A Little Help from Above (4 page)

Shelby tore open the box and made a mental note to search for Matthew Lieberman on the Internet again. The last time she’d logged on to a website that helped reunite loved ones, she’d located three males in the Los Angeles area with the same name. Trouble with them was they weren’t old enough to drive, let alone propose marriage. Although one courageous kid suggested they meet. “No thanks,” she e-mailed back. “I’m no Mrs. Robinson. I have pocketbooks older than you. “

But now as she sifted through bags of mementos, it occurred to her that she might never find Matty. Never learn how his life turned out. What if he was married? What if he wasn’t? Then again, why
dredge up her past? The whole point of denial was never having to say you remember.

Ah, yes. Denial. Shelby was eleven the first time she heard the word used in association with her name. It oozed from the mouth of a child psychologist her father insisted she see after her mother died. “The man works wonders with grieving kids, Shelby. I think he can help you, too.”

But after two months of Aunt Roz shuttling Shelby from Hebrew School straight to therapy, Shelby announced she’d had it with Dr. Israel’s stupid, yellow beanbag chair and his invitations to visit his candy drawer. Did he really think she’d spill her guts in exchange for a handful of Sno-Caps? Shelby knew the score. The way he’d justify his outrageous fees was by running back to her father, spiral notebook flapping, and repeating her privatemost thoughts.

Fortunately for Shelby, the doctor was equally frustrated with her. In all his years in practice, never before had he given up on a patient. But this child was beyond his help. Defensive. Confrontational. “Da Queen of Da Nile,” he declared.

Shelby remembered looking up denial in the dictionary. “An assertion that something said, believed, or alleged is false.” Exactly. She slapped the page. Her father kept insisting she needed help, but he was wrong. If anyone should have their head examined, it should be him.

He was the one who fell for Aunt Roz’s tricks and got stuck having to marry her. He was the one who packed up every picture of her mother and stored them in the attic so there were no sad reminders in the house. He was the one who totally ignored her and Lauren after Eric was born, acting as though his new wife’s son was more important than his own biological children.

And what was so wrong with letting her deal with her pain in her own way? It wasn’t that she never cried. She never cried in front of others. It wasn’t that she was taking out her anger on Lauren by calling her names and smacking her around. She was just trying to toughen the kid up a little. Life in their house would be an endless barrage of insults and humiliation. She just wanted her baby sister to learn how to fight back. And, by no means was it that she’d lost interest in school or her friends. It’s that they were clueless what it was like to experience such a profound loss. No amount of getting Barbie and Ken ready for the prom or getting picked by the teacher to clean the blackboards would change a goddamn thing.

Denial, my ass, she thought, then and now. I know the bitter truth better than anyone!

Still, not all of Shelby’s recollections were depressing. When she uncovered a musty, brown envelope filled with ribbons for her prizewinning soccer, equestrian, and swimming achievements, she had to admit it was sweet of Aunt Roz to have kept the entire collection intact. After Shelby graduated and left home, she could easily have thrown them into the trash. Who would have blamed her for trying to even the score with the vindictive one?

And maybe if she’d been sensitive enough to save a bunch of cheap, meaningless ribbons, she’d also held on to her stepdaughter’s other prized possessions. Sure enough, as she dug farther, she found a small box of award certificates and laughed. Maybe she would hang these in her office. For no one who knew Shelby Lazarus today would ever believe she’d once served as her youth group’s social action chair, raising thousands of dollars to help the homeless.

Ah! And here was real proof of her once charitable demeanor. A personal letter from her congressman thanking her for her humanitarian efforts on behalf of Soviet Jewry. It was dated June 1969. Six months before her mother died. Shelby sighed. So fine. Maybe there was a correlation between losing her mother and losing all interest in benevolent acts.

Just as Shelby was about to close the box, she spotted an envelope labeled “Shelby—Spelling bees.” Again she smiled. Perhaps she’d given up on being charitable, but never on English. In her youth she was considered the Zen Master of Manhasset. For six straight years she slew the competition at her elementary school’s annual bee. And yet this achievement paled in comparison to the time she skewered her arrogant, testy principal.

She wondered if Dr. Dellarusso had ever forgotten the day he dared embarrass her in front of the student body and their parents. Certainly she would always remember being called up to receive the award for winning her sixth and final bee, while the sadist mocked Shelby for being, ironically, the daughter of Mr. Dri-Kleen. “How does he spell that again?” The evil man laughed.

Rather than take the punch, Shelby got up and challenged the squat, little man to a spelling dual. Dr. Dellarusso wiped his brow and politely declined, citing the need to get on with the program. But when Larry Lazarus, Mr. Dri-Kleen himself, stood up and in
sisted the man take on his daughter, the audience applauded wildly and the judges consented. Ten minutes later a castrated principal bowed to the champion when he failed to spell obsequious correctly.

