Now You See Me...

by Rochelle Krich

  “So how did you meet Ezra?”

  “That’s a long story.” She moved her chair back and stood. “Maybe we can talk more another time. I really have to go. I’ll walk out with you.”

  “One more question?” I rose and returned my chair to the adjoining table. “What was in the box in the closet?”

  “Nothing. Interesting, because we found blood on the inside and outside of the box.” Jessie picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “If you want to help the Bailors, Molly, convince Hadassah to talk to us. If she doesn’t, as soon as we get the lab results about the blood, I’ll have to arrest her. I really don’t want to do that.”

  “Even if she killed Shankman in self-defense?”

  “If that’s what happened, why doesn’t she tell us?”

  Chapter 40

  Over an early dinner I told Zack what I’d said to Rabbi Bailor, and felt like crying again during the telling.

  “I don’t blame you for being upset, Molly,” Zack said. “It was unfair of Rabbi Bailor to blame you for what happened. You were anxious to find Hadassah.”

  “I told him it was his fault Shankman chose Dassie. That was a horrible thing to say, even if it’s true.” I poked at the roast chicken on my plate. “And it may not be true. How do I know what was going on in Shankman’s head?”

  “Give it a day or so, Molly. Then, only if you want to, you can call Rabbi Bailor.”

  “I can’t face him, Zack. His daughter could have been killed, a man is dead, and I’m focused on my own petty hurts over something that happened fourteen years ago.”

  “You admired him. You felt he let you down. It’s hard to get over something like that. I’m sure Rabbi Bailor feels terrible about what he said, too, Molly.”

  My eyes teared again. I wiped them with a napkin.

  “Did you ever consider confronting Rabbi Ingel?” Zack said a few minutes later. “He’s the one you’re really angry at, Molly.”

  “Oh, please.” I put down my fork. “The man is in total denial. He’d never admit he was wrong. I saw him at a wedding after my divorce. I could tell what he was thinking from the way he looked at me: ‘You see, Malka, I was right about you,’ ” I said, mimicking the rabbi’s high-pitched tone. “ ‘You’re a failure.’ ”

  Zack laughed. “You sound exactly like him. But isn’t it possible that you were being sensitive, Molly?”

  “It’s possible,” I admitted. “I felt like a failure. And I’m not exactly objective about the rabbi. Mindy says I give him too much power over me. Every time I see him, all those emotions come flooding back.”

  “He doesn’t represent Orthodoxy, Molly. For every Rabbi Ingel, there are tens of open-minded, sensitive, compassionate rabbis who don’t use fire and brimstone to force their students into a cookie-cutter mold.”

  “I know. I married one of the good ones.” I smiled. “But it took me a while to figure that out.”

  I had told Zack about the doubts I’d had in my late teens about Orthodox Judaism, about the questions I’d been afraid to ask. I’d drifted away. Then one evening, two years later, Mindy had dragged me to a lecture where I’d heard a dynamic, fascinating rabbi, very much like the Rabbi Bailor I had first known and admired. I had signed up for his class out of curiosity and had gradually found my way back to Orthodox observance.

  Zack said, “Rabbi Ingel’s still at Sharsheret, so your mom sees him all the time, right? Isn’t that awkward?”

  “She’s not a fan. Basically, she and my dad feel sorry for him. They think he’s sincere in his zealousness, but narrow-minded and clueless. And tactless.” I sighed. “I need a hug, Zack.”

  “I’d love to give you a hug. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t make the rules.” I ate an asparagus spear.

  “So what did Detective Drake tell you?” Zack said.

  “Trying to change the subject, huh?” I repeated what I’d learned. “So maybe that is Hadassah’s blood on her clothes, not Shankman’s.” I looked at Zack’s face. “You don’t think so, huh?”

  He shrugged. “It’ll be interesting to see who Hadassah phoned Friday night, if anybody.”

  “Detective Drake hopes to know tomorrow. By the way, she’s dating Ezra Nathanson.”

  Zack raised a brow. “Ezra and a cop? Huh. She’s Jewish?”

  I told him about her background. “She seems very nice. More important, she’s investigating the Prosser angle.”

