The Murderer’s Daughters

by Randy Susan Meyers

  I shook out a crumpled towel and shoved it into the hamper. “No.”

  14

  Lulu

  December 1986

  I swore I could still feel the cheap prison paper crackling in my hand even though I’d washed my hands surgeon-style after crumpling my father’s letter and throwing it in the trash, then washed them again the moment I’d arrived at the ER. With harsh hospital soap. However, my father’s letter kept worming into my head and sliming my skin, his words ricocheting like bullets.

  Why don’t you come visit me?

  You’re not afraid of me, are you, Lulu?

  We can talk, we need to talk, Cocoa Puff.

  It’s making me crazy not seeing you, sugar.

  I’m your father for god’s sake.

  I rode a wave of nausea as I smiled at my young patient. I tensed my neck muscles for a moment, determined to squeeze my father from my head. I didn’t know why I’d opened the letter instead of throwing it still sealed deep into an outside trash barrel as I usually did.

  No matter how hard I pretended he wasn’t there, sometimes his hand clawed out and he caught me unawares. I’d chalk today’s mistake of opening his letter up to overwork.

  Thus far, my ER rotation had been a trial by nuclear war. Diagnoses flew from me as I spun from patient to patient. Thank God, I hadn’t begun my internship with the ER like Marta, who’d started here, had turned into an ER zombie within weeks. She had taken to lighting candles in church, chanting, Blessed God, let me have more patients live than die.

  “Melissa, I’m Doctor Zachariah,” I introduced myself to my patient.

  She nodded, barely looking at me. Plump and December-pale, with limp brown hair hanging over her face, she seemed ready to disappear.

  “And this is”—I peered at the student’s name tag again—“this is Doug Keller. He’s a third-year medical student who’ll be working with me today.”

  “I’ll be assisting Doctor Zachariah,” Doug said. He moved toward the exam table.

  Melissa pressed her knees close together.

  “Where exactly is the pain?” I asked.

  Her cheeks turned hot red, and she shrugged.

  Doug picked up the chart from the cracked counter. Each time I looked at the crumbling hospital surfaces—the counters, the cabinet knobs, the examining table—I imagined microbes jitterbugging along the jagged fissures and wanted to soak the whole place in Clorox.

  Doug read the nurse’s notes aloud; Melissa twisted her drape tighter with each word. “Abdominal pain, left side, upon intercourse. No localized vaginal pain. How about when you urinate?” he asked.

  “Huh?” she asked.

  “Does it hurt when you pee?” I asked.

  She gave an infinitesimal nod.

  “Let’s make you feel better.” I squeezed her knee. “Are you in pain now?”

  A few tears spilled down Melissa’s cheeks. I was afraid sympathy could induce a crying jag faster than cruelty, so I dialed back the compassion.

  Learn one. Do one. Teach one.

  I sent off Melissa’s lab tests, betting she had pelvic inflammatory disease. Stopping only to wash my hands, I headed to the next patient, giving a perfunctory knock before entering. The odor of alcohol, unwashed flesh, and something indefinable but familiar overwhelmed me. Doug, following along, hesitated at the door.

  A fiercely dirty man perched on the exam table. Blood flecked the crumpled paper lining under him. The patient looked to be in his forties but might have been anywhere from twenty-five upward. My time in the ER had showed me how alcohol acts as a fast-forward on the face.

  “Mr. Hammond, I’m Doctor Zachariah.” I studied his face from a distance, trying to determine if he were still drunk or if the smell of cheap wine came from yesterday’s binge. “This is my medical student, Doug Keller.”

  Per the chart, my patient had been in a bar fight and suffered superficial knife wounds to one of his shoulders and his back. Judging by the amount and color of blood soaking his shirt, that sounded right.

  “You need to take off your shirt, Mr. Hammond. We’ll leave while you disrobe.” Why hadn’t the nurses better prepped this patient?

  He ignored my instructions and said, “You should see the other guy.”

  “Right,” I said. “But let’s take care of you. Tell me, are you in much pain?”

  “I’m not in any pain at all, girlie.” Bravado filled his voice. “Instead of you taking care of me, how about I take care of you?” He cackled, almost falling off the table as he reached for me. “I’ll make you happy, sugar.”

