Catskills were a popular vacation destination, but she had always found them hostile. Wasn’t this the area with Rip Van Winkle, the Headless Horseman? Why would anybody come here for a holiday? June had a headache, a dull pressure squeezing her temples, from eyestrain or from getting up too early. Her right socket ached beneath her sunglasses. A sign flashed by: del water gap 12 mi last exit in new jersey tolls ahead.

  “Mommy,” said Elsbeth, “I want Daddy. I want to go home.”

  She started to cry. Of course she did—Elsbeth was tired too despite her nap, her regular routine disrupted. Sometimes, on Saturday mornings, if the Claremont had had a good night the evening before, Peter didn’t go in right away. He got up with Elsbeth, and they made breakfast: fresh-squeezed orange juice—naturally, Peter would not hear of juice from a carton or can. Bread toasted in the oven so it would crisp all the way through, Elsbeth turning it carefully with tongs. And Peter’s special scrambled eggs: first he caramelized onions in a pan, cooking them very slowly in butter until they were translucent; then he added eggs whipped to a froth, heavy cream, ham, fresh dill, and the secret ingredient: a dollop of Neufchâtel chees
e. Elsbeth was always allowed to drop this last onto the dish from a wooden spoon. She had her own jacket with her name stenciled on the lapel, a mini chef’s hat, rubber clogs, and a special stool to stand on while she helped Peter stir and mince and measure. The Fabulous Rashkins, they called themselves, and when the food was ready to be served, they presented it to June at the table with a bow, Peter sweeping his hand to the right and Elsbeth to the left. “Ta da! The Fabulous Rashkins! Lo and behold!”

  At the exit before the Water Gap, June got off and found a gas station. While the attendant filled their tank and squeegeed the windshield, June got a key and took Elsbeth to the ladies’ room. Then she pulled the Dodge off to the side near the pay phone and placed a collect call, her free hand on her ear to block the highway noises, keeping watch on Elsbeth. Elsbeth kicked moodily at the seat, her face sullen; her chest hitched with hiccups from her crying fit earlier.

  “Your party does not answer,” said the operator. “Would you like to make another call?”

  “Yes, please,” said June and gave the number. She plugged her ear again and rehearsed what she might say. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you, I just had to do it this way before I lost my nerve. We’re fine, we’re going to my mother’s. I’ll call you from Ohio tonight. We’ll talk . . .

  “Claremont,” said an unfamiliar male voice.

  June frowned. “Who’s this?”

  “This is Tony in the kitchen. Who’s this?”

  “June Rashkin. Is my husband there, please?”

  “Oh. Oh, Jesus, June.” Tony was one of Peter’s prep chefs; what was he doing answering the phone? “Where are you, sweetheart?” he asked.

  “I’m out with Elsbeth. Is something wrong?”

  “Thank God you called. We’ve been trying your house all day. Shawna’s driving all over looking for you—”

  “Tony, just tell me what’s wrong!”

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, hon,” he said, “but Peter had a heart attack this morning. He’s at Glenwood Memorial.”

  11

  The American Dream

  Peter remained at Glenwood Memorial only until the next morning, when, as soon as it was safe for him to travel, Sol had him transported by ambulance to Mount Sinai in New York. What was the point of making contributions if they weren’t even going to use the goddamned place? Sol demanded of June. Sol knew the best heart man in the world, and did June know he was in the city? Didn’t June want Peter to have top of the line care? June assumed all the questions were rhetorical.

  She followed the ambulance in, Elsbeth having been relinquished to the care of Helen Lawatsch. “Don’t you worry about a thing,” Helen had said, her eyes huge with sympathy, when she came to pick Elsbeth up at the hospital. “I’ll take care of her as long as you need me to.” June had burst into tears. She had been numb during her return drive from the Catskills, during which she had gone a good thirty miles an hour over the speed limit the whole way, and her emotional anesthesia had persisted into intensive care, even upon seeing Peter attached to all those machines. It didn’t seem quite real. But Helen’s kindness undid her.

  Now, after a night in an orange plastic chair, June drove very carefully, the heat and her exhaustion making her feel as though everything were melting. Once again it was early; the highway, Route 3 this time, was deserted. In the city, June sat at the first stoplight outside the Lincoln Tunnel and let the windshield washer guys scrub her window without bothering to turn her wipers on or wave them off. She didn’t pay them, either, and they yelled resentfully after her. The only pedestrians unfortunate enough to be out scurried from one air-conditioned place to the next; the tops of the buildings disappeared into gray-yellow smog. When June parked her Dodge and got out, her sneakers made imprints in the tar.

  Peter was no longer in intensive care, and Sol must indeed have made some healthy donations to Mount Sinai over the years, for Peter’s room in the cardiac ward was a single, overlooking the East River. June waited outside until a nurse told her she could go in. She moved quietly, pulling a chair over to the bed; its legs tangled in some tubing attached to Peter’s hand, tugging at the tape there, and June swore. Why didn’t she just clobber Peter over the head and be done with it? She sat next to him and cradled his free hand, which was dry and cold; she squeezed it and got no response. She turned to the view, the skyscrapers and the water beyond, tugboats and barges moving on it, miniature cars zipping back and forth along FDR Drive and the bridge. It was hard to believe each one contained its own tiny universe, a person or people living out private joys, sorrows, trouble, and dreams. The clouds drifted, curdled like cottage cheese in a white sky.