  Zack left to teach a Talmud class. I cleared the dishes while I talked to Edie and to Mindy, who told me Liora had flown to New York the night before. A shidduch date, my mother confirmed when I phoned her.

  “On paper, he sounds great,” my mother said.

  “On paper they all sound great. Speaking of paper, how’s your book?”

  “I’m still blocked.”

  “Tell me what has you stumped.”

  Fiction was infinitely more appealing than reality. We talked plot for half an hour. My mother hung up to take her nightly walk with my dad. I watched Scrubs, then phoned my friend Irene.

  “I miss seeing you every Shabbos,” she told me after we’d caught up. “Why did you have to get married and switch to your husband’s shul?”

  Irene always makes me smile. “It kind of goes with the territory. Irene, what can you tell me about cluster suicides?”

  “For one thing, they account for only five percent of suicides. Why?”

  I told her about Hadassah and Batya Weinberg, and Greg Shankman.

  “I heard about that on the news,” Irene said. “What a tragedy. So you think Shankman planned to kill himself and get Hadassah to do the same?”

  “Either that, or murder-suicide. I know it sounds crazy.”

  “It’s not crazy at all, Molly. Suicide among young people has been on the rise. They’re under greater stress than they ever were—stress from school, peers, family. And there’s a romantic image—Romeo and Juliet. They don’t think about the messiness of death. They do it to make a point, or to make someone feel sorry. Do you know for a fact that the Weinberg girl killed herself?”

  “No.”

  “She died last year, you said? Cluster suicides are defined as three or more suicides that take place in a short period of time in the same area—like within a school, or a town. But there are copycat suicides. That’s when someone kills himself because a friend has done it, or a celebrity. Often, the attraction is the notoriety or glamour. What makes you think Hadassah was contemplating suicide?”

  “I don’t know that she was. But from what I’ve learned, she’s been depressed, overwhelmed with school, lonely. She was very upset about Batya Weinberg’s death and the deaths of the other kids she knew. Also, someone close to her thinks Hadassah is cutting herself.”

  “Oh.”

  I didn’t like the “Oh.” “Is there a correlation between cutting and suicide, Irene?”

  “Some people—mostly cutters—say the release of tension provided by cutting prevents suicide, but most therapists believe there’s an increased risk. Not every person who self-mutilates is suicidal, Molly, but cutting the wrist is a step closer to slitting a wrist.”

  I pictured Hadassah’s scarred arm and winced.

  “Several of my patients self-mutilate, Molly. Most of them are teenage girls, although one woman is in her forties. Some tear their hair. Some burn themselves. Most of them cut themselves—with razors, staples, safety pins, knives. Whatever’s available.”

  “I found a few unbent staples in Hadassah’s trash can,” I told Irene. “But why do they do it?”

  “Did you see Thirteen? That was in theaters last year. It’s about a teen who self-mutilates.”

  “Holly Hunter played the mom, right? I didn’t see it. It sounded too depressing.”

  “It’s definitely not a feel-good film. To tell you the truth, I worry that susceptible teens may see films about self-injury and get ideas. There’s a whole culture of cutters. They have websites. They have a cut-of-the-month club, where they get tog
ether and show off their latest cut.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  “They do it for the glamour and the attention. But underlying all that is a serious emotional problem. Basically, a teen who cuts into her skin is lonely or suffers from family neglect. She has feelings of worthlessness and self-loathing. She may be depressed. She may be overwhelmed with school. She may be grieving over someone she’s lost. A lot of cutters have other psychological problems. They may be bipolar, or have eating disorders.”

  So much of what Irene had described fit Hadassah. I thought about Hadassah’s clothing. Size 0. “I get the psychology, Irene. But how does cutting make this person feel better?”

  “She’s in emotional pain, right? By cutting herself, she’s localizing the pain and bringing it to the surface. And she’s relieving the tension.”

  “And when the tension builds?”

  “She cuts again. Sometimes the cuts get infected. Or she cuts too deeply, or too close to a vein. I had one patient who shared a razor with a male friend. The friend was HIV positive. Lucky for my patient, she tested negative.”

  “Very lucky,” I said.