  “Mr. Hammond, we’re going to leave the room. When we come back, please have your shirt off.”

  “Yeah? How about you don’t tell me what to do? Last one who talked to me like that got a lot worse than this.” He stripped off his shirt, revealing a long gash from shoulder to elbow. “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue, sugar?”

  A tight stabbing knifed through my chest. A lump stuck in my throat felt as though I’d swallowed my stethoscope.

  “You okay?” Doug asked.

  I shook my head, not knowing what I was trying to convey besides the sensation that I might die. I thought he must hear my heart thumping.

  “What the hell’s going on?” Mr. Hammond slurred. “What’s wrong with her?”

  Shut up. Go away. Go away.

  His opened wound gaped at me, begging for closure. Blood matted his thick brown hair. Clumps of it stood straight up.

  “She going to take care of me or not?” he demanded.

  “Doctor Zachariah?” Doug took my arm. “Should I get someone?”

  “What kind of place is this?” The patient advanced toward me. “Fuck this shit.”

  I ran.

  The women’s room seemed miles away. I needed to pee so bad I didn’t know if I could make it. People lining the hall backed away as I raced past them, their concerned faces barely registering.

  “Doctor Zachariah,” Doug yelled as I turned the corner, closing in on the bathroom. I felt like I was running in slow motion, as if I’d never get anywhere.

  I could barely lock the stall door with my shaking hands. Voices, too loud, assaulted me. Doug’s and others.

  Are you okay?

  Louise, do you need anything?

  What’s wrong?

  Their words were miles away. I flushed the toilet and sat back down, lowering my head to my knees. It’s just a panic attack, I told myself, mentally listing as many symptoms as I could remember: palpitations, sweating, shaking, choking sensations, smothering sensations, derealization, depersonalization, paresthesia, urgently needing to urinate or defecate.

  Feeling as though someone would die.

  Smelling anger.

  My father’s hot metal smell flicked out at me from that hot July day. If I’d stayed, would Mama be alive? Would I be dead?

  Why had I gone so slowly to Teenie? Why hadn’t I flown to her apartment?

  “Security’s going to take off the door if you don’t come out, Louise.”

  The determined voice brought me back. She sounded familiar.

  “No,” I croaked. “Okay. I’m okay. Just got sick.” I slowly stood and unlocked the stall door. The harried-looking charge nurse watched me with arms folded.

  I ran my hand over my mouth, pretending I’d been sick, and went to the sink. I splashed water on my face. My heart beat too fast. My breathing remained ragged. Too bad knowing what these symptoms represented didn’t make them go away. I reached down as far as I thought I could and pulled out a few words. “Flu. Sudden. Can barely stand.”

  “Do you need help?” The charge nurse seemed suspicious.

  I shook my head. “I’ll phone a cab.”

  “I can drive you,” Doug said. He stood in the doorway, unwilling to breach the entry to the women’s bathroom.

  “Stay. They need you.” I wrapped my arms around myself.

  “I’ll get you that taxi,” the nurse said.

  My messy studio offered c
omfort. For once, I didn’t care that it had been weeks since I’d had time to clean. I was safe here. I threw off my coat and collapsed on the unmade bed, burrowing my face deep into the pillow. Long-buried emotions rose, and I bit down on my hand to keep from screaming, from seeing my mother’s bones in the dusty ground.

  I’d hated her for yelling, for sending me to the store, for not making supper, for not being soft and understanding. For not knowing that I existed until she needed something.

  Play with your sister.

  Bring the ironing to Teenie.

  Save my life.

  I hated myself for having hated her.

  Maybe my hate had helped Daddy kill Mama. Why hadn’t I jumped on Daddy’s back? Thrown myself in front of him? Screamed at him? Why hadn’t I opened my mouth instead of hiding in the bathroom? Merry ran out to them. I didn’t go in even when Mama screeched. He has a knife. Get Teenie! He’s going to kill me.

  Had Mama said that? Did I remember it right, or was I imagining the words? Had Mama said he was going to kill her? Why hadn’t I gotten between them?

