A Little Help from Above

by Saralee Rosenberg

  “Shelby, I’m ashamed to say I called you my friend. First you deceive me, then you make up some horrible lie to cover up. You told me you didn’t have a family, remember?”

  “Actually, I do. I lied about that.”

  “So why should I believe you now?”

  The guy had a point. “Walter, I swear on your favorite Bible. I didn’t know.”

  “I really trusted you, Lazarus. But why should you care? You’ve still got a job. Bitch!”

  Shelby stared at the phone. The only two people she knew who didn’t have a foul mouth had both cursed at her today. Was there a full moon? “You said I still have a job? Doing what?”

  “Hope you like the Internet, baby.” He choked back tears before hanging up on her.

  The Internet? Shelby groaned. Oh no. Not the digital publishing division. She hadn’t worked this hard to suddenly have her fan base be all those fat-assed, pimple-faced day traders in cheap apartments who read her on-line.

  “Miss Shelly? Miss Shelly?”

  Shelby put the phone down, shuddering at the sound of her mispronounced name. It was bad enough the hired help couldn’t get it right. But did Maria always have to sound as if she was in the remake of Gone With the Wind? She opened the door to find her sprinting over.

  “My name is Shelby, okay? S-H-E-L-B-Y. Now what is it?”

  “Come quick, Miss Shelly. Lauren got a call from the hospital. It doesn’t sound good.”

  Shelby groaned, but started to follow the woman out. Then the phone rang. “Hold on. I have to take this.” She ran back. “Be there in a sec.”

  Maria waited, hands on hips.

  “Hello. Is this Shelby Lazarus?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Debby from Mr. Davidoff’s office. Please hold the line for him.”

  Shelby broke into a sweat. Oh God. Why now? How could she remain composed when Maria, the domestic barracuda, looked as though she was ready to pounce?

  “Shelby? Irving here. I understand you’re in New York attending to a family emergency?”

  “That’s right…”

  Suddenly Maria grabbed the phone. “Miss Shelly is very sorry, but there is a very urgent matter in the house, and she’ll be needin’ to get back to you.” With that she hung up.

  “How dare you?” Shelby screamed. “Do you have any freakin’ idea who that was?”

  “Child, I wouldn’t care if that was the good Lord himself.” Maria grabbed her by the hand. “Your sister is catatonic in the kitchen.”

  “Oh. So now you’re part housekeeper, part psychiatric evaluator?”

  Maria sprinted back to the kitchen with Shelby in tow, then pointed to what looked like a comatose Lauren in the chair. Tiny specs of tissue were stuck to her nose, and her body trembled.

  “What happened?” Shelby tried assessing the seriousness of the situation by studying Lauren’s face.

  Lauren tried to speak, but was only able to moan. Then her breathing became rapid, and her skin tone began to match the shade of the pale gray floor tiles.

  “Oh shit. She’s hyperventilating. Get a paper bag,” Shelby ordered. “No, get two.”

  Maria ran to the pantry and pulled out two large paper sacks from the supermarket.

  “No, no, no!” Shelby said. “Small lunch bags.”

  “Mrs. L. doesn’t keep anything like them around. Is plastic good?”

  “Fine. Anything,” Shelby realized her own breathing was fairly uneven. “Just hurry.”

  As Maria searched for Ziploc bags, Shelby watched her sister’s body cross from listless to limp, just as it had when she was younger. She suddenly remembered overhearing Aunt Roz telling her father the pediatrician said this was Lauren’s way of getting attention, but as Shelby studied her disoriented eyes, it occurred to her no one needed attention that badly. What if Lauren had been misdiagnosed, just as their mother had been when she was told her stomach problems were related to a lousy diet?

  “Here.” Maria handed Shelby the bags. And not a minute too soon. For the instant Shelby placed the bag over Lauren’s nose and mouth, she vomited into it.

  Maria quickly handed Lauren another bag, and for what seemed like an eternity, the only sound was heavy breathing. And a telephone ringing in the distance. Shelby looked over at the door until Maria shot her a glance that said if you go for it, you’re going to have to get past me.