  “Cutters self-mutilate with increasing frequency and intensity. It’s like with any addiction. After a while, two glasses of Scotch doesn’t give you the high they did. So you drink more. Cutting is a tough addiction to break, but with therapy, there’s a good chance. There’s a hospital-based program in Naperville, Illinois, that treats only patients who injure themselves. It’s called S.A.F.E. ALTERNATIVES. The clinical director, Wendy Lader, says skin is a bulletin board. By cutting themselves, teens are saying, ‘Can you see how much pain I’m in?’ ”

  “Now you see me.” I felt overwhelmed with sorrow for Irene’s unnamed clients, for Hadassah Bailor, for anyone who felt the pain of invisibility.

  “You said Hadassah’s home,” Irene said. “How is she?”

  “She’s not talking to anyone.” I explained what I had witnessed. “Her father says she may be suffering from post-traumatic stress.”

  “That could very well be. Is she under a doctor’s care?”

  “Yes. Dr. McIntyre. He’s a psychologist, or psychiatrist—I’m not sure. He teaches a class at Torat Tzion.”

  “Well, as long as she’s under his care.”

  “So from what I’ve described, Irene, do you think she’s at risk of killing herself?”

  “How can I answer that, Molly? I’ve never met her. I’ve never talked to her. But the trauma of whatever she went through—being controlled, being manipulated, possibly assaulted—none of that bodes well. And from what you told me, she still hasn’t dealt with whatever pushed her to cut herself in the first place. And suppose she killed this man, even in self-defense. She may still feel responsible for his death, and for bringing all this trouble to her parents’ doorstep. I assume her family knows she’s cutting herself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, if they don’t know, they should.”

  I had intended to tell Rabbi Bailor before our conversation took its emotional turn. The way things were now, I didn’t feel comfortable calling him. Maybe I would raise the subject with Dr. McIntyre.

  Irene and I talked a while longer. After I hung up, I logged onto the Internet and responded to several e-mails, among them two letters from fans. I checked my Amazon ranking. Still in the 20,000 range. Then, on a whim, I visited J Spot.

  I recognized most of the names in the chat room, including Birch2. I made a mental note to talk to Sara again about her online activities.

  DJ2440: So the odds of getting into medical school aren’t great un-

  less you’re a music major.

  Lucky7: Musicology, not biology.

  M&M: Lame-o-rama.

  Jewcy: Say something, Birch.

  Birch2: Not much to say. I have to do homework. ’Night.

  M&M: Don’t go up a tree, Birch.

  Lucky7: LOL

  Birch2 has left the room.

  Aleph36: Dude, you’re putting me to sleep. You guys are boooooor-

  ing!!! Kerry was better than this.

  M&M: My parents split their vote.

  DJ2440: I’m Bushed.

  M&M: Ambushed?

  Lucky7: Hey, ToraTora. Where’ve you been?

  ToraTora: Bora Bora.

  Lucky7: LOL

  ST613 has entered the room.

  M&M: Hey, ST. Shalom.

  I stared at the screen. ST613 was Dassie. Just hours ago Rabbi Bailor told me his daughter was emotionally spent. Now she was well enough to get out of bed?

  Maybe he didn’t know.

  Lucky7: What’s up, ST?

  ST613: Not much.

  Jewcy: Still down in the dumps, huh?

  DJ2440: Like last night? Tell us why.

  ST613: Nothing special.

  M&M: ST is blue. Boo-hoo.

  Jewcy: Cool it, M&M.

  So Dassie had been in the chat room last night, too.

  Lucky7: So why are you sad, ST?

  ST613: I’m okay.

  M&M: A horse walks into a bar. The bartender says, why the long

  face?

  Sinai: LOL

  DJ2440: ROFL

  ToraTora: ROFL

  M&M: My mom was sad yesterday, ’cause JFK was killed Novem-

  ber 22.

  DJ2440: My mom and dad talk about where they were when they

  heard.

  Lucky7: Where were you when they dropped the charges against

  Kobe Bryant?

  Sinai: My teacher was killed.

  M&M: No way!

  Lucky7: When?

  Sinai: Friday night. It’s been on the news.

  DJ2440: So what happened?

  ST613 has left the room.

  M&M: Give, Sinai.