Suddenly, the sound of a car door slamming stopped Shelby’s nostalgia train. She ran to the window, thankful she was in the room called Lookout Point, the only place upstairs offering a view of both the front and side of the house. Whenever Shelby whistled Daddy and Aunt Roz were back, Eric and Lauren would have just enough time to get rid of the joints and throw towels under the door to keep the sweet, telltale aroma from escaping.

She looked out, gasping at the sight of a gleaming, black sedan parked next to Blue. With the bright sun in her eyes she couldn’t be certain, but it looked like a limousine. Or for a second, in a scary sort of hallucinatory way, it resembled a hearse. Which made her heart pound. Up until now she’d refused to consider the possibility that she’d come home to bury another parent.

The thought immobilized her. As did the idea that Aunt Roz might be in a coma, in which case the baton would be handed to her, the oldest child, to make all those morbid, grown-up-type decisions. Street clothes or shroud? Open or closed casket? Graveside or funeral chapel?

Suddenly she felt so dizzy she had to grab hold of a dusty floor lamp. She wasn’t good at this sort of thing. Track down a source? No one ever eluded her. Demand answers? There wasn’t any story she couldn’t get to the bottom of. But jump in and be the mature adult who knew intuitively how to handle these situations? That’s what parents were for, dammit!

“Hello?” a man called out from downstairs.

Shelby raced out of her room and flew down the stairs into the kitchen, startling a stocky man with dark eyes and even darker curls. “Who are you?” she tried to catch her breath.

The man smiled. “Who em I?” he said with an Israeli accent, thick as desert air. “I’m Avi Streiffler. Are you Shelby?”

He knew her name? “Yes. Are you from the funeral home?” Her heart pounded.

“The funeral home?” Avi seemed more confused than Shelby. “I don’t think so.”

She sized up the man’s black suit and dark shades. “Then you must be my father’s driver.”

“Once in a while yes.” He laughed. “But all the time I em your sister’s husband.”

“Her husband?” Shelby was stunned to hear the words. When had Lauren remarried?

“It’s a year next month.” He easily read her mind. “Phew. That was some big party we had. We wanted to invite you, but no one thought you’d come in. Would you have come in?”

“I don’t know.” Shelby looked away, stung by the revelation the score was now a lopsided Lauren two weddings, Shelby none. And from the looks of this creep, how long could the marriage last? A year tops? Man. It would totally suck if her sister was already on to husband number three before she’d gotten to walk down the aisle at all. Not that she was feeling any pressure.

“So you’re the famous Shelby.” Avi squeezed her so tight her back cracked. “We’re femily.” He rested his head on her shoulder.

Shelby pulled away, certain she knew the difference between familial love and lust.

“My God. It’s hard to bee-lieve you and Lauren are sisters.” The bulge in his pants proved her point. “You’re blond. She’s dark. You have eyes as green as the Mediterranean Sea. Hers are brown. I think. You’re tall and thin. She’s…not. You won’t tell her I said that?”

“Trust me, your secret is safe.” Asshole. “So. Have you seen them?”

“Oy, my God, it’s unbee-lievable what heppened.” He smacked his hands together to demonstrate the impact. “I don’t know what I would do if they were gone.” He sat down at the table and began to sob. “They’re my Ameriken femily. Could you make me tea?”

Tea? What did she look like? Betty Crocker? On the other hand, what excuse did she have not to oblige? She wasn’t rushing off on a story assignment. She didn’t have whiny kids pulling at her leg. “Sure. Where’s the tea thing?” she asked innocently.

He looked up in amazement, his tears suddenly evaporating. “You mean the kettle?”

“I guess. I don’t know. It’s been years since I drank the stuff.”

“Never mind.” Avi got up and headed to the fridge. “They have iced tea.”

“How did you know I flew in?” Shelby followed him.

“I didn’t.”

“Then why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?”

“I just was there. What about you?” Avi shut the fridge with his foot as one hand held a can of iced tea, the other, packages of deli meat.

“Maybe later,” she mumbled as she calculated the calories on his plate of roast beef, corned beef, mayo, and rye. How she used to love the salty taste of cold cuts on fresh, chewy bread. Now she wouldn’t consume that many calories in a week, although it dawned on her she hadn’t eaten today and was feeling a wee bit hungry. But obviously given what Avi was feasting on, Roz’s kitchen remained a veritable carbohydrate convention, unsafe at any speed.

“What ken I do at the hospital?” Avi built a mile-high sandwich. “Am I a doctor? No.”

“So you figured what the hell? I’ll go over to their place and have lunch.” Shelby opened the refrigerator to assess her limited options. Whoa! Fat free yogurt? Where am I?

