But at this point, holding steady was early ominous. “Oh, Judith,” Stephanie said. “Let's be realistic.” Judith returned to her knitting, but grunted with annoyance as she fumbled, apparently dropping a stitch.
I lifted the bed-sheet and touched Singer's arm. My action was primarily for my own peace of mind, but I hoped that it could provide comfort to Singer, even if on a subconscious level. Paula, to my right, paid her respects in silence, her eyes glistening. I grazed her hand, attempting to keep my show of sympathy private, then turned away from the bed.
Since the other two women were on opposite sides of the bed I had to swivel back and forth when speaking to them. Paula and I remained standing, foregoing the lone empty seat.
“I have a couple of questions,” I said. “For both of you. I'm sorry if it's out of place, but there's no other way.” They both looked up at me, eyes open but tensed. “To your knowledge, did Dr. Singer make an appointment to meet anyone on the deck of the boat the other night?”
Stephanie raised her hand to her chin. Judith put down her knitting, and looked at me without blinking. I felt my “guilt for intruding” rising.
“No, not that I know of,” Stephanie said. “Why do you ask?”
Judith put on a sneer. “They're obviously investigating the attempted murder of your...husband, you...” Fool? Ninny? I filled in in my head.
Tears formed in Stephanie's eyes. “Why do you talk to me that way? What have I done to you?” She reached down, plucked a tissue from a box at her feet, and dabbed her eyes.
“You know very well what you've done to me and what I think of you.” Judith collected her knitting and stood up. She addressed Paula and me. “I can't engage in conversation with this...woman. I'm leaving.”
“Wait,” I said. “Is it possible that there's a record somewhere of Dr. Singer's appointment on the deck?”
“I'll be sitting in the waiting area,” Judith said, and walked out.
“Please sit down,” I told Paula, pointing at the chair Judith had vacated. Paula followed my suggestion.
“You know,” Stephanie said, “Jonathan keeps a diary.” Yes! “He's been doing it for a good seventy years. He told me that he started in his Freudian days, when he kept a record of his dreams. He's managed to keep it up despite his failing eyesight. His print has just gotten larger and looser.”
She dabbed her eyes again but smiled. I started to ask her where the diary was, but she resumed: “He also told me that when he dies, I should hire a writer to write his life story as told through his diaries. There's a lot of juicy stuff, he said, but he didn't feel like dealing with the fallout in whatever time he had left. On the other hand, one of his regrets about dying was that he would miss people's reactions to what he called truth-telling.”
She sniffled, wiped her nose, and threw the tissue into a second box on the floor. I saw that the box was more than half full with soiled tissues. Paula was leaning forward in her seat, perhaps considering getting up to comfort Stephanie. I felt sympathy, too, but there was more work to do.
“The funny thing is,” Stephanie said, “that when I went back last night to freshen up I didn't see the diary. It wasn't in its usual spot, on the night table near the bed.”
I didn't like the sound of that. “Would you do us a favor and look for the diary? It might be important. I know it's hard for you to get away, but as soon as possible...” I decided to imitate Lieutenant Columbo. “Oh, just one more question. Why did you call the police about Mitchell?”
Stephanie stopped sniffling, and glanced at Paula. I looked at Paula, too, and saw surprise turning to anger. I couldn't remember Lieutenant Columbo ever evincing such reactions.
“What do you mean?” Stephanie asked.
“You know that Paula and I are helping the police.” She didn't react. “Right?” I asked.
She gave a tiny nod, then shook her head. “Maybe. I guess I haven't been paying attention to much except Jonathan.”
“I fully understand. It's just that if you saw something we'd like to know it.” I dared to glance at Paula. She was watching Stephanie and nodding. Good.
“Wait a minute,” Stephanie said. “What about Mitchell?”
“Someone accused Mitchell of throwing his father overboard.”
“That’s crazy.” Her mouth opened. She looked at me, then at Paula, then back to me. “Are you accusing me of trying to hurt Mitchell? How could you...” She covered her face with her hands, and sobbed.
