“Could you call Daniel, let him know what’s going on?” she asks before I can sort through my thoughts. “I know it’s not easy for you. But I trust his judgment. I’d feel so much better if he got involved. If you want me to call . . .”
“No, I’ll do it.” I try to sound reassuring. She’s got enough to think about. “Why don’t you come here and see him? Let him take over your care. Whatever it is, you’ll move to Boca Raton and stay with me.”
“Really? I was half hoping you’d offer. I can fly down early this week.” She hesitates a moment. “And don’t say anything to Dad.”
Before I can protest, she hangs up.
It’s no mean trick getting to sleep that night. I picture my sister in a hospital bed, hooked up to all manner of tubes and wires. All I can think about is how I’ll handle it if Esther has cancer—or worse, dies. I’m battered and emotionally drained by events of the last few months. First Daniel betrays me. Then my father reveals his ugly past. But Esther having cancer? Everything pales before that.
Lying in bed with my eyes open, I search for the bright spots in my life. Josh calls every Friday night to see how I’m doing. I love that he feels so protective toward me. He has a tendency to take care of others, though, and I’m afraid he’ll make Daniel’s and my problems his own. Gabriel sends funny emails—the closest he comes to expressing affection. But it’s not like having a sister to confide in. Esther and I have shared a lifetime and know we can count on each other to get through the rough patches.
When Esther’s youngest was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma at eight, I flew to Greensboro for a week at a time so she and Bruce could put all their energy into Ariel’s medical care. My friend Aviva lived next door at the time, thank goodness, so she kept Josh and Gabriel until Daniel got home from the office. It seems so unfair that this is happening to Esther after what she’s been through. Daniel loves her almost as much as I do so I know he’ll do everything he can to help her.
Daniel’s an early riser so the next morning at seven, I dial his apartment. As anxious as I am to set things up for Esther, I’m uncomfortable making the call. I chew my nails as I wait for him to answer. For a fleeting second, I wonder if he’s alone.
He picks up on the third ring. “Becks? Is everything okay?” My heart leaps at the familiar voice. He sounds concerned and surprised, but very much awake.
“I’m fine. So are the boys. It’s Esther.” I struggle to keep my voice from shaking.
“What happened?”
“She called last night.” I repeat what Esther told me.
“Did you suggest she see me?”
“She suggested it,” I lie. “Are you free this week?”
“For Esther, of course.”
A wave of relief drapes my shoulders and I settle back in my chair. Daniel will take over.
“Do you know which scans she’s had?”
“She mentioned a mammogram and ultrasound. She’s supposed to go in for a biopsy Tuesday.”
“I’ll call her before I leave for the office and set things up. Tell her to hold off on the biopsy. I’d rather she do it here. I’m pretty sure I have time Wednesday morning. Can you bring her in then?”
“Sure.” I experience a flutter of panic as I realize that Esther will expect me to go with her to his office.
He hesitates. “And, Becks, it’s been long enough already. Don’t you think we could . . .”
“I’ve got to run.” Up until now, our conversation has been civil, even warm. But I’m not ready to go any further. Hearing his voice leaves me emotionally raw and tender. “I have a lot to do before Esther arrives.”
My hand trembles as I hang up the phone.
By six that night, when I’ve promised to pick up my father for dinner, I’m exhausted. Part of it is the strain of talking to Daniel. It was a relief to hear his reassurance he’d take care of Esther. But our conversation left me feeling lonely and lost. I can’t believe it’s been a little more than two months since we separated.
I’ve survived by talking to my sister and focusing on my writing. The time away from Daniel has given me a chance to think about what I want in life. Right now, it’s the opportunity to work on the cookbook I promised myself I’d write. I’m just a few pages in, but I feel like I’ve got something solid, something other cooks will find useful. And writing it makes me feel closer to my mother, helps re-create the wonderful times we spent in the kitchen.