“Exactly. And to catch a little of the Mets game before I get my four o’clock at JFK.”

“Aren’t we the concerned next of kin?” Shelby found fresh salad, too. Maybe Roz finally wised up that the AMA wasn’t kidding about the connection between high cholesterol and strokes.

“What did you say?” Avi looked up, his large nose peered through his drinking glass.

“Nothing. How’s Lauren?” Shelby closed the fridge. She’d eat later when she was alone.

“Lauren is Lauren,” he shrugged. “She’s completely hysterical. You kent even talk to her.”

“What do you expect? Her parents were almost killed.”

“You seem to be taking it okay,” he yawned.

“You know nothing about me,” Shelby snarled. Stop looking at my legs, you oversize, oversexed buffoon.

“I know what I know.” Avi turned on the TV. “Lauren says yure an emotional misfit.”

“Me?” Shelby bellowed, hands on hips. “What about her? What is she this week? An Orthodox, vegetarian, Feng Shui, tree hugger, who’s trying to save the whales in Kosovo?”

“What ken I say? She has a big heart.” He channel surfed for the Mets game.

And a big wallet, Shelby thought. “And, what do we know about you, other than you drive a limousine and are obviously unaware of something called fat grams?”

“You want to know about me?” He chomped down on the sloppy sandwich with gusto and a wink. “I’m a musician. One day my songs will be famous on the radio. Like Billy Joel.”

“Uh-huh,” Shelby watched Avi devour his food. “And until then you make airport runs?”

“You never know,” he shrugged. “Maybe tomorrow I pick up Madonna. Lest week I drove a second cousin of David Geffen. I said to her, ‘Give David my tape.’”

Avi’s wishful thinking was interrupted by the phone. They looked at each other. Who would answer? The estranged daughter or the freeloading son-in-law? He blinked first.

“Guess who’s here?” He managed to take another large bite.

A moment later he returned his attention to Shelby. “It’s Lauren. She says to come right over to the hospital. They’re both still in surgery.”

Shelby shook her head no.

“She says no,” Avi repeated to Lauren. “She wants to know why not?” he asked Shelby.

Shelby grabbed the receiver. “Hi, it’s me. I came in, okay? But, you know damn well why I can’t go over there. I figured I’d man the fort here. Make phone calls. Order dinner…”

Shelby stared at the phone, stunned to hear a dial tone for the second time that day. “Does she ever finish a conversation?”

“What?” Avi was already engrossed in his stupid baseball game.

“Oh, crap.” Shelby looked over at the TV. Avi wasn’t just watching any game. It was the Mets versus the Cubs. The very game she would have been at if not for this nightmare. Her heart sank as she studied the crowd for signs of backstabbing colleagues fawning over her bosses.

“It’s not so bad.” Avi winked. “The Cubs are only down by a run.”

“I could give a rat’s ass what the score is,” Shelby yelled, heading back upstairs. “And next time you see your darling wife, tell her to go fuck herself and that horse she likes to ride in on.”

“Maybe you should tell her.” Avi chugged the last of his drink. “If I know my darling wife, she’s on her way over.”

Whoever said that opposites attract never met my daughters. From the start, the only thing these two girls had in common was a last name. Larry shrugged it off to the six-year age difference, but Dr. Spock he wasn’t. In my opinion, the problem was karma. Simply, Lauren came into this life as the chalkboard; Shelby, the fingernails..

Shelby was ambitious and organized. Lauren wouldn’t be able to find her shoes if they were already on her feet, and she wasn’t about to get up and look for them either. Shelby was a straight “A” student, Lauren brought home the occasional “C,” which was a relief since the rest of her grades were generally below that. Shelby was the world’s youngest women’s libber, ready to burn my bra, as she wasn’t old enough to have one of her own. Lauren lived in a deep fantasy world that included a husband, two children, and a yearly vacation at the Fontainebleu Hotel.

Then again, Lauren was the one with the big heart. If asked for the
shirt off her back, she’d easily give you that one, and two others. Shelby would gladly give up her shirt, too, but only after she cooked up a way to get it replaced with a more expensive one that matched the new pants.

Lauren was the one with dozens of friends, most of whom thought our refrigerator was community property. Shelby was so particular about who monopolized her time, she more often than not chose to stay home and read. Lauren was the one who would feel your pain. Shelby was the pain.

So I guess I’m not surprised the girls never found common bonds as adults, either. It was really no different for Roz and me. We argued about everything, to say nothing of the rivalry.

Don’t think I didn’t know how crazy my sister was about Larry. As soon as he and I started dating, it was obvious she had a crush on him. The first clue was she always managed to be home when he came to pick me up. The second clue was she was always dressed nicely when he arrived. Hair set? Check. Lipstick on? Check. Big old girdle in place? Check. It was as if she’d hired herself to play the understudy, ready to perform in the unlikely event the star of the show suddenly quit. Or died.