Paula walked around Singer's bed to put an arm around her. Enough, she mouthed at me.
I caught Paula's “hint.” “I'm sorry, Stephanie. It's nothing personal-”
Stephanie raised her head, stopped crying, and looked at me. “I know. And I understand. I'm kind of...fragile right now.”
I was surprised by Stephanie's show of fortitude--and I saw Paula's eyes widening, too. Every time I thought I knew Stephanie...Maybe the two Singer men she'd ensnared had seen more in her than I had.
I looked at Paula. “I'm finished for now,” I said. “Is there anything else you wanted to ask?” She shook her head. I turned back to Stephanie. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
When she didn't answer I inclined my head toward Paula.
“Wait,” Stephanie said. “There is something.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Stephanie Carstens’ request stopped me from leaving Jonathan Singer’s bedside.
“You know they all hate me,” she said. Paula and I glanced at each other. “I know I told you that before,” Stephanie continued. “But now it's even worse. Some of them think that I tried to kill Jonathan.”
Tears streamed down her face. Boy was she fragile. Since she made no effort to dry herself this time her mascara ran, as though in pursuit of her tears. Paula used a tissue from the tissue box to dry Stephanie's face for her, and received a closed-mouth thank-you smile in return.
Paula pulled her chair around the bed, close to Stephanie, and sat again. I wondered what Stephanie wanted from us.
“It's so far from the truth. Just ask anyone who knows me, really knows me, what I'm like.”
At this point I had no idea what she was really like. Although I did understand what she meant. But if you believe as I do, that under the right circumstances we're all capable of murder, “what I'm like” is almost irrelevant. She took a deep breath. Her eyes were still red, but now dry.
“I know I can't control what they think.” She smiled. “You see, I have learned something from Jonathan.” Serious again. “But it makes what I'm about to say even more complicated.” She looked at me. “I have to start thinking about the possibility that Jonathan won't recover.” Right so far, I thought. “I know that Jonathan loves life, and would do a lot to hang on to it.”
Now I saw where she was heading. I felt a sort of relief about being drawn into a medical topic, no matter how complex.
“But I also know,” Stephanie said, “that he would hate his current situation. Out of it on a respirator.” Now Paula was looking at me as well. Stephanie continued. “What I want to know is when is the right time to take him off the respirator.” She looked away for a moment. “Pull the plug.”
It's amazing how often such questions end up in my lap. I was neither Singer's doctor nor his loved one. Why didn't she ask his real doctor? I knew the answers from experience. She may have already asked his doctor the same question, but found the doctor distant or jargon-laden. Almost all doctors care, but some are lousy at showing it.
Sometimes when these questions are directed at me they're desperation second-opinion questions in disguise. Maybe I, a doctor, will say something, anything, that will give them hope. In the end, I've learned to accept such questions as compliments. I'm a doctor, and overly formal, but I'm nevertheless approachable. It’s a humbling responsibility.
“Is it OK if I speak bluntly?” I asked.
She nodded. I felt my own emotions rising, but plunged ahead. “There's never an easy answer to the pull-the-plug que
stion,” I began. “There are medical and personal considerations. Medically, the deeper the coma, and the longer it lasts, the worse the chances for recovery. Most such patients die.”
Stephanie’s expression was steady. She was strong enough for me to continue.
“Some don't die, but stay comatose. You may have heard of PVS, ‘persistent vegetative state.’ In addition, it's often forgotten, or ignored, that ‘recovery’ encompasses a whole range of outcomes. We imagine that if a person awakes from a coma that they're back to normal. But many are not. They may be severely brain-damaged. Some patients and families consider PVS and severe brain damage worse than death.”
I swallowed, my throat parched. I could have used a drink of water, but the moment demanded that I be strong, too.