Tonight, though, I’ve worked myself into a state over Esther. I’m afraid of the worst—that Daniel won’t be able to help her. If the news is bad, I don’t know what I’ll do. Who I’ll confide in. I let my mind wander to Bruce and Esther’s girls and how devastated they’ll be if anything happens to Esther. I’m making myself sick with worry. And I have to honor her request not to tell my father. He and Esther haven’t talked in over a year.
“Daniel stopped by this morning,” my father says as he slides into my car at the entrance to his building. “He asked me to talk to you.” Tootsie watches me, gauging my reaction.
My face grows hot but I keep my mouth shut. I had no idea the two were in contact. I shouldn’t be surprised. Tootsie called Daniel now and then to ask medical questions and they’d remain on the phone talking about sports. They have some sort of bond I don’t understand considering how different they are. Or how different I thought they were. I don’t like the idea of Tootsie and Daniel discussing our breakup and feel betrayed by my dad’s willingness to talk to him.
It’s November and, despite the early hour, the city is entering the shadowy netherworld of twilight. The few souls walking along the sidewalk appear as black-and-white ghosts floating between pools of light thrown off by streetlamps. The sky grows darker as we head down Biscayne Boulevard and the lights spanning the condominium towers across the bay form a wall of twinkling stars.
“So what did Daniel want?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
“He wanted me to talk to you about getting back together. He regrets what he did and misses you.”
“And you believe him?”
“Of course I do. He’s a good man. He cheated on you once. That’s not something you end a marriage over.”
I glance at Tootsie and he looks away. He must know by now how little I respect his advice on marriage. His affairs destroyed his relationship with my mother and turned her into a bitter person. I won’t let that happen to me. I never told Tootsie how witnessing his treatment of my mother prevented me from trusting Daniel or any other man for a long time. I debate bringing it up, but don’t. I doubt my father would understand.
“I know what I’m doing,” I say, struggling to keep the anger out of my voice. “You and Mom worked things out your way. I can take care of my own marriage.”
He shrugs. Then he looks out the window and back at me. His eyes are sad and I realize how upset he is by our breakup. I appreciate his concern. But it’s something I need to deal with alone.
When we arrive at Wasserstein’s Deli, it’s crowded so we sit at the counter at the front of the restaurant. The backless stools are small and hard and Tootsie keeps squirming. It’s noisy here, near the crowd waiting for tables, so we eat and head back to the car.
“Did Daniel say why he came to see you today?” I ask once we’re on the causeway crossing the bay to his apartment. I’m afraid Daniel said something about Esther.
“I don’t know why he stopped by today, but he looked miserable. He talked about how much he misses being part of a family. He’s got a point, you know. Thirty years is too long to throw away. I asked what happened with his chippie. Did she dump him? He said no. The affair was a mistake.”
I cringe. That’s it? A mistake with a “chippie.” Is that how my father sees Daniel’s affair?
“He loves you, Doll.”
I can’t have this conversation. It’s painful and can only end in another argument over
how he mistreated my mother. The last time that happened we didn’t speak for years. I’d hate a repeat of that. I need him too much now. It’s been a nightmare of a weekend and I want to go home.
I drop Tootsie off, refusing his invitation to come upstairs. My father adores Daniel, and I know he’ll launch into his spiel about what a great guy he is. I don’t need that. And I’m afraid I’ll let word of Esther’s condition slip.
Two days later, Esther arrives with an envelope of films. She talked to her doctor but says we can discuss his findings after she meets with Daniel and has a better idea of what they mean. We stay up late talking and baking my mother’s chocolate chip mandel bread, which is gone by the morning. It’s wonderful to have her around, though it makes me realize how lonely I’ve been banging around this big, deserted house. She brings two books on breast cancer but we ignore them. I’ve looked forward to her arrival with trepidation, afraid that the fear of cancer has changed her, maybe stripped her of her sense of humor. But she’s still got me on the floor laughing with stories of her students.