  What if he’d killed Merry?

  Why hadn’t he killed himself?

  Why hadn’t I saved anyone?

  The next morning when I returned to work, I explained away the disappearing flu by renaming it food poisoning. At least I’d gotten a decent night’s sleep, although it took NyQuil—the closest thing I had to a narcotic—to put me out.

  After shift, I’d allotted my first night off in two weeks to seeing Merry, now a senior at Northeastern in Boston. She’d asked me to meet her because she needed money, and, naturally, she was twenty minutes late. I stared at the restaurant door, checking my watch every three minutes. Cold fear took over after half an hour. By the time she walked into Rubin’s deli, I wanted to scream my head off.

  “Where have you been? Why are you late this time?” I asked, though Merry’s bloodshot eyes and unwashed hair told me exactly why she was late.

  “The trolley’s on Sunday schedule. I had to wait forever.” She fell into the wooden chair across from me. “I need coffee.”

  “You need a keeper,” I said. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks. It’s always a comfort to get your support. I’ve been studying for finals all week.” She dug into her bag, rummaging around until she pulled out a pack of cigarettes.

  “Could you wait until I’m finished eating?” I pulled the pack of Marlboros from Merry’s hand. “Did you study in a bar last night?” I picked up my thick corned beef sandwich and took a large and deliberate bite.

  “Blech,” Merry said. “That looks disgusting.”

  “Staring at your ratty hair while I eat isn’t exactly a treat.”

  “Why do you have to be so mean?”

  “Why can’t you treat yourself better?”

  Merry took a pack of matches off the table and began ripping them out one by one. “Sorry everyone can’t be a saint like you.” She grabbed my thick white coffee mug and took a sip. “Ick, you put sugar in. When did you start that?”

  I leaned over the table and snatched back my cup. “When I started having to wait for my sister after I’ve been working insane shifts for weeks and my sister doesn’t show up on time and my blood sugar drops so low that I’m forced to load three sugars in my coffee. Does that answer your question?”

  Merry slumped. “The trolley really was running slow.”

  “You should leave more time on a Sunday, knowing it’s a slower schedule.” Pent-up anger made me want to shake her until she listened, really listened to me. Terrible things happened in this world. She should remember that, instead of pretending everything was just fine. I hated her reeking of cigarettes, and I hated her clothes holding the memory of beer.

  “I’m twenty-one now. When are you going to stop criticizing me?”

  “When will you stop coming to me to be rescued?” I reached down and grabbed the old suede bag I’d been carrying since Anne gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. Anne had said the bittersweet chocolate color matched my eyes. I remembered being surprised by her poetic turn of phrase and, even more, by her knowing the color of my eyes.

  The familiar feeling of not being nice enough to Anne rushed in. She’d tried so hard, and I’d been a bitch. I poked at the thought, wiggling the pain like a nagging toothache. Merry stared down at her hands, as if waiting for more of my criticisms. Instead, I reached into my bag and took out my wallet, grabbing five twenties fresh from the bank.

  “Take it,” I said when she didn’t reach for the bills. “I gave you a hundred.”

  “I only asked for fifty.” Merry sipped at the steaming black coffee the waiter had slid to her, swiftly and smiling, far different from the attitude with which he’d carried over my sandwich and cooled-off coffee. All Merry had to do was glance at a man and the shower of nourishment began.

  I placed the bills down on the gritty tabletop and pushed them toward her. The old couple at the next table glanced over. “Take it,” I repeated. “I can’t stand the idea of you going around without money.”

  “Don’t worry. When I graduate in May, you’ll never have to worry about me again.”

  I took my sister’s hand, folding the bills in and squeezing. Feeling guilty. When I’d graduated from college, the Cohens had sent me touring from Italy to France to the Greek islands. Even as I made fun of the tour guide and my fellow travelers from some Upper West Side young adult synagogue group, I’d lived in the moment for the first time in my life. Nobody knew me. I could be anyone. That’s probably why I finally lost my virginity, which by then I wore like a giant scarlet V.