  Finally, Lauren pulled the bag away.

  “He died, didn’t he?” Shelby looked down at her hands.

  Lauren shook her head no. “There’s a large blood clot by his brain. They have to get to it…before it bursts.”

  “Oooh, that sounds risky.” Maria clutched her heart.

  Lauren nodded vigorously. “He’ll die if they don’t, but they want us to know…”

  “There’s a good chance he might not survive the operation,” Shelby finished her sentence.

  Lauren looked at her with terror in her eyes.

  “When?” Shelby said softly.

  “They’re prepping him now.” She burst into fresh tears. “What if he dies on the table?”

  Shelby cleared her throat. “Does Aunt Roz know?”

  Lauren shook her head. “She’s still in recovery.”

  Suddenly the room fell still, save for the rhythmic breathing of three women and a symphony of kitchen sounds; the ticking of the wall clock, the clanging of the dryer, the ringing of the damn phone in the distance.

  “We’ll get through this,” Maria squeezed Lauren’s hand. “The Lord will hear our prayers.”

  “Now for sure we’re in trouble.” Shelby stared outside. “He’s done shit for us so far.”

  Maria gasped and quickly made the sign of the cross.

  “Shelby!” Lauren pleaded. “Don’t be like this. Don’t give up hope.”

  “I haven’t. But I’m sure as hell not putting my faith in God, or in the asshole doctors who can recite every feature of a new Mercedes 500 SL, but are totally unfamiliar with pain and suffering. All I know is, whatever’s going to happen to them is out of our hands.”

  “So that’s it? We sit around all day waiting for the phone to ring?” Lauren whimpered.

  “It’s a lot better than pacing the halls, waiting for some crybaby doctor to tell us he tried his best, but it’s all over, while he looks at his watch to see if he can still make his tee time.”

  “I’m sorry. We belong at the hospital,” Lauren said bravely. “I’m going over there.”

  “Be my guest. I’m going to shower and change, then call my office. There seems to be a little problem at work.”

  “Well there’s a big problem at home!” Lauren nearly choked. “Can’t it wait?”

  “No. In fact I’m probably going to have to fly back tonight.”

  “No don’t.” She reached for Shelby’s arm. “You can’t leave me alone here.”

  “You’re not alone,” Shelby said. “Maria and Avi are here. I’ll come back in a few days.”

  “A few days?” Lauren looked over at Maria. “Are you telling me your stupid job is more important than your own family?”

  “No, I’m saying there’s not a damn thing I can do for them, so I might as well go home and find out if I even have a stupid job!”

  Lauren stood up, clutching the tall arm of the chair for support. “I have something to say.”

  “Fine. But you’re wasting your time if you plan to threaten me.” Shelby folded her arms.

  “It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.” Lauren mustered her bravest face. “I’m telling you right now if you go back to Chicago today, we’ll never speak again.”

  “Oh please.” Shelby laughed. “You know how many times you’ve said that to me?”

  “I mean it with every ounce of strength I have left.” Lauren swallowed. “If you walk out on me, I’ll never speak to you again.”

  “Now there’s a line you’ve had a lot of practice saying!”

  Lauren slapped Shelby’s face so fast and hard, they were both stunned. “Go to h
ell!”

  “Isn’t that where I am? “Shelby ran for the door. Her cheek stung so badly her teeth hurt.

  Maria shook her head as the Sisters Pathetic returned to their corners of the ring. Round one was over. God help them both.

  Chapter Nine

  Just before Shelby was connected to Irving Davidoff’s office, she made herself a bet. If he wasn’t puffing a soggy cigar, everything would work out fine. But if he was already chomping on a smuggled Havana import, it meant he was in a fetal position and all bets were off.

  “You read the report.” Irving blew rings of smoke so noxious, Shelby swore the cigar odor wafted through the phone lines.

  Oh shit, she thought. It’s all over.

  “Circulation was hemorrhaging in the ’burbs. We had no choice.”