My sister is shorter and smaller-boned than I am but much better at sports. In the last few years, she has taken to wearing her athleticism like a badge of honor. When she’s not working, she tends to hang out in pricey sneakers and brief running shorts that show off her well-defined quadriceps. As a teenager, she always followed the latest fad so I’m not surprised that she packed an impressive collection of lightweight nylon shirts and tees emblazoned with the names of marathon sponsors. She brought me a tee shirt with the names of several Greensboro eateries. It was, she joked, the tee shirt I’d appreciate the most.
Our little honeymoon of eating, sleeping and laughing ends the minute we get in the car Wednesday morning. Daniel’s agreed to see Esther at nine thirty. I’m so nervous on the ride to his office that I run a red light.
“Hey, I’m here to be cured, not killed,” Esther says. “Calm down. It’s just Daniel.” She pats my shoulder and a surge of warmth engulfs me. She appreciates how hard it is for me to face him.
It’s been two months since I visited Daniel’s office and the place looks shabby. The hedges in front of the compact brick building need a trim. The lawn service is overdue and dollar weed competes with small patches of brown grass for control of the lawn. Though it’s officially his office manager’s job to oversee the building’s upkeep, in reality it fell to me. I get a certain sense of satisfaction knowing something at his office has paid a price for my absence.
When Esther and I enter the office, two elderly women glance up from the champagne leather armchairs I chose for the waiting area ten years ago. They’re still in good shape, though not in the precise arrangement I left them. I motion Esther to sit and step up to the receptionist’s window.
“Esther Potok is here to see Dr. Ruchinsky.”
The receptionist, Mary, looks up with a welcoming smile that quickly changes to shock. “Mrs. Ruchinsky. I didn’t know you were coming with Mrs. Potok.” She glances down at her schedule book, then over my shoulder at Esther. “I’ll let Dr. Ruchinsky know his patient is here.”
I steal a glance into the office through the tiny window behind which Mary sits. A woman walks behind her and I catch my breath. Mary whispers, “Dawn left.”
I manage a weak smile. Of course. Everyone knows. Mary blushes, then closes the opaque sliding glass window as I return to Esther.
Having helped out in Daniel’s office when members of his staff were sick, I know it’s customary for a nurse or assistant to escort the patient to an examining room. But ten minutes after we sit down, Daniel opens the waiting room door.
“Esther,” he says, though he’s looking at me, “it’s good to see you.”
I open my mouth to say hello, then close it. My tongue feels like sandpaper and my limbs are weak. I’m shocked at this unexpected reaction. A sense of loss rushes over me, but I can’t tell if it’s from the sight of Daniel or from a sudden recognition that this is real—that I could lose Esther. I fight an irrational longing to run into his arms and beg him to reassure me she’ll be fine. Daniel glances at me, eyebrows furrowed, and I sense he’s reading my mind.
Daniel’s become gaunt since I last saw him and the high cheekbones that gave his face a compelling Slavic intensity look like bony parentheses. His hair is beginning to curl behind his ears, which means he hasn’t had it cut in weeks. When his eyes search mine, I look down. My stomach contracts.
“Why don’t the two of you come back now?” he says.
Esther rises.
“I’ll wait here,” I manage to whisper. I don’t know if I’m capable of standing. “When the exam’s over, call me in.”
They leave the waiting area, Daniel’s hand across the small of Esther’s back.
I’m hiding behind the Southern Living magazine I left in the office months earlier, trying to conceal my reddened face, when the older of the two elderly women in the waiting room reaches for her companion’s hand. The two appear well-heeled, with short, blunt-cut, silver-gray hair and beautifully tailored pantsuits. They look so much alike that I wonder if they’re sisters.
“You’re going to like Dr. Ruchinsky. He’s the finest oncologist in Palm Beach County,” the older one whispers to her companion. “And he’s so kind. I don’t know how I could’ve gotten through this without him.”
I keep my eyes glued to the page, but turn my head slightly to better hear what they’re saying.