  David Stern, one of the temple’s tour team leaders, with his thick, dark hair and a wide-open smile, looked like a classic handsome bar mitzvah boy, despite it having been ten years since he’d stood at the bimah—the synagogue prayer altar—and read the haftarah. Even though we all lived out of backpacks the entire trip, his blue shirts and tan chinos seemed freshly pressed. He opened doors and made sure everyone had returned to the bus before we left each stop.

  When Mindy Grossman drank absinthe and started puking, David brought her chamomile tea and found French saltines for her hangover. Like me, he was about to start medical school. Unlike me, David had been raised clean and adored, swaddled in love and high expectations.

  The first time David and I made love, a golden Jewish star dangled from his neck, swinging above me, and all I could think of was headstones being unveiled—my mother’s, my grandmother’s. I wished he would have taken the star off, but I didn’t know how to ask. We broke up, and Mindy Grossman enjoyed his vigorous lovemaking through the Greek islands.

  David had been a great graduation present. What would my Merry get? Doctor Cohen had barely stayed in touch with us after Merry began college, other than paying the bills. Any semblance of our so-called family relationship with the Cohens had ended when he started dating. Merry’s present would come from me, and she wouldn’t be going on any trips to Europe. If I were lucky, I’d be able to buy her a Timex.

  Merry pushed the money back at me. “You can’t afford this much, and anyway, I don’t deserve it. I’m a brat. I’m late, I’m rude, I smoke, and I drink.” She stuck her chin out. “Don’t you just want to cut me loose? Don’t you ever think maybe you could just get on with your life like a normal person?”

  “We’re normal.” I started scratching lines on my arm. “Nothing can make us separate, Merry. Don’t ever talk like that.”

  “You can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I can. We have control of our lives, Merry. Don’t forget that.”

  15

  Lulu

  May 1987

  By spring, I feared my control was slipping. I finally understood how people fell asleep at the wheel. I was terrified of nodding off while putting in an IV. Marta kept reminding me about Ron’s party that night, but I’d have been satisfied spending the night watching Dynasty. Our internship ended in five hours, and I’d be happy spending ever
y hour in the Neuro Step-down Unit, sitting in Mr. Vincent’s room, enjoying the food his wife brought to the hospital.

  The Vincents had been married for fifty-five years, and Mrs. Vincent was determined to keep her husband alive. Hour after hour, she held his hand, craned her neck to watch the mounted television, and fed the staff. She and her son arrived at the hospital each day by ten, her son carrying a cardboard box stuffed with newspaper for insulation. Inside the box were Tupperware containers filled with warm comfort food, daily variations of ravioli, lasagna, and roasted eggplant. The list seemed endless. In addition, her son carried a plastic bag slung over his shoulder crammed with cannoli and cookies from her cousin’s bakery.

  “Hello, Mrs. Vincent,” I said, walking into the room. “Hi, Mr. Vincent. How are you feeling today?”

  “Look, Joe, it’s Doctor Zachariah.” Mrs. Vincent tenderly wiped a line of drool off her husband’s mouth. “We’re watching the news. Joe loves the news. Right, Joe?”

  Mr. Vincent smiled and nodded, as he did at everything. Mrs. Vincent took his happy expressions as signs that he’d recover from his stroke despite the gloomy reports from his neurologist.

  “Hungry, sweetheart?” She reached into a wrinkled Jordan Marsh shopping bag.

  I dropped into the chair next to her. “Starved.” I’d been seeing patients since arriving Saturday morning. It was now past seven Sunday evening.

  Mrs. Vincent made up a paper plate with lasagna. The food was cold, but I didn’t care. She handed me a plastic fork and a folded napkin. I rolled my eyes in deep pleasure as I took a mouthful of the sweet-spicy-meaty dish.

  Somewhere during my internship, food had replaced sex as my source of tension release. Having time for bouts of aerobic sex seemed part of another life, in the relatively easier world of medical school, relatively meaning, of course, how in the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.

  A strand of pasta fell on my white coat, blending with the blood just spit up by my patient down the hall. I picked up the noodle and, for a moment, almost considered eating it. I dabbed my jacket with a napkin, succeeding in making the small blood spot into a saucer-size red smear that would no doubt be visible from Mars.