  “So let me get this straight.” Shelby’s heart raced. “After last quarter’s audit bureau report, the suits in marketing brought in some upstart consulting firm with a nifty website, who got free rein to create their vision of the paper. Then the boy genius behind it, who’s probably so young he’s still writing thank-you notes for his Bar Mitzvah, told you the economy’s good, people don’t like controversy. They want stories that soothe the soul.”

  Mr. Davidoff’s reply came in the form of a long puff and a cough.

  “So that’s it?” Shelby’s voice grew louder. “We’re going back to the soft stuff, like in the seventies, when the local network affiliates decided viewers needed happy news?”

  “The numbers don’t lie.”

  “I see. So let me get this straight. I busted my hump for a few years, put the Metro section back on the map, and now it’s thanks for the memories?”

  “For which you were very well compensated.”

  “And will continue to be well compensated,” Shelby cut him off. “You want a great read? Take a look at my contract.”

  “Yes, yes. Legal’s looking into it. But in your case we’re not dealing with a termination. Exciting opportunities await you in the world of our digital publishing division.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Don’t give me sour grapes, Lazarus. I find it unprofessional. Besides, whatever gave you the impression your column was anything but a sideshow? A novelty act?”

  “Oh really? Is that what you told Royko, too?”

  “Trust me, you’re no Royko. Mike was a masterful writer. A genius of the ordinary and the sublime. You, frankly, are a loudmouth call girl with a cell phone and a pen.”

  Shelby was barely able to catch her breath when Mr. Davidoff continued.

  “Besides, once our focus groups indicated readers were growing tired of your column’s whining and carrying on, our decision was made.”

  “Trust me. So is mine,” Shelby bit back. “I’ll e-mail my resignation to you. Unless you find that unprofessional.” She slammed down the phone.

  Shelby closed her eyes to hold back any tears. For someone in the business of reporting bad news, she had still never learned how to receive it. She collapsed on the bed and slammed her fist into a pillow. Was there any aspect of her life that hadn’t yet unraveled this morning? Let’s see. Her personal life as she knew it was over, and now so was her career. Was she really such a selfish ogre she deserved not one day’s happiness? Lots of people were far more hopeless and pathetic than she, but their lives didn’t seem to be constantly undermined by catastrophe.

  It seemed like an appropriate time to cry, and Lord knows Dr. Kahn would be proud to hear that his most stoic patient finally surrendered to her pain, finally got past her “fear of the tear.” Trouble was, having cried buckets into her pillow every night after her mother died, she had been neither relieved of her despair nor offered closure. It was at that point that she’d decided never to cry again. Not even now when she knew a few good tears might manipulate Irving into submission.

  Shelby tried envisioning a tearful scene in his office where she sobbed, pleading to keep her job. But given her take-no-prisoners approach to life, a more realistic dream involved her shopping at Kmart for masking tape and a gun, then holding Irv hostage while he cried for mercy.

  Maybe the reason she couldn’t just bring on the tears was that she felt more relief than sadness. She knew full well she was weary of faking compassion for the helpless lowlifes she wrote about. Most days she viewed them with apathy, if not total disdain.

  Besides, whom was she kidding? She’d never had any regard for Irving’s fear-driven, editorial judgment. “Have you seen the waffle man?” she would sing before he entered a room. So if she was nothing more than a call girl with a cell phone and a pen, he was the neighborhood pimp who never stopped looking over his shoulder.

  And for all his talk about focus groups, Shelby knew the real bottom line. After 152 years in business, the Chicago Tribune was still suffering from an identity crisis. No matter how hard they tried to earn the same respect, credibility, and number of Pulitzer prizes as the New York Times, they would never be anything more than first runner up.

  “You wouldn’t understand what it’s like being number two,” Granny Bea Good said.

  Shelby shook her head, hoping to terminate the interruption. What was it about Alzheimer’s patients that allowed them to tune into the conscience of loved ones?

  “Ask Lauren what it’s like always being in your shadow.”

  Shelby closed her eyes. This business of her beloved grandmother piercing her inner sanctum was so disconcerting she wanted to cry out to be left alone. On the other hand, once again, Granny had made a valid point.