  Sinai: Remember I said a teacher cheated on the AP exam? He’s the

  one.

  DJ2440: Dude!

  Lucky7: Killed, how?

  Sinai: His car went over a cliff and landed on rocks.

  M&M: Yuk! Splat!

  Lucky7: Gross, M&M.

  Sinai: They’re saying someone killed him and put him in the car to

  make it look like an accident.

  DJ2440: OMG

  Sinai: He was a nice guy. . . .

  Chapter 41

  Hadassah was on the computer when her father came into her room. She thought he would be angry. “What are you doing out of bed?” he asked. “Are you feeling better?”

  She heard surprise in his voice, and hope. So she told him yes, she was better, and maybe tomorrow she would go outside to get fresh air. She wasn’t ready to go to school, not yet. She wasn’t ready to face everybody, her classmates and teachers. Or even Sue, who was warm and loving and would hug her and tell her, “Thank God, you’re okay, that’s the most important thing, Hadassah. Thank God it’s over.”

  Hadassah knew that it wasn’t over.

  Something must have happened today. Her father sat on the side of her bed and held her hand, not the bandaged one. He was careful about that. “Dassie,” he said, his voice so serious, so heavy, so filled with sadness, just like seven years ago, when his mother died, so Hadassah knew that he was going to prepare her, that the police were coming to arrest her. But he said, “Dassie, I have to ask you a question.” And she thought, Molly told him. “Look at Dassie’s arms, Rabbi Bailor, don’t you see the scars?”

  It was right after Batya died. Hadassah was confused when she heard, how could somebody be there one day, sitting next to you in class? And the next day she was dead? Hadassah’s father told her it was a heart attack, but Hadassah knew that wasn’t true. Batya wasn’t sick, she looked like everybody else, like Hadassah. That was a frightening thought, that you could go to sleep at night and not wake up the next morning. Although that was what Hadassah said every morning after she rinsed her hands and her eyes. Thank you, Hashem, for returning my soul, for returning souls to dead bodies.

  Like Batya’s. Everybody was crying, “Oh my God! It’s so awful.
” Hadassah thought it was awful, and frightening, but she didn’t cry. For a long time, even before Batya died, Hadassah felt as if she were watching the other Hadassah on a television show. Sometimes she thought people didn’t really see her, so maybe she wasn’t real.

  Blood was real. Blood was life.

  The first time Hadassah cut herself, after Batya’s funeral, she used a soda can tab and ran it along the inside of her wrist. Just a small cut, just a few beads of blood. The pain was sharp for a few seconds, and then it was gone. But pain was good. So was blood. Pain meant Hadassah was alive, real, not like Batya, and Noah and Lisa, who felt no pain.

  Hadassah didn’t think Batya cut herself. But she knew Tara did. Hadassah saw her arm once when they were changing for gym. “My cat scratched me,” she told Hadassah. Mrs. Morton, who taught them Jewish laws and was their senior advisor, was so pleased when Tara starting wearing long sleeves, even in the late spring and early fall, when it was so warm. “I think you’re having a positive effect on her,” she’d told Dassie. There were probably other cutters in the school. There was one in Bais Rifka, Sara had told her. And maybe there were more. Hadassah was careful when she was around Sara. They used to get undressed in front of each other, but now when Hadassah slept over, she made sure to change into pajamas in the bathroom. “You’re getting so frum, Dassie,” Sara teased. A few weeks ago Aliza had come into their bedroom unexpectedly, right after Hadassah had showered. “You’re bleeding!” Aliza had said. “Look at your legs and your arms!” Hadassah had told her she’d started itching like crazy all over. Maybe it was something she ate, or something in the detergent. So she’d started scratching and scratching and all of a sudden she was bleeding. Aliza said, “Maybe you should tell Mom.” So Hadassah said, “I told her. She said I should take Benadryl.” And her sister said, “You better take a lot, Dassie. You look gross.”

  Hadassah had shown him the cuts. She had worried that he would be disgusted, but he’d said, “Everything about you is beautiful, Dassie. I will kiss the hurts away.” And he had showed her his scar, on his right wrist. “In the end I couldn’t do it,” he told Hadassah. “I was waiting for you.”