“So that's the medical part. The personal part is to filter the medical facts through your personal value system. What kind of life is worthwhile? How much pain, how much brain damage, how much loss of dignity makes life unbearable? These are questions clearly best answered by the patient, but doctors don't always know their patients' wishes, so may be forced to fall back on guessing, based on what we know of their values.
“We also ask families what they think. But if you think it's easy to know what a patient wants, recent studies have shown that even loved ones don't know without explicit discussions on the topic. And patients themselves change their minds about what they want as they get sicker.”
Stephanie's eyes were starting to lose their focus. But I couldn't hold back one more teaching point. “A fascinating recent finding. Many dying patients are perfectly happy to let their loved ones make such decisions based on the loved ones' values, rather than on their own. This is based on the recognition that it's the loved ones who have to live with their decision.”
Paula looked at me, eyes damp. Couldn't be helped. “I know,” I said. “Time to sum up.”
I turned back to Stephanie. “It would be nice if I could tell you, or if Dr. Singer's doctor could tell you, the precise moment. The time to give up hope for recovery. But we can't do that. We have group statistics to guide us, but individual situations are all unique. The onus in this case, unfortunately, falls on you. As I said before, the deeper the coma, and the longer it lasts, the worse the chances. But when to draw the line?”
I sighed. “I'm sorry. What I said didn't make your decision easier, I'm sure. I hope it made the issues clearer, at least.”
“It did. And it helped. Thank you, David. I'm sure it wasn't easy for you.” She looked at Singer. “I know what I have to do. What Jonathan would want. But...they're going to think that I want him to die.” Her eyes misted again.
“In my experience,” I said, “it works best when the family reaches a consensus.”
She looked back at me. “Out of the question. No one will listen to me, much less respect anything I say. How about if you do it?” She waved me off with her right hand. “No. That won't work, either. I'll just have to be strong. I am strong. Stronger than they think.”
A good time to leave, I thought, so I sneaked a look at my watch. Paula caught my “subtle” signal and stood up. We approached Stephanie on either side, and each placed a hand on one of her shoulders. Stephanie looked at both of us in turn and nodded.
As we walked out I noticed that Stephanie's scent of perfume had faded away. Paula spoke in a low voice. “After a touchy start, you were pretty amazing.” I felt my face warm. “And also,” Paula continued, “I admit it. Stephanie's not so stupid, or so uncaring, as I thought.”
“You may be right. But that makes her an even better murder suspect.”
CHAPTER FORTY
When Paula and I left Jonathan Singer's room a nurse walked in, ensuring that Stephanie (or any other murder suspect) wasn't left alone with the intended victim. I'd made that request, maybe somehow leaving the impression that Lieutenant Hansen wanted it, too.
“I have no idea what to make of Stephanie,” I told Paula as we walked into the waiting room. “Is she-”
Paula squeezed my arm. Judith Klansky was sitting a dozen feet ahead of us.
“She did it, of course,” Judith said, without looking up from her knitting. “What a cold, calculating bitch she is. I hope you didn't let her take you in.”
Judith was alone in the large room. She sat precisely in the center of the couch, as though daring anyone to encroach on her throne. Paula and I pulled up club chairs and sat across from her. Judith continued to knit. I couldn't figure out what she was making.
“Why do you think Stephanie did it?” I asked.
“Isn't it obvious?”
“Not to me. Please explain.”
“Just look at her. She doesn't belong, and Jonathan was finally coming to his senses.” And away from another part of his anatomy.
“Do you have any evidence for that?” I asked.
“I don't need evidence. But I bet it's all in his diary. Did she mention that?”
“Yes. But she said that it wasn't where she last saw it.”
“Hah. And you believed that flimsy story? She isn't even creative at lying.”
Actually, I favored the theory that someone had stolen the diary. Just like the Mestinon. But my current aim wasn't to argue. Judith continued. “Why else would she have made that stupid phone call to the police, accusing Mitchell?”
“How do you know that she's the one who made the call?”
“Everyone knows it. Now please leave me alone. I'm in no mood to debate.”