  Lauren did always seem to be in the middle of an identity crisis. In fact, she’d spent her entire life in a futile attempt to compete with someone whom she was destined to follow. Simply, Lauren would always be second. The second daughter, second fiddle, second-rate. Ditto for the Chicago Trib. Why even their hometown’s nickname said it all. Second City.

  Clearly these runner-ups should just accept their lots in life, and instead of fighting it, create their own unique identities. Like the New York Informer, Shelby thought.

  The Informer never gave a damn what the Times was working on. They’d developed their own brand of journalism, badass media. Which meant that they could go down dark, political alleys the Times wouldn’t even be able to find on a map.

  But what was she thinking? That she respected the raging tabloid? That she thought they could play as important a role in the political influence arena as the crusty Times? Apparently, yes.

  Shelby got up and started rummaging through her pocketbook. She’d thrown his card in there yesterday. “Got it!” she said. Then before she even had a second to reconsider, she dialed the number.

  “Ian McNierney, please. Tell him Shelby Lazarus is on the line.”

  My mother, Bea, lived for her soap operas. I swear the house could be on fire, but if As the World Turns was on, they’d have to carry her out clinging to her beloved color TV. You don’t believe me? After my father had a heart attack, the first thing she did at the hospital was pay the lady who turned on the sets in the rooms. Bea Goodman was not letting Sheldon’s poor health prevent her from tuning in! When he died a year later and the rabbi set the funeral for 1 P.M. Friday? Don’t ask. She said, “Rabbi, it’s either Sunday or nothing.”

  Me? I much preferred watching Bewitched. At least the Stephenses made me laugh. Especially when dear, sweet Aunt Clara came for a visit. Talk about clumsy in the magic spells department. If there was a way to screw up, she found it. I never guessed that one day I’d be just like her. Every time I tried helping, I only made matters worse.

  I tried bringing my family together, and I nearly killed two people. I tried getting Shelby and Lauren on speaking terms, and instead they’re at each other’s throats. I tried arranging for the best doctors to be on call when Larry and Roz were brought in and what happens? The kid who cracked up Larry’s car shows up in the OR with a medical license and a scalpel. And now my husband’s in a coma.

  In the meantime, poor Roz is in agony. Not from al
l her broken bones, from seeing herself in the mirror. After being booted like a football, then landing on concrete, she prays her plastic surgeon is as handy as he is creative. Her nose is broken, her cheekbones are fractured, and her face is disfigured from the abrasions. Trouble is the doctors can’t do a thing about any of this until all the gravel is removed from beneath her skin with lidocaine. Which, trust me, will be so painful a procedure she’s going to wish they left her bleeding to death on the street.

  And she’s the lucky one! Larry took the real brunt of the blow. Between the extensive fractures and broken bones, and the indeterminable amount of damage to his internal organs, even if he survives he’ll never fully recover. God only knows what lies ahead.

  As for Shelby and Lauren, not even divine intervention would help those two. They erupt on a whim like active volcanos, with hot lava spewing from their mouths. And that’s just over who forgot to turn off the hall lights!

  I do have an idea that would bring them closer together, but it’s completely crazy. Then again, what I love best about the spirit world is we don’t have calories, and there’s no such thing as crazy!

  It took Shelby four sleepless nights to summon the nerve to return to New York. And no sooner did she arrive, than she thought about running like hell before Lauren discovered she was home.

  Not that Chicago had offered much relief, given that her day job no longer existed. Sure she’d been given options: A, take the job editing the Trib’s newly expanded on-line edition, or B, leave it. Shelby chose B, as it seemed less demeaning, and thanks to the hefty severance package David negotiated for her, the pay was higher. It was the least he could do after dumping her.

  Seems the Sunday of the accident, after Shelby left for O’Hare, David paid a visit to his ex-wife and begged to be taken back. As luck would have it, Rhonda was game now that her lover, Mr. Marriage Breaker, no longer found it pleasurable to be shacked up with the mother of two whiny, Ritalin-dependent kids. Besides, she really wanted to renovate the kitchen.