“When I found out about Joseph’s cancer, I was devastated. Dr. Ruchinsky spent as much time comforting and explaining things to me as he spent on Joseph’s medical care. He did everything he could.” She touches a manicured pinkie to her cheek and wipes a tear.
I catch her eye and look away. She leans toward her friend and takes the woman’s other hand. “I promise. You’re going to get the best care. Everything will be fine.”
The women continue speaking but drop their voices to a range I can’t hear. Their conversation reminds me of how I felt when Daniel broke away from his old partners to start his practice. When I’d run into doctors at the gym or grocery store, they’d reassure me he’d do fine, that he was a terrific doctor and they’d send their patients to him. I felt proud of being married to such a well-regarded man. Now I wonder how such a kind and gentle person could have treated me so poorly. What happened to the Daniel I knew? I loved being “Dr. Ruchinsky’s wife”—not just because he was a successful and well-respected physician, but because he sincerely cared about his patients and wasn’t afraid to show it.
“Dr. Ruchinsky asked if you’d come back to his office.”
I look up from my magazine and check my watch. Has it really been twenty minutes? Mary stands at the open door, smiling. I follow her down the narrow hall and past the examining rooms to Daniel’s office. When I step inside, he’s sitting behind the antique walnut desk we shipped home during a vacation in Vermont. The glassed-fronted barrister’s bookcase we picked up a year earlier is crammed with books and journals. Colorful framed photos of the boys at the beach, horseback riding at camp, and standing with Daniel and me in their high school graduation robes line the top of the bookcase. Everything’s familiar—and strange. Esther sits across from Daniel, her hands folded in her lap. Her face reveals nothing.
“I’m afraid there’s something there,” Daniel says once I’ve pulled the door shut and settled into the chair next to Esther. “I’ve gone over Esther’s scan and want to schedule a biopsy for tomorrow.”
I take my sister’s hand and give it a squeeze. It’s cold and damp. She doesn’t squeeze back.
“So the question is where do we go from there?” He nods toward Esther. “It’s your decision, of course, but I’ve been through this with many patients. Barry Simon can do the biopsy. He’s a good surgeon and I can set it up for you tomorrow if you want. Once we hear back, you can decide what to do.
“In any event, if you need radiation, chemo, s
urgery, whatever, we can arrange to do it in Boca. I’d also be glad to call your doctor in Greensboro if you’d rather go home. Either way, I’m here for you.”
He talks a bit longer, explaining Esther’s medical options and answering her questions. I’m surprised by how coherent she is. I’m numb and, after a few minutes, realize how deeply disappointed I feel. I was sure Daniel would announce Esther’s doctor misread the mammogram. That she was fine. I counted on him to, somehow, pull a rabbit out of his hat and make her cancer disappear. But even Daniel can’t do that.
When he stands, Esther and I rise. Daniel reaches to open the door for us and hesitates as his hand touches the knob. He looks at me, then diverts his gaze.
At the reception desk, he gives Esther a hug. I stiffen as he approaches and he steps back.
The first five minutes of the drive home, we don’t speak. Daniel’s office is fifteen minutes from the house and we return along Jog Road, passing gated communities with elaborately landscaped entrances. When we turn into my neighborhood, Esther looks at me. “I’m glad I came. It’s a relief to be with you.”
I tell her she’s welcome to stay as long as she wants, that I plan to be with her for every appointment and procedure.
“I’m sure the doctors in Greensboro are fine,” she continues, “but they’re not Daniel. He’s so reassuring. And he took the time to explain what I’ll be going through. My doctor at home usually can’t be bothered.”
I take in what she said and recall the conversation between the elderly women in Daniel’s office. Esther’s right. Despite everything, I never lost respect for Daniel’s medical skill. He’s devoted to his patients. Sometimes too much so. Any real difficulties in our marriage before the affair stemmed from the time he spent with patients and away from the family. He was, as Esther once put it, a package deal. The same qualities that I loved in him, his sensitivity and ability to tune in to people, made him a great, if overworked, doctor.
The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Page 15