“I didn't mean-”
“Please tell us about Dr. Singer,” Paula said. Judith turned her head to her, but not her body, as though surprised to hear her speak.
“What do you mean?” Judith asked.
“What do you think of him?”
“Are you joking? He's one of the greatest men of the twentieth century. It’s been my privilege to devote most of my life to serving him.”
“Please, Judith,” Paula prodded. “You're the one who knows him best. There are no TV cameras here. What is he really like?”
Judith laughed. Her shoulders relaxed. “What's the expression? What you see is what you get? There's no subterfuge with Jonathan. He doesn't give a hoot about what other people think of him. Although he wasn't always like that.”
“Oh?”
“When I first met him, in England before the second war, he was a wunderkind. One of Freud's closest disciples. We were both very young, but he was just a little boy. A very smart little boy with a bundle of fears.” She sighed. “And a wonderful heart.”
I was fascinated--and touched. This was living history, albeit barely. But was it helping us unravel Jonathan Singer’s attempted murder? I glanced at Paula. She was listening intently, elbows on knees, hands cradling her face.
“Of course he's still a little boy,” Judith continued. “Isn't that true of all men?” (Why did she look at me when asking that?) “With the same bundle of fears. But he's learned to conquer those fears. At least, that's his opinion.”
She smiled. “Maybe we're both right. He's conquered his fears, but new ones, new challenges, emerge to test him. Just like the rest of us. I tease him that all his grand schemes and theories of psychology are just attempts to make his nightmares go away.”
She shook her head and blinked. I couldn't picture her crying. She set her knitting down on the couch beside her. A scarf, perhaps? Paula folded her hands in her lap. Judith resumed.
“He would laugh at me, and he was right. We're all just children, aren't we, struggling with our fears and irrationalities in a bleak and lonely world.” I was beginning to miss my cheery murder investigation.
“Whether he's ‘conquered’ his fears or not,” Judith added, “he's accomplished and helped more than most. A lot more than most.”
“That's fascinating,” Paula said. “You should write a book. About Dr. Singer. About you.”
Judith smiled. “Don't you have to know how to write, to write a book?” Not always, I thought. “No,” Judith added. “My lot in li
fe is to live in his shadow. I've been privileged to be able to influence the world indirectly.”
“But I'd be curious to know how much of what's attributed to Singer is actually yours,” I said. She was obviously a person of great intelligence.
Judith turned to me, as if startled this time to hear me speak. “I'm sure you meant that comment to be complimentary. But it's also exceedingly simplistic. What's mine is his. And what's his is mine.”
I wasn't sure that I fully understood what she was saying. But before I could ask anything further, she gathered her knitting and stood up. “You're going to make a fine psychologist some day, Paula. Maybe I can help your career in some way. But I can't do it now. My place is with Jonathan.”
Wait. I had one more question--and I wasn't channeling Lieutenant Columbo this time. “Is it true that Dr. Singer chose his son to be his successor?” I blurted.
Judith froze, but just for an instant. “Of course. Did you think Mitchell was lying?” Well, maybe.
She took a couple of steps toward the door, but then turned back to us. “Just one other thing. You asked about Jonathan making an appointment to meet someone on the deck, and whether there's a record of it. Well, I don't know about the diary--don't expect any help from Stephanie there--but I do know that he uses the computer for e-mails. Mostly with my help, so I know all of his passwords. At least I think I do. He has to use a large font because of his poor vision, but I think he enjoys it. So I'll review his e-mails for you, and let you know if there's any record of such an appointment.”
“There goes an interesting woman,” Paula said after Judith left. “I wonder how many layers she has.”
“Did you notice how she focused on Singer's fears? I wonder what she’s afraid of.”
“Good point,” Paula said. “But I also hope she's not our murderer.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I needed a dose of Cape cheer-me-up, but the skies were overcast. Paula must have felt the same, because we didn't speak during the twenty-minute drive to Clancy's. She hadn't even had to ask me for directions, as Clancy's was due south.
Terminal Therapy Page 13