  “June.”

  Faint pressure on June’s hand; when she turned, Peter’s eyes were open. She bent to the bed, smiling.

  “Hi, Pete. How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better,” he said. His voice was faint, raspy—from having had the breathing tube in his throat, June thought. But his gaze was lucid. “How long have I been here?”

  “Just since this morning. Before that, you were at Glenwood. Sol moved you.”

  He nodded and winced. “Elsbeth?”

  “She’s at Helen Lawatsch’s. She doesn’t know anything—just that you weren’t feeling well, so you went into the city to see a special doctor.”

  “Good,” said Peter. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Is there anything I can get for you?”

  “Some water, please,” he said, and June fetched it from the plastic pitcher on the bedside table, adjusting the bending straw in the cup.

  “June,” he said. “What we were talking about before—”

  “Forget it, Pete. Just concentrate on getting well.”

  “I don’t want to forget about it. I was thinking about it when . . . this business happened. I don’t want you to . . . to be unhappy . . .”

  “I’m here,” June said firmly. “I’m not going anywhere—understand?”

  Peter examined her face over the rim of the cup, his eyes scanning back and forth. Was it possible, June thought, that his hair had thinned overnight? It stood up on his scalp, wispy. She smoothed it, then leaned forward and kissed his forehead. It felt cool and slightly oily under her lips, and he smelled of rubbing alcohol.

  “Thank you, June.”

  “You’re welcome, Pete.”

  The door opened, and a doctor strode in. He was very tall and blond, gloriously mustachioed and sideburned, like an actor playing a doctor on a soap opera. He beamed at Peter, picking up Peter’s chart.

  “Mr. Rashkin? Dr. Alberts, your cardiologist. How are we feeling today? Anything hurt?”

  “Mostly my pride, Doctor.”

  “A comedian,” said the doctor. “That’s good. Laughter’s the best medicine, et cetera.” He took Peter’s pulse, still flipping through the paperwork. “Mmm hmm, ta dum, hmmm, very good. Any pressure in the chest?”

  “No,” said Peter.

  “Faintness? Shortness of breath?”

  “No.”

  “Very good, very good. . . . Mr. Rashkin, you’ve suffered a fairly serious cardiac incident—in other words, a heart attack. We’ll be keeping you here for a few days, and then, if you don’t give us any more trouble, we’ll send you home with this lovely young lady.” His smile beaconed over at June. “Your daughter, is it?”

  “My wife,” said Peter.

  “Well! Lucky man.” The doctor opened Peter’s hospital gown to apply his stethoscope to Peter’s chest, which June now saw had been shaved in spots to accommodate electrodes. The bare patches among Peter’s silvery tufts of hair seemed to June a terrible indignity—perhaps because in their married life she had seen her husband’s penis far more frequently than his exposed chest. Her eyes smarted with tears, and she looked away.

  “All sounds good,” said the doctor. “Your heart’s definitely still in there. Do you mind if I borrow your wife for a moment?”

  “As long as you return her,” Peter said.<
br />
  “Good man. Keep up the jokes.” The doctor closed Peter’s gown, made a notation on the chart, and clasped Peter’s shoulder. “Get some rest. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Wonderful,” said Peter. His eyes had closed again already, the lids purple and waxy.

  “Mrs. Rashkin, may I speak to you?” said the doctor.

  June kissed Peter’s cheek. Outside in the hallway, the doctor was lighting a cigarette, and when he saw June he offered her one.

  “Thank you,” she said. It was a Pall Mall, stronger than what she usually smoked, and she felt instantly lightheaded.

  “You’re welcome,” said the doctor. His eyes flickered over June in an assessment that didn’t feel quite medical; they were very blue, strikingly so, and June suddenly realized who he must be: the man Sol and his friends referred to as Dr. Gorgeous.

  “Mrs. Rashkin, I won’t lie to you. Your husband’s a very sick man.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  “He should be. With proper rest and care. And some dietary and lifestyle changes. But he’s had a major coronary. He’s lucky he was in the presence of fast-acting people when it happened and got treatment right away.”

  “Yes,” said June faintly. “Very lucky.”

  “His medical chart says he was in the Nazi death camps?”

  “Yes, Auschwitz and . . . I’m sorry, I can’t remember the other one. It must be the stress.”

  “His heart suffered serious damage from that early experience—the starvation and abuse his body took. Given his age, it’s a miracle it didn’t happen sooner.”

  “Lucky,” June said again. “When can he come home?”

  “Oh, four-five days, maybe a week, pending no further incidents. We’ll give him an EKG, get him on nitro. He’ll have to be kept very quiet. No exertion. No stress.”

  “I understand.”

  “Your father-in-law says your husband’s a restaurant owner?”

  “Yes. He used to own Masha’s on the Upper East Side.”