But Larry was smitten with me. She knew it. I knew it. And she knew I knew it. For her own sake I begged her to stop making a fool of herself. Why would this man be interested in roly-poly Roz, a little girl six years his junior, when he could be seen with me, a petite blonde with brains who my best friend swore filled out a sweater better than Doris Day?

Looking back, the only thing we ever did agree on was we both wanted to live my life. And ultimately my little sister got her wish. Before my body turned cold, she was living in my home, sleeping with my husband, raising my children, and driving my new, canary yellow Cadillac convertible with power windows. Which speaks volumes about playing the understudy.

Don’t get me wrong. In a way I was glad that Larry married Roz. After all, she was family. I knew she would love and protect my girls as her own, plus she would make Larry proud on bowling night. Even better, her fast move automatically eliminated the competition, those awful, frosted blond divorcées at the club who thought they invented stretch pants and cleavage.

On the other hand, it is also true that when Lauren was born, my first wish was that she and Shelby would fare better in the sisters sweepstakes than Roz and I. Sadly, the irony has not been lost on me that history does appear to be repeating itself.

Oh, shoot! Look. It’s Lauren driving down Community Drive like she’s Maria Andretti in the Indy 500. She must be headed over to the house.
Slow down, honey. We’ve already had enough innocent pedestrians turned into projectile weapons today. Why don’t they ever listen?

Shelby could not get over the fact the day had started as any other, yet here she was, hours later, in her old house on Long Island, seated at her father’s massive, custom-designed desk. She also could not fathom what was he doing with a powerful computer and a cable line hooked up to his modem? Were his on-line needs so great he required an instant connection?

Only last week, ironically, she’d written a column about senior citizens afraid of using computers for fear of catching one of those mysterious, incurable viruses they kept hearing about. “Technochondriacs.” Yes. That’s what she’d called them. And although she hadn’t said as much, based on her father’s long-standing reluctance to embrace anything more high-tech than a cordless phone, she was certain he was a member of this low-functioning crowd. But obviously not.

First jogging, now computers. What was next for him? Honesty as a policy? And what’s your screen name, Daddy? Shelby pondered. [email protected]?

She casually leaned back in his immense black leather swivel chair to contemplate the new man her father had become, when without warning, she was nearly catapulted over the back. “Whoa.” She grabbed hold of the wide arms to regain her balance. “This isn’t a chair. It’s a friggin’ ride at Coney Island.”

“That’ll teach you to insult your father,” the voice of Granny Bea Good piped in.

“Oh, shush,” Shelby replied. “Stop defending him, okay? You know what he did.”

“He’s still your father.”

“Fine. I get the point. Now go back to watching One Life to Live.”

Shelby made sure her feet were planted firmly on the floor before resting her elbows on the cool surface of the desk. Which was precisely the moment she noticed the photo frame in the corner. On one side was a picture of a smiling Dad and Aunt Roz showing off their coveted bowling trophies. Opposite that, a picture of a giggling Lauren and Shelby holding rainbow lollipops the size of their sweet little faces. I remember that day. Shelby sighed.

It was taken B.C. Before the cancer. All Sandy had wanted was to surprise Larry with a nice, new picture of the girls on Father’s Day. But Shelby and Lauren behaved so badly, the photographer threw a temper tantrum to equal theirs. Finally, his weary assistant handed the girls giant suckers, and bingo, they were as smiley-faced as child models. Pity no one snapped a picture after the lady took the suckers back. Now there was a photo op!

Although Shelby had to admit she and Lauren looked darling, it struck her as odd the only picture of her on display was one taken over thirty years ago. And Daddy accuses me of living in the past, she thought. The good news, on the other hand, was at least they’d finally had the good sense to get rid of that awful family photo taken the week Eric opened his ski shop in Vail.

Five years earlier, Shelby had flown out to Denver with Lauren, her father, and Aunt Roz for his grand opening, and if tension could power a plane, there would have been no need for a tail wind. In the span of a few hours the only topic of conversation was the skimpiness of the bag of peanuts since President Reagan forced the country to swallow airline deregulation. Yet hours later, when a photographer Eric hired yelled “money,” they did what came naturally. They stood close and high-beamed their pearly whites.

If she were lucky, that photograph was now part of the rubble in her room, a sign of surrender from Aunt Roz that she’d given up perpetuating the myth they were one, big, happy family. The more likely scenario, however, was that Roz probably tossed the picture after realizing her darling Eric looked stoned, and she looked like a fat, middle-aged cow. Served her right for thinking she could pass herself off as Sophia Loren, just because she bought the same red, billowy ski bib after seeing the actress model it in People.